Hello there. I'm here. So are you. YAY! I had this random little thought the other day: what does Sam do when she goes home? And I decided to write my interpretation of that. It's a different, hidden side of Sam and I thought it would be fun.
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"I'm home!" I shouted softly. No answer, but that was expected. I found a note taped to a box of Chinese takeout in the tiny kitchen. I tore it off and read my mom's loopy handwriting: Sammiekins, I went to LA for the weekend with Ray. There's $1OO in my sock drawer for anything you need. See you Sunday, Mom. I sighed. It was going to be just a typical weekend.
Most people thought that a typical weekend for me would be getting in trouble, eating ham, breaking things. And for two out of the three days, it is. But when I go home after shooting iCarly on Fridays, I do something that no one knows.
On Friday nights, I - Samantha Lousie Puckett - am secretly a supermodel. I throw on music (usually MTV), mess around with my hair, and dress up in whatever clothes and makeup I feel like. Then I pose in front of a Polaroid camera and save them in black leather photo albums hidden under my bed. It reminds me that I am pretty. That I have something to do. I would also die if anyone found out.
But that doesn't stop me from doing it anyway.
So I munch away on my noodles while rummaging through Melanie's closet. I swear, I don't know where she gets half her clothes. Out tumbles a sheer, filmy peach dress. I hold it up to me and look in the mirror. It's beautiful, but so not me. A tiny little voice itches inside my head. Why not? No one will know . . . And my tiny little voice always wins. Off comes my jeans and Indian Balloons penny tee. I slip the dress on over my head and twirl around in front of the mirror. A slight smile brushes across my lips. I dance my way into the bathroom, where the curling iron is heating up. My stringy blonde hair is soon a mass of glossy curls, my chapped lips a sparkly pink, my blue eyes lightened by silver eyeshadow and brown eyeliner. My fingers dance through my mom's jewelry box until I find the perfect earrings: white and gold chandelier earrings that dangle down to my mid-neck.
I grab the camera and my latest album and head into my living room. It's the only room that's clean and that's where the TV is anyway. I flip to channel 56, where the music video for Halo is just starting. With my camera set, I get into the groove. When I'm Samantha Louise, supermodel, and not Sam Puckett, badass slacker, I have a lot of (legal) fun. I feel the words to the song forming on my lips. I belt it out to the camera, playing with my hair and letting loose.
"Everywhere I look and noooow, I'm surrounded by your embrace . . . baby I can see your halo, you know you're my saving grace!" I croon, giving my best good girl smile to the camera. I hold a finger to my lips and look slightly to the side, trying to look a little naughty. I start to giggle, because I feel just a little bit silly. My hands gravitate to my hips and I lean slightly forward. I put my arms up in the air, grabbing the one wrist and dance around in the classic music video move.
"Hit me like a ray of sun, burning through my darkest night," I continue the song, tugging on one specific curl and pulling my head down with it. I purse my lips for the camera, I stick my tounge out for the camera, I whirl and twirl and fall down for the camera. I'm not afraid of the camera. In fact, I love it. When the song ends, I stop posing and pick up the photos that have fallen to the floor as new ones were taken. I sit down and watch as they magically appear on the papers. To me, it's magical. It's my guilty pleasure; I would give anything to feel that way all the time.
Woah. I look good . . . my tiny little voice says as I tuck the photos inside their plastic sleeves. With each one, I tuck away a little bit of happiness. The phone rings, bringing me out of my trance. I hop up and make my way into the kitchen.
"Hello?" I say, still caught between Samantha Louise and Sam Puckett. "SAM! Hey!" chirps Carly. "Do you wanna sleep over tomorrow? We could go see a movie beforehand."
"Sure. That'd be fun," I say, fingering the hem of the sheer, filmy peach dress. And just like that, I'm not a supermodel anymore.
***
Sooo . . . what did you think? Should I keep it as a oneshot or continue?
xo, Chantal