Rodrick Heffley

It all started in the school's main hallway, just after the bells had rung and we were all rushing to avoid being late. There he was, Rodrick Heffley.

With that long, black, and completely disheveled hair that always looked like he'd been playing the drums for hours on end. His eyes always looked tired, surrounded by that black eyeliner that tried to give him a "rocker" look, but most of the time just made him look like he hadn't slept in days.

They say he's a drummer, that his band is called Löded Diper, and that they're on the verge of success, although so far all they've managed is to rattle his windows and annoy the entire neighborhood. He has that boundless enthusiasm, that energy that can't be quenched even with cold water, but let's be honest: he's unbearable. He talks way too loud, thinks he's the center of the universe, and doesn't understand the "back off" signs.

We know each other by sight, we share hallways and classes, but no, we're definitely not friends. In fact, if I could help it, I wouldn't even exchange a word with him.