"Gus?" Shawn mumbled, reaching across the lunch table into his friend's Superboy lunchbox. "Are you going to eat your pineapple chunks? Can I have them?"

He snatched the can of fruit away before Gus could protest. Even after he tauntingly tossed it up in the air and caught it a few times, expecting his friend to try to get back from him, Gus still didn't play along with the game. He remained still, staring intently into the distance, completely oblivious to Shawn's very existence.

"Dude," Shawn snorted, trying to follow his friend's line of sight across the cafeteria. "What's so…"

He stopped himself when he saw her.

Gilda Collinsworth.

She was everything Shawn knew his friend liked in a girl.

Smart…

Cute…

Exactly two years older…

Red-head…

Breathing…

He grinned and nudged Gus with his elbow, his eyes lighting up with the possibilities before him.

"Dude, she's cute."

Gus blinked and looked over at him, seeming to realize for the first time that he wasn't alone at the table.

"I know," he mumbled, looking down at his now empty lunchbox.

"Hey!" he exclaimed suddenly, picking it up and turning it inside-out as he frantically searched for something. "Where's my pineapple?"

"That's not important right now, Gus," Shawn cleared his throat, quickly hiding the can under the table before Gus saw it. "Go talk to her!"

"What?" Gus scoffed, glancing longingly back at the gorgeous red-head. "Are you kidding me? I can't talk to her!"

"Why not?" Shawn snorted. "I do! All the time!"

"Asking her if she knows where you parked your motorcycle isn't talking to her, Shawn," Gus rolled his eyes. "And it's not even a good line! You're twelve! You can't even drive a motorcycle yet!"
"But when I can," Shawn countered, crossing his arms and grinning widely. "I'll totally have my line down!"

He leaned forward, draping his arm over Gus' shoulder as they both watched Gilda talking and laughing with her friends. Every few seconds, her nose would scrunch up as something struck her particularly funny. Every time it did, Gus sighed painfully.

"So…what's your line going to be?" Shawn asked, giving him a gentle shove. "I'd go with 'Hi, I'm Gus. I have 365 pairs of sweat socks.'"

"Really?" Gus blinked. "Would that work?"

"No," Shawn snorted. "And I wouldn't take the Superboy lunchbox with you, either."

"What's wrong with Superboy?" Gus demanded, looking wounded.

"Nothing! But why didn't you wear your David Hasselhoff t-shirt today? Girls love David Hasselhoff!"

"I want her to like me, Shawn," Gus sighed, refusing to budge from his seat. "Not the guy on my shirt."

"Then why don't you get your face put on a t-shirt?" Shawn suggested. " Then she'll like you and the guy on your shirt!"

Gus rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to explain to Shawn why this was, quite possibly, the stupidest thing he had ever heard, but Shawn was long gone now.

Lost in Shawn Plan World.

"Oh! I know!" he was saying, completely forgetting he was talking to Gus and not himself. "All you have to do is write a hit song! Then you'll get your own T-shirt! I already have the title! I'm Better Than David Hasselhoff So Why Don't You Know I'm Alive?...or maybe Monster Mash…but I think that one's already taken…"

"Shawn!" Gus snapped, smacking his friend in the head. "I'm not going to write a hit song."

"Why not?" Shawn blinked in surprise, rubbing his sore head.

"Because even if I wrote a song, it would take me at least five years to get a record contract," Gus explained, suddenly sounding quite knowledgeable. "…and probably another year to actually get a studio album made. Not to mention the time it takes to promote an album put out by a new artist…by the time I got a t-shirt, I'd be old! Almost sixteen!"

"Wow," Shawn agreed with a low whistle. "That is old…I guess you should just go talk to her now, then, huh?"

He grinned and gave his friend another shove in Gilda's general direction. This time, Gus actually stood up…and then promptly sat back down again.

"I can't," he moaned. "I don't know what to say!"

"Try: 'Hi, I'm Gus…and I'm best friends with the coolest kid in school!'"

"But Derek Bradley isn't my best friend," Gus argued with a sly smirk. "You are!"

Shawn scowled and punched his best friend in the arm. "Shut up."

Gus laughed. "I don't think that'll work, anyway," he lamented. "I don't have an opening line, Shawn."

Shawn grinned, suddenly remembering the can of pineapple chunks under the table. He quickly reached under and grabbed it, plopping it between him and Gus.

"Hey!" Gus exclaimed, reaching for it. "Those are mine!"

Shawn ignored his accusation, however, and quickly popped the top off the can before Gus got to it. He pulled out a single chunk, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he lined Gilda up in his sights. Gus' eyes grew wide in horror as he realized what his friend was thinking.

"Shawn! Don't!" he pleaded, but it was too late.

Shawn had already launched the pineapple across the cafeteria, striking Gilda right smack in the middle of the forehead.

Gus groaned as the wet, sloppy mess ran down her cheeks and landed on the table with a dull plop.

"There's your opening line, Gus," Shawn beamed, turning proudly back to his best friend. "Ask her if she was just hit by a flying pineapple!"