Author's Note: Wow, I'm not updating this very often, am I? Sorry, I'm getting kind of into my Artemis Fowl fic (entitled "Sparks"--go read it!) But I'm considering a sequel to "Perfect." Trouble is, there's no end in sight for "Sparks," and I'm also considering another story, a Harry Potter/Artemis Fowl crossover that I can tell you right now would take me forever, and I kind of want to do an Avengers, and I think I'd get a kick out of writing South Park, but, um, you probably don't care. Oh well. Just letting y'all know.

Disclaimer: I own neither The Weekenders (that's owned by Disney, that's why it's in the Disney section) nor Chester the Cheetah (who is owned by Chee-tos, and I'm sure Chee-tos is owned by someone else, but I don't know exactly whom, it's just not me). I'm not making any money here.

In response to that review by Mr./Ms. Meteor: Yeah, it does. I mean, it is. Sorry, I didn't make that sufficiently clear.

"Soo, how do I look?" Tish asked us, twirling gracefully.

"Um, different. Once again." I answered.

You know that cheese-o-meter that Chee-tos bags have, where Chester the Cheetah is yanking the lever down to "Dangerously Cheesy?" Right. If there was a tan-o-meter, Tish's lever would be past "Sunned," past "Golden- Brown," past "Tino," past "Well-Done," past even "Palm Beach," and right smack in the middle of "Extra Crispy."

"Really, really dark," Carver contributed. He placed his forearm next to Tish's to compare. "Holy crap, girl," he commented, "you're almost there."

"How did you do that, anyway? You didn't get in a cancer box, did you?" the fair and freckled Lor inquired, shuddering. "Cause, you know, they give you cancer." She giggled and started to sing. "Everythinnnnng. . .GIVES YOU CANCER!"

Lor's singing, the uninformed should be told, is rumored to have knocked over an ox at sixty paces. We don't even let her sing "Happy Birthday." I could see Tish's eye twitching.

"Okay, Lor, I think that's enough," the newly bronzed pedant told her, fairly civilly, all things considered. "It's all fake, so just relax."

"Out of curiosity, Tish, how come you thought you needed a tan?" I asked her. "Tan, I'll have you know, does not equal evil."

"No, it doesn't, Tino," she conceded serenely, "but pasty, it just screams, 'Angel!,' or possibly worse, 'Leukemia patient!' Healthy young women are always tanned."

"If you say so," I said dubiously. "But I really don't think it'll make a difference."

"Oh no?" she said, arching a marvelously-shaped brow. "On to step three, then."

Oops.