Rodrick Heffley and Ben Segal were making their way across the empty lot, a crumpled notebook page of lyrics passing between them. The Löded Diper van, a battered, spray-painted monstrosity, was parked near the bike racks.

There she was. Walking from the direction of the school’s art wing, a backpack slung over one shoulder. He’d seen her around before, in the vague way you notice background characters in a movie. But now, in the golden-hour light, she wasn’t background anymore.