"And doesn't she always call you a button pushing monkey and tell you how you're not important to the show?"

--Valerie

i'M Sick of Being Sick

--

"I just want to know who got you sick before you got me sick." I lolled my head around to look at her.

"Whoa, back up germ boy, you're the one who got me sick." Sam pushed her blanket away and straightened up a little.

"What?" I looked at her incredulously. "You're the one who missed school yesterday—before I started feeling sick. So you're telling me that I was sick before you ... but still somehow started feeling like a taxi mat after you? How does that work?"

"What do I look like?" Sam frowned and shrugged. "A mat expert? But hey, when I get sick I start to feel it right away. I like to get it over with."

"I would've thought that you would like this whole no-school thing," I said.

"Oh yeah," Sam widened her eyes sarcastically, "And I just love chucking up my guts every six hours." She put her head back and groaned. "It's not fair. Thinking about food has been making me sick for over a day. Twenty-four hours."

I looked over at her, wondering if it would be safe for her to be sick for very long. Sam wasn't exactly skin and bones, but her rabid mongoose of a metabolism certainly didn't leave her with much.

She looked liked she was trying to be honest for a moment. "But this whole getting waited on hand and foot thing is kinda nice."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, "We're not getting waited on hand and foot."

"Please," she rolled her eyes, "You're just so used to it you don't even notice. Watch." She twitched her nose thoughtfully before giving a slight sniffle.

The kitchen's swinging door burst open, my mom rushing in with a box of Kleenexes and a thermometer.

"Oh, Freddie, are you okay?" she swooped low to where I was sitting and began dabbing at my face. "Are your symptoms changing?"

"No! Mom, I'm fine! It was Sa—" I futilely tried to swat her away. "It was Sam!"

"Oh," my mother visibly relaxed as she turned to Sam. "Are you okay dear? Do you need to blow your nose?"

"No," Sam looked over at me with a smirk, "I'm fine. I think it'll be all right if you just leave the Kleenex in here with us—just in case."

"Okay, dear." Mom leaned over Sam with clear restraint and put her hand over Sam's forehead. "How are you feeling now? Still a little queasy?"

"As long as I don't think about anything that tastes good," Sam grumbled, and then under her breath as my mom rose, "Or Freddie."

"Well, that's good," my mother said encouraging as she made for the kitchen, "The 7uper is almost ready, so you'll only have to wait a few more minutes. I'll bring it out just as soon as it's finished."

"See? It's like the Hilton. Only for free." Sam frowned. "What was she talking about? What's a 7uper?"

I squirmed slightly. "Oh, nothing. It's just her little recipe for upset stomachs. No big deal."

I could feel her giving me a pair of quirked eyebrows. If she was Sam, and, well, unfortunately she was, she would be able to see right through my blatant downplaying of my mom's "special" 7uper. It was actually an appropriate name for what it did to your stomach—and whatever was in it.

She was so going to see through me and refuse to ever drink—

She shrugged a little. "Oh. Okay."

I tried not to make my glance at her look as shocked as I felt. "Oh ... okay."

Sam looked over at me. "Yeah. That's what I just said."

"Yeah, uh," I fumbled for a moment, "Well, just know that I'm going to find out where you got this muck from. Who you ki—uh, I mean exchanged bacteria with first."

"Watch out," she made exaggerated motions with her face, "Sherlock's on the case. I—" She stopped.

"What?"

"Ugh, I'm getting another headache," she moaned as she threw her feet up over my lap, "My feet need to be rubbed."

"Forget it!" I said in horror as I tried to push them off. "I'm not doing it!"

"You'll do it if you know what's good for you. Rub. Now. Quick." She put her head over the sofa arm.

"What do your feet have to do with a headache? They're on complete opposite ends of your body." Why did it sound like I was trying to make an excuse for something I wasn't going to do?

"I don't know. It's just one of those things that'll never be answered—why does peanut butter and jelly go with ham? Why will you never get a girl? Why—just rub already!"
"But I—don't—" Why was I even considering this?

"Rub or suffer!"

"But—I—" Okay, I had to admit that the whole foot rub thing was something I'd thought about doing before—with a girl that is. And while I probably would've passed out if someone, say Carly, was making these kinds of demands, Sam was my friend too. It was possible to do a completely friendly foot rub on a girl, wasn't it? And besides, I felt like I kinda owed her. For this whole fiasco.

"It's so—" I had my hands uncertainly poised over them. "—Unsanitary …"

"Relax," she laughed and wiggled her toes in her socks, "They're clean." I gingerly put my thumbs under them. "I washed them yesterday."

"Ugh," I grimaced and turned my head away, but didn't take my hands off.

"Yes ..." Sam made impatient motions with her hands. "The second part of a foot rub is the rubbing part."

I made a face at her as I slowly moved up and down her soles.

She started giggling. Taking this as a good sign I increased the pace, and she giggled harder. I was about to smile when she leaned up and solidly smacked me across my head, all the while giggling madly.

The two actions didn't really go well together.

"What was that for?" I demanded.

"Stop—stop it!" She managed. "You're ti—tick—No tickling!"

I smiled and tickled a little harder. "I still don't get why I'm doing this."

"Enough! Please! Stop or I'll tell your mom!"

I grinned but relented, storing this little nugget of potential away in the back of my mind. It was actually a very rewarding feeling to have her at the mercy of my fingertips. It was actually—well, that was a far enough description for that feeling.

And slowly, because I really had no idea what I was doing, I pressed my thumbs into the soles of her feet, starting at the heel.

Sam made a satisfied sound as she languidly waved her arm. "Better than the Hilton."

"You've never stayed at the Hilton."

She shrugged with her mouth. "I stole pillows from there once."

"Figures."

"Hey, you wouldn't—oh. Oh. Wow. Right there." Sam closed her eyes and leaned her head back.

I pressed a little more, watching her face. This was almost unbelievable. I had no idea this sort of thing could be this—whatever this was.

One of her feet twitched across my lap and—

"Ugh." It came out of my mouth before I could help it.

"Huh?" she asked distractedly.

"Nothing," I answered weakly as I tried to squirm around to a safer position. But once it had started there was no turning back, as the entirety of the situation caught up with me. I was holding Sam's feet, unsanitary or not—I was holding a pair of girl feet in my hands.

Uh oh. Stop, stop. No, not now! I thought desperately downward.

Okay, this was not only becoming awkward, but wrong as well. How had this seemed so innocent just a few seconds ago?

Sam is just my friend, Sam is just my friend, Sam is just my friend—with way too frisky feet.

No, no, no, this is wrong—I've gotta—

The doorbell rang.

"Hey, Freddie, you in there?"

We both looked at each other. "Carly!"

My mother rushed past us even as me and Sam fumbled for anything but the position we were in. I ended up falling to the floor. Sam leaped up and stood on the sofa, as if increased elevation between us might make things appear more innocuous. There was a second of hesitation before we both realized that was worse and scrambled to less suspicious elevations as far away from each other as possible. I was confused for a moment why Sam would be so embarrassed if she didn't know about the full extent of my awkwardness of a few seconds ago. But then I guess that me rubbing her feet at all would do it for her if Carly found out.

"Yeah, I'm in—here," I shouted back at Carly as she continued to knock on the door.

By this time mom had reached the door and looked like she was trying to spray anything within a five-foot radius of it with disinfectant.

"Mom!" I said absently as I tried to shoo her away. Glancing behind me I saw that Sam hadn't followed. She was standing back, looking down and scratching at one of her hands.

"She can only peek! Don't let her inside, we don't want her getting sick too!" Mom whispered-shouted at me.

"Don't worry," I said quickly, trying to think of a way to get her out of the room, "I don't think she's as susceptible as Sam is—I mean, I'm sure she won't have the same reasons to get sick …" a slight pause in horror, "Not to say that Sam had any special—out of the ordinary reasons to get sick—"

"Mrs. Benson, is something burning?" Sam asked quickly, bailing me out while shooting a significant look at me.

"Good heavens! The 7uper sauce!" My mother made a mad dance for the kitchen, spraying anything within range as she went.

"It has sauce?" Sam asked dubiously. I could practically see the queasiness in her eyes.

I gave my best reassuring look as I unlocked the door and let it open a foot or so. "Hey."

"Hey, faker," Carly smiled at me and tried to lean her head in, only to come up short when I didn't open the door any farther. "Uh, can I come in?"

"No," I said a little too quickly before thinking about it.

"Oh. Okay." Carly pulled her head back, pretending to look hurt.

"I mean no, I'd like you to, but you can't," I jiggled the door a little, "I don't have the lock to the chain lock."

"You have a lock on top of your chain lock?" Carly asked him. "Oh, my God."

"My mom does," I tried to clarify, though I knew that she was only teasing, "At least as long as I'm contagious."

"So how you feeling?" Carly asked, measuring me up and down and distinctly looking like she wished she was inside where she could go all "mother" mode on me.

"Better than yesterday," I said, "I just have a fever and—other things to deal with."

"Sore throat?" Carly asked.

I glanced back at Sam, who hadn't moved. Frowning, I motioned at her with my head.

"Neck spasms?" Carly asked, not seeing what I was gesturing at.

Sam almost timidly stepped beside me. "Hey, Carls."

"Sam?" Carly jerked her head back. "Why are you where you're not supposed to be?"

Sam rolled her eyes. "Long story, sad ending. My mom dumped me here until I recuperate."

"Oh, my God," Carly laughed, "I wondered why you weren't answering your cell phone!"

"My cell phone's been disconnected for a week," Sam said, and I didn't miss the hint of sadness in her voice.

The Carly before High School would've never gone that long without calling Sam—or me. The Carly before High School and ridiculous amounts of homework and honors classes wouldn't have waited until six o'clock to come check on me either.

Carly pressed on quickly. "So you've been here together for the whole day?" she giggled. "Together?"

"Yeah, don't rub it in," Sam said. She suddenly reached through the doorway for Carly's collar. "You've got to get me out of here! I've had to breathe the same air as this dork for twenty-four hours, I've been pampered, patted, and pruned by his mom for—"

"Pruned?" Carly asked.

"I don't know," Sam said impatiently, "It was another P-word. The point is I'm living in an anti-bacterial bubble of crazy, and I haven't eaten in nearly two days! Shoot me. Now. Please."

"Please," I said as I crossed my arms, "Don't listen to her. It hasn't been that bad."

Carly raised her eyebrows. "You two are getting along?"

"Uh," I stuttered, "That's not what I said … I mean she hasn't been any picnic either. Punching me whenever she wants, making me rub—"

Sam noticeably stiffened beside me.

"Uh, I mean—" I attempted a verbal one-eighty, "She's been rub—bing me the wrong way, yeah, and—"

"My foot—" Carly started.

"What? Who said anything about a foot?" I gave a laugh that came out a little giddy, "No one said anything about a foot."

"Nope, this is a foot free conversation," Sam jumped in just as quickly.

"No foot, and especially no feet," I continued.

"I guess I don't need to ask if you two are feeling all right." Carly was frowning at them. "Cause you're both probably medicated enough to float a blimp. But it's agreed that it's been horrible? I sympathize."

"Yes, yes it has," I said.

"There you go again," Sam looked over at me, "It hasn't been that bad, has it? Am I just that intolerable that—"

"Okay! Enough!" Carly suddenly burst in. "We could do this all night, and unfortunately I'm not up to it. You both agree to disagree about how wonderful or horrible it's been, okay?"

"We're not disagreeing—" I tried, but Carly shushed me sharply.

"Oh please, you'd disagreed about your own funeral date you—"

"I would not!" I protested, and vaguely I heard Carly give something similar to a groan.

Sam jabbed a finger at me. "The only thing you will agree on is that you got us into this mess!"

"What? Freddie got you sick?" Carly giggled. "What did you do? Kiss her?"

Carly went on giggling at what she apparently felt was a very humorous and harmless joke. She was too busy enjoying herself that she mostly missed our expressions.

"No! That's—just—crazy." I failed.

"Yeah, yeah," Carly was waving me off distractedly.

"If you can even call that kissing," Sam muttered so low I almost thought I had imagined it.

I looked at her angrily, and then back Carly. "And while we're talking about—" I started to say that horrible K word, but lost my nerve somewhere before it began "—Do you know who else wasn't at school today?"

"We're not talking about that," Carly looked amused, "We were talking about you kissing Sa—"

"Yeah, yeah," I plowed forward, "Was anyone else sick today?" I suspiciously glared over at Sam, to which she merely rolled her eyes.

Carly made an unapologetic face. "I don't know. I wasn't really paying attention."

Yeah, big surprise.

She frowned as she hesitated for a moment. "I guess Natalie wasn't there today. Don't know if she was sick or not though."

I made an annoyed gesture. I didn't really have to worry about Sam kissing her—or hopefully any other girls. "Okay, but were there any guys? Like—good looking guys?"

Sam snorted into her hand that she tried to stifle her laughter with. I shot her an incensed glance, determined to push on ahead, even if it meant treading in potentially uncomfortable territory for me. This was important.

Okay, who Sam was and wasn't possibly kissing was none of my concern and wasn't really all that important. I just had to know. That's all.

"Why?" Carly gave me a disbelieving look. "Are you getting that desperate for a homecoming date?"

I sighed. This is important—this is important— "Was there anyone else sick?"

Carly frowned, "No good looking guys that I know of, but I think someone said that Ned kid that sits beside us—you know in honors art—got sick over the weekend." She shrugged.

"Ned?" Sam looked disgusted. "The kid with the melanoma problem?"

"The kid with the melanoma problem?" I repeated as I looked over at Sam in horror. Not that I cared of course. It wasn't my business—although if true it would mean that I had unwittingly been exposed to second hand melanoma.

Sam gave me an antagonizing smirk. "What can I say? My standards have been slipping lately."

"As if you have any standards—"

"Uh ... what are you guys talking about?" Carly asked, looking uncertain whether to look amused or concerned.

"Nothing," we both hurriedly said together.

"Anyway, I really can't stay long," Carly reached into her backpack. "I brought your guys' homework. At least now I don't have to go to your house too, Sam."

"Some friend you are," Sam said; she leaned against the door frame as Carly pushed an impressive stack of books and papers through the door. When Sam made no motion to take them, I looked at her but only got a pair of expectant eyebrows.

"All right," I muttered as I took them all. I turned to Carly "So you just now got home?"

"Yeah, I had to stay after and finish my lab for Mr. Kinney," Carly groaned. "And I have to finish the lab report tonight. So—get better—don't kill each other—and try to have fun?"

She barely waited for our pair of quiet goodbyes before she was gone, and we were alone again.

Sam didn't say anything as she absently tapped a hand against her leg while heading back for the sofa.

I could muster little enthusiasm as I glanced over my respective half of the stack that I had to get done. Well, actually it was more like nine tenths, since Sam wasn't going to get more than a third of hers done, at best. Not that I was going to do any of her homework for her.

I mentally rolled my eyes.

Yeah, Freddie, just like you're not going to rub her feet either.

"So ... I bet you've been missing your girlfriend this year." Sam said it casually.

"Yes, I've been missing her too," I answered as I sat down beside her again.

"I wish she would just do something really dumb," Sam said suddenly as she clenched her fists half seriously, "Something really selfish that isn't for grade point averages or future prospects," she mimicked in a high voice reminiscent of our life course advisor, "Just something, anything, so I can call her a nub."

"You've really been wishing that?" I looked at her, genuinely a little surprised.

"Since the beginning of the month," she leaned her head back, "It's barely halfway through September and I'm already sick of school."

"You should really talk to her, tell her how you feel," I pressed, "It's not good to hold stuff like that in. You'll probably just end up taking it out on me."

"What? Aren't I a good example of calm and self control?" She looked over at me. "And don't pretend you don't want to do the same thing to her. I'll tell her she's being a nub if you do."

I looked back at her. "I'll tell her if you tell her first."

She let out an exaggerated breath of annoyance. "Fine. We'll do it together."
"Fine. It's a deal," I said, even though I knew that would never happen—unless Carly did go and do something stupid, selfish, and completely unnecessary, which would probably never happen since she was Carly. It was just like I knew that no matter how warm and friendly this current feeling between us would get, there was no way me and Sam were going to go back to what we had been doing before we'd been interrupted.

I didn't know whether to be happy or irritated that Carly had cut it off—whatever "it" had been. Though after a few minutes of agonizing I decided that I was happy. It had been getting out of hand and I needed to stick by my promise not to keep giving Sam any false impressions. Or at least I needed to try a lot harder at it.

--

Mom returned shortly afterwards with her slightly botched batch of 7uper.

Contrary to everything I knew to be logical and ethical, I nodded in encouragement again when Sam looked at me. For whatever reason she also decided to ignore tangible odors and trust my judgment.

I was fairly positive that we both regretted that.

It was this whole new feeling of guilt, of feeling like I should be doing something, that I should be able to make it better somehow. But I couldn't do anything my mom wasn't already doing with gusto as Sam threw up what little she'd drank. She was in the bathroom a long time, long after I could hear any sounds following her efforts.

When I decided that it might be better to feel horrible in my own room, I headed in that direction and went to go check on her on the way past. I'd been intending to say something. What exactly, I had no idea, but I was spared that minor dilemma when I found that she wasn't in the bathroom. She actually turned out to be in my bedroom, much to my surprise. And not just in my bedroom, but my bed.

She was facing the door, her head on my pillow and her own pillow in her arms. There was a sort of crumpled look to her, and she didn't open her eyes when I came in.

So I was left to stand there for a quite a while, very tired and very at a loss of what to do. When I had said that I didn't want to send her any more false impressions, this was exactly the kind of thing I'd been talking about.

I'm not going to sleep in the same bed as her. I'm just going to kindly tell her to get up and go back down to her own bed—yeah. Right. Dream on, Freddie.

The entire time that I was standing over her, making odd gestures of frustration and confusion with my arms and face (that not even I could probably understand), I wasn't sure if she was actually asleep. But I got my answer when she stirred slightly and opened her eyes the barest amount that it would take her to notice me.

"What happened to my sleeping bag?" she mumbled groggily.

It only took a quick glance to confirm that my private bet had ended in favor of my mother bleaching Sam's sleeping bag. I was more than familiar enough with my mom and bleach to know the signs.

I hadn't even begun to come up with how to answer that before she for all apparent appearances passed out again. Throwing my hands up in the air, I carefully navigated over to the side of the bed, eying up all the nastier calculations and wondering why it had to be like this.

Planting my hands on the bed's edge, I carefully lifted a leg up and over her to the other side, swung over, and cautiously lowered myself beside her. It actually went pretty unremarkably.

Sam groaned and twisted around to face me.

This facing each other thing usually wasn't a big deal—when our faces weren't within centimeters of each other.

Her eyes looked confused and entirely too close. "Whaddya doing in my bed?"

"Uh," was the best I could manage as I pulled as far away from her as I could. It was the best I could manage, even given that the conversation was all ready for me, "This ... this is my bed. Yeah, this is my bed." I picked up a little indignation.

"Sure, sure," she closed her eyes as she yawned and reached over and patted my head like a dog. "What's its name then?"

"Wha—what?" I was having a hard time concentrating on words and sentences and that sort of thing as her hand began drooping down from my hair to my face and even lower.

"Your bed," she looked at me again, "What's its name?"
"It doesn't have a name."

Well, at least I knew this was all good and harmless fun in the name of delirium.

But then she grinned a little. "You name your computers. Don't you name your furniture too?"

"I—" was caught. "That's different."

"Suzie and Mackenzie?" She laughed. "You are such a dork."

"That was a long time ago," indignantly, "Besides, everyone does it."

"Maybe everyone that subscribes to Hardcore Hardware magazines."

I gasped. "You've been looking through my stuff!"
"No," she rolled her eyes, "I've been entertaining myself."

I suddenly had nothing to say, as for a moment I mistakenly took that to mean recently, when she had been spending quality time wrapped around the toilet—not earlier, whenever she had seen my tech magazines.

"So who were they? Your kindergarten crushes?" Sam said after a moment of silence and looking like she'd gone back to sleep. She peeked almost curiously out of one eye.

"No—they, I mean yes," I wanted to groan. Her hand was still resting somewhere just above my stomach, and the situation was coasting somewhere just below intimate. Intimate for crying out loud! "They were crushes—but—"

"They must've been really special," she said, "I mean special enough to name your heart and soul after them."

"They ... weren't. Not really." I threw my hands up. "Okay, I had a sad and lonely childhood before iCarly! Happy?"
She patted me almost reassuringly. "Don't worry, some things never change." And then she put her head down and scooted in closer to me.

Retreating while saving face was pretty difficult as I was already at the end of my pillow—both metaphorically and literally. But Sam Puckett was practically snuggling up to me for crying out loud! And it was making me feel all giddy and warm. And—ugh, she just pulled her arm up and over me. This was like against all the laws of nature and what passed as good and orderly in the universe.

Did she have any idea what it was like for me to be touching her in this many places? With only the most negligible of space separating my shameless teenage body from her slender and oh so slight one?

Sometimes this is what it's like having two girls as your best friends.

"Sam—" I liked to think that it hadn't come out strangled. "Do we really have to be doing this right—"

"I think I'm feeling better." It was almost like she was cutting me off. "I think that stuff actually helped me—after the whole hurling my guts out thing."

Slowly, I could slowly feel sleep overtaking me as everything kind of just settled. And continued feeling good. Her arm was around me and it was so—

"Sam, are you going to kill me?" I didn't realize just how far I'd been slipping out of it before I half jerked myself awake by speaking.

Her voice sounded almost equally startled. "No. You're too cuddly—you're safe."

And candid.