A/N: This story was inspired by Oncer93's stories. Without her works to entertain me during class, I don't know when I'd ever start writing again. So, thanks.

This may end up a one-shot or it may end up an abandoned multi-chapter. Those are the only options.

Thanks for reading!

Nightmares are supposed to make you wake up screaming so loud the neighbours call the cops; they are supposed to make you leap so high you dent the ceiling and the house bounces on its foundations. That's what would happen in a cartoon.

Spinelli just sweats. She wakes up exhausted, her skin sticking to her sheets.

She used to cry out, when she was younger. But back then she used to have good nightmares. Scary ones. Zombies chasing her. Lions lurking under her desk. Being trapped on a plane when all the other passengers are hissing vipers and cobras.

Now all her nightmares are about – them.

She doesn't get the bad dreams that often, but even once is far too often for her liking, and she doesn't like going to bed worrying about what the stupid sandman has in store for her.

Something has to be done.

"Psst." T.J. nudged her arm. "Spinelli. Wake up."

Spinelli head shot up from her desk, her orange beanie pulled down one side of her face.

"I wasn't sleeping," she said, loudly.

"I should hope not, Spinelli," said Mrs. Grotke. "Though I must say, you do look kind of out of it. Have you been sleeping well at night?"

"Yeah!" Spinelli said. "Sleeping well? Of course I have. I sleep like a baby! And if anybody says anything different I – "

"Spinelli just had a tough recess, Mrs. Grotke," interrupted T.J. "We played Maul Ball and Spinelli – well, she had the ball."

"Oh, I don't know why you kids play such aggressive games," said Mrs. Grotke. "Recess should be a time to let the positive energies flow through you, a chance to commune with the universe and restore your psyche to a state of inner peace."

"I, like, don't know or care about Spinelli's inner peace," said Ashley Q, "but she could definitely work on her outer peace – like, especially her hair. I could, like, lend her a brush?"

Spinelli growled.

Before she could leap across the room and throttle the Ashley until her face was as red as her pristine hair (and even before she could threaten to do so), Mrs. Grotke raised her hands to bring the class back to focus.

"Thank you, Ashley Q., for such a generous offer, though that wasn't exactly what I meant by peace. Now, we should move onto our last subject for the day – Division!"

"Woohoo!" cried Gretchen, leaping up with excitement.

"Woohoo division?" Vince mocked, as he, Gretchen, T.J, Gus, and Mikey filed out of Third Street's front door, alongside all the rest of the student body.

"Actually, that was a calculated cry of exhilaration intended to diffuse the tension in the class by attracting their collective annoyance," Gretchen explained. "It was a perfect ruse. As you may know, I find division to be one of the more tedious tools in a mathematicians metaphorical tool-belt. It is, after all, just inverted multiplication."

"I don't get it," said Gus, while scratching his head. "How does making everyone more annoyed diffuse the tension?"

"It's simple, really," said Gretchen. "The more the annoyance is spread around, with many individual points of contact, the less concentrated it is at any one point. This makes it less likely for the annoyance to explode into action. If Spinelli hadn't also been annoyed with me (and to a lesser extent Mrs. Grotke), her annoyance with Ashley Q. might have been so potent that feeling would transform into action, and action into detention."

"That's cool and all," said Vince, as the crowd of students around them thinned out, each following the particular asphalt vein leading to their own home, "but where is Spinelli?"

"Before we left class she said she felt the call of nature," said Mikey, "I thought she would have caught up by now, but maybe it was a very loud call."

"Do you think we should wait?" asked Gus.

"If Spinelli wanted us to wait, she would have said wait," said T.J. "Trust me, Gus, I've got an older sister, and if you start waiting around for girls – even girls like Spinelli – you'll spend half your life standing outside the bathroom kicking your feet when you should be running on them. No offence, Gretch."

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" asked Gretchen. As she walked she stared down into her backpack, with one hand frantically searching inside it. Suddenly she stopped and looked up with an expression of sheer horror. "Galileo! My personal handheld lab-partner! My electronic friend! He's gone!"

It was ten minutes after the closing bell when Spinelli finally left the school, her left hand clutching Gretchen's personal computer. Her eyes swept the playground – a few sixth graders had stuck around to shoot hoops on the basketball court, Swinger Girl was getting in some last minute swings, and dirt was jumping out of one of the digger pits at a regular pace – the coast was clear.

She casually walked past the bigger kids, confident she was already invisible to them. Swinger Girl would be a problem if she ever got a good look at anything for more than a couple seconds at a time. Spinelli walked past the Ashley's tire clubhouse and, when Swinger Girl was at her forward peak, her legs high blocking her view, Spinelli dived behind the pile of black rubber.

If Swinger Girl cared to look again, she would think Spinelli had just kept on walking. Never in a million years would she imagine Spinelli was crouched down at the back entrance to the Ashley clubhouse, prepared to infiltrate.

This is the part where Gretchen's lock picking pal comes into Spinelli's master plan. She pulled out Galileo's extension cord and plugged him into the Ashley security system.

"Hello, Spinelli!" cheered the tiny frog avatar. "I recognize this program to be the Ashley security system. Would you like me to unlock it for you?"

"Quiet down," hissed Spinelli. "Do you want me to get caught?"

"I'm sorry, Spinelli," whispered the little artificial intelligence. "Would you like me to unlock it for you?"

"Yes. Please."

Galileo hummed as numbers began to flash across his screen. One by one a series of numbers froze on the screen while the others kept spinning, until each number had frozen in place: 17, 14, 13, 5.

Spinelli froze. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

The Ashley club password was a completely random four number sequence that changed every week, with each Ashley picking one of the numbers. She had never heard that the numbers were chosen based on a theme, though knowing the Ashleys, that was a distinct possibility. If there was a pattern behind the numbers, then there was a chance they could repeat themselves. Spinelli was no math wiz like Gretchen, so she couldn't say how big that chance might be.

Still, she had to wonder – what are the odds the Ashleys would pick the same password the day she broke in as the one they gave her when they had abducted her months ago?

'Must be their lucky numbers or something,' she rationalized. The steel door slid back, opening the rubber tunnel down into the Ashley stronghold.

'More like their unlucky numbers,' thought Spinelli. She smirked, slipped Galileo into her jacket pocket, and then crawled inside.

The interior always managed to awe Spinelli, no matter how many times she saw it. From the outside, the Ashley clubhouse was a cool looking pile of rubber tires. The inside, on the other hand, was like a giant dollhouse. Frilly pink drapes hung around the room, creating a fabric arch over each of the ten walls in the decagon shaped room; a rose red carpet lined the floor; pictures of the Ashleys and their families sat in pretty little round frames tastefully placed around the room, while the boys they liked were enshrined in a collage of posters that occupied two entire walls; and, as with every doll house, the Ashleys had their share of accessories: a white tea table with matching chairs, a wardrobe bigger than the ancient one Spinelli's grandma used, a fluffy pink couch, and a large full body mirror that sat against the wall, looking very much like a doorway into Ashleyland.

This strange hole in the ground was so utterly dominated by the Ashley's personality, it was hard to believe what Butch said, that the clubhouse was originally an early nuclear bomb shelter, before they realized that it was dug too shallow to survive a blast. Rather than pay to redo the entire project, the city had turned it over to the kids of Third Street to do with what they will.

Spinelli thought it was a grave injustice that somehow the Ashleys managed to call dibs in kindergarten before anyone else in the school. Even more cruel, they only had to wait two years for the previous owners to kick the bucket and head to middle-school.

Now that she was crouched in the back tunnel of the Ashley clubhouse, it was time for the most sensitive part of Spinelli's op – retrieving the package.

Normally this would be a simple mission – but unlike every other time she's gone up against the Ashleys, this time Spinelli was alone. She couldn't rely on recon to scope out the situation before going in, she didn't have eyes on the Ashleys, and she didn't have an exit strategy if things went south.

She didn't even know the Ashley's wouldn't be here after school. She could only hope and take her chances. And this was her only chance.

The room was Ashley free so Spinelli slipped in. It was a good sign and a bad sign. It gave her the chance to search, but maybe they took the pictures with them.

Spinelli started her search in the Book of Ashley. She took the heavy book off its stand and fanned the pages, hoping something would fall free. Nothing did.

After another minute of trying Spinelli dropped the book and ran over to the wardrobe. She swung open the doors, and was instantly thrown back by the force of an avalanche.

She struggled to pull herself free as the mass of clothing slumped out of the wardrobe, covering her in a mountain of dresses, skirts, blouses, socks, jackets, hats, shoes, umbrellas, winter wear, spring wear, swimwear, sport wear, party clothes, royal clothes, and business casual.

"For the love of all that's holy," Spinelli moaned in despair.

For all of the Ashley's obsession with appearance and neatness, Spinelli never could have imagined she'd find at the heart of their world a hurricane of mess.

As Spinelli pulled her leg free, she started to feel. It was a violent feeling. What she really needed was to punch someone in the arm, to scream and shout and get in trouble and get sent to her room. She needed to upset someone else first, before she could do it to herself.

But she was alone.

Yet that didn't make it okay to cry.

'I'm not going to cry in my archenemies lair, covered in their stuff,' she thought. 'But I don't know how I'm going to find those pictures.'

The pictures in question had existed for several months now, but Spinelli had entirely forgotten about them. She had tried her very best to forget about the week when her full name had been revealed to the playground, when she'd been made an official Ashley and been forced to wear a dress and leave all her friends, when she had thought for sure she was going to end up exactly like the girl she never wanted to be. She didn't just shove it down, she buried it. Didn't mention it, didn't think about it. There was almost nothing in the world that could force Spinelli to remember that humiliating experience.

Except, yesterday she heard something. Something that made her think about it.

"Just, like, what do you think you're doing here?" said Ashley A. She stood above Spinelli, her arms crossed.

There was a time for crying – a time for being upset – and that time had passed. Spinelli got to her feet and balled her fist.

"I'm looking for those pictures you took of me. Now hand them over," Spinelli demanded.

Ashley rolled her eyes. "Why would I have pictures of you? Like, as if."

"Don't play dumb! You know exactly what I'm talking about. I heard you talking to your clones yesterday about finally getting the pictures you took developed. And this morning, I saw you show them an envelope before class. Now fork them over or I'm going to wreck every inch of this place."

Ashley A. yawned and examined her nails. "Threats are, like, so nonthreatening."

Then she glanced up at Spinelli with a sinister smile. "If I did, like, have pictures of you, they would obviously be published in the debut issue of Ashley monthly magazine the second you annoyed me."

Spinelli's eyes widened. She knew this would happen. She knew it. And the only way to get out of it would be to get T.J. to plan something, but if T.J. were to plan he'd likely have to see – or she'd have to explain – but what other choice does she have? Better exposure than servitude.

Ashley A. laughed. "You look, like, terrified."

Then she went over to the couch, sat down, and patted the seat next to her. "Come on," she said, rolling her eyes, "I'm, like, so not the blackmailing type. At least, I'm not going to blackmail you. That would be totally, like, boring and pointless."

Spinelli moved over to Ashley A. but hesitated to sit down. "What's your game?"

"Come on," said Ashley A. "Sit down. I'll, like, give you the pictures. I just want to look at them first."

Reluctantly, Spinelli sat beside her rival, and then Ashley A. reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. The seal was already broken, and over a dozen photos tumbled out onto the cushion between them. Ashley A. picked one at random.

"Look, it's you and Ashley Q. She's doing your hair." She laughed. "You look, like, so mad."

"Yeah, 'cause you were making me look like one of – you." Spinelli shuttered at the memory.

"Hey, we, like, compromised. You kept your pigtails, didn't you?" Ashley A. grabbed another photo. She awwed, then said, "Look, it's our group photo! We were going to, like, hang this up. But you didn't even last a week. Don't we look good?"

Spinelli glanced at the photo. They surrounded her on both sides, and she was dressed like them, but her glare ruined the image she knew they wanted. Nobody looking at that picture could think she was really one of them.

"It's fine," Spinelli said, "whatever. I really don't care about going down memory lane. These aren't even the pictures I came here for. What do I care if anybody sees these – they all already saw me wearing that dumb dress."

Ashley A. had a secretive smile. "Oh, I know, like, exactly which pictures you want to destroy. Although, it's actually only one picture. I guess we, like, ran out of film. It was the last one we got."

Then she reached into her purse and pulled out a photo unlike all the others, and held it up for Spinelli to see.

Her soul bounced widely inside, like a crazed dog on a chain, or like a tetherball on a string, trying to break free and soar out of her body.

Spinelli couldn't speak. Her eyes couldn't move away from the girl in the photo.

It was a picture of Ashley S. And it came straight out of her nightmares.

"Look at you smiling!" Ashley A. gushed. "We were so, so lucky to get this shot. I, like, can't even remember how it happened.

Spinelli stared blankly, and spoke in a dull voice. "Ashley B. said something. I can't remember. A joke. It caught me off guard, I guess."

"Well, I'm, like, so glad it did!" Ashley A. put her hand on Spinelli's shoulder. The sudden contact shook Spinelli out of her daze, and she looked up at Ashley A. "For what it's worth, I know you didn't, like, like how looked. And I guess I can, like, see where you were coming from. It was totally too much – it was you, but, like, not you. Just, I want to say, in this picture you looked really pretty."

For a second, and only for a second, something inside Spinelli cracked. Something – crucial.

"You really think so?" asked Spinelli.

"Totally."

Ashley A. smiled.

Then Spinelli plucked the picture out of Ashley A.'s hand and crumbled it in her fist. "If I find a copy of this plastered anywhere, it's going to be all out war between me and you. Now, I've got to get home if I want to catch a cartoon or two before dinner."

She stepped into the tunnel, but before she left, Spinelli looked back and said, "Sorry about making such a mess. Next time I break in, I'll be more subtle."

"Like, whatever," Ashley A. said.

Her voice carried scorn enough to be music to Spinelli's ears. She crawled home to freedom and knew she'd be sleeping well tonight.

Mission accomplished.

Moments after Spinelli left, Ashley A. went to the security panel near the front entrance and locked the clubhouse tight. As soon as she was done, she heard the whine of the mirror swinging open behind her. Out of the secret compartment emerged her three best-friends, Ashley B., Ashley Q., and Ashley T.

"I can't believe she, like, touched all our stuff," burst Ashley Q. "Watching her bungle around our room was, like, the most painful thing I've done since I got my eyebrows waxed."

Ashley B. put her hand on her shoulder to calm her down. "It was for a greater cause."

"It was hard to see from behind the mirror," said Ashley T. "I think it worked. Did it work?"

"What do you mean, like, worked?" asked Ashley Q. "She, like, crumpled up the picture. Total tomboy, total lost cause. I mean, seriously."

"No, Ashley T. is right," said Ashley A. She smiled gleefully. "You couldn't, like, see the look in her eyes" Ashley A. clasped her hands and fluttered her eyes as she mimicked Spinelli's uncertain tone, "'You really think I look pretty?'"

Ashley B. squealed. "This is so exciting! The experiment was a success! I, like, cannot believe it."

Ashley A. nodded. "Yep. Ashley S. is in there. And not so deep as I was, like, afraid of."

"Then we have to try again," said Ashley T.

"Totally," agreed Ashley B.

"Like, of course," said Ashley Q.

"Absolutely," said Ashley A. "And I think this time we should, like, bring the case straight to King Bob. Ashleys belong with the Ashleys, after all."

"Scandalous," they cheered.

And the pact was sealed. They would save Ashley S. She would belong to them, the sister Ashley she was always meant to be.

It was, like, fate.