All-Purpose Disclaimer

Kim Possible is a registered trademark of Disney, Inc. She was created to be a propaganda engine to further the liberal cause in the next generation, inciting a wave of copycat vigilantes with rodent helpers and goofy sidekicks. The revolution is nigh, fellow anarchists. Find yourself a ditzy blond and a rat, and rebel. Rebel!

The music of the hallway played on in the background. Lockers drumming, voices in disharmonized unity— a melody known so well that Kim that she didn't even hear it after two full months of high school. The transition from middle school had been, as predicted, no big. After a brief period of adjustment to fit cheerleading, yearbook, spirit committee, gymnastics, karate club, tae kwon do club, kung fu club, the other kung fu club, and the Future Leaders of America meetings into her life, she was ready to gear up their world-saving beat again.

"Did you hear," Kim called from within the depths of her locker, seeking her elusive geometry book. "Wade said that Colonel Calamitous is getting out on good behavior. Can you believe it?"

"Hmm? No, I didn't hear."

She withdrew from the locker with book in hand and eyed her subdued best friend. The dark circle around his eye continued to draw her notice from the forced happiness on his face. "You okay?" she asked for the fifth time that morning. "Your eye, it seriously looks like—"

"It's fine," Ron said quickly, looking away. "I fell." A beat went by, and then he said, "Let's swing by the library before class. I like the water fountain there better. The water in D-hall tastes funny."

She gave him a small smile. "Sure," she said. Ron hadn't adjusted to the jungle law of high school as well as she had, she knew. This 'I fell' story was just another item on a long list of things that bothered her to not talk about. But she kept her smile sealed; Ron would come to her when he wanted help, and not a moment sooner. Forcing the issue would only embarrass him, a lesson she had learned the hard way in the past.

Ron softened at her smile. "So, early release? That's BS, KP. And how come I'm the last to know everything?" A little of his humor returned with each passing word. "Isn't it time I got a Ron-Phone, or whatever Wade winds up calling it?"

"The last time you got your hands on a piece of mission equipment, you almost burned them off," she reminded him.

"It 'looked' like ordinary nail polish," he retorted.

She rolled her eyes. "Anyway," she continued, "Wade's thinking of outfitting my locker with a computer in case mission stuff comes up during class hours."

"Great," he said with a snort. "Then I can keep coming to you for updates. How does that make my life easier, I ask you?"

Kim didn't hear him. She didn't hear anything, because the world around her had fallen away beneath her feet, and now Kim fell, too. As her stomach flip-flopped in freefall, her eyes locked onto the only thing left in existence: a boy—a man—amazing!—rounding the corner with a confident strut. From his frosted peak to his stylish sneakers, and everywhere between, he exuded something Kim couldn't explain, couldn't see, smell, touch, or taste, something she had never experienced before, something that set her heart pounding and her soul aflame, something exciting, something thrilling!

"Kim? KP?" Ron's snapping fingers shoved the rest of reality back into Kim's senses. He was the last to return to her eyes. "You okay?" he asked. "You went orbital for a sec, there."

Her eyes remained glued to the stranger as he passed them in the crowded halls. "Who is that," she whispered to Ron once she was certain the incredible one wouldn't turn around and notice her pointing.

Ron gave the gorgeous dynamo a disinterested glance. "Hmm? Oh, him. That's Josh something-'r-another. He's in my first period. Okay guy. A little preppy for my tastes, but you know how high my standards are."

His voice may as well have been white noise after that beautiful name found Kim's ears. "Josh…" she murmured. It sent a tingle up her spine just to say it.

A smirk twisted Ron's lips. "Kimmie's got a boyfriend," he sang.

"I do not!" she shot sidelong, unable to tear her eyes away as Josh something-'r-another disappeared around a corner. Kim Possible was too smart and too together for crushes, or so she liked to tell herself. But she couldn't deny that something about that Josh lit a fire in her…and she liked the way it burned.

Kim Possible
The Power of Friendship

by Cyberwraith9

"Kim, this is just so incredible! I mean, who would have guessed that you'd come and save me on my very first day back?"

The three teens walked around the gallery's edge, enjoying the silence in the wake of the police's hullabaloo. True to form, Middleton's boys in blue had shown up well after the nick of time, and had proceeded to investigate the crime scene with tape, questions, sample-taking, and a great deal of clout waved around. Statements were given, evidence was photographed and removed, witnesses were grilled, until at last the police had been satisfied to leave them be, if only for the moment. Josh had been given assurance that he would be informed the instant the police knew something about his missing painting. The artist had curtly replied that he would defer to Kim Possible for his updates, much to the heroine's pinked embarrassment.

Josh now led the way with his rescuer at his elbow, followed at some distance by a churlish blond who would bear a passing resemblance to Ron Stoppable if not for the look of indescribable disdain stretched across his brow. Josh kept an eye on the wall, watching the artwork as they passed, while his other eye lingered on Kim. She shifted her eyes between art and his smile, and tried to keep her own grin from splitting her face. Ron kept both eyes locked on the pair, and tried to keep some facsimile of a smile in his lips, if only for her sake.

Kim fought the blush creeping up her neck, and said, "Well, you know me…"

"Us," uttered Ron.

"Can't resist a good fight," she continued with a nervous laugh. "But I can't believe you're back in town. I haven't seen you since—"

"Graduation," he finished with Kim. "Yeah." They shared another laugh and a smile, looking away from each other to collect themselves. The sound of grinding molars carried them through a brief silence before Josh said, "Well, I pretty much did what I said I would. Went to New York, studied art…"

They stopped in front of a still life bearing his signature. Junkyard oddities mingled in the hues of sunset atop a pedestal of earth. A city hung in the background, mimicking the junk pile's shape exactly. "It sure seems like it worked," Kim said in a hush. The colors danced in her eyes. "It's beautiful."

Josh rubbed the back of his neck. "Thanks…"

Kim continued to follow him, still locked in mortal combat with her blush. Excitement rattled her rib cage with a rhythm she was sure everyone could hear. She herself had a hard time not tapping her toe in time to the beat. 'This is so stupid,' her rationality cried in protest. 'So you ran into an old friend from high school. Why are you being all giddy schoolgirl about it?'

That look of tender gratitude turned her way again, having never left Josh's face since she pulled the bag off his head. A mere glimpse of his countinence smothered the dying embers of her rationality, and threatened to rocket her heart from its cradle. "I don't know if you've got the time, but…if you wanted…" He adopted a look of adorable uncertainty. "Would you like to see my work?"

Fluster babbled out of Kim's mouth as reply as she lost the war; red stormed her cheeks without mercy, and so she looked away in futile hopes of masking it. But Josh's attention drifted back, as did Kim's, to a throat loudly clearing itself behind them. Ron dropped his fist from his mouth and looped it around Kim's arm.

"Well, gosh, Josh," Ron gushed, "We would just love to, we really would, oh, boy, would we ever. But as it turns out, we've got to get home for dinner." A poor attempt at apology worked into his subtle sneer. He stepped back, towing Kim apace with deaf ears to her cry of alarm as she stumbled to keep up. "So nice to see you, we should really catch up some time, don't call us, we'll call you, sorry about your painting, whatever doesn't kill you makes you blah, blah, blah, you look great, buh-bye."

"Ron!" Kim yanked her arm free of his elbow. "Don't be rude."

An unreadable expression replaced Josh's hopeful enthusiasm. "Oh. So you guys live together now."

"Just as roommates," Kim said more quickly than she had intended to. She glanced back at Ron and watched him swallow whatever answer she had beat out. Slower this time, she said, "We, ah, live in an apartment over in the old district near campus. Ron's uncle owns the place."

"Neat." Another pause came, uncomfortable this time. "Well," said Josh, "I don't want to keep you."

His throat throbbed with such disappointment that it broke Kim's racing heart. "I would love to see your stuff, Josh," her mouth said, autonomous of her brain. The words hung there a moment, and then she amended, "Your art, I mean." Scarlet swamped, she ran her eyes aground, and felt ridiculous.

Ron watched Kim regress three years in the space of a rampant heartbeat. Bridled rage pulled at the corner of his eye, making it flutter and dance. His fists clenched so hard that they crackled. "Well, I'd better get going. Gourmet meals don't cook themselves," he said. Both of them seemed to miss his words, as they were too preoccupied with not looking at one another. "Dinner's at seven, KP. Okay?"

"Okay," she said. Her eyes danced their way back to Josh as his returned to her.

"Don't be late," he pressed, backing away. "Seven o'clock."

Kim barely heard him. "Seven o'clock," she repeated mechanically.

His hollow expression didn't register with Kim until the door jangled closed. Ron's absence returned a modicum of sobriety to her giddiness. As her head drifted down from the clouds, she looked back, hoping to catch a second glimpse of the empty disappointment she thought she saw in his face. But he was long gone, and Josh was already moving on. What was Ron's problem? And more importantly, what was hers?

"Kim?" Josh's voice banished all question and self-analysis from her mind. She caught up to him with quickened steps, where he waited next to a self-portrait with excited patience. "Everything all right? You seem dis…"

Kim felt her focus split between Josh and his canvas counterpart. If one Josh distracted her, he did it doubly so in stereo. Once again, she found herself entranced by his mastery of color and form; the inanimate Josh gazed at her with piercing, vibrant blue that stole the breath from her lungs. The portrait's smirk incited one of her own and chased her heart back into a sprint. Her fluster worsened as a gentle hand rested on her shoulder.

"This is my second-favorite one in the show," Josh murmured. When Kim said nothing for lack of breath, he chose to fill the silence. "When my agent started shopping around for my first show, I told him I wanted my premiere to be back in my hometown. He kicked up a fuss, but…" His eyes darted to one side, where a drab rendition of Middleton High School hung in beiges and grays. "This is where my inspiration is."

"Josh, it's…" She didn't shy when his electric touch lingered, though her eyes remained locked with those of the portrait Josh. The sudden marshalling of butterflies in her stomach both excited and disquieted her. She didn't pretend to understand it, but nor did she fight it. Instead, the quiet did the talking for her, interrupted regularly by the cannoning of her heart.

The brief silence reigned in Josh's hesitation. Following their spell, he dropped his hand from her shoulder and stepped to her side in examination of his portrait. "Would you like to see my favorite piece in the exhibit?" he asked.

"Absolutely," the butterflies in her stomach answered for her.

Josh led her from the portrait and toward the back of the gallery. A door guarded with a sign announcing 'Employees Only' yielded to his hand, letting him and Kim into a new room, dingier and less grand by comparison to the gallery behind them. "I don't know why," said Josh, as they walked between rows of shelves, "But it's the only one in my collection that those thieves took." He let slip a worried look. "Why do you suppose they wanted my painting?"

Kim frowned. "I don't know," she admitted. Her brows sunk further at the memory of Shego's cackle, and of the green fists that struck without mercy. Each bruise she bore beneath her blouse would be repaid in triple, of that Kim had no doubt. "But I swear, I'll find out why, and I'll get your painting back."

They reached a stack of frames leaned against the wall. Josh rifled through the wooden leafs in a crouch. "It isn't a painting," he explained, choosing one from the lot. He propped it up for them to see. "It's my inspiration. It's my soul."

Kim gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes went wide at the sight of the painting. All the noise and conflict in her mind ceased, leaving quiet shock to whistle unopposed between her ears. "I…I don't…" she stammered in a ghostly voice. "Wow…"

Josh stood behind her, looking over her shoulder at the captivating image. "This is just a print," he murmured in her ear, "But yeah…This one is my favorite." Green awe traced the colors of his painting in lieu of an answer. Taking her silence as approval, he continued, "In a funny way, I'm actually glad that weird lady robbed me. It brought you, and…I mean, I had planned on looking you up."

"Yeah," she murmured, too lost in the painting to actually listen. "Funny."

He shifted about nervously, glad that her eyes were on the painting and not him. "I was wondering…if you aren't busy…if you'd let me take you out to dinner tomorrow night." Hastily, he added, "It's the least I can do to thank you for saving me. And we could catch up…y'know, on stuff."

Kim didn't answer right away. She let her butterflies churn a response for her, all while the painting kept her eyes prisoner. Distantly, she recalled that she was supposed to feel conflicted and confused, but that thought passed as quickly as it came.

"Okay," she murmured.

Battery lamplight pressed at the darkness in Dementor's sanctum with and electric hum. The twenty-first century torches encircled a splintering table with chairs. Each villain at the table wore a heavy cloak of shadows, rendering their menace greater than ever as they glared at once another through the gloom. Gathering storm clouds blotted out the starts, leaving ceiling as dark broken as it would be intact. The monitors behind them still flickered on occasion, contributing what they could to the lamps' losing battle.

"Gentlemen." Drakken greeted them with a general nod, and gestured for them to be seated. "Now, we've all had time to assess our…assets."

Killigan snorted. "Wha' little we have, you mean. I only jus' escaped from prison a week ago b'fore you an' your lass came callin' on me. I've only got wha' weapons I have on me." His eyes vanished beneath the shade of his furrowing brow.

"I'm little better off," said Monkey Fist. "I managed to collect seven of my monkey ninjas since my 'early parole,' and weaponry enough to arm them."

"We are all aware of my predicament," groused Dementor. He thought of his unfinished, unpowered Entropy Cannon sitting several levels below. "Is there a point to this meeting, Drakken, or do you simply love the sound of your own voice?"

"Yuk it up, Short Stack," Drakken replied smugly. "I'm not the one sitting on a phone book." He let Dementor fume in silence, savoring the flavor of it, and then continued, "I thought you might like to know how we're going finish the cannon and beat Kim Possible. But if you'd rather I shut up…" His coy voice trailed off, worsening Dementor's rage.

Monkey Fist leaned onto the table, linking his leathery knuckles together. "I'd like to know that myself," he announced.

Drakken snickered at a private joke. "Well, we can't feed our ambitions on an empty cupboard, can we? I think it's high time we went shopping."

A meaty fist shook the table, threatening to collapse their remaining furniture with a gesture. "Enough riddles, Drakken," Dementor snapped. "What are you proposing? And pray," he added in a dangerous tone, "Be concise."

With opened hands of surrender, Drakken smiled, and said, "What's the one place on Earth that has every component we need to complete our cannon? Where can we find all the weapons we could want, and more?"

"Don' be an idiot," snapped an angry Killigan, "There's no' such a place, except…" Quiet shock shook the danger from his bushy face, leaving him wide eyed and slack jawed. "Ye canno' be serious," he whispered, much to Fist's and Dementor's confusion. "I's suicide t' go anywhere near—"

"The Evidence Locker," Drakken finished for him in a strong, confident tone. The other two adopted similar expressions of shock at this revelation, and joined Killigan in stony silence. Their blue chairman eyed the goggling trio with haughty disgust. "Is that a problem, gentlemen?" he asked.

Monkey Fist managed to shake off his astonishment at the jeer. "Not as long as you've figured out how to combat an army with four people," he uttered.

"Three," Drakken corrected him, returning the shock to Fist's thuggish features. "Plus the henchmen. Dementor and I will remain behind to prepare the cannon. You gentlemen will accompany Shego to the Evidence Locker, and—"

"Where is the Lady Shego, Drakken?" asked Dementor. "One rarely sees you show your cowardly hide without her protection, yet I've seen no trace of her since we started this fools' endeavor."

Another smile crept across blue lips. "She's running an errand for me." The echoing slam of a door shouted to them through the sanctum's barren halls. A light tremor in the floor, combined with the wafting ozone in the air, suggested that Dementor could add his front doors to his staggering list of repairs. "Ah," chimed Drakken, "That must be her now. Gird your loins, my fellow Legionaries. You depart for the Locker soon, after I cement the last little details of the plan with Shego."

Killigan and Monkey Fist rose and left with mumbled grumbling. Dementor looked like he wished to argue the point further, until Shego strode through the door. One look at the rage etched into her beauty convinced him that his objections could wait a while. He followed the other two out of the room, and gave Shego a wide berth just as they did. Her gaze dared theirs to meet it, but their eyes resolved themselves to the floor until they were safely out the exit.

With chestnut frame tucked beneath her arm, Shego marched into the room's center, carrying also a dangerous, flashing thunderhead in her glare. Drakken and his table both shook as she slammed the painting down without preamble, but his smile remained smooth. "I just flew six hours both ways in your crappy little hover car," she snarled, "Babysitting henchmen and nursing a major case of PMS. I'm tired, hungry, sore, and yeah, pretty bitchy right now." Her hands came ablaze, blackening the edges of the ornate wooden frame. "So why don't you skip all the crap, and get to the part where this is vital to us taking over the world."

Drakken sat with cheshire patience, waiting until Shego extinguished her hands and placed them on her hips. His eyes caressed the stolen prize; he hadn't expected it to be so beautiful in real life. The images online did it no justice. "Shego, look at the painting," he bid her with softened voice and minute gesture. "What do you see?"

A pained sigh rattled her chest as she grudgingly obeyed. There, confined within the burnt frame, an angel streaked from the heavens. Her pearly wings spread wide to catch the winds, which whipped the waterfall of lustrous red hair that poured forth from beneath her halo. Golden robes kissed her smooth, ivory skin, and danced with the wind as well. A look of utter serenity lived in her radiant features. Most stunning were her eyes: emeralds of her face, they gazed down upon her man in need, who fell beneath the bottom edge of the painting. Only his hand remained in-frame, reaching out to her proffered grasp with timeless need. But the angel seemed supremely confident, as though she had no doubt she could save this soul.

After a moment of scrutiny, Shego shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "It's an angel. Whoop-dee-baby-punching-doo."

He shook his head in silent reprisal. "You aren't looking hard enough," he told her. "If you were, you would see Kim Possible's defeat written between the lines, just as I do."

She squinted at the painting, twisted her head to and fro, and then crossed her eyes. "What, like a Magic Eye? I mean, I guess it kind of looks like the Princess, but…"

A wave of Drakken's hand dismissed her confusion. It wasn't important that she understood. In truth, he doubted that anyone could. But then, they all lacked his genius. "Don't worry about it. Now, I wanted to talk to you about your next mission."

"Oh, right," she said, and turned back to Drakken. It took her an extra second to uncross her eyes, merging the two scientists swimming in her vision back into one. "That reminds me. Are you CRAZY?" Her hands and voice exploded in the face of his composure. "You want me to organize a raid on that lockbox with nothing but a hairy golfer, a hairier psycho-ninja, and a dozen of those short bus washouts you call hired help?"

"Shego, please," he said with an airy tone. "You're making a scene. As it so happens, we have someone on the inside…several someones, in fact." His grin grew devilish for a moment before he sobered. "But that isn't what I summoned you here to discuss. I want you to take this."

Drakken lifted the lapel of his jacket and plunged his hand in, plumbing the depths for some treasure yet unseen. When his tiny fingers reappeared, they clutched with them the handle of a very strange weapon. Shego guessed it to be some sort of ray, judged so by the pronged barrel and trigger stemming from the stock. But she had never seen such a device before. Whatever its purpose, she could tell Drakken had made it himself. The way he cradled it in his hands, Shego doubted he had ever cherished anything so much as this.

Shego took it reluctantly. That it was built by him made her leery to use it at all: Drakken was, after all, a notoriously poor scientist, and she enjoyed her fingers intact and where they were. "Ye-ah," she drawled, dangling the gun at arm's length between her thumb and forefinger. "I don't do guns."

She was about to disintegrate the puny thing in an emerald pyre when Drakken added, "When Kim Possible shows up, I want you to shoot her with that. Her, and that dopey sidekick of hers…d'oh, what's his name…." Drakken rotated his hand as if trying to waft the answer into his mind. "He says that…thing, and does that…other thing, you know the one I mean."

The gun flipped into her grasp with a flick of her wrist. She marveled at its balance and light weight. "Okay," she said with mounting interest, "What does it do?" Her eye lined up with the barrel as she made a series of fancied shots.

"Shoot her with that," said Drakken, "And Kim Possible will fall. I guarantee it."

Shego shrugged, shoved the pronged barrel into her belt, and said, "Good enough for me." When she looked back up, a crinkled piece of paper loomed beneath her nose at the end of Drakken's claw. She snatched it and unfurled its edges, scanning across listed text. "What's this," she demanded.

"Oh, just a few things I need you to pick up," said Drakken. "While the others are hunting up their own needs or parts for the Cannon, I want you to find all this."

What started as cursory examination for Shego became an in-depth reading, followed by a double take between Drakken and his list. Shego looked over the top of the paper in disbelief as Drakken returned to his table. "This is some pretty weird stuff, Doctor D," she declared.

Drakken gazed at his painting, engrossed in the angelic rescue. "I suppose so," he answered offhandedly.

She continued to stare, beyond his notice. Try though she might, Shego could not make heads or tails of Drakken's latest scheme. Oh, she knew he had no intention of sharing the world with any of the losers in his so-called Legion. A double-cross lay in wait on the horizon, but Shego knew neither where or when, nor how, Drakken would foist the short end of the stick onto his LoVErs. "Y'know, Doctor D, you're gonna have to tell me your plan some time," she told him.

"Perhaps," he replied, lost in the painting. "But then," he added, "That would spoil the surprise."

Mysterious. Confident. Unflappable. Shego hadn't seen Drakken like this since the Li'l Diablo fiasco two years back. They would have conquered the world, if only they had finished Kim Possible when they had the chance. Shego's hand ran across the weapon holstered at her waist. Now, it seemed, Drakken was determined to not make that mistake again. She couldn't agree more. No more games.

As Shego turned to leave, Drakken called, "And Shego? Wear the uniform. The others, too." Her muted grumbles drifted past deaf ears. All his senses delved into the painting and its angelic effigy. Lost in the scene, he could almost imagine the angel reaching out to him. 'But how can you save me,' he thought with malicious amusement, 'When you can't save yourself?'

It's only a paper moon,

Hangin' over a cardboard sea.

But it wouldn't be make believe

If you believed in me.

Music drifted in the darkened apartment, carried by a cobbled collection of speakers hidden throughout the living room. The walls flickered with pale light cast from two stumped candles that had stood tall and proud a few hours ago. Twin plates of stone cold food occupied a card table draped with a bed sheet, each sitting in front of a folding chair.

Only one of the chairs was occupied, though the motionless man slumped in it could hardly be called an occupant, well-dressed though he was. His head rested against the makeshift tablecloth. Strands of his hair dipped into the marinara skirting the edge of his plate. Behind him, an old crooner continued hoisting love on its laurels, fifty years too late to tell that this wasn't the time; the song set his teeth rumbling against one another, as they had done too often that day.

A pink blob burbled across the tabletop toward the other plate of food. He rose up, ready to engulf the helpless chicken parmesan, when a knife flicked into the table in front of him. Rufus leapt back with a squeak and resumed his rodent shape. He bowled through the salt and pepper shakers, and tumbled up to Ron's plate.

"No, Rufus," Ron mumbled into the table. His hand lowered, having guided the knife without the aid of Ron's eyes.

"Aw," whined Rufus. His blobby nose sniffed, twitching his wispy whiskers. "Please?" Luminous eyes stretched within their pink confines, growing unnaturally, irresistibly wide.

"No," he said again. "I said 'no' the last time. I'm saying 'no' now. So when you ask me again, guess what my answer's gonna be."

The eyes kept growing. "Pleeeeease? Soooo hungry…"

Ron lifted his head and glared at the clock on the microwave. The dingy traitor told him that Kim had most certainly foregone any thoughts of being on time for dinner. A thousand scenarios tumbled in turmoil through his head—Kim in trouble, Kim captured, Kim in moral peril—but that became far less likely with every call he put in to Wade. After the techno teen had told him in no uncertain terms to stop calling, he had all but given up hope.

Without your love,

It's a honky-tonk parade.

Without your love,

It's a melody played in a penny arcade.

He looked back to his pleading mole rat. "Fine," he gloomed. "Eat mine. I'm not all that hun—"

The door flew open, admitting a giddy sprite who danced to her own music. Her tempo shifted on its own to fit Ol' Blue Eyes once inside, infecting her low-rider capris with a tantalizing twist. "Hel-lo," she sang from a glowing smile. Vibrant red ribboned around her as she pirouetted to the table. "Oh my gosh, I just had the most unbelievable day."

Ron tripped over himself getting out of his chair. His tie dunked into his plate, then smeared its red sauce across the front of his dress shirt. "No kidding," he said, forcing a pleasant face. He stumbled his way around the table and tugged at the other chair. "Well, sit down and tell me all about it. It's a little cold, but it should taste all right—"

She plopped into his abandoned chair. "Thanks," she said breathlessly. "I'm starved." Callous hands shoved a ravenous Rufus from the plate before plucking the chicken from its pasta bed and shoving it into a nearby dinner roll. "Ron, you should have seen this painting Josh did. It's incredible!"

"Um…okay." Ron seated himself in her intended chair, watching her attack his culinary efforts. He didn't notice when Rufus did the same to the plate in front of him. "You were late because of a painting?"

His sarcasm bounced off the dreamy embattlements erected across her face. "Yeah," she said. "We were talking for hours, and…Ron, he painted me! Me!" She tore away another bite, barely tasting the food. It was the first solid thing she had eaten all day, and went down too fast to appreciate. Besides which, her amazement was directed elsewhere, to the angelic figure locked in her bedazzled memory. "I mean, it wasn't me-me, it was an angel-me, but you could totally tell it was me, and he painted it, and wow—!"

Kim talked a mile a minute between bites about 'Josh-said-this,' and 'Josh-said-that,' becoming incomprehensible when her mouth filled. The perfect moment Ron had planned out whittled away between her chomping teeth. "Yeah," he uttered. "Listen, KP, I wanted to—"

The gaiety of the afternoon still held what little sense Kim's exhausted mind had hostage. "I mean, it's not like I like him or anything. That's way done." Neither teen could tell if she spoke to Ron, or to herself. "But, it's like…I saw him, and wham!" She swallowed, finishing the chicken off. A strange smile entered her emptied face. "I even said I'd meet him for dinner tomorrow. Can you believe it?"

Her words barreled into Ron's chest with the force of a freight train. "What?" he whispered.

Ron's blanching pallor struck a chord within Kim. She finally remembered herself, and to whom she spoke, and swallowed again. "Just as friends," she said quickly. "He just wants to catch up. Old friends, you know how it goes."

Flightiness drained away at Ron's darkening expression, leaving her with cold guilt. "You're going on a date with Mankey?" he thundered. The pale in his cheeks flew to Kim's while he turned a livid shade of red. "A date? Mankey? A date?" He rocketed from his chair and began to pace furiously.

"It's not a date," she insisted again. Desperation seeped into her tone as she chased after him. Whatever her reason for saying 'yes' to Josh, she could not longer recall it. "Ron, please, what was I supposed to say?"

He whirled on her. "Oh, let's see," he said in mock-thought. "Oh, I don't know…NO?"

"Ron…"

"Well," he continued, spinning away from her grasp, "You are not going out with him, that's for damn sure."

The instant he said it he knew it had been a grievous mistake. Silence haunted the wake of his words, leaving the room tensed and uncomfortable. He was too afraid to look at her, and the stunned expression he knew she wore, as she whispered, "What did you say?"

It's a Barnum and Bailey world,

Ron crushed his eyes shut and swore to himself. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, and said, "What I meant was—"

Just as phony as it can be.

"You did not," she uttered, "Tell me what I can and cannot do." Anger cracked her ghostly visage, so much so that a mere glimpse of it terrified Ron.

But it wouldn't be make believe,

"You do not," she said with growing volume, "Tell me who I will and will not see.

If you believed in me.

"Kim, will you just listen—"

"Josh asked me to dinner to catch up," she announced, "And I'm going." Anger and challenge burned in her green glare, which she leveled at Ron at full force. "If there's a problem with that, it's yours, not mine. Understand?"

Ron's jaw trembled. He ripped the tie from his neckline, tearing his collar as the clip gave away, threw it to the ground, and gave it a furious stomp. "Fine!" he shouted, and stalked away. "I just hope you've got an appetite tomorrow. You wouldn't want to miss his dinner!" His bedroom door slammed shut behind him so hard that it rattled everything in the apartment, all the way to the kitchen.

"Fine!" she shouted back, and collapsed back into his chair. The nerve of Ron, telling her who she could and couldn't see. Okay, so she and Josh had a history, but that was long over (except your heart went ballistic when you saw him, remember? shut up, it didn't mean anything). They were just two old friends reconnecting, that was all, just two friends meeting up for a bite to eat. And why was he so upset that she had missed dinner?

Kim became aware of her surroundings for the first time—of the candles dying atop a cozy table, of the intricate meal set before her, of the soft music in the background. She saw the crushed tie on the ground, and remembered how she hadn't even known that Ron owned one of those, or how good he looked in it. In that space of a second, Kim realized what she had missed. No, what she had thrown back in Ron's face. The delicious food festered in her guilty stomach, desiring nothing so much as to be heaved back onto its plate.

She let her forehead thud onto the table, and squeezed her eyes shut. "Nice one, Possible," she muttered.

No, it wouldn't be make-believe,

If you believed in me.

To Be Continued

The song is Paper Moon, and it's sung by so many people that I couldn't tell you who owns it. In this instance, the one and only Frank Sinatra lends his literary voice talent to my endeavor, and I humbly thank him for it.