Actual conversation between actual authors #5:

areyoukiddingmedude: I think I was being sarcastic...but like, it's OK. I was only doing it to be a dick.

AmberZ10: That's the best reason to do anythinh
AmberZ10: *g
AmberZ10: As if 'anythinh' is even close to a thing.

areyoukiddingmedude: it's close to a thinh, though

AmberZ10: I know acknowledging it ruins the joke, but I found that far too amusing.

areyoukiddingmedude: ...and that's why we're friends.

"Harley! Harley! Harley!" the kitten-sized hyena was chanting.

No, wait – that was her littlest brother.

Harley opened one eye. A big blue eye, the same exact shade as hers, was staring right back at her, and she pretended to be scared, saying "eep!" and ducking her head under the covers. She heard her 4-year-old brother giggle next to her, felt his little body shake with glee.

Then she felt her own body shake from what could only be the 8-year-old jumping on the end of her bed. "Duuuudes," she groaned. "Harley needs her 'me time.'"

"Out late with your boyfriend?" came a teasing voice from the doorway, and Harley peeked out to see her 12-year-old brother leaning against the doorjamb. The other two stopped what they were doing and listened intently.

"Um . . . no way?" Harley said. "Why'd ya think that?"

"Don't lie, I saw him drop you off last night," he smirked. "Big black car, fancy black suit and cap?"

"Ha! That's Alec!" said Harley. "No, he's – I know his – he just gave me a ride home," she finished lamely.

"Mom's at work!" interjected her littlest brother.

"Make us pancakes!" said her next littlest brother.

Her oldest little brother was already walking away, having lost interest, probably texting one of his friends.

Harley sighed. "Pancakes it is, you little monsters," she said, and chased them both to the kitchen.

They were all fed and Harley was just sitting down with her own pancakes and a cup of coffee when her phone buzzed. That familiar flutter asserted itself in Harley's stomach when she saw a new text from GreenGirl:

I consider myself to be environmentally conscious, but I don't presume to be mother nature's chosen protector. Although I do appreciate the compliment.

And as her little brothers chanted "Alec! Alec!" (having misinterpreted – though not by much – Harley's secretive smile, the blush that crept up her cheeks), Harley texted with Pam in the cheerful little kitchen.

Then she sighed. Happily. Because Sunday was indeed tomorrow.

/

Pam loved getting to school bright and early, before the peaceful silence was shattered by hordes of loud, sweaty . . . people. She shuddered a bit at the thought, then returned her attention to the task at hand – namely, taking a long, hot, well-deserved shower after an early morning battle against the tennis ball machine.

The only sound in the locker room came from the jets of water caressing her scalp, running down her back, splashing on the tiled floor. Pam smiled serenely, squeezing shampoo into her hand from a travel-sized container before replacing the bottle in her monogrammed shower caddy. She inhaled deeply as she massaged it through her thick tresses, working it into the roots as the scents of citrus and sage mingled, filling the air around her. Then she rinsed it out until her hair felt squeaky clean and repeated the entire process with the matching conditioner, this time focusing on the ends of her hair, until her auburn locks were smooth as silk.

Pam closed her eyes and leaned her head back, just letting the water wash over her – and then suddenly she jerked upright, her eyes snapping open – the locker room door had just banged shut. Someone was in here.

She could feel her pulse racing and assessed that it was a combination of surprise and irritation due to the interruption of her most sacred pre-class ritual. "Is someone there?" Pam called, mentally congratulating herself on how clearly and confidently her voice echoed through the room, belying her increased heart rate.

The steam from her shower filled the room so thoroughly that as she squinted, at first Pam could only make out a slight, shadowy figure.

Then the figure shifted and swirled as it stepped through the mist to reveal – oh.

"Just me," said Harley, leaning casually against the doorway to the showers. She wore the outfit she'd been in the day of gymnastics tryouts – black spandex shorts and a slim-fitting tank top that left nothing to the imagination – as well as a slightly crooked smirk in place of her usual full grin.

Pam gaped at her openly for a moment, noticing how her clothes clung to her, enhancing her lean, tight physique – how her skin glistened with a thin sheen of sweat, as if she'd just come from a punishing workout – how her trademark blonde pigtails rapidly made the transition from bouncy to curly in the humidity of Pam's shower.

Then she realized that she was in a far more compromising position, and she could tell by the way Harley's smirk widened that as this truth dawned on Pam, it was written plainly all over her face.

Pam gulped. Blushed. Ran through several parallel scenarios for the best way to handle this situation.

And then instantly discarded all of them as Harley took a single step toward her, her eyes raking unapologetically up Pam's body in direct opposition to the rivulets of water cascading downward – because that was not in any of her scenarios.

When Harley's eyes met hers again, Pam was trembling – she hoped not visibly. Those eyes, normally such a clear blue, looked somehow darker, hungrier, perhaps a trick of the steam or the shadows cast by the overhead fluorescent lights.

Then Harley spoke: "Why don't you tell me what you want, Pamela?" And when her voice vibrated low in Pam's chest, sent a ray of heat pulsing through her, she thought, Oh. Not a trick of the light, then.

"I-I don't know," Pam stuttered, the shower behind her forgotten, its pressure and warmth merely a backdrop for what was happening now.

Harley stepped closer, not breaking that searing eye contact for a second. "Oh . . . I think you do."

The redhead instinctively took a step backwards, which put her head under the jet and sent a fresh torrent of water surging down over her face. Pam reached behind her in frustration and turned the faucet off.

Silence. Pam wiped her eyes, blinked the water away, and suddenly realized that Harley was now closer than ever, close enough to touch, seemingly mesmerized by the droplets sliding down Pam's collarbone until she dragged her gaze upward to meet Pam's again. "Tell me," she said quietly, and it was firm and commanding and yet somehow still plaintive; it made Pam's knees feel weak.

And then – swiftly, inexplicably – she felt strong.

In a fluid motion, Pam reached out with wet hands and pulled Harley to her by her hips, and their lips slid together like they were made for this, like they'd kissed a hundred times before. Harley hummed, a low sound in the back of her throat, and pressed forward, her hands finding a slick, tentative hold on Pam's lower back. When Pam's back hit the cold tile of the shower wall, the faucet grazing her ribs, she gasped, and immediately felt the brush of Harley's tongue against her lips, the press of her hips against Pam's.

She pulled back for air, brushed a now-wet strand of hair off Harley's forehead, and was just about to answer, "I want that" –

. . . and then- BEEP BEEP BEEP- her alarm rang at precisely 6:30am, her weekend wakeup time, and a very flustered and sweaty Pamela Isley awoke, breathless and disoriented, feeling strongly that 3pm could not come soon enough.

/

All day, Harley had felt like 3pm couldn't come soon enough. Luckily, her mom was working an early shift that day ("Brunch, Harleen – can you believe it? Like they can't drag their asses out of bed for breakfast like the rest of us"), so Harley could watch the boys all morning and they wouldn't have to stay with a neighbor during the gap.

Now she stood outside Pam's house for the second time, feeling a nervous sort of anticipation that she now knew had nothing to do with diffusion or osmosis – Concentrate, Harley! she told herself as she swallowed and poked at the doorbell.

She missed and poked the wall, but the door swung open anyway, revealing a pink-cheeked Pam, who smiled a little shyly and then noticed Harley's odd position. "Did you just . . . poke my house?" the redhead said, amusement lacing her voice.

Harley pulled her finger back, not sure what to do with that hand now so she ran it awkwardly through her hair. "Didn't like the way it was looking at me," she said, grinning up at her. "Wait – were you waiting by the door?"

"Yes," sighed Pam, "and I might have gotten away with it, if you hadn't botched the doorbell ring." They looked at each other for a second, and Harley shuffled her feet. Then Pam said, "Oh! Please, come in."

They walked side by side this time. Harley was conscious of the gap between their shoulders and tried to stay a constant distance apart – not so close that they'd bump, not so far that Pam would notice. Aahhh you're being weird, she thought, but the exercise kept her distracted enough that she couldn't do anything dumb like look at Pam's outfit in great detail.

Which was good. Because she looked amazing. Casual (well, for Pam – which was still 5-10 clicks fancier than Harley at her fanciest) in a sleeveless top that was her trademark emerald green and sort of poofy and silky, matching heels, and jeans that fit like they were made for her.

Then Pam turned suddenly, and Harley ended up behind her on the stairs, and she was forced to conclude that without a doubt, those jeans were made for her.

Wait, is this what you call NOT looking at her outfit? Geez, Quinzel, get a grip! Harley chided herself. And was she imagining it, or was that a knowing smirk on Pam's face when she caught up to her again?

"You're quiet today," Pam said lightly as they got settled at the desk in her bedroom.

"I . . . ate a lot of pancakes," said Harley. WTF?!

Pamela Isley actually giggled at that, and good lord there was no way Harley was going to survive this.

But somehow, she did. Despite the fact that every time their hands brushed casually (which was a lot, since Harley was a leftie and Pam, a rightie), Harley swore she literally felt sparks and had to bite her lip to calm down; despite the fact that when she breathlessly recited the definition of 'diffusion' that she'd memorized on the bus ride over, Pam beamed at her and Harley almost fell out of her chair; despite the fact that even though they were now using the same lotion, it somehow smelled ten times more heavenly on Pam – she made it through.

And then there was the distant echo of a door opening somewhere in the house. The two girls looked at each other in surprise, and when an impeccably precise voice called out, "Pamela? I'm home," Harley swore she actually felt Pam's tension level rise.

Pam cleared her throat and hurried away from the desk, casting a single furtive glance back at Harley as she stood in her doorway and said, "I'm in my bedroom, Mother."

There was the unmistakable clack of heels ascending the master staircase and coming down the hall, and Pam's mother said, "Pamela. Why aren't you out on the tennis court?"

"Hello, Mother. Did you have a nice trip?" Pam said in a clipped voice, one that told Harley pretty much everything she needed to know about Pam's relationship with her mother. She seriously debated hiding under the bed but decided it was too risky a move.

Then Mrs. Isley came into view of the doorway, and if Pam was intimidating, this woman was downright imposing. Her skirt suit was flawlessly tailored, her nails impeccably manicured, and her expression carefully honed to project barely concealed disapproval. She was gorgeous like Pam – of course the Isley women would age well – but lacked Pam's expressive eyes, which showed the occasional flashes of warmth, of humor, of pain that Harley found so transfixing.

Those eyes had just landed on Harley, and they narrowed ever so slightly before Mrs. Isley was sweeping into the room, every inch the perfect hostess. "Pamela, darling, you didn't tell me you had a guest!" is what her mouth said.

Her eyes said, How dare you invade my home?

She extended a hand to Harley, who was at this point motivated solely by the desire to have Mrs. Isley approve of her so that Pam wouldn't get in trouble. Harley stood, awkwardly trapped between her chair and the desk, off-balance in every sense of the word. She reached out to shake Mrs. Isley's hand and ended up gripping it harder than she'd intended.

"And you are . . .?" Mrs. Isley intoned, her hazel eyes boring into Harley's wide blue ones.

"H-Harley. Harleen," Harley stammered. "Harleen, but I go by Harley."

The older woman dropped her hand, rubbing her own palm ever so subtly against the fabric of her skirt. Now her eyes traveled up and down Harley, finding every inch of her wanting if the tension of her lips was any indication. "Pamela, I don't believe I've ever heard you mention a . . . Harley," she said, continuing her inspection without turning to face her daughter.

Harley held her breath as they both waited for Pam's reply.

In that same clipped voice she'd used earlier, Pam said, "She's a classmate of mine, Mother. A transfer student who requires additional tutoring in biology."

Mrs. Isley's shoulders visibly sagged at that – in relief? Harley wondered. "Well," she said, turning to face Pam now, dismissing Harley as effectively as if she had physically waved her out of the room, "I think it would be more appropriate if these – tutoring sessions continued on school property, rather than here in your bedroom. Don't you agree, Pamela?"

Harley knew now not to be surprised when Pam nodded. "Of course, Mother."

Mrs. Isley swept out of the room, then paused in the doorway and said: "And Pamela – dinner will be at 6pm sharp."

With one last glance at Harley, she was gone – but the mood she'd brought with her lingered.

By the time Pam had recovered enough to cross over to the desk, Harley already had her biology book in her backpack and was zipping it up. "Harley–" Pam began, but she was halfway to the door. Then Harley felt a hand in hers, and Pam whispered, "Wait. Please."

Harley pulled her hand loose and fled the room, the house, that world.

She angry-walked to the bus stop, irritated that the day was so perfect and clear when it should be storming. And – why was she so upset? Nothing Pam had said was factually inaccurate. Classmate? Check. Fucking transfer student from the wrong side of the tracks? Double check. Requires additional tutoring – requires – check that fucker off too!

I'm done with this, she thought, leaning against the metal pole. If Pam Isley – the one person she'd gotten close to, in their weird way, the one person she'd consider a friend – wrote her off as a "classmate who needs extra help" whenever anyone else was around, what was the point of staying at Gotham Prep? She'd be better off going back to Central, where their gymnastics equipment was 20 years old but at least she was treated like a person.

Harley's thoughts traveled those dark paths for 10 minutes as she waited for the bus, checking the time on her phone every 30 seconds, wishing she were back in her kitchen with its cheap linoleum, with her three little brothers. She realized she wanted her mom, and the feeling caught her by surprise.

Then she heard the squeal of tires on asphalt, as one of those fancy sedans made by a company Harley didn't even recognize pulled up right in front of her. She crossed her arms protectively as the tinted passenger-side window rolled down and Pam said from the driver's seat, "Harley. Please. Get in so we can talk."

Harley rolled her eyes and looked away. She didn't have to talk to her. Waller could assign her another tutor tomorrow.

She expected to hear the car peel off, so when instead she heard a slamming car door and heels marching on concrete, it actually took her by surprise and she looked back just in time to see an angry-looking Pamela Isley bearing down on her.

"You want to know what my mother's so afraid of?" Pam said, breathing hard, her chest heaving. Harley thought of five possible smart-ass responses, but didn't get to say any of them, because . . .

"This," said Pam. And she slid both hands around to the back of Harley's neck, cupped her jaw with her thumbs, and brought her lips down to Harley's.

Bonus question: So...anyone else seriously crushing on Pam?