The show was a regular circus. Carly was the ringleader. Gibby was the prize freak. The Boy Who Will Do Anything. She always admired it. Sometimes she wondered if he only did it to have friends. Not that they wouldn't be his friend if he didn't do every stupid thing they asked of him but… Sometimes it seemed that way, since he was rarely around unless they were doing the show.
She frowned. There was no reason for that to be the case. She stopped him before he turned down his street,
"Wanna come over for spaghetti tacos with us?"
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"What'cha hummin'?" she asked. She couldn't place it. "I don't think I've heard that song before."
"My theme song," he said matter-of-factly.
She laughed. "You have a theme song? Since when?"
"Since forever."
"How's it go?"
He taught it to her. She could hit the right notes, made it sound better. Her voice was amazing. He didn't know she could sing.
"You want it?" he asked. She was surprised. "Really?"
"For the show, ya'know?"
She sang it again, under her breath, killed it with a smile. "I love it!"
The show had her name, now it had his song.
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Birds-of-paradise were cool. Normal looking—then with a sudden flip that bent space-time continuums, feathers fanned out into breathtaking colors and odd shapes. Carly had an odd sense of humor, so that was her weird shape. And she could sing but rarely did, her scarlet feathers.
Yeah, she was a bird-of-paradise.
Galapagos Turtles were cool. Big turtles—huge—and the species in which Darwin first recognized Survival-of-the-Fittest. Gibby'd always been the heaviest, and after puberty, the tallest too. Started high school a nerd, but evolved into a Gibby, something everyone secretly wanted to be.
Yeah, he was a Galapagos Turtle.
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She liked bad-boys? That was not comforting. Griffin. What was up with that? Was that his first name or his last name? Oh, it was his first name. So he had cool parents who didn't saddle their sons with names like Clifford Cornelius Gibson. Whatever. It happens.
Yikes. That was what he looked like? That wasn't what a bad boy looked like. Where were the tattoos, scars, and piercings? This was a pretty-boy with a bad-boy attitude. He was too symmetrical, too hard and tan, too perfect. He needed flaws. There was nothing interesting-looking about him. Nothing thought-provoking.
Nothing Gibby.
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She got shrill, bossy, when she was stressed. She stressed over random things, too. Like homework. He understood, but really, why was a grade that big of a deal? Her value was more than a silly grade.
Or rehearsals for the show. They were naturals, her and Sam. She could relax. It wouldn't be the death of her if things went as horribly wrong as she was sure they could go. She was smart, strong. She'd survive whatever life threw at her. He made her sit. Breathe. He rubbed her shoulders, felt her relax under his touch.
She sighed. "Oh, yeeeeaaahh,"
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Spencer got the table from the junk yard, made it work again. It was old, from that ancient era of the 80s. It hummed loudly when it came on. Carly snatched up the red plastic hand things, threw one at him. He caught it, thank god. It made him feel cool. Maybe it looked cool.
"Play with me, Gib!" she cried tossing the puck down onto the table where it glided silently across the surface.
"It's ON!" he bellowed. He pulled off his shirt and the game began. She was good. He was better. She won and danced.
He smiled.
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Sam and Freddie fell behind when she tripped him, pinned him to the sidewalk. Carly kept walking, in a hurry to get to work cleaning juice ports for T-Bo. She was quiet, no smiles, no laughing since that fire. Gibby stayed with her, wanted to try to cheer her up before they reached his street and had to part ways.
He saw it in the tree before she did. He ran ahead, leapt, and caught the string. She hadn't even noticed he'd charged ahead until he held the blue balloon out to her.
"Congratulations. It's a boy."
She smiled, laughed.
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"Where'd'we put the trampoline?"
"What trampoline?" Spencer asked brushing saw dust from his hands.
"She doesn't have a trampoline?"
"No." Freddie laughed as he reloaded the nail gun.
"Oh," Gibby frowned. Chatting on line with her at night and stuff, she always said she was going to jump into bed. He'd always taken it literally, thought she had a little trampoline beside her bed. "Well, maybe we should get her one—right here. Then she can jump into bed."
"Hey, that's cool," Sam said, "let's do it."
"She'll love it!"
Later she laughed as she jumped, "Thanks for the trampoline!"
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Gibby dropped down into his seat at the table with a still-hot chocolate chip cookie the size of his face in a napkin. "Gibbeh got the last one, scutters!" he cried triumphantly. Sam, who was already halfway through hers, cheered for him. Carly slumped.
"Ah man. I wanted a giant cookie."
He shrugged heavy shoulders, broke his in half. The chocolate chips stretched in gooey deliciousness as he handed it over. She took it with surprise and for a moment, fragile strings of sweet chocolate connected the two teenagers, and her brown eyes met his green. Then the strands broke.
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"Man," Gibby sighed loudly, flopping, shirtless, onto the couch in her room. "Your place is supposed to be NOT BORING, Carly."
"Since when did this become the Designated Not Boring Place?"
"Uh, since forever, Carls," Sam answered.
"Yeah," Freddie said, "This is where we hang out."
Gibby rolled off the couch, went to the trampoline. "Someone count how many times I can jump on this thing on my hands."
"You'll get hurt."
"Nah,"
One. Two. Three. CRASH.
"I told you you'd get hurt!" she cried. Her hands were cool on his shoulder, massaging the injury. It was completely worth it.