𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐁𝐀𝐆 ✷ rodrick heffley (✓)

19. hate my guts

❛ ━━･❪ ❁ ❫ ･━━ ❜
chapter nineteen: hate my guts

[a/n]: enjoy the chapter!!
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𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･━━━ HEATHER HILLS STORMS ONTO THE PATIO of the Plainview Country Club's pool, her footsteps heavy and her jaw clenched with unreleased rage. Across the patio, bearing an annoyingly honeyed smile on her face, is Holly Hills, who is currently chatting up some puny guy who practically has cartoon heart eyes. Gross. Heather has no problem interrupting their conversation.

Heather interjects, shoving the boy aside (he doesn't fly halfway into the pool's deep end, but hey, maybe next time!) and drawing deep breaths as if she is hyperventilating. "I'm totally freaking out, the DJ for my birthday party just canceled 'cause he's helping with some hospital. Can you believe that jerk? Now what am I supposed to do for music? Whistle?"

"What about live music?" the little boy makes the same suggestion as Olive did a couple of days ago, and Heather's eyes dart to him, hoping to scare him off. Despite her best efforts, he remains in position. "Have you heard of the band Löded Diper?"

"Um, I'm not sure I'm familiar," Heather snarks, scrunching her nose in obvious disgust at the name. "Probably for a good reason," she adds under her breath. "I think I'm oka--"

"Heather, you're not okay, though," Holly interrupts, "you're desperate for music, and your party's coming up super soon. Just take the band."

"They're awesome," the little boy continues, "they're just coming off a major world tour, and they happen to be in town. I could get them to come as a favor for me."

"What kind of music do they play?" Heather asks apprehensively, in total disbelief of herself that she's about to accept this mousy boy's offer. But, as Holly so astutely observed, Heather is a desperate, nervous wreck.

"Anything. They can play anything," he replies excitedly.

Heather looks the boy up and down, scrunching her face in consideration. "Fine," she eventually answers, sighing in dejection.

"Great!" the boy says. In a curious turn of events, the boy turns around and sprints toward the exit, which Holly and Heather share a puzzled look at.

Lisbeth strides into the patio, clad in a knee-length blue sundress and a straw woven tote bag. Her flip-flops snap against the concrete as she approaches. "Why were you talking to Greg Heffley?"

"What?" Heather asks, bile rising in her throat at the last name.

"Greg Heffley. Rodrick's brother. That was him," Lisbeth replies curtly. "And you were willingly interacting with him. Remember, all Heffleys are vermin."

"Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no, no,  no, no," Heather breathes out, putting her hands on her knees and sitting down on one of the lounge chairs (never mind whether or not it's available, she's having a crisis). She sinks her head into her hands.

"What's wrong?"

"Haley's going to hate my guts," Heather whines, digging a hand into her hair. "I was talking to Holly about how my DJ bailed on me, and some stupid little boy said I should hire his brother's band. I know of Greg Heffley, but I never knew what he looked like. Now Rodrick's going to be playing at my party, a party Haley's going to be at?" Heather tips her head back.