Disclaimer: I do not own iCarly, or any of the characters herein. I also do not own any of the lyrics to Tom Waits' songs. In short, I own nothing. All I can do is vouch for their respective awesomeness.
I couldn't understand why Sam was so excited to go to the mall with Carly to shop at Glitter Gloss last night. She doesn't really like much stuff at the "Prancy Priss Palace," as she calls it, so the whole thing didn't make any sense.
Unfortunately for me, I found out this morning why she wanted to go there so badly. Sometime during second period gym class, Sam once again broke into my locker. This time, she stole my backpack and replaced it with a customized, hot-pink Glitter Gloss Fairy Princess Special Edition backpack, complete with the name "Fredwina" stitched in bold cursive lettering across the back. Amazingly, everything that had been in my backpack was now in exactly the same corresponding location in the new Glitter Gloss backpack.
What I still don't understand is why she always has to try so hard to make my life miserable. Sam hates anything that requires effort, so why does she put so much effort into messing with me? Is she just that naturally vicious? Anybody else she thinks is a dork she just slams into a locker or gives them a wedgie. But for stuff like this, she really goes out of her way. Does she hate me that much? And why do I care if she does?
The rest of the school day was completely humiliating. Worse than all the teasing from carrying a sack of sequined pink vomit over my shoulder was the knowledge that eventually I'd have to go back home and face my mom and all her inevitable questions like, "Fredward! Where did you get that backpack?! Why did you get that backpack!? Where's your backpack?! That miscreant Sam stole it?! And you let her?! Where is it?! Why don't you ask her nicely to give it back to you?" And on, and on.
Forestalling the inevitable, I decided to stop at Carly and Spencer's place before going home across the hall. I knew Spencer would be there, since he was working on reassembling a spatula-man sculpture he'd begun with Carly a few weeks ago during his ill-fated attempt at giving her art lessons. I also knew Carly and Sam wouldn't be there, since they were meeting Wendy after school at the Groovy Smoothie. I really didn't want to deal with Sam before I figured out a way to get revenge, and I hoped Spencer would be able to help me out.
I opened the door to Carly and Spencer's apartment to find him frantically seeking a spatula that had somehow become glued to his forehead without his realizing it.
"How goes it, Freddie?" he asked as he scampered aimlessly around the living room. "Don't mind me; I'm just looking for my green spatula."
"You've got one . . . on your . . . head . . . there," I answered while pointing to his forehead.
"Oh. Thanks!"
I've known Spencer to listen to some bizarre music while sculpting before, but what he had blaring on the stereo at this point took the cake. A bass guitar played some lurching melody, if it could be called that, over a bunch of random clanking noises while some guy who sounded like he was gargling rusty nails sang. It amazes me sometimes that Carly is as sort-of normal as she is.
"She's a diamond that wants to stay coal," the singer, if he could be called that, growled.
"Umm, Spencer?"
"Yeah?"
"What on Earth are you listening to?" I asked.
"Tom Waits."
I stared blankly.
"I know it sounds kind of weird," Spencer continued, "but he has this way of describing things that people have a hard time putting into words. Sweet backpack, by the way. When did you get it?"
"SWEET?!" I replied. "Sam stole my backpack and replaced it with this pink piece of sequined spit up! She just makes me so . . . so . . ." I stammered. "Why does she work so hard just to make my life miserable?! And why do I keep putting up with it?"
Just then something in the song caught my ears:
There's no prayer like desire
There's amnesia in her kiss
She's a swan and a pistol
And she will follow you like this . . .
Just as my mind started to drift to the fire escape outside my apartment, I was quickly jolted back to the present when Spencer bumped into his statue. One of the spatulas apparently hadn't been glued securely enough, and the way he bumped it sent it catapulting straight for my head.
"Sorry about that," Spencer said as I ducked out of the way. "I guess I should have used an adhesive bonding gel instead.
She's whiskey in a teacup
She gives blondes a lousy name
She's a bonzai Aphrodite . . .
"Anyway, I don't know," Spencer continued. "She does a lot of crazy things around here and ticks me off sometimes too, but deep down I know she's a really good kid."
She's a hard way to go
There ain't no way to stop . . .
Spencer kept talking, but for some reason all I could absorb was the song. I needed to get out of there, I decided, if I was going to be able to think clearly. I told Spencer I was going to head home, and I walked toward the front door.
She's a diamond that wants to stay coal
She's a diamond that wants to stay coal
Wants to stay coal
I opened the door only to find Sam standing right in front of me, holding my backpack in one hand and a can of spray paint in the other. "'Sup, Fredwina!" she smirked, as something sparkled in her eyes.
Author's Note: This is my first attempt at writing a story, so hopefully it isn't too terrible. If you're interested in the song quoted here, it's "Black Market Baby" by Tom Waits, off his 1999 album "Mule Variations."