what's in a name?, a clique fanfic

Cam Fisher is just one of the things I wish I owned. I don't own The Clique, either.

I am SO sorry to the people who have dubbed me Queen of Cassie! I had to do it; I never turn down dares…

Anyhoo, blame Haritha (here you go, no one-sidedness, and plenty of fluff. Meep). She's the force behind this. And Angeline, I'm sure you're happy about it. Go die, bitches. ;)

PeeEss: Please don't kill me, Haritha. I had to add SOME Cassie to this. /whimpers

What's in a Name?

We should get jerseys, 'cause we make a great team
But yours would be better than mine, 'cause you're out of my league
"Must Have Done Something Right", Relient K

One day, the world will realize the cruelty of alphabetized seating plans. Not only does it separate me from my friends in class, but it bites, since apparently, there are no other F's in this class, and I'm the only L.

Which means I sit behind Cam Fisher, every other day in Science. I suppose I have to thank what God above that I don't have any other classes with him, because I have a… wee bit of an attention problem when Cam Fisher is around.

Yes, he's that hot, we have to go around calling him Cam Fisher. Never Cam, that's reserved for his girl of the week. And never Fisher, but if you like guffawing and arm-punching, and have a wiener, then yeah, he's Fisher to you.

Anyway. So I'm sitting here behind him, hoping and hoping that maybe he'll turn around to… well, something. Maybe he'll see how bright my eyes are after a night of perfect sleep. Or see how my bangs have grown, and how the summer I spent in Orlando has done wonders for my usually limp hair.

But no. He spends all his time just sitting there in all his messy-black-hair-bored-blue-and-green-eyed-I'd-rather-be-anywhere-but-here glory. And the teachers never call on him. See, even they realize his hotness.

The bell finally rings, and I can finally breathe. Kristen proudly flaunts her perfect notes to anyone who gave a damn about Science (total: One, as in, Kristen herself). I look down at my own notebook. No, I haven't scribbled anything at all, not even a single doodle.

Because while the teacher spent the last fifty-five minutes droning on and on about god knows what, I've spent it committing every single hair on the beautiful head of Cam Fisher to memory.

Cam Fisher is every epitome of cool.

He walks cool, he talks cool, he breathes cool, he even sweats cool, or so I've heard. I try to keep my thoughts as K-rated as possible.

Only, Cam Fisher doesn't walk. He strolls, like any other cool boy would. Hands stuffed in pockets of baggy pants, with his leather jacket and get-out-of-my-way-uncool-person-you're-pimping-my-cool-people-only-breathing-space look, he dominates the hallways. His partner in crime, Derrington, doesn't stand a chance. Partly because he's too busy shaking his butt at anyone who actually cares (apparently, a lot of people care about the shape of his butt. It's currently being seen sporting the background of Debby Weezer's MySpace profile), and partly because he spends the remainder of his butt-shaking time to stare at Massie Block.

Massie Block. Don't call her Massie, since that makes her no different from us, poor lowly LBRs, in her words. Don't call her Mass, since that's reserved for her best friends only. And the major don't: Absolutely do not call her Block. That's reserved for her guy of the week.

And right now, her guy of the week happens to be Cameron Fisher. Massie Block. Cameron Fisher and Massie Block. Massie Block and Cameron Fisher.

There is obviously something wrong in the world if the student body of Westchester-Briarwood Academy actually thinks that Massie Block and Cam Fisher could play well together. For one thing, they hang out in the same crowd. If they just happen to break up, said crowd would be divided into two, which would be devastation for Alicia Rivera, who's currently seeing Josh Hotz, who spends the time where Alicia disappears for dance rehearsal to play tongue hockey with Olivia Ryan in the janitor's closet, who has once been seen on the arm of Cam Fisher. Olivia, not the janitor's closet. So now Olivia is fading away in the background, and Massie Block and Cameron Fisher are soaking up the limelight as the school's new Golden Couple.

They're Westchester-Briarwood Academy's very own Troy and Gabriella. Oh, how trite.

III

"And oh my GOD, I don't even know why or how everyone thinks he's so cute." I stab my chicken with my plastic fork as I rant on and on to Layne Abeley, the only person who lets me talk her ear off.

Layne Abeley. Don't call her Abeley, since that name's reserved for her popular brother Chris Abeley. Don't call her Layney Poo, since Dempsey Solomon is now slaving away in the slums of Africa, and everyone's saying that's what he got for being friends with such a freak. And lastly, do not call her Layne, since you might be mistaken as her friend.

And unfortunately, that makes me the Freaky Friend of Layne Abeley. Yeah, people don't even bother to list off what or what not to call me. Layne's sitting there, patiently waiting for me to finish while she attacks her homework with enthusiasm even I can't summon on a Friday morning. I lower my voice so people won't know I'm actually (and to be honest, hypocritingly… wait, it that even a word?) mocking Cam Fisher. Not that anyone would care. Usually on Fridays, Kemp Hurley (don't call him Kemp, since that's what he likes girls to scream when his with them, don't call him Hurley, since that relates you as some friend of his. And trust me, you do NOT want to be his friend when he's... I don't know, stolen the granny panties of Vice-Principal Burns, maybe?) plans a huge sabotage attack on the Krispy Kreme truck that passes by the school, and by some force of magic, he manages to empty the whole truck of donuts in ten minutes alone, and get said donuts into our lockers just before the bell rings, so everyone's usually buzzed with sugar rush, thus making it hard for them to actually pay attention to just one thing for longer than three seconds. For a guy with big hair, Kemp Hurley can sure be stealthy.

"You know, that's the fifth time you've talked about him in twenty minutes alone." Layne pushes her reading glasses up the bridge of her nose, raising an eyebrow at me. "Claire, do you…" She squints her green eyes at me, "Like Cam Fisher?"

I swallow. My heart beats faster. My palms water. Yes, I want to scream. YES, I LIKE CAM FLIPPING FISHER, but instead—

"Pfft, no! How do you spin crap like that?" I wave my hand dismissively. "Besides, guys like Cam Fisher think they're so hot and cool, by the way they walk, and talk, and breathe and sweat, I'm sure they expect people to talk about them."

The Layne Abeley eyebrow raises even more. "Cam Fisher sweats… cool?"

"Quit changing the subject," I insist. "Look at them; I swear they're just pining to break free from the depressing circle of popularity."

They're all laughing and joking with each other, eating Krispy Kreme donuts and just fooling around. The girls are gossiping and applying lip gloss and re-doing their nails, and the guys are probably talking about how cool they are.

"Yep, sure looks like it," Layne says dryly. "They're dying to get down from the top of the social ladder." She looks at me, and is that… pity in her eyes? "Claire, you know we can never be with them. We're still on the long, long, long waiting list to get on the first rung of the ladder."

"Whatevs," I quote Massie Block, lowering my head until I'm eye to eye with my plate of burnt plastic with artificial chicken flavoring.

"Excuse me!"

After the millionth time of me waving my arms in his face, the old guy behind the counter still hasn't looked up. The red-haired girl beside me snorts, and continues tapping her fingers on the marble counter. I glare at her, and turn back to Old Guy behind the Counter.

"Um, old guy behind the counter?" I slap five dollars down. "Can I please have my ice-cream now?"

He ignores me. Then, someone jostles me aside, into Redhead. It's Kemp Hurley, I can tell because of the huge weight of his hair. And beside him—

"Ehmagawd," the girl gasps into my ear. "That's Cam Fisher. Don't call him Cam, since that's reserved for his girl of the week, and don't ever call him Fisher, since that's—"

"Oh really?" I interrupt, feigning interest. Then I turn to glare at Kemp Hurley. "Would you excuse me? I've been here for ten fricken minutes, and I'm still waiting for my ice-cream."

Kemp Hurley simply stares at me as he says, "Excuse you?"

I bite back a frustrated sigh. Does Kemp Hurley not understand what I'm trying to say? Okay, apparently not, since he probably failed play-doh in kindergarten. "Yeah, could you move a bit? I was in line before you."

"And now you're not," Kemp deadpans. "Dude! That's funny!" He turns his back on me to face Cam Fisher, clearly expecting a fist-bump. But surprisingly, Cam's holding out two cones, both vanilla, and he's holding it out to the redhead.

Figures he'd go for the hot ones. And judging by the large intake of breath Redhead's just inhaled, I'm sure she's pleased.

"What are you doing, just staring at Kemp Hurley's hair? Take the cone! Take it take it take it!"

Huh?

Cam Fisher's beginning to look a little doubtful as he extends the cone towards… me? He looks down at it, and actually says (to me!), "Sorry, if you're not a fan of vanilla. Should I take it back?"

"Wha—?"

"She loves vanilla!" Redhead grabs it from his hand and pushes it firmly into my own. "She's so delighted, she's speechless!"

That, I am. Just not the 'delighted' part. "Um, thanks?"

"She said thanks!" Redhead squeals.

"She said thanks?" Kemp Hurley repeats stupidly.

"You're welcome." Cam Fisher smiles. At me!

"He said you're welcome!" Redhead's rocking on the balls of her feet.

"He said you're welcome?" Kemp Hurley (tries to) rub the back of his head in astonishment.

"So, what's your name?" Cam Fisher asks me as I tentatively lick the tip of my ice-cream. "And, you've got a little…" He points at the corner of his mouth, and I immediately reach my hand up to swipe off the smudge of ice-cream.

"So? Your name?" He enquires again, and I have to pinch myself to make sure this isn't a dream. Except that it kind of got ice-cream all over my cargo pants now. Nice.

"Um," I stutter, and I blush. Why do these things happen to me? Oh wait, they don't happen to me. Nope, not at all. "I'm Claire Ly--"

"Hey there, Claire. I'm Cam."

"Fisher," I finish it for him. Clearly he's so cool and hot that he expects others to just know his name.

"Nope, just Cam." Strike one. He grins at me as he turns to leave. "I'll see you around, Claire."

I sit behind Cam Fisher, every other day in Science. I suppose I have to thank what God above that I don't have any other classes with him, because I have a… wee bit of an attention problem when Cam Fisher is around.

Only now, he's not Cam Fisher. He's just Cam. And I'm not the unknown Freaky Friend of Layne Abeley, I'm just Claire.

I sit behind him, but now, I don't mind that he doesn't turn around, doesn't see what changes summer has done to my face, my eyes, my hair. Because I know that he knows I'm here. That's enough.

The bell rings. He gets up from his seat. I stay in mine. I hear Kristen boasting about how her wrist hurts; she wrote so much. Cam catches my eye, and he smiles, at me. Then, he leaves.

And I look down at my notebook in front of me. There are no notes on atoms, or sonic booms. There's just one word.

Hope.

Surprisingly, I enjoyed writing that. No angst, for once. And I'm feeling pretty good right now. Oh, love is just so wonderful. :)

So, Cassie lovers, I am sorry. But right now, I... don't. Really. Care. le gaspe.

And Clam lovers, hope you liked it. Review?