A/N: Everyone is sixteen in this one. Takes place chronologically a year before the last story (Speaking Under the Influence). Sam does not like pep rallies.

Content

Sam's jean clad legs dangled to and fro, just beyond the ledge where she was sitting. Her sneakers would lightly bump the wall beneath her every now and then, barely making a sound. She was contemplating the red box in her hand; it was small and bright, and tonight it was her weapon of choice. Rather, what was inside was of interest to her. There were three more boxes sitting off to her left, carefully placed further back than she was sitting. It wouldn't do to run out of ammo mid-attack. She opened the box.

The first raisin felt squishy and sticky, and she popped it between her fingers before tossing it through the railing to the mass of people below. She heard a faint, startled yelp, and scrambled to back out of the railing (where no one could see her) in case she'd hit a teacher. A minute later, she peeked over the edge. There were all the good little monkeys, waiting en masse for the slaughterhouse doors to open. Okay, so maybe it was just the gym, but she still qualified the forced pep rally attendance that high school offered as nothing less than torture.

It looked like nobody had cared about her little act of rebellion. She laid flat like a sniper, just barely able to see over the edge of the auditorium's balcony level entrance, and readied another fruity missile.

"I'd ask what you're doing up here, but I think it's obvious."

Sam nearly jumped when she heard his voice, until she realized it was Freddie. Instead, she opted to turn around slowly, projectile still in hand. "May I help you, Fredweird?" Her eyes narrowed until he chucked something small and brown in her general direction. She picked it out of her hair and smiled. "I see that I already have."

"Ha ha," he said sarcastically, stepping closer. Sam reached up and pulled him down next to her like a ninja on crack, looking at him wide-eyed.

"Ow!" She covered his mouth with her hand, grimacing at the thought of his spit coming into contact with her skin. But she had to do what was necessary to protect her position from enemy fire, otherwise known as teachers.

"Shut up Freddie," she whispered harshly, "you'll get us both in trouble." Freddie looked confused. Sam rolled her eyes and continued, "They were gonna see you, being nerdy so close to the railing, and we would've gotten in trouble for skipping the jock fest." Freddie tried to talk, but Sam's hand was still covering his mouth. He sighed frustratedly, and licked it.

Sam rolled away from him, but not before wiping her hand on his shirt. Just as she was about to insult him, he leaned toward her and whispered, "But I'm going to the 'jock fest'. It's mandatory."

"Please, it's not like they're checking names at the door. And, no, you're not." He glared at her, and she glared right back. "You could give away my hiding space, dumbass. That's a risk I'm not willing to take, not even to get away from you."

Reluctantly, surprisingly, Freddie dropped his eyes to the floor and nodded. Sam held her breath for a second, but when nothing else was said, she raised an eyebrow and scooted toward the edge once more. The walking casualties were doing just that, pouring into the gym. While their backs were turned, she resumed her aerial raisin assault. She laughed as Gibby flinched and turned around about seven times in a jerky motion, eventually saying something about 'witchcraft!' as his voice faded beyond the green double doors.

Somewhere below her and to her left she heard a squeal, and peeked down to see Jenna Berkin going on about killer flies. Which was funny, no doubt, but Gibby was the last person she'd thrown a raisin at. She glanced at Freddie, looking away quickly to process what she'd seen. Again, she looked, and she hadn't been hallucinating: there was Freddie, devious smirk on his face, open box of raisins in his hand. When he looked up from Jenna's hilarious freak out, Sam couldn't look away. This was just too weird, too epic.

"What?" he said quietly, but defensively, sifting through the raisins in his hand for a good one, "She keeps cheating off me in math class."

Sam couldn't help but smile. Just a small one, strange and content. For the next hour and a half they talked (only when they were deprived of the opportunity to pelt people with small fruits, of course). Conversation was littered with punches and insults more friendly than harmful, and raisin spitting contests more good-natured than competitive.

By the time the pep rally was over they were out of raisins. But Sam was still smiling, and Freddie was too.