Burn Book Confession

Chapter 1: The Plastics and The Plaid

It was a universally acknowledged truth that Regina George was the sun around which North Shore High School revolved. Her hair was always perfect, her pink outfits were both a command and a condemnation, and her smile could either make your week or ruin your life. She held court at a designated table in the cafeteria, flanked by her two loyal subjects, Gretchen Wieners and Karen Smith. From this throne of formica, she dictated social trends, destroyed reputations, and occasionally, chewed on a low-fat protein bar.

Across the school, in the dim, perpetually sticky-smelling band room, was Rodrick Heffley's solar system. His sun was a battered drum kit, and his court was his two bandmates, the perpetually nervous Bill Walter and the guy who only ever seemed to talk about amps, Chris Zertski. Their band, Löded Diper, was the center of Rodrick's universe. He was convinced they were one break away from being discovered, a conviction not shared by anyone else, including his own mother.

The two worlds were parallel lines, never meant to intersect. But the universe, it seemed, had a sick sense of humor.

It all started on a Tuesday. Rodrick, running late after a "band practice" that mostly involved trying to get a decent photo for their MySpace page, was tearing through the main hallway on his skateboard. His leather jacket (which his mom had bought on sale at JCPenney) was flapping, and his shaggy hair was in his eyes.

Regina George, holding a pristine copy of The Scarlet Letter (she'd heard it was about a girl who was slut-shamed, which sounded juicy), was turning the corner, flanked by Gretchen and Karen. She was explaining why wearing hoop earrings on a Thursday was, like, social suicide.

They collided with a thud and a clatter.

Regina's books scattered. Rodrick's skateboard flew out from under him, sending him sprawling onto the linoleum.

A collective gasp echoed through the hallway. You could have heard a push-up bra pin drop.

Rodrick looked up, dazed, from a pair of pristine white Uggs, up past toned legs, a plaid mini-skirt, and finally, into the icy, furious blue eyes of Regina George. For a split second, his brain short-circuited. She was like a terrifying, beautiful angel sent to personally cast him out of high school heaven.

"What is your problem?" Regina's voice was calm, cold, and lethal.

"Uh," Rodrick said, brilliantly. He scrambled to his feet, his face flushing. "My problem is... your face was in the way of my... pavement... riding."

Gretchen whispered, "That's so fetch."

Regina didn't even look at her. "Gretchen, stop trying to make 'fetch' happen. It's not going to happen." Her gaze returned to Rodrick, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across her lips. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the kind of smile a cat gives a mouse before batting it around. "You're the guy with the stupid band. Löded... Diaper, right?"

"It's Diper," Rodrick corrected, his pride stung more than his tailbone. "And we're playing a gig at the Skateland on Friday. Not that you'd get it."

"Oh, I get it," Regina said, bending down to pick up her book. She didn't break eye contact. "I get that you smell like a basement and your hair looks like a bird's nest. But thanks for the warning. I'll be sure to be anywhere else."

The burn was so severe Rodrick was surprised the fire alarm didn't go off. The crowd of onlookers snickered. Humiliation, hot and sharp, coursed through him. He should have had a comeback. He should have said something cool, something punk rock. Instead, he just grunted, grabbed his skateboard, and stomped off, the sound of Regina's laughter ringing in his ears.

But as he fled, something strange happened. Regina watched him go, the smirk still playing on her lips. He was a mess. He was a loser. But he was the only person in this entire school who hadn't looked at her with either sycophantic admiration or pure terror. He'd been... annoyed. It was weirdly refreshing.

"Can you believe that guy?" Gretchen asked, shaking her head.

"No," Regina said, her eyes still fixed on the retreating form of Rodrick's leather jacket. "I really can't."

---

Later, in the Heffley basement, Rodrick was taking out his frustration on the drums.

"Dude, you're, like, weirdly intense today," Bill said, wincing as Rodrick hammered the cymbals.

"It's that Regina George," Rodrick snarled, missing a beat. "She's a... a demon in a tank top."

"She's so hot, though," Chris Zertski mused, tuning his bass. "Like, burn-your-house-down hot."

Rodrick didn't answer. That was the problem. She was the most terrifyingly beautiful creature he had ever seen. And she'd looked right at him, right into his loser soul, and found it wanting. He should hate her. He did hate her. But the image of her face, that cold, perfect face smirking at him, was burned into his brain. He kept thinking of ways he could impress her. Maybe if Löded Diper got a record deal. Maybe if he saved her from a burning building. Maybe if he just learned how to form a complete sentence in her presence.

It was pathetic. He was pathetic.

---

Across town, Regina was scrolling through her Burn Book. Page after page of girls' photos, defaced with cruel annotations. She flipped to a fresh page. She hesitated, then pulled out a crumpled flyer she'd secretly picked up off the floor after the collision. It was for Löded Diper's Skateland gig. She looked at the grainy black-and-white photo. Rodrick was in the back, behind the drums, trying to look tough.

She rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt.

Then, with a quick glance to make sure her door was locked, she took a pink gel pen and, in her perfect, looping handwriting, wrote at the top of the empty page:

Rodrick Heffley

She stared at the name. What was she supposed to write? Total loser? Smells like a gas station? She tapped the pen against her chin.

A tiny, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. She put the cap back on the pen and closed the book. She wasn't going to write anything. Not yet, anyway.

It was a mystery. And Regina George hated mysteries she couldn't solve.