hate at first sight

Literal hell (v)

If I had a nickel for every time my parents said, "We just want what's best for you," I'd probably have enough to buy a small island and never deal with people again.

And If I have to hear one more time that my parents "just want what's best for me," I might actually set something on fire. Preferably them.

Instead, I'm strapped into a car that smells faintly of desperation and the faint perfume of failure. I stare out at a world that is aggressively mediocre, the kind of suburban sprawl that seems to mock me with its clean lawns and orderly houses. My parents are yammering up front about things I don't care about. Spoiler alert: I can hear every syllable.

Let me clarify something before we go any further. I have been expelled. Again. For "behavioral issues," because apparently standing on a cafeteria table with a fire extinguisher, blanketing the hallway in white powder, and letting a raccoon loose in the principal's office counts as a problem. I call it art. Chaos. Performance. They call it unacceptable. Same difference.

Now, my punishment: I am being sent to the Heffleys. Their family is friends with my parents. Theirs is a perfect, clean, wholesome, rules-obsessed household. Their son... supposedly my age... also hates everything, but apparently in the "cool rebellious drummer" way rather than "destroy-everything-I-touch" way. His name is Rodrick. Black hair. Self-absorbed. Drumsticks permanently attached to his hands. And yes—my parents seem to think this will be good for me.

Yeah. Fantastic.

I cross my arms, hood pulled up, headphones blasting my mood into the void. Survival strategy:

Observe everything.

Avoid everyone.

Make them fear me enough to leave me alone.

Step four, optional: ruin some shit quietly and efficiently, because misery loves company.

The car rattles over a pothole, which is appropriate symbolism for my life. Every bump a warning, every turn a reminder that the universe hates me and is currently laughing at my misfortune.

Flashback:

I'm at school, principal's office smelling like cheap carpet and despair. Mr. Carver, the math teacher, lecturing me about "acceptable behavior" with all the authority of a wet noodle. I smirk. I drop the fire extinguisher. Chaos ensues. White powder everywhere. People slip. Someone screams. Me? I walk out like the apocalypse is my personal art project. Parents? Furious. Administration? Broken. Me? Thrilled.

And now, suburban hell. The Heffleys.

The streetlights pass in lazy, mocking streaks. Everything is too clean, too orderly, too... alive. A neighborhood full of people who pretend everything is fine while their lives are slowly rotting inside. Perfect for my parents' brilliant idea of "teaching me humility."

I glance at my reflection. Tired eyes. Smudged eyeliner. Hoodie hanging like armor. Perfect. I'm ready.

Flashback:

The mural on the school wall, jagged and screaming RULES ARE FOR FOOLS. Teachers yelling. Students gasping. Me walking out like the world is mine to destroy. That's my life in a nutshell. And now it's about to collide with another disaster waiting behind a front door somewhere in this perfect nightmare of a neighborhood.

We slow down. The car enters a cul-de-sac. Sidewalks immaculate. Lawns trimmed like soldiers. And there it is: the house. Big, white, aggressively cheerful. I want to spit on it. Smash a rock through the window. Something. Anything to assert dominance over its smug perfection.

The car stops. I grab my backpack—heavy, full of sketchbooks, notebooks, survival tools—and pull my hoodie tighter. I step onto the concrete. Boots hit the driveway like punctuation. Solid. Defiant. Mine.

And then, of course, he appears.

Rodrick Heffley. Black hair falling into his eyes in that annoyingly effortless way, drumsticks dangling from one hand, the other hand scratching some invisible itch only he can feel. He has that self-satisfied smirk that says, I'm the universe's favorite disaster, which makes me want to punch him immediately.

He looks at me. I look at him. And in that instant, my entire soul hates him.

"Uh... hi?" he says. Nervously. Well, not nervously. More like his version of casual superiority. The kind that assumes the world revolves around him and his drum kit.

I blink. I consider lying. Pretending to be polite. But no. That would require effort, and effort is banned today. I say:

"Hi."

Flat. Cold. Deadly. Dripping with contempt.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

Because Vivienne Mason doesn't do friends. Doesn't do smiles. Doesn't do rules.
She does misery. She does chaos. She does hate.
And Rodrick Heffley? He just stumbled into the wrong orbit.