"I know how to get your mom to jump out of the plane."
--Sam Puckett
i'M Sick of My Plans
Until my dying day I will probably equate that week with running. Even though very little physical running was actually involved, that's essentially what things amounted to. What it felt like.
"All right, so we'll try that after the straw spraying bit," Sam said as we hurried towards our Lit. class, "How does she react to sticky hands?"
"I think she has stocks in soap companies," I answered as we made it inside our classroom just on the bell.
"Right, dumb question," Sam said as we found our seats, "What about flowers? How does she think a guy should handle them?"
I thought for a moment. "Traditionally, though I think we might be better off trying chocolates."
"Um," she nodded as she looked over our rapidly filling notebook of good intentions—eventual good intentions. Because this really was all for my mom's sake. "Maybe, though I think we need to work more on the whole me not respecting you angle more, and not just because it's so fun—"
"But we still need to do either the flowers or chocolates routine, my mom will be expecting it—" I progressively turned my protest into a whisper as class quieted down and our teacher began speaking—but broke off completely when she pointedly cleared her throated and pointed a rather pointed glare at me. I offered a guilty smile and sank back into my seat.
But once class was safely underway and enough time had passed for an appropriate amount of deviousness to be devised, Sam nonchalantly tossed a wadded ball of paper onto my desk.
I did my best to nonchalantly sink down in my seat and glance around to make sure no one was watching before I read it. But there wasn't, and Sam looked distinctly amused at my attempt.
"How about you give me chocolates--I'll tell you their the wrong kind, insult you, and then eat them in front of you and your mom for the rest of the date?"
I casually chucked an affirmative back at her; my reply also pointing out that she'd misspelled 'they're.'
We preoccupied the rest of class with some distinctly non-Lit. related planning. Almost unconsciously I used codenames for everything I happened to write down that dealt with our operation. Some of which I honestly thought were rather creative, but Sam promptly called me a dork for it after class regardless, as well as for trying to correct the worst of her grammar.
Regardless, I was having almost guilt-inducing amounts of fun whenever I actually had a chance to stop and realize that I was.
I would've never—repeat, never, realized just how much time I had been spending with Amelia until Sam abruptly occupied most of it. Even if only temporarily.
"So," Sam asked me as she zipped up her sweatshirt, "Is your mom picking you—us up?"
"Nah," I said as we walked through the doors and out onto the sidewalk, "I told her we'd just walk home. I figured that would give us some more time."
"Yeah …"
I glanced over at her, but she was staring at the ground.
"So … anyway," she started, "What does she think of this whole thing … besides about Amelia?"
I discerned a delicate topic.
"Well … I think she was a little surprised about the whole Chuckie Cheese's thing and … but I still don't think she minds the idea of us for … whatever reason." I frowned. True, my mom had always had a surprising tendency to overlook my … unique relationship with Sam, but I'd always chalked that up to general obliviousness. No offense mom. And it wasn't as if Sam tried to do her worst in front of her, and it definitely wasn't as if I had ever leaked the whole picture to my mom. For the most part anyway.
"I think she …" I put out my hands uncertainly, "Kinda thinks you're okay."
Sam was quiet for a moment. She looked up at me with a quick, reassuring smile that was probably supposed to be a lot of things, but it missed a few of them. "So far."
"Yeah, so far," I laughed along with her, but then we fell silent.
"But don't worry," Sam abruptly spoke up again, "We'll have her thinking 'Princess' is the best thing since frozen pizza by the end of the week."
I smirked at her use of my name for Amelia. "So you do like my codenames."
She gave a practiced roll of her eyes. "Yes, I love it when you talk like such a man."
--
The evening went well. So well in fact that in any other situation, with any other logical mother our plan should've worked long before Sam pulled the spraying straw bit at the dinner table. But despite significantly reinforcing my mom's apprehensions about just what kind of table manners Sam possessed, among other things, she seemed to still hold onto some kind of infuriating something that was positive in regards to Sam. Or at least as opposed to Amelia.
And the evening was kind of a two-for in regards to things going well, because we were not only executing the plan brilliantly, we were having fun. Way too much fun. Not necessarily in trying to manipulate my mom—but just in general.
--
Back to the whole running thing. I talked my mom into driving us both to the Comic Con Convention that was happening downtown the next evening after school. My mom was probably feeling this running thing as well, since it would be obvious even to a hobo jumped up on caffeinated fladoodles that I was trying to jam in as many as dates as possible with Sam before the week was up. And Amelia would be back.
"Freddie, I'm getting tired of you picking where to go," Sam said as she blew out a breath of annoyed air.
"What?" I asked innocently, "I thought this was the whole plan—put you in situations where you can do your worst."
"No kidding," Sam muttered as she looked around the milling, admittedly somewhat odor-liberal crowds of comic book fans. For the most part they were rushing to get to all the tables before the convention closed for the night. For the most part Sam looked disgusted.
"All right, all right," I admitted as we vaguely weaved our way through the outer edges of the crowd, "You can pick where we go tomorrow night."
Sam slowed a little and gave me an entirely too satisfied look for me to remain entirely comfortable.
"Great," she said, "That'll let me do a good job of showing some more 'imperfect' sides of me."
I tried not to smile a little along with her. "But that's not why you're smiling."
"Sometimes you're so quick," Sam rolled her eyes, but in a generally good-natured way, and I laughed a little along with her.
"So ..." I said as I resisted the urge to look behind us where my mom still presumably was, "Is she watching us?"
Sam turned and looked. I grabbed at her before I remembered that 'negative and unsubtle' were what we were aiming for with Sam.
"Yup," she answered.
I sighed. "I don't know." I scratched at my neck and wished that I could check for myself, "Do you think that she's really buying us as a couple?"
"You're the one who lives with her," Sam said in an exasperated voice, "Don't ask me."
"No," I tried, wishing I could express this persistent fear I was carrying, express it in a way that was acceptable to Sam standards, "I mean ... I don't know. I just don't feel like we're doing the stuff that normal couples would at this stage—"
"What do you mean?" Sam asked as we stopped.
She knew what I meant. And I knew what I meant. And it was honestly for honest reasons that I even had the nerve to go here, to try to appease this terrified notion of what might happen if this thing blew up in our faces. If my mom caught onto things.
But then again, just like this whole fiasco, there were other ... smaller reasons as well—
I shrugged my shoulders when I wasn't able to verbally communicate just what I meant to her.
"What?" she asked, a little less assertively, "Like ... stuff people do on second dates ... like holding hands?"
"Like holding hands," I rushed the repetition, to try to diffuse the situation with a little bit of humor. It kinda worked. "I ..."
Sam looked off to the side and we both sort of fiddled. With our hands.
I supremely regretted going here. Supremely. Utterly. Utterly supremely. Because nothing was worth this kind of squirmy, uncomfortable, completely awkward-I-wanna-run-away-and-hide-in-a-foreign-country-for-a-few-weeks feeling. Nothing. Not even—
She didn't nod. Didn't say yes, hold out her hand, or even make a distinctive facial expression. But the way she sort of looked down and then back up at me was more than enough for me to understand.
It was a non-verbal, "Okay."
This was ... unreal. And shaky, oh so shaky.
I couldn't—it was unnecessary, but ... I was going to. I knew that I was going to long before all the arguments in my head added to the moment's abrupt anxiety.
I ... hesitantly? Sort of slowly?—put my hand out and pulled hers into mine. And for a brief second we just stood there, until the notion that walking would make things less—whatever came to me.
But long before we started walking again, much slower than before, there was all this stuff that I knew, felt, had to deal with.
Her hand was so small, or at least small compared to the sorts of activities I normally associated with them. Like punching, for instance. In that way they always completely defied expectations, that they could actually be borderline slight, within distant view of adjectives like delicate. And warm. And soft. And able to make everything feel so comfortable. Crazy, and anxious beyond belief, but comfortable.
I did almost laugh though, when I happened to summon enough courage to look back over at her to find that she was looking in the complete opposite direction of me as we walked, much like I had been doing.
But even noteworthy feelings of comfortable couldn't keep the arguments at bay. The notables included that Sam was my friend, that this was unnecessary, and that I was again definitely sending the wrong signals. The other was Amelia.
Amelia trusted me. And she didn't deserve this.
Maybe she was having similar thoughts at about this time, or maybe Sam just picked up on my waverings, because we both let go at about relatively the same time.
This is the part where a fake cough would've fit nicely. But we just kept walking, more or less. With my face and neck burning. Not looking at each—
"Hey! Hey, you! Are you the model for Rope Girl?"
We both turned. There was a kid about our age. A kid that probably could've only projected more nerd by having cosplayed—come dressed up as a comic book character that is.
And yes. I do realize what kind of case that builds for me that I know what that is.
"Uh ..." Sam started, looking genuinely caught off guard. With a practically lost expression on her face as she looked back at me.
It would've been a gratifying thought any other time that I or something I did could ever do that to her.
"No, she isn't," I replied shortly, "Beat it, pal."
"Really?" the boy said in a voice that hadn't changed a degree from the breathless tone he'd started with. "I could've sworn that you were her, you look just like her! I could've sworn. Darn. Heh heh, could've sworn. Get it?" And then he let out a laugh that could not be described with words.
"Yes, that's so great," I said as I took a hold of Sam's elbow and attempted to steer her away.
"Exactly!" the boy exclaimed, like he thought that I was on his side. "You look just like her! Would you mind if you came over to the Rope Girl table and took a picture with me, I have a first edition—"
"Yes, we do mind," I snapped, seeing my progress with moving Sam in another direction remaining negligible.
"Well actually—" Sam began in a voice that I normally wouldn't associate with Sam.
"We were just leaving—" I tried.
"Actually, dear," Sam intoned as she drug me to a halt, much to nerd-boy's marginally hidden delight, "I think this sounds like a lot of fun. Would you excuse me for a minute?"
I shot a venomous glare at the other kid, who was just entirely too close in all senses of the word irritating for me to completely take in stride. I pulled Sam around for a moment and whispered at her.
"What are you talking about?"
"Listen," Sam began, sounding almost ... reasonable. Like she wanted to convince me that— "This is great! The absolute worst thing that a girl can do on a date is pay attention to another guy and—"
But she was definitely not looking at me. As she rambled on with all her reasonableness, she kept her eyes intent on a spot on the floor between us.
"What?" I demanded, not really feeling up to reasonable reasons and/or reasoning. "Forget it, we're not—"
"Hey," she intoned, "This is a great way to get 'Princess' to—"
"Don't use those stupid codenames!"
"They're your stupid codenames—"
"You're not going to—"
But Sam was already turning away and smiling sweetly. "Which way is it to the Rope Girl table ..." she paused for his name.
"It's Albert," the boy quickly supplied.
"I would've never guessed," Sam said in a giddy sounding sarcastic. As she sauntered away with Albert she looked over her shoulder and sent me a smirk. But her smirk sort of lost its satisfaction at my look, or maybe just looking at me, and she pulled it away quickly.
Trying to navigate my way back to my mom proved to be exceptionally difficult while simultaneously trying to watch Sam and her new friend.
It was ... really not fun. Kind of anger inducing actually. To watch Albert the Nerd all over her, if only in giddiness as he took her picture at the table and continued talking about who knew what. Maybe the fact that Sam had attractive qualities, or that she was just plain attractive, or that she was ... standing over there with a complete—
"Who's Sam talking with, dear?" my mom's voice was abruptly at my side, startling me out of vaguely murderous thoughts.
"I don't know," I replied sarcastically. Geez, I even sounded violent.
"Well, she seems to be ..." my mom hesitantly went on about whatever her interpretation of the situation was. Not that it mattered, but ... oh. Yeah. I guess it kinda did.
But I was distracted enough not to catch the specifics. Because the occasional but fairly consistent glances that Sam was sending me were extraordinarily distracting.
And not only because they were so—sober.
--
It was Thursday. Evening.
Sometimes brilliant was scary. Most of the time Sam's brilliant was terrifying. Right now it was a lot of both.
"Freddie!" my mom gasped as she pulled me close, "Just don't touch anything! Anything! If you have to go to the bathroom, call me right—"
"Mom!" I protested, trying to pull away from her. But standing outside of the pool hall that we were, I could see at least a bit of where she was coming from.
"Ah, don't worry, Mrs. B," Sam said in her overly confident girlfriend tone, "We'll be fine."
The door to the pool hall briefly opened as someone exited, and a sheet of hazy air followed.
"But the atmosphere—" my mom tried.
I wasn't quite sure just which definition of atmosphere she was referring to.
"Well, bye!" Sam said as she grabbed and dragged me towards the entrance before my mom could regather her wits, come to her scattered senses, and refuse to let us go in.
My mom shouted something about time. And cockroaches.
Who knows? Maybe all these years of iCarly and Sam—well, mostly Sam, were taking a bit of my mom's edge off. Or maybe the universe just hated me.
We went through the door into where it was dark and even hazier, and it definitely smelled like it. While I was standing there awkwardly, waiting for my eyes to adjust, Sam heaved out a sigh.
"I guess that's it." From what I could make out she looked glum. "If your mom will let you come in here, there's no changing her crazy, made up mind."
"Yeah," I agreed in a somewhat subdued voice as I began to make out what we were in. There were about a dozen pool tables set up, with a handful of older guys scattered around them. And a notable number of them were staring at us—at me.
"Freddie?" she said in the low, admitting kind of voice I rarely ever heard her use, "I'm out of ideas. This was about the best one."
"Couldn't imagine that," I gave a high little laugh that would've been embarrassing when I was in elementary. I topped it off with an equally pathetic cough. "So ... since my mom's already left, I guess we can get going to go somewhere else—"
Sam grabbed a hold of my shirt and dragged me forward. "Come on."
"But Sam—do we—"
"Yes," she answered as she marched us to a pool table roughly in the middle of the premises. "Quarters?"
I jerked my head back from where I had been staring at the large, biker-type looking guy who was looking me like I was a particularly tasty looking specimen of ground chuck. "Uh ... what? Oh, yeah. Right. Quarters."
Halfway through my withdrawal of the proper amount of change and trying to lean over and put it in the extraordinarily greasy coin slot, I noticed the look that Sam was wearing.
"You're doing this on purpose," I hissed as I pushed the slot in and the balls noisily dropped down. "To get me back for taking you to the convention yesterday!"
She had a bland smirk on her face as she casually leaned against the table. "Maybe." She paused, trying to adopt an innocent tone. "And maybe I just wanted to show you where I've been hanging out a lot lately."
I glared at her, not only because she dared to indirectly reference our previous period of mild misunderstandings, but because it was better than seeing if the other patrons were still watching us. Her expression of mild enjoyment didn't change. In fact she went right on ignoring my look entirely and inclined a nod towards where the pool balls were waiting.
Oh. Right. The balls.
See, from my experience of arcade games, knowing how to insert change was easy. But after that my experience with pool as a game tapered off pretty dramatically.
Whether or not Sam knew just how dramatically, she looked to be having a great time watching me clumsily pull the balls from the slot and onto the table, where they had an irritating tendency to roll, some even back into the hole nearest me. Hey, cut me some slack. Not only was I doing this under Sam's scrutiny, which I knew was just waiting to pounce on the fact that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing (while I needed to prove to her that I did know what I was doing—even though I didn't)—I couldn't completely help from frequently glancing at all the rather sociable looking people looking at us from a few tables down.
Seriously, these were the kids of guys they cast as extras in thug movies. The kind that never grew out of playing cops and robbers. The kind that—
"Okay. There," I declared almost triumphantly as I succeeded in getting all the balls onto the table and immobile.
Sam smiled along with me, and then inclined her head again in a way that indicated I should continue.
I blew out a breath of annoyed air. Why did losing to her always have to be such a ridiculously big deal?
"Okay," I sighed, "I'll admit it. I have no idea how to play pool."
"Really?" Sam asked in an overly exaggerated way. "No way!"
"Yeah, yeah," I replied impatiently, "Can we get on with this then?"
Sam put a hand to her mouth, "But if you don't know how to play, how can we—"
"All right, all right!" I threw up my hands. "Will you teach me?"
"Teach you ...?"
"Will you teach me how to play pool, please?" I amended with a little bit of irritability. Only a little bit.
"And why would you want to learn from me ...?" Sam trailed off again.
"Because you know how?" I gritted through my teeth as she gave me a look that clearly said that wasn't going to cut it. "Because you're good at it? Because you're talented at delinquent pastimes?" I groaned. "Because you're queen of the universe?"
Sam was examining something on her hand in an unworried fashion. "Keep going."
I gaped a little at that. "Because ... you're exceptionally smart and ... uh, a good friend to be helping me with this and, um ..."
She looked up at me.
I was running out of safe adjectives. "And because you're cool … fun to be around ... exciting ..."
She raised her eyebrows.
I probably should've stopped.
"Beautiful? ..."
I'm not really accountable for what I was doing for the next several seconds, but I surmise it consisted of staring back at Sam's stare. Which was a lot of things. At least mildly surprised—as it very well should be. For crying out loud, what had I just said?
Her mouth was open a little, and her eyes were all—ugh.
God. This is Freddie. Just checking in. And requesting a heart attack.
Sam dropped her eyes to the pool table, her fingers slowly moving over it.
I'm not picky though. I'd settle for a stroke. Just anything quick. Pain is not an issue.
But then Sam was looking away completely as she quickly moved away.
Oh, God—she's leaving.
So it was something akin to joy—boundless relief when I realized that she was only going to the rack with the pool sticks. As my heart fought to return to something resembling a consistent rhythm, I began to suspect that I had almost granted my own request.
Sam returned with two pool sticks in hand, still resolutely not looking at me. All business. Shoving one into my hands as she passed by, she briskly pulled out a plastic triangle thing from the table, herded all the pool balls into it, and then deftly arranged them.
She pulled the triangle away from the neat wedge she'd ordered and finally looked at me again as she moved to the far end of the table. Looked at me like nothing life changing had just been uttered. "Break?"
I felt a little bit of panic—as in added to what I was already feeling. And given me, it probably showed. A lot.
"I'll break," she answered herself as she leaned over and positioned the white ball in front of the other balls. And then she concentrated for a moment with the stick in front of it before hitting it with a crack into all the others, and then they were moving all over the place— "Now the object of the game is to get all of your balls into the holes before the other person does."
I opened my mouth, but decided to pass on the sarcastic comment that had sprung to mind. I felt like staying low for a while conversationally speaking.
For reasons that were even more obvious than the objective of pool.
The balls began to slow down, and one fell into one of the corner holes.
"That means I'm stripes," Sam said as she walked around to a clump of balls, concentrated with another shot, and slammed another ball into a hole. She moved around and then repeated the process with another—
"Hey," I broke my laying low thing to break in a little hastily, "Aren't you going to ... take it easy on me or anything?"
Sam didn't look up from where she was arranging another shot, "Nah."
A moment passed and she looked up at me again, and then sighed. She gave a token nudge of the white ball as she straightened up. "Oh, look. Darn, I missed. You're up."
"Oh," I said as I made to move, though I didn't know exactly where to. "You said you were ... stripes ..."
"Yeah," Sam answered and pointed to one of the balls, "That means you're solids. One of these."
"So that means I have to put those kind ... into the holes ..."
Sam laughed at that. And I—watched it.
I grimaced as I broke out of observing that … distracting event and marched over to where the white ball was relatively lined up with the ball that she had pointed out. Taking a breath, I leaned over and tried to mimic what I'd seen her and all those gangsters in the movies do—
"Whoa," Sam said as she grabbed my shoulder and repositioned my vector, "Better not go for that one, killer. Unless you want to put three of mine in. See that brown one in the corner?"
"Yeah," I said a little thickly, my manly pride being snapped back to attention at the way she was pulling me around, stupid confessions of beauty or not.
"There's the one you should go for," Sam said, "She may not be the prettiest of the bunch, but she's all alone in the corner there—with virtually no other balls around—and no chance that anything else is going to get in the way—So even a dork like you has a chance."
I looked up at her calmly, even though my head wasn't exactly in anything resembling a calm state at that particular moment. I was kinda terrified that she might be trying to talk about herself. But the way her expression balked a little at that confirmed she wasn't—it was just a really poor choice of metaphors to use after ... some of the admissions of a minute ago.
"All right," I murmured as I got back down into my position with the new ball lined up, getting ready to—
"Ugh, what are you going to do? Downhill ski?" Sam asked in exasperation.
"No—"I started defensively, beginning to get annoyed despite myself.
"Here," Sam said as she took two handfuls of my shirt and forcefully rearranged my stance, pulling me up a bit and back around, and—
"I got this, I got this," I growled as I tried to push her away. I was beginning to feel like I was running out of oxygen with her so close, pulling and prodding and—well, not that there was a lot of oxygen in this place to begin with.
Sam stepped away, almost indignantly, and crossed her arms. "This I've gotta see."
Shooting her a challenging look, I went back to setting up my shot—and trying not to conform too closely to the way she'd arranged me. Taking in a deep breath, I slid the stick ... thingy over my hand like I had seen her do, only it didn't seem to be working so well, and it was actually kind of catching on my hand—
"Is this going to happen before my grandmother gets another divorce?" Sam groaned.
It was her fault. Entirely.
In something of a response to that comment I pressed against my less convinced notions and pressed the pool stick forward—into the bottom of the white ball—and on through the green material stuff that made up the table cover—
Producing an all too audible ripping sound—
My head involuntarily jerked back to Sam, and I made a sort of embarrassing noise in the back of my throat as I straightened up too quickly and then looked back over at the burly chaps that weren't fifteen feet away—
"Move," Sam muttered through clenched teeth as she pushed me to the side.
I wasn't exactly sure what she wanted me to do until I realized that she'd pushed me to stand between the rip and the other customers. I couldn't see, but I could tell she was leaning over the table behind me, probably examining it.
At the way I was standing straighter than my pool stick, not to mention how I was looking at them, it really wasn't all that surprising that a couple of the guys a few tables down stopped to look at me. I made a sort of jerky wave at them and an attempt at a smile.
"Hi."
They said something low to each other that I couldn't catch.
"Sam!" I whispered out of the corner of my mouth as I tried to keep my mostly calm and friendly expression directed towards them. "Hey!" I almost turned around when I felt her hands reaching down my pockets.
"Where's your gum?" she asked, like I was stupid for being surprised that she would put her hands down my pockets. To clarify—the pockets that were against my legs, that were—
But then she evidently found my packet of gum because she promptly withdrew her hands.
I heard her take a piece out of the wrapper. After a few more agonizing moments of standing there, somewhere within the bounds of feeling like I actually wanted to use this place's bathroom, despite all the sound advice my mom had given me, Sam finished.
"Good as new," Sam was saying as she was already moving around the table to her next shot.
I stared where I could still see the line of the tear. I mean it wasn't that bad.
"It's still there," I murmured as I gingerly reached out and touched—
"Don't!" Sam 'tapped' my hand with her pool stick. 'Tapped.' "It's fine. A little bumpy—but it's not as if it's going to throw off your game."
I looked at her as I pulled my hand back, but didn't say anything. It should've been a serious time, after all that. Should've been. Still, it was hard to keep from smiling.
--
"Oh, please, coming from the one who cuts her toenails in the living room—"
"What, does that bother you? It's not my fault if Mr. Clean is your only guy friend."
It was getting later. There were more people, and consequently more voices and music now so that we had to half shout at each other over the pool table to hear.
"Oh, that's really mature," I shot back.
"I'd really like to soak your shorts in backwash," Sam answered sarcastically.
How did this start? There had been a good reason for it, right? Or—That was it. I remember now.
Since I was getting so good at this game so fast—note the sarcasm—I was still having trouble with missing whenever I tried to hit the white ... er, cue ball. The last time I'd done it, Sam had said that I'd scratched. I'd protested. We'd eventually wound up here. Somehow.
I asked her something about why anyone would want to do ... anything like that, mostly to stall. To plan my next move. After all, these sorts of arguments weren't as simple as they might seem. There was a definite, ridiculously complex structure, a definite list of do's and don't's, and a rigid guide when to do those do's and don't's. And it was ours.
How to proceed, how to proceed ...
As tempting as it was, skipping a few lines down to matters regarding her butt wouldn't be in very good taste—not yet, anyway. I'd already covered her appetite and the disgusting habit I'd been itching to bring up for a while now, so that left either something to do with her lack of initiative in ... most anything really, or something to do with ... her ...
Decisions, decisions—
There were abruptly two meaty hands resting on my shoulders. And not even merely meaty, but beefy. I looked to the left, then the right, finding two sets of knuckles on either side of my head with the words BREK NECK written on them. 'Words.'
My heart was suddenly pounding staccatos. Very fast staccatos.
I intuited someone very large behind me, and not just from the way that Sam was suddenly looking up at something above my head. I confirmed this when I craned my head back and found a very large, very bald man staring down at me with a discernibly angry countenance.
"Is this fella giving you a hard time, little lady?" the man asked in a lovely baritone.
My throat made gaping sounds. "Oh, no, no—" I managed. In a voice that wasn't giddy at all—at least relative to the situation.
"Well, actually—" Sam said.
"Nope, no hard times being given here," I broke in, "We are completely hard time-less. We're just, uh, playing some pool and—"
"I didn't ask you," the man said in a low tone.
My mouth made a clicking sound as it shut. I looked over to where Sam was wearing a faintly amused expression.
That didn't help my chances at avoiding a heart attack much.
"Well, actually," Sam began again, "He has been."
Massive heart attack.
"Is that so?" The man looked down into my face. He was close enough that I could detect several distinct differences he had with Mr. Clean, even though he bore a striking similarity to him appearance-wise.
I gave Sam probably the most pleading look of my life.
At least my knees hadn't given out yet.
"Yeah," Sam went on casually, "He started following me on the way here and I haven't been able to get rid of him since."
--
Sam was still laughing.
I was still more or less calmly expressing my feelings on the matter.
"I can't believe you did that! Why would you do that?"
"Your face—" Sam barely managed as she clutched at her side.
"Ha ha, yes, it's just so hilarious," I went on, "Five minutes of that and then, oh yeah, by the way Freddie, this is my cousin Horatio. I wanted you to meet him."
Sam burst into fresh laughter. Because it was just oh so funny.
I looked over at her and couldn't help but break a little at that sight, even though I was still quivering more than I'd like to admit.
Sam wiped at her eyes. "It doesn't get much better than that."
"Yeah right," I answered.
"Oh, come on, he was nice to you," Sam said, and then raised her eyebrows, "Nicer than I told him he to be. He even helped show you how to play better."
"I thought that was your job."
Her face grew dramatic. "I'm not a miracle worker."
"So are you good?" I asked. "Was that enough to repay me for taking you to a nerd convention?"
She gave me a considering expression. "We'll see." But then she grew serious. "But I guess that's kind of it. It is uh, too bad that this whole thing didn't work out. I'm … sorry it didn't work out."
I nodded and looked at the ground.
And we kept talking. About stuff. Stuff that didn't pertain to dates or moms or manipulation. Sure we'd had plenty of time to talk this week—extraordinary amounts of time, actually. But there'd always been this urgency about everything, and now that it was gone—this was our first real chance to talk this week. And it was ridiculously nice. Nice even just to know that we were still friends, after all this.
Even after the slipping of selectively stupid words.
And maybe ... maybe after hammering at it so much for nearly a whole week, maybe it was ... okay if my mom didn't adore Amelia as much as I'd like. Maybe. Though it was probably more likely that I was just sick of it.
"Ugh," Sam said as she jammed her hands in her pockets a little further, "You really should've worn that jacket, then I could've stole it."
I gave her a snarky sideways glance. "Uh huh. I bet that's not the only reason you wish I'd worn it."
"Why else would I?"
"You can admit it, how you think I look … dashing in it."
Sam faked a disgusted sound.
And then she was looking at me and we were both laughing. And I was imagining just how fantastic it would be to swing her on my arm and—do something more romantic than I should dwell on.
"Do you want to come over tomorrow night?" I asked without thinking. And I really probably should've.
I'll blame it on all the fantastic that seemed to be floating around.
"What? I thought tonight was the do or die night," Sam pointed out.
"No, not on a fake date," I said, then frowned, "Or on a real date, either—Heh. I mean … I'll have the place to myself for most of the evening and I thought that you might want to—I dunno, raid our refrigerator and let me thank you—" I was really doing remarkable in phrase choices, "—I mean just ... hang out for a while?"
I think she was doing a terrific job of ignoring my phrase choices as she stared off to the side. "Carly's going to be home tomorrow by six."
"Oh. Yeah." I looked over to the side. "I understand—"
"Sure."
I looked at her. "Sure?"
"Yeah. Sure." She sorta smirked. "You know I can't turn down the chance at free food."
I smiled and looked off to the side.
Great. I'm not sure if that was entirely necessary, but—
--
—Yup. Totally unnecessary. And awkward, and—
Sam plopped down beside me, or at least relatively beside me, with her popcorn.
"I'm back."
—Great. This was great. Not the sarcastic kind of great, but the great kind of great. However, that didn't change the fact that Amelia was coming back tomorrow. As in less than twenty-four hours I was going to be meeting her at the airport—
"Why'd you need to go over to the Shay's?" I asked as I took a distracted handful of what felt like unnaturally greasy popcorn.
"All your mom had was Miracle Whip," Sam made a face, "So I thought I would borrow some Mayonnaise from Spencer."
"What for?" I asked as I looked back at the television and put the popcorn in my—
"The popcorn," Sam replied simply.
I gagged as the sentence hit just a few milliseconds before the taste. I gave Sam a horrified look as I tried to wash it down, or off, whichever came first, with my drink.
"What?" Sam said, sounding defensive, "I had a craving for Mayonnaise."
She turned back to the television.
"Ah, I missed the best part!" she said through her mouthful of popcorn. "Quick, rewind it!"
"It's a DVD," I answered glibly, "You don't rewind—"
"Yeah, yeah. Blah tech blah," Sam waved me off, "Just go back a scene. How did it go by so fast anyway? You didn't skip past it, did—"
"No, of course not!" I broke in huffily as I grudgingly skipped back a scene. Back to the scene with the B list blonde running through the junk yard with the mutant tiger-mouse chasing her with the jagged machete with—
"So you said that Carly's going to be back at six?" I asked and looked over at her.
"Uh huh," Sam murmured. She looked fairly transfixed on the screen as the blonde victim began to tire, more shots of the monster's feet came, the tension-music continued building—
"Did you mean six tonight?" I asked as I quickly looked over at the clock. "Geez, look at the time! It's already getting to be—"
"Freddie," Sam looked at me in exasperation, "Shut … up."
"What?" I asked as I tried to squirm up a little higher on the couch, "I'm just asking a question, question whether Carly's going to be back soon or—"
The monster suddenly jumped onto the screen and onto the woman, and she let out a bloodcurdling scream. Literally. Like … as in blood, and curdles of blood and—
I guess I might've let out a little yelp. A manly little yelp, that is.
"Oh, isn't that awesome!" Sam said and pointed at the screen.
I'm not sure exactly what she was referring to visual-wise, since I wasn't ... exactly looking at the screen.
But then the scene changed and Sam was looking at me. "Aww, is the scary movie too much for little Fredward?"
"No!" I tried to sound shocked at the suggestion, and not as shaky as I felt.
Stupid Sam anyway, and her stupid idea of bringing over her stupid collection of stupid horror movies. … Stupid little manly yelp.
"Good," Sam said as she leaned over towards me and the remote, "Because we're going to watch it again—"
"No!" I exclaimed as I pulled the remote away, "I mean ... no. It would ruin it if we watched it again."
"Admit it, Benson," Sam said as pushed at my shoulder, "It's not a big deal. Not all guys like scary movies."
"What are you talking about? I love scary movies." I tried to laugh, but it came out rather pathetic. I noticed that somewhere in the space of the remote grab, Sam had innocuously went from relatively sitting next to me to sitting next to me. There's a difference. A big difference. "You know me, can't get enough of them."
"Uh huh." Sam looked back at the TV and smirked. "Doesn't it make you feel sort of dirty?"
My head jerked back around to where she was—way too close to me. "What do you mean?"
She gave me a smirk. "Oh, come on. What's the highest rating this TV's ever seen? PG?"
"No," I muttered quietly, in a begrudging sort of way I suppose as I tried to scoot away, "She doesn't let us watch PGs."
"Then I'm doing you a favor." Sam looked back at the TV and nonchalantly scooted over towards me a few more inches, pretty much voiding what little progress I'd made. Or could make now that I was against the arm of the couch.
When she looked at me, it was with a smirk and general air of not-seriousness. Like she was making some joke over our proximity, like it wasn't about anything related to serious, or romantic.
She was a real nut.
I coughed into my hand and looked back at the television, but to my luck another pouncing scene was in the making. Great. I wish that was the only reason why I felt all tingly and—squirrelly, and not suave. Not that I wanted to be suave in this situation—or at least not that I thought I should want to be suave—
Ugh.
Seriously, it was like sitting next to a Tesla coil. She made it so hard to think, and so hard to think at anything below a frenetic pace. She made it easy to have an elevated heart rate and crazy ideas. Way too easy.
I turned my head to find that she was facing back towards the TV, but her eyes kept looking down and sorta off to the side. My side.
What—what—what—was I supposed to—do?
There was another victim screaming that made me jump again.
Arm around the shoulder. That was what I was supposed to do.
No. No, no, no. That wasn't what I supposed to do. That might be what I wanted to do, but there were massive amounts of difference between the two.
I sighed, wistfully remembering that I had thought at the beginning of this week that I was going to find out if Sam liked me. But what was I going to do, ask her?
Yeah. It wasn't as if Freddie Benson's plans could ever be expected to pan out. Just ask Carly. Or the rest of the universe.
Or Sam.
But this would pass, this would pass and Amelia would be back tomorrow.
I sighed.
… Where did this week go?
--
AN: I probably should be making a more frequent habit of thanking all the great and wonderful human beings who've left reviews. Thanks guys/gals, they're deeply appreciated.
I'm also sorry if this chapter was really long—it just wouldn't stop. But I guess that's the downside of actually hacking out a definite structural plan, something I probably actually should've done a while ago.
And I'm also sorry about this quote--I don't even know if it's exactly correct.