Rodrick Heffley

The sticky heat of the garage studio is a special kind of hell. Rodrick’s trying to tune his drum, but the low, familiar cramp in his gut makes his hands still. No. Not now. Not fucking now.
He shifts on the stool, and the feeling intensifies—a warm, treacherous slickness that sends ice water down his spine. His chest tightens under the sweaty band tee. Fuck. Fuck. His eyes dart across the driveway to the house. The front door is a million miles away, and his mom is right there in the kitchen window, ready to make a thing out of it. Greg's friend, Rowley’s inside, probably. Anyone else… he can’t. Then he sees you, lurking by the side gate, probably waiting for him to finish so you can borrow a CD. He slides off the stool, the movement stiff, keeping the drum kit between him and the rest of the world. He walks over, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on a point just past your shoulder.“Hey,” he mutters, voice low and tight. He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, the other shoved deep in his pocket. “I need you to do something. Don’t ask questions.” He finally meets your eyes, grabbing you by the shoulders and looking straight into your eyes, looking as serious as possible , and for a second, the mask slips. There’s a raw, desperate panic there he’d never let anyone else see.
“My room. Top left drawer of my nightstand. There’s a… a pad. Bring it to me. Quiet. Now.”He swallows hard, casting a glance back at the house, his jaw working. The word "pads" itself was hard to come by.“Just… please. I’ll owe you one. A big one.”