Chapter 10: iLove The Way You Distract Me
Sam took him straight to Mall-Mart. It was late. He was never in Mall Mart this late. Freddie didn't even ask why they were there until he found himself in the bedding aisle. In front of him was a wall of sheets. He laughed, recalling her comments about his Galaxy Wars sheets. He picked some plain white ones and she rolled her eyes and put them back. He reached for some plaid ones and she slapped his hand away. Eventually, she picked out some that matched her eyes.
Dragging him along, she swung by the pharmacy to pick up a prescription for her mom, buying some condoms while she was there. (Freddie, with his fingers laced with Sam's, tried not to blush while Tracey-from-history-and-AP-English rang up the box.) He was so distracted by trying to play it cool, that he didn't even hear Tracey's question. He felt Sam tense beside him and snapped out of it.
"Huh?" he asked.
Tracey smirked at him, repeated, "Why weren't you in school today?"
"Oh, family friend in town," he answered evasively.
"Oh, well how is your genealogy project going?"
Like Sam's fist deep in his gut, all the breath rushed out of him. All that he was running from swamped back into his head. His chest felt heavy, his ears started to ring.
His dad was—no, no, his brain locked down like train wheels grinding to a halt, and then derailing in order to turn around and go back.
Sam's hand was in his. It was nice.
Tracey popped her gum, eyes wide as she sensed she'd said something she shouldn't have, though she was clearly confused about what that was. Sam scooped up her purchases and answered for him, by insulting the teacher who'd assigned it, and then they were leaving.
Freddie felt like he was walking in a trance on the way out. His eyes focused on random people, objects, but rejected all of them as a distraction. After the brightly lit world of Mall-Mart, he was surprised to be reminded it was dark outside. He tried to remember the last time he'd ever stepped out of this store to find it this dark, this late. He couldn't think of one.
"Are you okay?" Sam asked. He finally looked at her. Seeing her worried and kind expression shocked him out of it. If Sam was being human, it was time to make things go back to normal.
He drew in a deep breath, forced a smile and found it came easily now that he was looking at her beauty.
"Yeah," He said, then wagged his eyebrows in a way sure to get a rise out of her. "Let's go break in my new sheets."
Instead of hitting him, she frowned. With eyes sparkling, she asked, "What makes you think they're your new sheets?"
Oh, man. He wondered if she did that low thing with her voice on purpose or if it was an accident, either way, it made Freddie want to go straight to her place, but she took him to the hardware store where she bought several cans of spray paint.
"What are these for?"
"Watch and learn, Fredly,"
They swung by her place, then. He really just wanted to stay there, but she told him to wait on the stoop and left him there, came back five minutes later with a bag slung over one shoulder. He didn't feel up to walking around when there was too much possibility of running into people, having to talk about things, answer questions about his absence from school, his project.
Back on the bus, then off the bus, then she led him around the side of a nice looking house.
"Sam," he hissed, "Who lives here? What are we doing?"
"Relax, no one's home." She said as they emerged in a back yard where an in ground pool was empty.
"Perfect," she said, hurrying down the steps of the shallow end. Freddie followed, nerves twisting his gut.
"Sam we can be arrested again," he said, "Let's just go."
She dropped her pack and pulled out the spray paint, tossed him one. He caught it, bewildered. She pulled the lid from hers and began shaking it.
"You can go home and deal with your demons," she said, the stirring ball rattling around in her can, "or you can stay here and help me deal with mine."
Alarmed, he looked back at the house. It was two stories, impressive, expensive. All the curtains were drawn and no lights were on. "Who lives here?"
"Let's just say he's not the sweetest guy in the world."
"Sam, what?" he started with a heavy jolt in his stomach. Suddenly he was remembering how she'd randomly put her foot through some glass and then blamed her mother.
"We're here to treat the rest of the things he paid for like the way he treated my mom." She said. "I don't know what he did exactly, but she only gets that drunk afterward when it's bad."
Freddie's throat was dry when he swallowed. He shook his head, to dislodge images from the movie, and thoughts of his own mother's past. "Couldn't we just call the police or—"
"Yeah, and get my mom arrested, too." She snorted, rolled her eyes, "Use your brain."
Freddie stood dumbfounded as she descended into the deep end of the pool and pressed on the nozzle of the spray paint, making wide sweeping arcs as the can hissed. She worked fast. She was no stranger to painting with a spray can.
In the dim light of neighboring floodlights, steady black lines spelled out WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF HIV, HOBKNOCKER and below it, she'd drawn the outline of an erect penis. She stepped back, falling into the space beside him, frowned at it. Freddie was impressed. It was grotesquely lifelike, and she'd made various parts out of proportion.
"Looks just like ya, Fredbag."
"Haha,"
She went back to work, now with different colors, filling it in and adding dimension and even character. He asked, "Does your mom really have HIV?"
She didn't turn, or even pause in her work, "Got it last year."
"I'm sorry." He said. He hated that she wouldn't turn to look at him, that she kept working like they weren't talking about something that had to have been traumatic for her to hear.
"It's manageable." She growled. "And the jank part is that this dishrag probably doesn't even have it. For all of her faults, forgetting to keep up with her meds isn't one of them." She sighed, wiped a wrist across the back of her forehead to move her hair. Her can clacked as she shook it and then the hissing returned.
"It's not fair my mom can get it and people like him can get away scot-free."
Freddie slid down into the deep side to join her, put his hand on her shoulder, "Why didn't you tell me when you heard?"
"It wasn't your business then." She said with a shrug.
"Just because we weren't together then, doesn't mean I didn't care about you then. You should have told me."
Sam shot him some shy sideways looks, shrugged like it was no big deal. Freddie decided to lighten the mood, pushed an elbow into her side, "And, hey, maybe this jack hole isn't scot-free."
"Here's hoping," Sam smirked.
"And anyway," Freddie said. "When we're done here, he'll definitely be paying for it. That's something."
"We?" she said with a glint in her eye, "Does that mean you're done just standing there like a nub?"
He gave her a cocky sideways smile, "Hey, this ain't my first vandalism, honey."
She laughed, eyes still on the image coming to life under her skilled work with a nozzle. "You've never vandalized anything in your life!" she scoffed.
"Shows what you know," he said. He handed the can over, adding, with a motion to the penis, "It's a masterpiece, Sam. I'd ruin it."
She took the can, frowned, "What's that supposed to mean, not your first?"
He went back to lean on the drop off. "I drew on a stall wall in the eighth grade."
She laughed, "God, what a dork!"
With a final flourish at the end of a long white streak, she was finished with the crude image. She put the cap back on and joined him on the drop off. Looking at it, Freddie hoped curious children didn't live in this house. If any did, he did not want the job explaining the picture to them.
"Now the fun begins," she said, pulling out a baseball bat. She handed Freddie a hammer.
"Break everything you can," she said, "then we run."
He nodded, adrenaline suddenly coursing through his veins. He wanted nothing more than to break something right now. He let himself think of the things his mother and Gunsmoke had told him, of the news clips, and the things the Cult Buster's movie had helped him realize. They fueled his rage, which he then happily took out on the tiles of the patio, the glass tables, and finally the windows of the house.
Alarms pierced the air and then they were running.
…
He didn't trip this time. Running with Sam was wonderful. Exhilarating. Though there were none, he felt the cops closing in on them. He felt the fear of being caught, felt the determination not to be, ran harder. Fire burned in his legs and lungs. It felt good, he let it envelope him as he ran with Sam beside him. Laughing, breathless, she was leading him through backstreets as dark as the rage he'd felt only moments ago, but that he now felt fall away with every sprinting step away from the destruction.
They didn't stop until they were in Sam's apartment. They collapsed against the door once it was closed behind them. Freddie was laughing uncontrollably. He was aware he probably sounded insane, and honestly, he wasn't so sure that wasn't far from the truth. He slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor. Sam sat beside him, panting and laughing, too.
He laughed until he couldn't anymore, then hung his head and tried to regain his breath. He pulled in breath after breath, but it never seemed to be enough. For a moment, he felt like he might cry, but he fought it back and focused on the feeling of Sam beside him, and on breathing.
It smelled nicer than one would think in the Puckett apartment. The way Sam often went on about the place, it was easy to get carried away. But Pam kept a decent house. It smelled like Sam.
She stood, kicked him in the thigh. "Get up, ya freak."
Ouch. The kick really hurt. He stood, massaging the bruise and grumbling. Like he always did ever since they'd finally cracked the mystery of what Pam did for a living, Freddie felt weird being in Sam's apartment. The apartment was small, the front door opened into a little hallway before becoming the living room.
Sam was already on her way through the living room to the kitchen. Her room was down the hall on the other side. Freddie followed, counting on one hand the times he'd been in Sam's room. Carly had always been beside him. Her mom had always been home, too, and none of the visits had really been visits, just quick in-and-outs.
He was just about to ask where her mom was when the way Sam was walking changed and Freddie noticed that it was because someone was in the living room. Sam, walking like Tough Sam again, walked right on by without even acknowledging him. The guy's eyes followed her for a moment before finding Freddie behind her.
"Sup?" the stranger asked with a friendly nod. His eyes were droopy.
Feeling weird, Freddie's manners had him answering before he could help himself. He mumbled some appropriate answer, noticing even as he did so that the guy's eyes were back on Sam. A moment later, they were down the hall and in Sam's room. She shut the door behind them, and Freddie couldn't tell if she was being quieter than usual or if it was just his imagination.
She was kicking off her shoes, closing blinds. Her room being none of anyone's business but her own, it was not near as clean as the rest of the place. Clothes littered the floor, peppy cola bottles peeked from under the heaps. A stereo was set up in the floor under the window.
A dresser had drawers sitting crooked on their tracks, jeans peeking out. A little TV was perched on top, surrounded by DVD boxes. The bed was a twin sized mattress down on the floor without a bed frame. It wasn't made. The sheets were—Freddie snorted, "Girly Cow sheets?"
"Shut up," she growled, sinking to her knees to rip the pink and purple sheets from her mattress. "Carly got them for me as a joke."
"Uh huh," Freddie said. A lull fell in which his eyes drifted back to the bedroom door, like he could maybe see through it to that creepy guy in the living room. Sam's eyes flicked involuntarily in that direction as well, but with a deliberate, deep breath, she visibly shook it off.
Freddie forced air through his nose. "So, who was that, your mom's boyfriend?"
Sam lifted her eyes to him in a deadpan glare. "Mom doesn't have boyfriends, remember?"
Freddie's stomach tightened and he gulped. "She brings the guys here?"
She shrugged. "It's just—whatever," she shook her head, wouldn't look at him.
Freddie didn't know what to say. Things were clicking into place, more things about his friend explaining themselves.
Sam Puckett never went home after the sun was down, either going while the sun was still up or crashing at Carly's, or walking around Mall Mart all night. People thought she just liked to break curfew or was too lazy to walk home sometimes. That was the mask. The real face behind it was simple, a girl who didn't like being at home at night.
There was only one instance that Freddie could recall her heading home after sunset and it was just the other day, when she'd asked him to walk her. She had tried her best to stall actually getting there, ended up breaking public property and getting arrested. And it was because she didn't want to walk through the front door if Pam's clients were there, preferred already being shut up back here when they arrived.
With a kick to his gut like her foot through that glass, he realized Sam wouldn't have come home tonight if she wasn't being forced to take care of him. It made him feel bad but special at the same time. After all, she didn't have to do what Gunsmoke told her to do. Then again, she wouldn't feel obligated to if he could just handle it himself.
With a deflating kind of resignation, Freddie decided that maybe he should be going this alone. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin everyone else's life just because his was…
His brain rejected the idea of settling on the new disturbing facts about his life. Self-preservation instinct had him changing his mind so quickly his head actually turned. Nope, still not ready to face it.
His spastic flinch had gone unnoticed. Sam still wasn't looking at him. She'd crawled over to a pile of junk, unearthed a stack of CDs, and was now going through them as if she'd never really seen any of them before. He would have believed she was fine, but her eyes flicked up to the door one too many times.
Freddie wished he could say something to take her mind off the creeper in the living room as effectively as she'd taken his mind off his troubles—the rush of vandalizing was addictive, he kind of already wanted to do it again. No wonder she had a criminal record.
A light laugh suddenly bubbled out of him. She looked up in surprise. He shook his head. "I just finally got you," he explained with a smile.
Her eyebrows crunched together, and she huffed. One corner of her mouth twitched. "Okay…"
"Give me those," he said, squatting and snatching the CDs from her. "I'm pickin' the music."
"You're not qualified to pick good tunes," Sam said, snatching them back. On any other day Freddie would have known better than to go into it with her, but she needed a distraction as badly as he did.
He snorted. "Well neither are you! Look at that, nothing but Cuddle Fish! They suck!"
She scoffed and punched him on the shoulder. "Take that back, they rock!"
Freddie laughed and held up the CD, where the lead singer's face glowered seductively from the album art. "Look at that fudge bag!"
"Like you're not secretly in love with him like all the other girls, Freddifer."
Her phone buzzed then with a text. Freddie imagined it was from Carly—the movie would be over by now—asking where they'd gone. They were meant to go back to the studio after the movie to plan for the next show, but no way could he handle so many friends. He'd spazzed just talking to Tracey, and she didn't even know him like Carly or Gibby or Spencer.
As Sam's thumbs flew over her keyboard, Freddie slapped the offending CD into the slot and hit play. With nothing else to do, his eye fell on the MallMart bag and the bare mattress. He crawled over to the bed and ripped open the new sheets, fanned them out and began making up the bed.
He bobbed his head to the music as he worked, hearing the hum of another text periodically, followed by Sam's keys ticking faintly. He tried not to think about what she was saying to get them out of it. Instead, he focused on the bed. He'd gotten the fitted into place and was spreading the sheet out when he realized Sam had put down her phone and was watching him.
He looked up. She was watching his forearms (bare from his pushed up sleeves) as he stretched to put the sheet in place. She was wearing a little smile—one of the new ones, an approving one. He gave her one back.
She leaned in and kissed him lightly. This was what he needed, what he craved. Her—her touch, her smell, her taste, her body. Vandalizing some dishrag's house had been distracting, but she was true escape. He was well aware that all they needed to do was fall forward off their knees and they'd be in bed.
She pulled away, said, "I'm hungry," Gave him a shove, "go make me a sandwich."
He laughed. But she was serious. He tried to refuse, but her look was dangerous and sent slices of fear through him like in the old days, only this time he wasn't afraid she'd break him arm—not when there were other things she was allowed to touch now.
He stood, went to the kitchen to make the sandwich. Not because he was weak and obedient, he told himself, but because he was hungry too, and wouldn't mind a sandwich. Plus, he'd remembered the guy's over-dilated eyes following her and didn't blame her for not wanting to venture out again.
No one was on the couch. For a moment, he saw no sign that anyone had even been there, but then he noticed light under the bedroom door on the other side of the living room. Gulping, he put it out of his mind, focused on gathering what he'd need to make the most awesome sandwich in the world.
There were no doors on the cabinets in the Puckett kitchen, so he found things easily enough. A lull in the music was Sam changing CDs, then it came back twice as loud. Freddie dumped everything onto the counter, couldn't stop himself from glancing at Pam's bedroom door to see if the blasting music was somehow disrupting—whatever. It wasn't.
Then he realized that it was his favorite song playing. He wondered if Sam knew that. He couldn't ever recall having told her, but it was his ring tone so maybe she just knew. He had to shove a lot of boxes of cereal and things out of his way to make enough room for the sandwich on the counter.
As he worked, he decided he didn't like Sam hiding in her own house. It was wise while she was alone (those eyes following her made his jaw clench) but she wasn't alone now. He was here with her this time. So when he had her food prepared, he perched on a counter stool and sank his teeth into his half, called past the food in his mouth, "It's ready!"
"Bring it here!"
"No!" he barked back. "Civilized people eat at the table!"
"Bring it to me, Freddifer!"
"Come and get it, ya lazy!" he bellowed back, and then took another bite, making yummy noises as loudly as he could. The music volume dipped low and Sam said, laughing, "Seriously, Freddie, bring it to me."
Intrigued by her laughter, the lack of a nickname for him, he slipped off the stool and headed back to her room. He left the sandwich on the counter. She'd won by making him fix it, and he intended to win by making her work to get it. If walking twelve feet could be called work. He pushed open the door, which she'd closed.
The sight that met him made him swallow the last bite of sandwich. Holy Build-A-Bra, that was the best underwear he'd ever seen. She grinned up at him, her blond hair splayed out across the new sheets, but that grin died the moment she saw his empty hands. Sexy Tease went away, Tough Sam came back, "What the hell? Where's my sandwich?"
He ran and got the sandwich, ran back, trailing black olives and bits of turkey. The music had returned. She smirked at him when he reentered the room at break-neck speed, stopping when his shoes hit the side of the mattress, wind-milling a little so that he wouldn't fall on her. While being down there was the plan, falling wasn't the desirable way.
"God, you really are a nub." She laughed, propping up on an elbow, reaching up for the food. He handed her the sandwich, shut the door, pulled off his shirt. "And you are the best friend I've ever had." He said.
"Mama's your best everything, Freddifer." She said as he lay next to her, pulled her up against him. His hands roved over all the bare skin and silky under things of Sam. He kissed her ear, nibbled on it lightly. She took a bite out of her sandwich, ignoring him completely.
He laughed, typical, settled in to wait for her to finish eating. Until then, he was happy to trace her body with his fingertips. She made plenty of satisfied noises, but he wasn't sure if they were because of what he was doing or the sandwich. He'd made the sandwich, so he decided to be pleased with himself regardless.
With the loud music pounding his eardrums, her skin beneath his fingers, Freddie was successfully drowning in all the wonderful things in his life while the new and bad things stayed easily forgotten. When his fingers played with the edges of her underwear, she drew in a sudden deep breath.
"This is the life," she sighed past a mouth full of turkey. Freddie laughed before he could stop himself and she frowned at him. "What?"
"Nothing," he said with a grin, and lifted his head, took a bite of her sandwich.
"No, what?" she asked, and he must have gotten her worried because she didn't even object to the stolen bite. He waited until he'd swallowed before answering. She studied him with a guarded look until then. Did she think he'd been laughing at her or something?
"I just never thought it'd be like this between us." He reassured. "That you'd say something like that and actually mean it."
She rolled her eyes, turned away to put the rest of her sandwich on the bedside table, no plate, no napkin, just on the bare wood. She turned down the music ever so slightly, to make it easier to talk, "I was being sarcastic."
"No you weren't." he said softly as she turned back to him. Her eye met his and she blushed, looked away, "No I wasn't." she agreed.
Freddie lost his breath. She was so beautiful when she did that, when she told the truth despite herself. A surge of tingling things welled up in his chest, a hundred things he wanted to say, but all he was able to put into words was her name.
He said it breathily, putting his forehead to hers, closing his eyes and sinking into the feeling of her. Up directly behind his feelings for the girl in his arms came his feelings for what he was running from.
"I wanna tell you about it," he heard himself say, and her hand went to his cheek, stroked it encouragingly. He opened his eyes, hated that they stung with tears unshed, "But," his voice cracked. She hushed him softly.
"We don't have to talk about it yet, Freddie." She said. "I think I get it, anyway."
All at once, he remembered the pool they'd vandalized. I don't know what he did, but she only gets that drunk when it was bad. In the theater, she'd taken his hand. He'd assumed it was because she'd noticed him freaking out. But maybe not. Maybe she'd been too busy freaking out herself.
Sam was looking back at him with such a kind and understanding expression that Freddie had to close his eyes, breathe her name again because it was all he could say out of all the things inside of him. She grinned. Then, with shifting weight and smooth legs straddling him, she rolled on top of him. "Say my name like that again."
"Sam,"
She kissed him deeply, but then laughed, broke away and laughed some more, pushed her face into the pillows beside his head.
"What?" he asked. From his vantage, he could see her back curving down beyond her shoulders, and it was shaking with muffled laughter. She lifted her head to look at him smiling with her tongue between her teeth. "Just had the same pif-uh-nitty you just did."
"Epiphany," He corrected with a laugh. She narrowed her eyes and hit him in the chest, "Whatever,"
"What was your epiphany?" he asked as she teased him by putting her lips near but out of reach of his.
She shrugged, said like it was no big deal, "Never thought I'd like hearing you say my name so much,"
"Sam," he breathed with a lopsided smile, and she actually met his eyes, narrowed hers. "Don't abuse it."
"Sam," he breathed again before his lips met hers. She made a little noise, a surrendering kind of grunt, high pitched and even delicate sounding. She deepened the kiss. He rolled, pinning her to the mattress. "I found Puckett's weakness."
"Watch it, Benson," she warned without opening her eyes.
He wouldn't heed it. It was far too exciting to have something to bully her with for a change. He snaked his hands under her back, unhooked her bra and pulled it off. With the bra gone, he traced over her breasts, teased hardened peeks until she was wiggling. Trailing kisses down her jaw as his fingers trailed over her panties, he breathed her name again.
She arched her back, grabbed him roughly, growling, "I hate you," and then kissed him. He kissed back, eagerly accepting the wonderful, mind-wiping sensations that followed.
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