Corny hardly paid attention to where he was walking anymore; Amber's fits had gotten more and more severe the older Kimberly had gotten and it took a good five miles or two hours, whichever came first, for him to collect himself enough to return home.

Amber's temper had always been a subject of discontent amongst their friends and family, not that they had many mutual friends or much living family. Corny smiled to himself remembering the struggle Amber had had figuring which side to sit on at Link and Tracy's wedding; she most assuredly no friend of Tracy's and Link was hardly familial. They had ended up two seats down from Noreen and Doreen, where Amber had cried crocodile tears the whole time. Corny had stroked her hand and shushed her gently; she hadn't even cried at their own wedding.

Exposition, he thought, for his own benefit. Exposition and back story to help him figure why he was walking down Pressman Street at 8:30 in the morning, again, and why it was that he seemed to be walking more and more. He loved Amber the Council Member, he loved Amber the Mother, he loved Amber the Fashionista, but he most assuredly did not love Amber Von Tussle.

Von Tussle...

Corny rolled his neck, stretched his hands above his head. His back was tight and sore; on the break between rehearsals, Corny had been dancing with Brenda and lifted her, wrenching his back. It was times like that that Corny was reminded that he was not seventeen anymore, even if he was only six years departed from it.

Shuffling through the empty studio, Corny picked up his jacket up and was about to head out when he heard an exaggerated sniffle. Stopping short, he sighed and let his head fall back on his shoulders.

"What's wrong Amber?" he asked, crossing his arms over his tweed coat. He could see Amber sitting on the floor, her dress fluffed out around her, charcoal tears rolling down her cheeks.

"My mother," she whispered angrily, wiping her eyes. Corny furrowed his brow and draped his coat over a chair before sitting down next to Amber on the floor. Amber turned her face from Corny and that's when he realized that she hadn't been trying to get his attention but more unable to control her sobs.

"What about Velma?" he asked, his voice softer than before. Amber picked at the tulle of her skirt and shrugged.

"She doesn't c-c-care, Corny," she choked, fresh tears coming. "S-s-s-she just wants to be f-f-famous again. She w-wants to be Miss B-B-Baltimore Crabs for the rest of her life!" Amber squeaked, sighing. "She's just living v-v-vicariously through me."

Corny was taken aback; he was shocked that Amber knew that Velma was using her and let her do it. Moreover, he was shocked that she knew the word 'vicariously.'

"Honey," Corny said, placing his hand on Amber's knee, "it's..."

He had gotten halfway through his sentence when Amber was on him, her lips crushing against his as she scooted into his lap. Corny was pushed back on his legs, his hands skirting onto Amber's hips, his body responding to her touch until a niggling in the back of his head started screaming.

"Amber," he gasped, pushing her back. "What the hell?" Her tears had stilled, her eyes awash with a completely different fire. "No way, Amber, no way."

"Why not Corny, everybody expects it," she said quickly, reaching for him again. Corny grabbed her wrists and pushed her back. "Corny?"

"No," he said again, standing up and offering her a hand. Amber curled her lip and righted herself without his help, before scoffing and walking away. Corny stood in the middle of the studio, his eyes cast down, lips still tingling.

It took Corny twenty minutes to get home from the studio and every second of those twenty minutes was spent agonizing about what had happened at the studio. The logical, college educated, Catholic side of his brain was focusing only on one thing: the number seventeen. Seventeen years old, seventeen birthdays, seventeen celebrations since she was born, and he had six of those by the time she had one.

Then there was the male side of his brain that was thinking about the seventeen hundred million pieces of mica that glittered in Amber's stage make-up, and the matte, flushed pink skin that shone through the tear tracks. He was thinking about the surprising speed with which she had gone from subdued and resolute, to passionate and, for lack of a better word, a woman. No girl he had ever known could have made him feel like that in such a short second. To say he was confused was an understatement.

Looking up, Corny realized that he walked in a huge circle, and was standing in front of his own house. Chewing his lip, Corny sighed and pushed the font door open.

The house was silent, with the exception of the hum of the washing machine in the garage. Corny hung his coat up and kicked his shoes off, padding into the kitchen. Corny reached for a coffee mug.

"Christopher Cornelius Collins," Amber purred from right behind him. Corny smiled and sighed softly.

"Amber Collins, I presume?" he said, turning around. Amber was dressed in culottes and a sweater, smirking softly as she twisted her fingers over his forearms.

"I'm sorry," she said, resting her head against his chest. Corny sighed again, his chin brushing her crown.

"I know," he whispered, kissing her twice. "I know."