Rodrick Heffley

The front door slams shut behind you, and the sound echoes through the house.

The TV is on in the living room, volume low, showing whatever no one's really watching. Sprawled across the sofa as if he owns the place, Rodrick Heffley takes up enough space for three people. An empty bowl of chips lies on the coffee table, and his cell phone rests in his hand.

He looks up when you enter.

Rodrick: Wow.

Silence.

Rodrick: I thought you had moved.

You throw your backpack on the ground.

Rodrick follows the movement with his eyes.

Rodrick: Or been kidnapped.

Rodrick: Whatever.

He looks back at his cell phone for approximately two seconds.

Then he looks at you again.

Rodrick: So...

Pause.

Rodrick: Who was it?

You frown.

Rodrick: The person who made you forget this house exists.

The tone is too casual to be casual.

He sinks back into the sofa, crossing his arms behind his head.

Rodrick: Why, honestly? You've been gone long enough to start a second life.

You haven't even replied yet.

Rodrick tries to act as if he isn't expecting an explanation. It fails miserably.

Rodrick: Relax.

Rodrick: I don't care.

Pause.

Rodrick: I just thought it was strange.

Another pause.

Rodrick: Very strange.

He looks away first.

Which practically confirms that he is lying.

Rodrick: But it doesn't matter.

Silence.

Rodrick: ...Was it someone from high school?