A/N: Yes, shoot me. I'm starting a different series. Enjoy, please, and REVIEW! *Uses Jedi mind trick*

Disclaimer: Seriously? You thought I owned anything?

- Sam -

She crouched on the dirt strip that acted as their driveway, the minute pebbles digging into her kneecaps, although she hardly noticed the slight pain. The wrench slipped off the stripped bolt for the third time and she muttered several piquant curses then threw the wrench. It banged against a tree and fell somewhere in the tall grass. She got up and wiped her hands on her dingy white tank top, which was actually a camisole she had stolen from her sister's room three years ago. It was so grease stained and dirty that it couldn't act as anything but a work shirt now, and Sam happily used it as often as she could. She examined the sleek red Harley, the only remnant that had been left behind of her father. She snorted at the thought of him actually getting on this suped-up bike. He had been a fat, lazy man who liked the motorcycle purely for aesthetic value. Sam had repaired it as best she could after he had finally kicked the bucket, and now it was the envy of the neighborhood. She slapped the headlight fondly, and she leaned against the leather saddlebags - emblazoned with a bumper sticker that said SAVE A HORSE RIDE A COWBOY - as she looked around her trashy yard. Tires were stacked three high at various edges of the wild, untamed lot. The grass hadn't been mowed in months, and in some places it was knee high. Weeds, especially dandelions, carpeted the lawn all over the place. One crooked tree, stripped of bark except for a few termite-ridden patches, sagged crazily against the back fence, which needed to be repaired badly. A fort had been erected underneath it out of several milk crates and an old blue tarp; the fort had been abandoned for several years, and was now a home to garter snakes and rats.

Sam left her depressing back yard and threw open the screen door to the trailer. It screamed in pain as the rusty hinges were stretched yet again, but she ignored it. She swaggered her way through the dingy house, making her way around broken pieces of Legos and a few flat cigarette butts. A smog of blue smoke hung over the air, and the whole place stank of cigarettes. Sam wrinkled her nose and opened the refrigerator door, careful not to knock it off the hinges again. She took out the quart of milk, checked the expiration date, and sniffed it dubiously. When she decided it wasn't poisonous, she swigged several gulps straight from the bottle. She heard the TV mumble quietly from the living room, and she closed the refrigerator door and slouched inside the living room. On the threadbare sofa was her mother, practically passed out. Sam did a quick beer count, noting the half-empty beer still clenched in her mother's left hand. There were eleven empty beers scattered throughout the room and she was working on her second pack of Camels. Sam closed her eyes for a minute then forced a cheerful smile on her face. "Hey, Mom," she said. Her mother opened one bloodshot eye and grunted something that might be a greeting or a curse, she wasn't sure. The blinds had been drawn all the way down, and the TV was the only light in the dim room. She rolled over and snored loudly, the beer can falling onto the floor and gurgling warm foamy amber liquid over the scuffed linoleum. Sam gritted her teeth. She needed to get out of here.

She went down the narrow hallway and went into her room. It was just as smoggy and filthy as the rest of the trailer, but it didn't bother Sam. She spent as little time as she could in the room, anyway. She tore off the work shirt and dug through the busted dresser that had once been made of polished oak to find something better to wear. She sniffed a black tank top, deemed it wearable, and tugged it on. It was too hot to be wearing all black, but she liked to way it made her look. Besides, what would be the point of having black mascara, black hair and black eyeliner if she didn't wear all black? She slipped out the back door and went over to the Harley that was gleaming invitingly from the driveway. She flipped up the kickstand, thrust the key in the ignition with a shaking hand, and gunned it perhaps louder then necessary. She took off down the road, revving the engine with a loose wrist.

- Amy -

She tapped the desk with one nail, her other hand burrowed in her thick red mane of hair. Her eyes were slitted in concentration and she eyed the math problems with an evil eye. Math was her best subject, and usually she was excellent at it. But today was too hot, and the breeze from the open window felt too inviting. Also, it was her birthday, and it had to be against some kind of law to do math problems on her birthday. Then again, she knew that if she blew it off today she would have about three hours of homework to do tomorrow, and she didn't want to be chained to her room all day. So she brought down the dull pencil and began writing, filling in the blank spaces that dotted the paper like missing teeth. She frowned at the fat, sloppy lines the dull pencil made and she dropped it, letting it roll down on the floor. Burying her face in her hands, she waited. It was too hot. Everything was sweaty and sticky and warm, including the refrigerator. Blowing a hank of red hair out of her eyes, she scooted backwards in her swivel chair and rolled over to her bed to grab her laptop, pushing herself along with her feet. She tapped her password into the computer with practiced ease, then checked her emails. Nothing. Amy sighed and picked up her phone, checking for a "Happy B-day" text from one of her friends. Zippo. Then again, she shouldn't have been expecting that much. Sam and Lizzie were notoriously forgetful, mostly because they argued all the time. They probably didn't know her birthday in the first place.

Amy meandered downstairs, stepping neatly over her chubby little brother who as cooing at one of her Barbie dolls, conveniently stripped naked. She raised an eyebrow at the tiptoed, narrow waist, vapid smile, large breasted doll for a moment, then sneered and passed on without comment. Picking her way around various brothers and sisters, all of which were slurping popsicles or squabbling over toys, she reached the kitchen. It had the best view of the street, and she rested her head against the cool glass for a moment. Opening the freezer, she discovered an empty box of popsicles and a nearly empty tray of Klondike bars. Snatching the last one, she flattened both cardboard boxes and tossed them on the counter. She peeled off the aluminum wrapped and sucked noisily at the icy treat, knowing her older brother would probably kill her for eating the last one. But it was her birthday, and she didn't really care how much he fussed. With nine brothers and sisters, birthdays weren't a big thing in the Ricker household. There would be too much expense, and goodness knows they had enough expenses already. She crumpled the wrapper into a tight ball and bounced it on her palm for a moment, then threw it in the trash. She was hot, she was bored, and she had absolutely nothing to do.

Something caught her eye. Her yellow Fatboy was looking temptingly inviting on the smooth asphalt driveway. If Lizzie and Sam weren't doing anything else today, maybe they could go to the Ground Round and drink sodas. They were probably the only adolescent biker gang who didn't drink, gamble, or smoke. Come to think of it, the only vice they did have was eating too much popcorn or drinking too much Coke. She spun around and hammered up the stairs, neatly avoiding another sister who was crying over her spoiled popsicle. Amy banged open her door and nearly collided with her older sister Kathy. With a muttered apology, she kicked her sister out and locked the door. Rummaging through her clothes - which were all folded and organized by color - she yanked out one of her many graphic tees. This one was orange with an Aerospatiale logo on it. Pulling her damp green tank top over her head, she pulled on her orange tee and shoved herself into a pair of cutoff jeans. Using one of the scrunchies she always had hanging on her wrist, she tugged back her mane of wild red hair into a loose pony tail. She didn't have time for anything else, and she wanted to go for a ride. Thundering down the stairs once more, she took one of the sharp corners that honeycombed their house and banged on the door to her mother's office. "Mom! I'm going for a ride, okay?" she called. Not waiting for an answer - if her mother was on the phone, she wouldn't answer anyway - she threw open the back door and headed straight for her yellow Fatboy.

Sliding one leg over the bulky motorcycle, she had a sudden thought and dug her cell phone out of her pocket. It didn't take long to locate Lizzie's number - after all, the only people in her phone were her family, Sam, and Lizzie. She sent a quick text to ask her where she wanted to hang out; it wasn't like Lizzie could be doing anything serious, anyway. The blonde model rarely had anything serious to do. Come to think of it, the only thing Lizzie considered serious was either shaving her legs or using a new facial moisturizer. Sam jingled her keys for a moment then flipped it into the ignition. She gunned the engine, then pushed up the kickstand. It was a beautiful autumn day for a ride, and she planned to make every second of it count. She pulled out of the driveway without too much noise, and began speeding down the bumpy dirt road.

- Lizzie -

She stuck one long tanned leg up in the air and closed her eyes. It was deliciously cool in her air-conditioned room, and she liked the chilly blast of cold air that was sending goose bumps down her legs. The TV in her room was playing a new CSI show, and the radio was thumping happily in the background, Taylor Swift crooning out another heartbreaking song. Lizzie flipped a strand of blonde hair over her shoulder and reached for a bottle of nail polish. She narrowed her eyes - which color to choose today? - and eventually settled for a bright red. Red was so sexy. She brandished her nail polish brush like a tool of liberation, and began painting her toenails with the practiced ease of a beautician. She painted her nails almost every day, and she had gotten good at it over the years. Her phone rang - another Taylor Swift song, this one harsher and louder - and then it silenced, indicating she had a text. Pausing in her ministrations concerning her toenails, she reached for her Blackberry and scrolled through it. It was a text from her friend Amy, short, simple, and to the point,, much like Amy herself: GR or CB? Only Lizzie would have any idea what Amy meant by that. It was Amy-speak for "Do you wanna hang out at the Ground Round or at the Cracker Barrel?". Pleased that she had been asked for her opinion, Lizzie texted back GR. The Ground Round had cuter waiters, and there was a guy there who always flirted with her.

Lizzie slunk to her closet and examined her clothes. Choices, choices. She eventually settled on her "Casual Wear", which meant a pair of stonewashed shorts that was stylishly frayed and a tight pink tank top. She kicked herself into the shorts and buttoned them around her slim waist. She picked up the hem of her shirt and examined her rear end in the full length mirror that decorated one wall. Frowning - her butt was always too flat for her liking, even though she had quite a nice figure - she pulled off her shirt and tugged her pink tank top on. She studied herself, and decided to accessorize. They might run into one or two of those cute waiters, and she wanted to look nice. Digging through her jewelry box, she pulled out a pair of earrings and tilted her head to the side to put them in. Sliding a few bracelets on her arms and fastening a locket around her neck, she picked up her makeup brush and twirled a little bit of blush along her cheeks. Blowing a kiss to herself, she sprayed her Perfectly Peachy perfume on each wrist, dabbed a bit on her neck, and sprayed a bit in her cleavage for good measure.

She skipped downstairs, forgetting to shut off either the TV or the radio, and tapped on her father's bedroom door. "Daddy? I'm going to the Ground Round with my friends, 'kay?" There was a mumbled assent, and Lizzie giggled then continued on. As she went through her house to the garage, she pulled her hair back in a ponytail. It would look so cute, she decided, if she had one of those butterfly clips to decorate the pink hair tie, but there couldn't be anything for it. She banged open the garage door and rolled her neon-pink-custom-made Tomahawk onto the driveway. It had a few green and yellow art decals scattered on the gleaming pink body, and she slid one leg seductively over the side. She saw the gardener, Tony, watching her out of the corner of his eye, and she flipped her hair. Being the center of attention always pleased the blonde model. She checked her makeup in her vanity mirror and tossed her blonde hair, sneaking a flirty smile at Tony, who jerked his head back at her. She kicked the kickstand up and turned it on, gunning it loudly to attract Tony's attention again. It worked, and she surged forward knowing his dark eyes were watching her from behind.

09

Sam already had a booth in the Ground Round when Amy got there. She was lounging against the wall, both hands gripping a cool, frosty glass half full of root beer. Her short brown hair was tousled from zipping along the highway, and when Amy approached her, her brown eyes opened and she offered a sideways grin that had become her trademark. "Hey, girlfriend," she said with a little smile. "Where've you been? I missed you - got your text, by the way." She held up her battered phone as Amy got onto the booth across from her. The short redhead had attempted to tame her mass of red curls by pulling it back in a ponytail, but some of it hung loose around her face and her bangs were hanging in her green eyes again. Amy sighed and blew a few red curls out of her face and leaned against the wall.

"Oh, man, it's hot out," she moaned. "I haven't seen you all week. How's your mom?" Amy never failed to ask about Sam's alcoholic mother. Sam's brown eyes flitted downwards as she lied easily to her friend. She felt bad about lying to the innocent redhead, but then again it was so damned easy to lie to Amy. She believed everything she heard, the naive little thing.

"Mom's doin' better, you know, drinking a lot less." Sam said quietly. Then she looked up and forced a grin. "But at least she's drinking in hot weather. Hey, let's get you a soda. Cherry coke, right?" she asked, changing the subject. It was a plot Amy saw right through, and she decided to let the matter drop.

"Yeah, cherry coke." Amy said. The bell above the door tinkled and they both looked up. Sam and Amy groaned simultaneously. "I wish she was a little less pretty, you know?" Amy said after a moment of silence. They both observed their bubbly blonde friend who had just entered, attracting most of the male attention in the room. Lizzie sat down next to them, a sunny smile on her face.

"Oh, my God, I haven't seen you guys in forever! How have you been?" Lizzie asked with a high giggle. Sam scowled at her friend/enemy.

"You look like Malibu-Barbie," Sam snapped. "Can you not dress like a five dollar whore when I'm around, at least?" It was the usual jab. Sam didn't like Lizzie because she was pretty and popular and cute, and Lizzie didn't like Sam because she was tough, sarcastic, and defensive. Lizzie's blue eyes narrowed as she scowled at her friend/enemy.

"At least I don't look like trailer trash, Samantha," Lizzie snapped, using Sam's full name to get a rise out of her. Amy held up her hands pleadingly, kicking Sam under the table to keep her from rising to the bait. Sam glanced at her friend and sighed, letting the comment go by without slapping Lizzie.

"Look, guys, its too hot to be fighting," Amy said. "Let's just have a drink or two and chill out, okay?" The waiter arrived, giving the usual root beet, cherry coke and ginger ale to the three regular customers. He gave his roguish grin at Lizzie and departed, leaving the three girls with icy cold drinks that they were already slurping down. After their thirst had been sated for the moment, Sam began digging in her pocket.

"Hey, happy birthday, Amy," she said. She took out a pocket knife and spun it over to Amy. "Wasn't sure what to get you or anything, so I got you that. And I wasn't about to get you a card and all that crap, so be happy with it." By the pink flush on Amy's cheeks, she was pleased with it. At least somebody remembered. Lizzie looked horror-stricken, then covered it up with a girlish half-giggle.

"Oh, Amy, I left your present at home. I forgot it, sorry," she said. Knowing Lizzie, she had probably forgotten entirely, but Amy wasn't perturbed. Half an hour ago she had been wondering if anybody remembered at all, and now she had received a birthday gift from the most likely person to forget it.

They finished their drinks and stepped out into the glare of the midday sun, reluctantly leaving the cool air conditioning of the restaurant. Getting on their bikes, they revved the engines and spun off, taking the corner a little too sharply. None of them saw the big black Suburban that plunged into the three bikes and sent the three teenagers sprawling.