iSearch for Spencer
Chapter Three: iSet Off
Life got really boring when you were stuck in a car for five hours.
Freddie and Sam had spent the night at Carly's while she waited for Spencer, forcing her to go to bed around one AM so they could go look for him in the morning. Not wanting to have to deal with his mom, Freddie had just wrote her a note, then all three had packed enough stuff for a couple of weeks—"Just in case!" Carly said—and they were off at seven o' clock in the morning. (Sam was not happy about that.)
Freddie drove his dark blue Chevy truck, and Sam had instantly called shotgun, leaving Carly in the back. Carly had long since fallen asleep, and Sam had earlier. Then she'd woken up and yelled at him for a while for doing every little thing wrong, in her opinion, before falling asleep again. She was, thankfully, currently still sleeping.
Freddie looked over at her when he hit a red light. She looked oddly peaceful, sweet, and cute while she was asleep. Then his eyes widened and he hit himself on the side of the head. Bad, Freddie, bad! he chastened himself. Sam Puckett does not look cute! To console himself, he looked in the back, at Carly. He smiled—there, that's better. Deep down, he knew he was lying to himself—Carly didn't look half as cute asleep as Sam did. His gaze involuntarily traveled to the blonde again.
In fact, he was so caught up in admiring the sleeping Sam Puckett that he almost missed when the light turned green; only when the person behind him honked at him did he come back to reality.
XXX
A few hours later, around 2:45, Carly awoke. Groggily, she sat up and looked over at Freddie.
"Lemmedrve," she slurred. She blinked and shook her head a few times until her brain was less muddled. "Pull over. Let me drive," she repeated, clearer.
"Why?" Freddie asked.
"Cause. You've been driving for a long time."
Freddie pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store slash gas station. Sam sat bolt upright. "Are we there?" she asked.
"We're just stopping for a minute," Freddie assured her. "Go back to sleep."
"Okay," she agreed, closing her eyes again. "Get me beef jerky and/or ham." Freddie rolled his eyes but went into the small store.
Grabbing a few bags of beef jerky for Sam and a few various other snacks, he approached the counter. The man was about forty, balding, with a nametag reading RICKY. He quickly paid for the food and gas.
He opened the driver's side door and threw a bag of beef jerky at Sam. She instantly sat up. "Freddie!" she screamed, looking around for something to throw at him. Her hand found the beef jerky and she brought her arm back, prepared to fling it, but then she realized what she was holding. Suddenly interested and forgetting about Freddie, she tore the bag open with her teeth and bit greedily into a piece of jerky. Realizing Freddie was still standing there, smirking and trying not to laugh, she narrowed her eyes and waved her hand. "Run along."
Pumping the gas into the truck, Freddie got an idea. He ran back into the store and pulled out his PearPhone, scrolling through pictures until he came to what he wanted.
"Have you seen this man?" he asked Ricky, holding up a picture of Spencer.
"Why? 'E a criminal or somethin'?" Ricky asked.
"No," Freddie said slowly, "he's my friend, and he's missing."
"Oh. Well in that case, yeah, I've seen 'im. 'E stopped by the other day and Earlie-boy was gettin' mad a' 'im for soakin' up the floor."
"Earlie-boy?"
"My nephew! Earl!" Ricky insisted.
"Okaaay. Do you know where he was going?"
Ricky shrugged. " 'Ow am I supposed ter know?"
"Well, thank you," Freddie said hurriedly and rushed out.
XXX
Spencer, meanwhile, was miserable. Of course, that was predictable. He'd been forced to clean the ice rink, paint the lines and the Porkers' logo on it using a paintbrush, and clean many other things that he didn't want to talk about. Ever. He'd been locked in a dark, lonely, tiny closet for five hours, hit a few times by hockey sticks and pucks, and Tough Dawg had smashed his cell phone. He was currently being made to play goalie because Frankea, the usual goalie, had a cold and couldn't be there for practice. Resulting in even more of getting hit with sticks and pucks.
When, hallelujah, they were done practicing, he was shoved back into the room they'd first put him in. At least this time it had a mat on the floor for him to sleep on. The night before he'd had to sleep on the hard wooden floor. He was still a prisoner, but he was going to look on the bright side about certain little things like the new yoga mat he'd been given.
Exhausted, he stumbled onto the mat and was instantly claimed by sleep. And he didn't, for any reason in the world, want to get up the next day, in fear of what tortures the Porkers would dream up for him this time.
A/N: I was looking at my stories yesterday, and I realized I haven't updated this one in almost a month! I have at least four stories going right now, though (including oneshots I'm writing), so it's kind of hard, and I've been busy lately. I'm not completely satisfied with this chapter, and I hate the title of it even more than I hate the chapter itself.
On another note, what did everyone think of iDo last week? I liked it—and Sam with the fish sticks the whole time was hilarious. Freddie and Sam playing meat golf at the beginning was just so cute, and I loved how Spencer was obsessed with his flat butt. Gibby and Guppy were funny, too, of course; they just leave the old lady there. lol
Anyway, it's now 11:00 and I have to go to bed no matter how much I'd rather not. I'll probably end up reading till midnight…