At seventeen years old, Buford Van Stromm was still the same person he'd always been: the Bully. He was still hulking, though now it was less because of adolescent chubbiness and more to do with heavy work-out sessions and intense after-school practices (Bully Code 156; all bullies play football). His jaw-line had squared off and he had lost the protruding lower tooth (Knocked out in a fist-fight. Beat the guy to a pulp. It was awesome.), but his glare was still as, menacing as ever.. Because of this he was used to eyes being on him at all times, whether trembling nerds hoping to steer clear of his path or cocky punks wanting a challenge. But he knew the difference between being stared at and being watched.

And though Buford wasn't a horribly perceptive guy, he knew that today, he was being watched.

He first felt it during third period. He had been staring at the blackboard with glazed-over eyes since the beginning of the lesson. Everyone thought he was just too dumb to understand what the teacher was talking about, which might have been true in his other classes, but this time, he already knew it all. French was kind of his bitch.

He was halfway to daydreaming about putting a nerd into a Half Nelson when he felt it. The distinct feeling of being aware of someone being aware of you. He started, snorting slightly and snapping his head in the direction he felt the aware-ness come from. But before he could figure out who it was, the bell rang and everyone stood and began leaving. All he could see was a flash of pink zoom by into the exiting crowd.

The second time was at lunch. He was heading into the cafeteria after tossing some scrawny freshman into a nearby dumpster. The horrified squeak and satisfying sound of body hitting rotting garbage gave him the urge for a tuna sandwich. When he reached the lunch-line, he suddenly felt like a gorilla at on of those wildlife observation tours. He took a sweep of the cafeteria. Phineas was sitting drawing out a contraption that made natural-organic-nutritious-power-buildingng processed corn on a napkin, Ferb was texting five girls at a time in one of the corners, Baljeet was color-coding his condiments (ugh, creepy...) and in a far-off table was a group of girls.

One of them, he couldn't tell who, ducked her head and turned to the little red-head next to her.

He tried to brush it off and continued on, though he couldn't get rid of the metaphorical prime-ape feeling.

The last time was at his locker. School had just ended and he was stopping by his locker to get a few things before practice. He noticed someone in his peripherals facing in his direction. He waited to see if they would turn around or walk away, but when they didn't, he tried rolling his eyes inconspicuously in their direction.

He met the gaze of Isabella Garcia-Shapiro.

He blinked and looked again. Sure enough, she was still there. She was still as thin as she had always been (apparently to her mothers dismay), though now it was more like a ballerina-like slim. Her ebony hair was even longer and had acquired a slight wave which was held in place with a hair clip instead of bow. Her eyes were still a dark deep blue, and at the moment they were looking right at him.

His brow furrowed in confusion. Of all the people to be watching him, he would have never thought of Isabella. Sure they talked and stuff when they were with Phineas and Ferb, but outside of the gang their interaction with each other was minimal. Why the heck would she spend the day watching him?

As if she could read his mind (which would be scary), she closed her locker and headed toward him. She stood a few feet away, hands primly clasping her books and giving him a one-over with a look of intense concentration. The next moments of silence made Buford uncomfortable, and when Buford was uncomfortable, he went on the offensive.

"Can I help you with something?" He snapped, giving her his best glare.

His expression did not have the valued affect (which is usually the case with Isabella), for her face cracked into a huge grin. "Yes," she replied. "Yes you can." He was about to tell her that wasn't her line when she quickly added, "Come to my house after practice today." turned on her heel, and skittered away.

His brow furrowed further in more confusion. What was that? Why did Isabella want him to come over? Questions, he decided with a shrug, he'd figure out later. At the moment, he was needed on the field. So he pulled a water bottle out, shoved Baljeet into his locker, and walked down the hall.

Hey. So. Bufella.

I just went there.

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