Okay, really...This chapter should be called, "Stalling for time" because, well...I am...lol. This is Kathryn's memory, her Point of view of how they met...well, they've met before but they weren't that close. They were just buddies...but this was when they were REALLY CLOSE buddies. Okay, I'm not making sense and I don't get it, too. So yeah...My cousin laughed at this. Thought it was weird and funny. Eh...

TiggieSpencer: Ooh. Ahh...Lol. You reviewed all of the chapters! Wow. Someone has a lotta time on their hands...lol. Oh, there was this lil quiz at school where we had to study a subject and they would ask us stuff. I studied lung cancer. It's nice how you quote everything, lol.

WHATtheF: Aww...yeah. That sucks but..yeah...Wait a second--YOUR Spence! lol. Just kiddin.

SIXTEEN

Ever wonder how we met? Sure, I met him when I was a little girl…sure, we became friends but that was a long time ago. People forget. I recall in fact, that I referred to my ex-best friend when I was three, "that little girl with ponytails." But that's not important…What's important is, he left.

He had to. I don't blame him.

And then, we met again…for the first time…

So here I am on my very first day at College, 'The Kit Kat Girl in her horrible new blue uniform, running away down a slippery endless corridor looking for a loo. Under less desperate circumstances I wound ask directions from another girl about my age, or failing that an older girl or female teacher, a male teacher, a younger male student, or as a last resort, an older male student. Now, I don't care. The very real prospect of the Kit Kat Girl dumping in her pants on the first day at school has removed all the shame. I whiz, slide, skid around another sharp corner.

"Excuse me, toilet." I demand to the first human being I see. "Toilet. The nearest girl's toilet."

"Well, the name's Spencer, but toilet seems okay."

"Sorry," I apologise. I would've laughed but I really needed this one. I'd get down on my knees and beg if I had to. Wait…did he just say 'Spencer'? The Spencer? Oh, just my luck. I change schools trying to avoid a crazy obsessed guy only to move to another with the love of my life. But what were the odds of that? Maybe it wasn't Spencer, maybe it was just another guy carrying the same surname. "The nearest toilet is miles away, but you're in luck. Come with me. I just happen to have the keys." Guy with same surname said. He could be a very young teacher or an older male student. He's carrying a huge untidy bunch of keys and shouldering a heavy burden of what looks like video gear.

"If your new," he says unlocking a nearby door, 'then you need to know this is the drama and video production suite. Hell, as I would call it…but there's a loo in hell."

I laughed softly. The drama suite. This was a place at my old school I had always deliberately avoided. First, because kindly English and drama teachers assumed that because her mother was a 'performer', then jolly Katy had to be, too. Second, only size eights went in there, as normally screwed-up females. They came out moodier than ever, talking loudly because they were ac-tors and therefore superior to everybody. They had a scary fun 'finding their inner truth'. They did improvisation and sexy physical exercises, with lots of shouting and rolling round the floor. They took risks. I would have given anything to take a risk or two myself, but the risk felt like open-heart surgery without an anaesthetic and the drama suite at that school was no place for me.

Except that, my urgent visit to the loo accomplished in the nick of time, I am now inside a drama and video production suite with a strange male. There was no sign of him when I finished my business so I will tiptoe quietly out of this big carpeted area. There's no need to fuss around with thanks. Then my training in niceness kicks in. Boy, am I well trained! A door to a small office is open and a light is on inside. I poke my head in. "Um -- thanks."

"How good are your eyes?"

"What?"

"Lara swore the book was on these shelves. I love her dearly, and she's a great and creative director but Jesus, this office is something else. Hey…" he snapped his fingers to get my attention, then he gestures around the mess, looking very unsure. "…Can you see a big ugly book called Directing for Community Theatre in this uh…" he picked up a sock that was on top of a pile of books and made a face before looking at it curiously then throwing it anywhere. "…mess."

I decide he's definitely an older male student and begin looking in books of plays, magazine, boxes of photos and yellowed newspaper clippings. There's no order at all, just a horrible clutter and dust which looks as though it's been there forever. "What's community theatre?" I ask.

"It's what I've just been told I'm going to be co-directing. With Lara." He said, lifting a box of photos and magazines. "Oh the joy…" he says sarcastically as he walks over to me and puts the box down beside the chair I was sitting on. I can feel a sneeze coming on.

"You can use whatever resources are available. Dance, song, music, poetry, mime, cursed puppets, stilt walkers, physical theatre, you name it."

"Sounds fun." I lie. He didn't look like he was having much fun…he didn't look convinced eith-- a-choo! "Sorry about that. It's the dust."

"Well, bless ya then." He says."Do you get hay fever?"

"No. what do you do for a script?"

"We write it. It's multimedia, multicultural, multitalent, multi-everything. Ah hell, I'm almost beginning to convince myself it's a good idea." he looks at me and smiles warmly. How do they do that? The way they make you laugh and squeal with joy with you not even feeling your up to smiling. It's a mystery to me…I smile back. "Are you into drama?" he asks, resuming with his work. I look at him sideways to check if he's taking the piss, but he's squinting at the titles on an upper shelf.

"Um - no."

"Why not?" he asks. Then, he flashed me another smile. "You're the prettiest little thing I've ever seen. You oughta give it a try." I was sure my face was so red now and there was another thing I was sure of…that I was ready to run out of the room. "Thanks." I say, shyly. It seemed appropriate.

"New here?"

"Yep."

"Hating it?"

"You bet." And then I can't help myself. "How can anyone operate in this shambles? Is that what you want?" I hold out the book I have been hiding for the past twenty minutes. I know it seemed a little…silly, but if you had feelings for someone you didn't really know, you'd do it too. Just to spend a little more time with him. I am rewarded by a smile of pure, heart-warming gold. "Way to go, pretty eyes." he says, taking the book from me. Butterflies formed around my stomach. And all of a sudden, the world seemed brighter.

"Name?"

"Katy Royals. Short for Kathryn."

"D'Angelo Spencer." He holds out his hand and we shake formally. My eyes widen at the mention of the name. It was him. I can't believe it. It's him! And I felt the butterflies swarm around my stomach, ready to burst out. But instead, (even though Tasmania was trying to crawl up my throat) I registered the smile, now I register the brown eyes, the spiky dark brown hair, the plain black t-shirt, black jeans and bare feet. Wait a minute…he doesn't remember me! But I don't blame him, what's special to remember? I'm probably just some bimbo to him.

"You from Knoxville, Tennessee?" I ask. Or maybe he's just got global exotic good looks. Whatever, he's a knockout. Amongst the theatrical clutter of this tiny office I suddenly feel very pathetic and schoolgirlish. My old school uniform had been a designer label, costing megabucks. It looked great on all those up to size 12. What I'm wearing now looks ghastly on absolutely everyone - a drab blue check skirt, white polyester shirt (not tucked in) and roman sandals. "You…have a gift, Ms. Royals." he grins. I take that as a yes.

"Thanks." I say. But I bet anything he doesn't even like me. I bet he's just being nice to the Kit Kat girl. I have no chance with him…

"And you're not into drama?"

"Nope."

"What about the production side? If you don't like mess, you might have good organisational skills. I'm going to need those cos I'm too lazy to do it myself. Interested?" When every bone in my body wants to say Thank you! for even thinking of me and Yes! I'd love to help, I mumble instead as I always do, "I…sorry, don't think so."

"That's too bad," he says, indicating we are leaving, "If you change your mind…no wait!" He's staring at a pile of video gear he's dropped in the middle of the carpeted space. "Katy, there's something you can do for me. Could you stay a little while longer?"

I hear myself saying okay, and I feel myself going hot and cold when he says what he wants is to test drive a video camera that is supposed to have been fixed over the holidays. He could just shoot some solid object like say, that upright piano, but a real body's better, to check close-up focus and sound. Just sit over there by the window, and perhaps just sight-read something out of a book. Would I mind? He could go and get one of the drama people, but frankly, that means the whole lunch gone and he has double lessons with a new teacher straight after lunch.

How could I refuse the guy I've always wanted to 'supposedly' marry ever since I was six? Perched on a stool, watching him setting up the tripod and the camera, his unhurried, deliberate, absolutely controlled way of moving around, I couldn't believe I was doing this. I've had practically no pictures of me taken, of any kind, for over a year. So what the hell am I doing perched here on a stool, breaking all my rules, while the most gorgeous man I've ever met trains a video camera on me? He is, though, looking at something else. Outside the window, in a small enclosed courtyard, a boy is being bullied. At least I suppose that's what is happening. I'm new to this scene. They never did this at my old school. But of course, my old school was a rich school. We only changed to this school because dad…because dad was broke again. He had spent too much on his wife, my step-mom, Janie.

The kid was a dumpy little Asian boy with spiky hair and round glasses, who's being used for target practice. Apples, clumps of earth, small stones, empty cans…a dart. "Wait here." he says, his mood slightly changing and his voice a serious tone. Then, he's out into the blazing midday sun and has yanked the boy to his feet. His uniform shirt is so crisply new it still has square crease marks across it. Spence looks at the leader and the leader gulps, frozen on the spot. Spence puts the dart in his pocket, takes the second dart from an astonished hand and then picks up the rest of the missiles and chucks them at a rubbish container.

Then, I watch as he hauls the little Asian across the courtyard and back inside. Yelping slightly in some language I wouldn't know, he twists his plump arm out of Spence's grasp and takes off. Ungrateful little sod. I watch as Spence bends over the camera, fiddling with the controls, breathing only a little more heavily than usual. I caught my breath on his next word. "Beautiful." I couldn't believe it. He still hasn't changed. He still cared and it reached out to my heart in a way. I saw him differently than some people. I saw him as a sweet, caring person with a big heart. Others saw him as a mean, scary ass.

"Pardon?" I ask.

He looks up at me and smiles warmly. "Your smile."

I feel myself going redder and redder. "I don't suppose you…" I stutter, shrugging lamely when he looked at me. Red. Red. Red. Blush. Blush. Blush. "…you remember me, do you?" I ask, laughing slightly as if it was a silly question. But my voice cracked and that proved I didn't really think it was so silly. He smiles, "Of course I remember you. How can I forget you, Boo-boo? I mean, your not just some bimbo. You were my friend." It was silly for me to think that he could be so shallow, and I felt a little guilt right then, too. I smile at him. "I'm glad you came back." I say quietly. He just smiles at me. I love him.

But it wasn't over yet. The bully boys have spotted me on my perch and are dancing round on the other side of the window, pulling faces, waddling round like pregnant women, hurling abuse through the glass. Spence straightens up and looks over at the window just as the leader is poised to hurl a sizeable clump of earth my way, glass or not. There's a moment of silent eye-contacting challenge. The leader then looks away and throws the clod well below the window as the others slink off and he's left looking stupid. The leader then rolls his eyes then gives us the finger before turning away to follow the others. I sigh with relief. I was glad he went. But Spence didn't seem satisfied. He walks over to the window, grabbing an apple as he passed a table. He opens one of the windows and yells, "Gareth!"

The leader whirls around, opening his mouth to retort and just as he does, Spence flings the apple at his mouth. I gasp and I watch through my window, as the leader falls flat on his big fat ass. "I don't know how to say this politely but…FUCK YOU! And I swear to god, if you mess with her I will personally take care of you so that you'll have to walk sideways for the rest of your life!" He then shuts the window. He said that…for me. Aww. I know it sounds stupid but…nobody has ever stood up for me in that way. 'Always solve it by talking to them first, Katie.' they would always say, but I've been doing that my whole life and it's never worked! And I never ever had the guts to stand up for myself. "Thanks." He walks over to the camera with a faint smile. I suppose the camera is running; there's no noise, only a tiny red light. I feel myself going redder and redder, wishing I'd sat up straighter, and wishing my whole self anywhere else on the planet other than sitting here being used for target practice using film instead of stones.

"That's great," says Spence, straightening up. "Stay there." Like a well-trained dog, I stay. He glides into the office and comes out with a book, he licks his thumb and flicks the pages. He reads something quietly. "Huh…" he holds up the front of the book. "Can you just read something from this. It's the first thing I found."

"I can't read Shakespeare." I say.

"It's only for sound levels…"

"Sorry." I start to tremble. Maybe it's delayed reaction from having a clod of earth threatened at me. He chucks the book down on the floor. "O-kay. Just tell me about yourself then." he says casually. Which was worse. "Your new here," he prompts. "New to LA?"

"Yes. You'll have to get someone else for this. I…I have to go…" I say nervously.

A scream from the doorway, "Spencer, darling!"

"Like her. She'll be perfect," I say, impressed by my own newfound ability to get a word in edgeways. "Absolutely, fabulously perfect." There she stands in the doorway, the ac-tor. Black leggings, skimpy crop-top, black boots even though it's over thirty degrees outside, arms outstretched. True to type, she clomps across the carpet for a massive and noisy hug. Do I detect a wink my way as he is embraced, an amused look that says, see what I have to put up with?

"Absolutely fab to see you, Spencer," she burbles. "Gorgeous and talented and enigmatic as ever." she kisses him on the cheek and winks and he laughs adorably, "What's the production this year, then? Part for me? Ooh, sorry, I see your busy. So sorry."

"No he's not," I say quickly. "I'm just casual target practice and I'm leaving." This girl was much more outgoing and elegant. Posh. Greeaaattt. Another obstacle. "Sophia, This little filly is joining the production team," he says, putting his hand lightly on my shoulder. Is he a friend, a control freak, a sleaze? Is this sexual harassment? I don't know what I think. I get the full pixie smile, even though it was obvious I had no idea what he was talking about. "Right?" he asks, looking down at me with a smile.

"No, you don't want me." My niceness training kicks in and I add, "Excuse me. Gotta run. Thanks for your help, before." He smiled faintly, and not every ounce of it touched his eyes. I didn't want to go and yet, I wanted to go. He hates me. I really am just some piece of ass to him. "Thank you for yours," he calls at my departing fat ass. No, really now. I'm not fat-- I'm pissed. I hate myself for not being a girl. Like capital Barbie over there. I'm probably not good enough for him. "Think about it." he says.

I have, mate, for all of ten seconds and the answer's still no.

I never had a chance…

…never will.