i'M Sick Chapter 15, an icarly fanfic

Sigh. "When I grow up, I wonder what kind of girl would want to marry me."

--Freddie Benson

i'M Sick of Being Scared

Nothing seemed to be going right.

It seemed even worse now than it had when Sam and I'd been fighting. And it wasn't just because my little scheme to make my mom take to Amelia hadn't worked. It was—everything.

I had missed Amelia. There was no getting around that. I liked Amelia. Ditto.

Everything was messed up, but really only because of one, singular fact.

When I saw Amelia again for the first time in over a week, the best I could muster was—I don't even know what it was. But it certainly wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

As terrible as it was, I regretted that the week was over, mission accomplished or not. As downright sleazy as it was, I probably would've traded a lot of things to make this week last forever.

It was hard to even admit it in my head, but I wanted to be with Sam more than I did Amelia. That was the truth.

And I'm pretty sure it haunted everything. Starting with the way I put my shoes on in the morning, thinking, usually hoping that maybe by some accident, some miracle I would get to see more of Sam than I did the day before.

I remember when I used to do this with Carly, but this was worlds different. This was something I couldn't stop.

From the way I put on my shoes to the way I kissed Amelia. And I wasn't stupid enough to try to believe that Amelia was. She knew something wasn't right.

I needed Amelia. I was only just beginning to see even just a fraction of that. She made everything better, kept everything in perspective. What mattered and what didn't. Looking back now, I couldn't say when or from where, but things were better between my mom and me than they had been in a long time. And things just in general were better. But Amelia was honest. And it was with an honest perspective that I was finally coming to the notion, the horrible notion that this Sam thing wasn't going to go away. I wasn't sure if I had ever totally wanted it to, but that was sort of irrelevant.

What was relevant was that I was terrified.

It was the kind of fear that you could put away, shelve, even forget about for a while. Like reading about the class presentations in the syllabus at the beginning of the semester that you would have to do months later. But it never totally went away. Not completely.

It came every time I returned to the stabilizing idea that this was okay. I was fine where I was at with Amelia, that this was right, this was okay, but ... was this all there was? Was this as good as it got? What if there was something better, someone better? If this was right, did that mean I was stuck in this for the rest of my life? Because if it was right, when would it end?

It wouldn't. That was the whole point to finding something right. It would go on forever, and my life wouldn't have ... someone like Sam.

All right, maybe I was scared of this never ending. Maybe. It was only natural. Maybe it would be a good thing for me and Amelia to see other people for a while, to get rid of this, to satisfy this fear.

But I had to—repeat, had to get over this notion of Sam, or even of anyone Sam-like or possessing Sam-like qualities, in any quantity. It might be something fun to think about, even fantasize about for unhealthily long periods, but people like me just couldn't ... they just couldn't.

Brown eyes. Looking at me. Dark brown.

"What do you want me to say?" Amelia asked.

It was a simple question in answer to a simple question I'd asked. It was simple enough I don't even remember what it was.

But she wasn't trying to answer—or ask a simple question.

I stared back at her, where she'd pulled her head from my shoulder. We'd been laying together on her bed, doing some of her makeup work. It had been fairly sweet up until this point. Routine. But sweet.

"I don't know."

"Hey, Freddo!" Spencer greeted as I stepped into the Shay's living room.

"Hey, Spencer," I nodded. I spied a large bowl on the coffee table. "Ooh, are those cashews?"

"They are indeed," Spencer said with a satisfied smile, "Along with every other nut known to man and/or mankind."

"What they for?" I asked as I took a handful.

Spencer looked down at them with a wistful look. "Well, I got this job to make a sculpture for a psychiatrist's office and was thinking of using these. I was going to call it Assorted Nuts." His face fell a little. "Buuut then I realized that they probably wouldn't appreciate that sort of humor—"

"No," I shook my head as I sat down in the chair in front of the bowl, "Probably not."

"So I'm going in a different direction—" Spencer paused and gave a token grimace. "Too bad I didn't decide that before ordering twenty pounds of these."

"At least they should last you guys for a while—"I paused, "Or at least until Sam comes over."

"So," Spencer said, clapping his hands, "I suspect that you're looking for Carly."

"You suspect correctly," I said with a smile, trying to fight the odd notion that Spencer didn't want me here. He just didn't seem as ... loose as usual.

"She probably told you that she was going to be home a little bit early today," Spencer continued, "But she called a bit ago, said something about finishing up her lab, so it'll be a little while yet. Probably about an hour."

"Oh," I said, "Okay. I guess I'll come back then. I suppose an hour of Color Me Crocheting with my mom won't kill me."

Spencer looked off to the side with a distant smile. "Yeah."

I took a token handful of nuts as I made to stand up, "Well, I guess I'll see you later."

The phone rang from the kitchen.

"Yeah," Spencer replied as he turned to go answer it, "See ya in a bit, Freddie."

I made it about halfway to the door before my self-control crumbled. Pivoting, I quickly retraced my steps to the bowl as Spencer picked up.

"Hi, dad."

That pricked my attention a bit, but I was far more concerned with finding another one of those soft little white nuts I'd discovered in my last handful. I half sat on the edge of the chair as I tipped the bowl around in pursuit of—

"Yeah, I got your message," Spencer's voice came from the kitchen, "... Yes, that's why I wanted to talk to you."

I briefly looked up, Spencer's tone of voice abruptly connecting with the thought that this was private, and I probably should be going.

Spencer was evidently standing behind the kitchen's dividing pillar, because I couldn't see him.

Spencer's tone didn't improve. "Yes, I realize this is costing a lot of money—"

I began to stand up.

"No!" Spencer shouted, "We are not doing this again, do you hear me!"

I sat down. Like someone had pushed me.

"That—that—" he was trying to say, "No, that's not the problem. The problem is that you made a promise—no, no, I don't care what the service says. You said that you were going to be home for Christmas. That's what you told me, and that's what you told Carly!"

He paused, and I could faintly make out the voice on the other end.

"It doesn't matter—doesn't matter how important it is, there's always something important," Spencer cut in angrily, "I am getting sick of this, having to go between you two to explain to Carly—no, don't put—don't put words in my mouth! I didn't say that I was sick of taking care of Carly—" he hesitated as the other voice came back loudly, "No, what I am sick of is trying to be you, okay? Because I can't, I can't be you—" more voice, "And I definitely can't be mom!"

The voice on the other end got even louder.

"Oh?" Spencer asked, "No, you know what? Just forget it, just forget—"

There was a clang as he slammed the phone back.

My heart was pounding and I felt not good. Terrible, actually. And stupid, and insensitive, and—I had to get out of here somehow. But that didn't seem very possible with Spencer right there.

I shakily tried to rise to my feet without the chair make any noise.

Spencer abruptly exited the kitchen, looking like he was headed for his room. Looking like he was distracted. Distracted enough that it took several steps into the living room before he noticed me and froze.

"Oh—" Spencer said as his mouthed worked in surprise, "Freddie. What are you still doing here?"

"I, uh," I started with token sounds that happened to be words, "—I didn't mean to."

Spencer looked like he was actually feeling about as well as I was. Maybe even as guilty too. "Nah ... don't worry about it. It's no big deal."

I nodded like I actually believed him. I turned to leave. For real this time.

"Ah, wait," Spencer said, "You don't have to go ... here, sit down. Have some more nuts. I have to get rid of them somehow."

The humor didn't exactly work, but what was I supposed to do now, say no? Making an excuse was plausible, but—

Spencer sat down on the couch and grabbed a handful as he stared off to the side. I slowly sat back down on the chair and tried to nonchalantly take some more nuts, as though it didn't feel like we were playing with matches in a hydrogen shed.

"You know," Spencer began, trying to make motions with his hands, "This kind of thing doesn't always happen."

"Spencer," I said slowly, "You don't have to try to explain, it's—"

"No," Spencer rubbed his hand through his hair, "No, it's not all right. It's not always like that. It really isn't. In fact it's barely ever like that." He sank back into the couch with his hands on his knees. "And I know what's going to happen. It's the same every time. He says something to us, then says he won't be able to do it. I say something—usually a little more calmly, and then wait a few weeks until he gets guilty enough to change his mind. I know. I know that, which makes it weird—that I do the same thing. Every time. And sometimes I even—" more arm waving, "Overreact."

I nod, because I really don't believe there's much else for me to do.

"But—" Spencer says, with that expression on his face that I tend to associate with his more artistic side, "It doesn't fix things, you know? But I—have to. To try at least. To—let it out, you know?" He looked over me with a trying-to-be-humorous again expression, "Just blow up. Let it all out, kinda like this zit I had on my back this morning—"

"Okay!" I threw out my hand. "I get it. Let it all out. Right."

"All of it," he laughed a little, "So what about you? I'm sure you feel that way sometimes in all your post-tweeness." He made a sad face. "Don't make me feel guilty and say you don't."

"Yeah, I guess," I admitted, in a neutral, not really admitting anything kind of way. Then I thought for a moment. "But ... it's not the same, you know?"

Spencer gave me a questioning look.

"I don't ..." I paused, trying to grasp an idea that seemed so obvious in my mind, yet so horribly uncooperative in specifics, "Say stuff. I mean ... I get angry and shout and ... make myself feel guilty, but I don't really ... say what I want to say." I laughed a little. Then looked up at Spencer. I hadn't really intended on sharing anything real or sensitive or ... anything really. But this was Spencer, and it was ... okay. Maybe even kinda nice. "Which is weird, because I say stuff that I would never want to say any other time—stuff I don't even want to say while I'm saying it. But I can't—I'm afraid to say the ... real stuff." I looked back at him, realizing just how much I was actually looking everywhere else. "I envy you. I wish I could say something like that. Even if I knew that it would all turn out in the end ... only ... I don't. I don't know that it will turn out the end, and I ... don't feel like it will."

I just kept talking. I really had meant to stop after admitting to not saying stuff.

"Like what?" Spencer asked softly.

"Like what what?" I asked, trying to remember what exactly I'd just said.

"Like what are you afraid to say?"

I frowned, though not really seriously. I just really didn't want to go here. True, I'd already gone here, way too far here, but the prospect of naming specifics was on the table now.

"Aren't you suppose to ask why I'm afraid to say it?" I say instead.

He laughed genuinely a bit at that. "Everybody knows why. I mean, because everyone has something they're that way about."

"But that's okay ... right?" I ask, surprised at how earnest I sounded. "Because if everyone has it, and there are some people who are okay ... who are good, then that doesn't mean ..." I trailed off, absolutely not clear where I had been going with this.

Spencer sorta shrugged. "I don't ... know." He leaned forward towards me a bit, and put his hands together. "But I do know ... that honesty is always the best policy." He looked up and his eyes grew distant for a moment. "Even if that means admitting to peeking in the girls' dressing room for the fourth grade Autumn Play will get you humiliated in front of Mrs. Crumtree and the entire school ... and make Wendy Peppermen hate you for the rest of your life ... and—"

"Spencer," I broke in, more for his sake than mine. Though both sakes were certainly significant factors.

"Anyway," Spencer jerked and then cleared his throat. He looked up at me again and pursed his lips, "My point is that if you don't say what you want to say ... right or wrong, you'll regret it."

I found myself looking down at my hands.

"And it's better not to live with regrets," Spencer said, and then paused. He suddenly clapped his hands on his knees. "Which is why I'm going to go for it and put some peanut butter on some marshmallows!" He shot up and headed for the kitchen. "Because I would regret not going with this idea," he looked back, going back to half-serious for a moment, "Right?"

"Yeah," I answered as I stood, knowing I agreed, but not quite knowing how I felt about that.

"You with me?" he shouted back as he pulled out the peanut butter.

"Nah, I think I'll pass," I said. My face involuntarily scrunched as Spencer spread a glob of peanut butter over a marshmallow.

The door opened.

"Pass on what?" Sam asked as she walked in and tossed her backpack on the couch.

Whoa. Sam here. Now. That was kind of unsettling, given the nature of the previous conversation. Good thing she was looking at Spencer and not me, because I have no idea what my expression looked like.

"Peanut butter marshmallows!" Spencer shouted, holding them up for her to see.

"Eh," Sam muttered, sporting a scrunched face as well, "That combination gives me—" she glanced over at me out of the corner of her eye, "... Digestion difficulties."

"Nah uh," Spencer said in a pouty voice, "There's no way you've ever had this before, because I just thought of—Oh my God!"

"What?" Sam and I both jumped.

Spencer ran into the living room, clutching his treat—which seemed kind of unnecessary because it looked like it was voluntarily sticking to his hand—excitedly, "So, what did you guys think—how did it—was it—"

"Whoa, whoa," Sam said as she made deceleration motions, "Slow down there, partner. Have a butter mallow ... what are you talking about?"

"The Dream Drizzlers," Spencer said, then paused, looking hurt at our expressions, "Remember? ... The things I handed out to you guys at the party, remember? The things that are supposed to—"

"Give someone good dreams," I finished, smiling and pointing at him, "Yeah, I remember."

"So did you try them?" Spencer said in a voice so hopeful it nearly verged on pathetic.

"No," I shook my head.

"Nope," Sam added. Her expression went indignant at Spencer's visually expressed shock. "What? I gave them to the cat—"

I looked at her. Also with visually expressed shock.

"What?" she repeated. "She wouldn't shut up." She raised her eyebrows. "They did the trick—put her out until Tuesday ... can't tell you what kind of dreams she had though."

"Aw! You guys—" Spencer started in dismay.

"Wait—wait, I do think I might've had one," Sam exclaimed as she looked off into the distance, "I think I accidentally took one because they looked like those weird little kid aspirins my mom buys—"

"So did they work?" Spencer broke in breathlessly, "Did you have good dreams? How did you sleep?"

"How am I supposed to know?" Sam asked, sounding annoyed, "I was asleep."

"You guys," Spencer moaned, "How I am supposed to know if they work if—Freddie. My man. My main dude. Will you—" he completely broke down, "Pleaaaassse try them—just one? Just one tinsy, binsy—"

"Yeah, yeah, sure," I said, trying to calm him, "I will, will. What are friends ... for?"

Sam looked at me in a way that clearly said not for testing questionable ingestibles.

"I'm holding you to that," Spencer managed.

There was a long pause.

"Yes. Let's do that," Sam looked at me.

"I ... didn't say anything," I said slowly, more than a little confused.

"Well let's pretend you had," Sam said as she grabbed my arm and dragged me up towards the studio, "Come on, let's go see what Carly's doing."

"Carly's not—" I said as she left me at the first landing and pounded up the stairs, but she didn't hear me.

I stood there for a minute, and then glanced back towards the kitchen where Spencer was already mostly recovered and humming as he rolled his marshmallows on the fork he had planted in the peanut butter container.

I had an urge for a dramatic sigh.

Now I really wished I had named some specifics to Spencer. Like the one that had just pounded up the stairs. Just to get it out. It wasn't as if I couldn't trust him, or as if it would've been a massive mistake or anything.

In fact I could still tell him. Right now. I wasn't going to, but I could.

I smiled at that as I followed quite a bit more slowly after where Sam had disappeared, thinking just how true it was that all the good advice in the world alone couldn't help anyone.

Because it was—

—Sam's feet absently kicking above her as we waited for Carly to get home. Kicking in an absent, preposterously adorable way—

Stupid adorable feet kicking—actions.

—a different type of adorable. Spending hours herding Amelia's brothers through the neighborhood Trick-Or-Treating, and trying to sneak a kiss whenever they weren't around or looking—so like once ... maybe twice that night.

Sweet, pretty Amelia.

It was our Lit. teacher painstakingly outlining how this question was an "essay" question that required an "essay" answer—no yes or no responses. Then she noticed Sam slumbering beside me.

When she demanded Sam's answer, and then threw an eraser at her, Sam jerked up.

"Yes!"

Laughter.

Because it was funny ... and sadly adorable as well.

Stupid sadly adorable funny ... ness.

—walking Amelia home. With the wind making her walk behind me. Pressing her head into my back as I made at pretending to walk slow.

It was Sam in her blue hat thing when December dipped below freezing for a few days.

It was Amelia mouthing the words to her sappy love songs as we did homework, thinking I didn't notice.

It was me not realizing Sam had changed my ring tone to "I'm a Barbie Girl" until it went off in the cafeteria. And the way she had laughed. And smiled.

Stupid expressions of happiness.

It was Sam justifying budging in line because it was tacos for lunch today.

It was—wait. Sam budging in a lot of things, like back and forth thought monologues. Like this one.

It was Sam and her antics and her humor and her ... spontaneity and—

It was Sam at the worst of her pushy aggressiveness ... that had absolutely no call to be exciting or—

It was Sam.

Sam.

It was—

Me walking towards Sam at her locker. There were other people around, but they were blurs, faces I knew but couldn't see.

I stopped in front of her, expecting her to say something. She didn't. She just kept staring back at me, a slight smile on her face as though I was some mildly amusing television show she was watching.

Time unmeasurable and even more time after that passed. I just stood there staring at her staring back at me, slightly rocking on feet I didn't have but assumed were there.

I couldn't take it anymore.

Say something!

"Carly ..." Sam began, "... Will never love you."

I felt everything kind of collapse as something strong rose up inside of me.

"Amelia will never love you," she continued like she was reciting what she had for breakfast.

I was closing the distance between us. It didn't seem right because it was taking a long time, but that didn't matter.

I was angry and I was going to hit her. Hit her hard. I didn't care how wrong it was to hit a girl. She was going too far—

"I will never love you—" she continued on as if ticking off a list of names.

—Absolutely too far to do this to me and I was going to hit her. I rushed the remaining distance, furiously propelling myself to hit her and—

I rammed my lips into hers. Weird how the impact didn't send us both into the lockers behind us, but all I could really care about was how it felt. It was like something special and good, and it was familiar. I had done it before.

Special and warm.

For whatever reason I pulled away from her, trying to see her vague face. But she wasn't looking at me. Her eyes were unfocused and staring off somewhere above my shoulder.

"You don't love Carly."

"No," I murmured, shaking my head and wishing that I would move away from her.

But I wasn't going anywhere.

"You don't love Amelia."

"Stop," I managed, louder this time, needing her to stop. Because she couldn't go—

"You love—"

"No!" I screamed and found myself clutching at my covers, sweaty and panting and in the middle of a disaster site that had been my perfectly orderly and mundane bed when I had gotten into it—I jerked my head towards my clock—only two hours ago.

Vaguely I recalled I had decided that it wouldn't be all that big of a deal if I did try one of Spencer's Dream Drizzlers. That was somewhere in the league intelligence-wise of asking Spencer to wire a chicken coop stuffed with dry straw. Oh yeah, and scented with gasoline.

There seemed to be more than a few things wrong with falling asleep in a swamp of sweat, so I quickly vacated the premises, waiting for my mom to pop in at any moment. But she evidently hadn't heard me, so I proceeded without mishap to the shower.

I'd just taken a shower not all that long ago—two hours ago, actually—but I was in desperate need of one.

But no matter how hard I tried, no matter how long I sat under the burning the memories didn't go away. The things associated with kissing Sam probably hadn't been this vivid since I'd actually done it. And the words I'd just dreamed had never actually happened, but they kept replaying in my head over and over.

I washed myself twice over just for kicks and distraction, but I was obviously too distracted to distract myself. I ended up washing my hair three times, my arms four, my back once, and the rest was anybody's best guess.

And the harder I tried to think about anything—hobos, unicorns, really, anything—the more I began to not want it to go anyway. Any of it. But it did and was, slowly and from the edges first, but the rest began to fray. Until a few hours later and it was becoming hard to replay the feeling of her lips.

Beaten to death didn't even begin to describe it. If it had been a horse it would've been glue by now.

"I don't want this—I don't want this—Oh God, I don't want this."

"—We don't honor—" the man with the sideburns—the ones he'd probably been born with—repeated.

The Saturday morning sun was beating in through the We Sell Cells store windows. Like actually beating, and then continuing on into my skull in similar form and fashion.

"—More than three replacement requests. Yeah, I got that the first time," I growled, which was actually a fairly cordial response considering I'd heard that phrase no less than six times in the last twenty minutes. I know. I was counting.

The caliph of cell phone "support and service" gave a token look at the rest of the store, maybe wishing that there were some other customers so that he could tell me to move on outright. But there weren't, and he turned his perpetually somewhere else expression back to me.

He resumed. "You can put in a request online, but—"

I tuned out the rest. I mean, this guy evidently only had four phrases of English he knew and could effectively communicate.

I leaned my head and fist onto the counter. It hurt. My head that is. Though since my fist was connected to the rest of my body, it hurt by extension as well.

Leave it to me not to go with the all inclusive warranty in the pursuit of saving a few bucks. After all, why would I need to replace my phone more than once a month? Silly me.

If I had a car, I'd make sure my coverage included fire, flood, earthquake, and Sam.

Sideburns man's script came to the reason for requesting a replacement, the one place in his interchangeable monologues that seemed to offer any hope. Though I don't know why I kept buying into the idea that it would.

"—No, she wanted to see if it would float," I clarified. Again. And lost a little more faith in Spencer's notion of pursuing honesty. Again. It had probably been a mistake to detail exactly why my cell phone was presently soggy and inoperable.

Sideburns man stared at me as he paused, presumably for thought, and I experienced another annoying bit of hope.

"... They don't." That being his conclusion of a moment later.

"Thank you!" I answered sarcastically. "We know that now." Keeping on the whole honesty thing, I was beyond irrevocably irritated by this point. Though after a night devoid of significant sleep or anything else positive, what had I been expecting? "Listen ... listen, please. All I want is a replacement ... like my plan covers—covered when I signed up. Please ... have mercy."

Another long stare. "We don't honor more than three replacement requests."

My Saturday morning hadn't improved. Finally succumbing to hunger, I'd stopped by McRonalds. Only it was around ten thirty and they were still serving breakfast.

Now I don't want to say that this led to another employee/customer confrontation, but well ... that's what essentially happened.

But seriously, I don't even need the whole bitter night of bitterness I'd just weathered, not to mention sideburns man, to excuse myself. Honestly, truly, come on, no one—no one went to McRonalds for breakfast. It was a burger joint—an establishment that was supposed to serve burgers. I didn't want some healthy morning alternative garbage, I wanted a burger. As in something greasy enough to drown my sorrows in.

Bûr'gər.

I don't want to say how this ended, but well ... wait. This is my narrative, dangit. I'm not going to say.

Though I will say the notion that all this prolonged contact with Sam over the years was rubbing off on me didn't seem all that ridiculous on the way home.

I was all over the place. Another notion, that Amelia was my stress ball, didn't seem all that ridiculous either. It was too bad she was off shopping with her mom today. Because I really could've used her.

Shallow, Freddie. That's so—

But what if it was the truth? What did that say about—

Scared—so scared when the weather forecast for the rest of my life came back the same—as in the rest of all of it—sunny, nice, wrong, right, warm, pleasant, suffocating, indefinite—

My head kept running in these circles, and everything just wouldn't stop repeating itself. Sam, I don't like Sam. Can't stop thinking about Sam, Sam. Want to stop—can't stop—won't stop—don't wanna stop—

Incoherency.

But I wanted too, really did. Because this made me feel so guilty—but if it was making me feel guilty, wasn't that the truth? And if it was the truth—

Ugh. But it didn't matter what the truth was. Because there was a lot of truth in the world, things that people wanted to do but couldn't, because it would be—

But I wanted to. I might even ... if it wasn't crazy I might—no, it was impossible.

Truth—truth—the truth was this kind of thing went on for hours.

The truth was I more or less collapsed somewhere around three.

I remember waking up and my mom supplying me with an obligatory supper, but that was a blur. A memory that didn't even seem real.

Then I was in my room. It was dark. The clock read after twelve.

I sat up. I was genuinely feeling a lot better. A lot—clearer. It was like someone just pressed the play button after leaving the fast forward on.

The arguments were still there. The same ones, really. But it was time. I had to let this out. Otherwise I was going to literally explode, go postal, or spend the rest of my life in a padded cell cutting out pink paper kittens. Or something about as appealing.

I called Carly. She picked up, already in bed. Nearly asleep/sleeping. I went over, trying to figure out just what she thought, or at least what she knew about this whole thing. But then it became necessary to try to remember when I'd last had any sort of substantial conversation with Carly. The only thing I really came up with was the last time I'd come over at this sort of hour. In similar circumstances actually, only reversed.

"Hey," Carly greeted me at the door, "Are you sleep walking?"

I frowned. "No."

"Good." She raised the rolled up newspaper in her hand and began hitting me over the head with it.

"Ow—what? Stop!" I protested as I tried to put my arms up.

"That's for waking me up after midnight!" Carly said, punctuating the sentence with one last whack. Then she rearranged her face into a slightly more pleasant pitch. "Now ... what was it that you wanted to talk about?"

I warily walked past her into the living room, still keeping my arms and shoulders up a little and my eyes on that completely unnecessary newspaper, "I'm not sure if I want to anymore. I was hoping for someone tender and understanding to talk to."

"Oh, quite being so melodramatic," Carly said as she rubbed at her eyes and moved to the couch where she plopped down, "So what's the big emergency?"

I stayed standing in the middle of the room and looked over in the direction of Spencer's room. "I don't really think we should talk about this ... down here—"

"Oh, quite being such a drama queen," Carly said with a roll of her eyes.

"Please?" I asked, looking at her with utter, serious abandon in the hopes that she would see just how serious this was.

Carly blew at the hair in her face, "Fine, but only on the condition that I can make some hot chocolate."

"Carly, no—" I began to protest.

"Relax," Carly said as she ran into the kitchen, "It'll only take a second, and you'll be able to spill the innermost recesses of your soul."

"But—"

"Go on," she waved at me, "I'll be up in a minute."

So I spent the next two minutes—two minutes—as in one more than one, pacing the iCarly studio. Not only was this crazy, but it was going to happen. It really was going to happen. It was so weird and impossible to comprehend and—going to happen in front of Carly.

Wow. Irony, I guess.

What was I going to say? I had no idea.

Okay, I knew the whole admitting this Sam ... thing was going to happen. But specifics like how, from where, or where to exactly were anybody's guess.

"Present," Carly announced as she came in with two mugs of hot chocolate, "Let the spilling begin."

I felt my lips compact at her breezy, practically off hand entrance. I waved off the mug she offered me. She frowned, seated herself in a beanbag, set the two mugs down, and then looked at me.

The room was kind of pounding all around my head as she stared back at me. With the question.

"So ..." she started hesitantly, "I'm losing precious beauty sleep because ..."

Here. It was here. I just needed to say ... something.

"I ..." felt my head moving around, "Think I have a thing for ... Sam."

Carly looked carefully confused. Like she was suspecting something horrible ... or big, or big and horrible, but didn't want to jump to it. "A ... thing? For Sam?"

I groaned. "A ... thing thing."

She crossed her arms. "Freddie ... this is the part where you start making sense ..."

I threw my arm out in the air. "I have a ... I like Sam, okay!? I can't stop thinking about her, she's driving me insane! Okay? Is that—"

"What are you talking about?" Carly softly sounded ... looked horrified. Not the kind of horrified resulting from something horrible, just horrified. Dumbstruck.

"I'm absolutely, completely going crazy!" I went on as I paced around in a rough circle, and then whirled around at Carly again. "And it's all her fault!"

"Are you serious?" Carly asked. "Are you ... serious ... you like Sam? Like ... like like?"

I groaned again and finally dropped down into the beanbag beside her. "I think so."

"This is ..." Carly tried, "This is ... does Amelia know about this?"

I looked over at her, feeling ... I felt better. It was almost like it was out of my hands now—which wasn't true at all, but it ... felt better.

"You're the only one I've told," I said quietly, then looked down at my hands.

"But ..." Carly said weakly, "Like like?"

I stared back at her as she waited for an answer ... didn't get one, picked up her hot chocolate, and then downed a large mouthful of it.

Then we were smiling.

"Oh. My. God." Carly managed.

I leaned my head back in my bean bag. "Oh, my God."

Then Carly was laughing, and it wasn't like I could help it.

"Oh, my God! This is great!" she declared.

"Really?" I asked.

"Yes!" Carly looked at me, smile not changing. "In a completely terrible way!"

My grin widened.

Then Carly was on her feet and doing the pacing. "But—we can fix this. You've just gotta tell Amelia the truth—"

My grin died.

She didn't stop. "Then we've got to ... oh, my God. What if Sam ... could she—"

"But ..." I started.

"But what?" she stopped suddenly.

"I ... it's not that simple," I said. "I mean I can't just fix the problem ... because there isn't a problem!"
"You're dating the wrong person, that's the problem," Carly went on, not looking at me, looking excited, entirely too animated.

"But there's nothing wrong—" I protested, "At least not wrong like it's got-to-be-fixed kind of wrong."

Carly stopped and looked at me. "Oh, yeah? Then why are you over here?"

I meant to say something. But I didn't.

Carly was beside me then, looking happy, serious. "Don't you get it? This is like the coolest thing ever! You've just admitted that you love Sam!"

"No! I didn't say I loved—"

"Freddie," Carly pressed on, ignoring my nitpicking of relatively unimportant details, "You come over here with a problem, saying that you like Sam. And if that's a problem, then that means that you like her more than Amelia, and that means ... that you can date her, and get married and have twenty kids—and not worry about marrying me anymore—" Carly added in a breathless rush as her face continued to light up, "Is this what's been going on with me not keeping an eye on you two? And we can all grow up and live next to each other and have ice cream on Saturdays and—" she paused at my expression, "Oh, stop it! This is great! What's the matter? What's going to stop you from going and calling up both of them and telling them the truth? Right now? What if I were to dial up—"

"No!" I jumped. "I can't! Because even if it's true that I like Sam, it doesn't matter because it just wouldn't work. It would never work, no matter however much I like her—no matter how much she screws everything up."

It was easier now, this admitting business. And getting easier.

"Why not?" Carly demanded.

"Because she's just wrong, all wrong!" I go on, this stream of stuff coming out almost faster than I can voice it, "Completely and totally wrong, and I don't want that. She's completely wrong for me and it would never work—"

"Why not?"

"Because she's not good enough for me! She's not good enough ... for ..."

Carly was looking at me.

And I was having trouble with the words that came suddenly. And so quietly. "Not good enough for ... for her."

"What?" Carly asked softly.

I stood up slowly, looking and not really seeing. I put my hand at the back of my neck as I walked.

All those whims and concepts that I was a man. That I wasn't a coward. All of them. The thoughts that had become so basic and staple to ... everything.

I stopped as I stared at the ground. "I think ... the reason why Sam's been making me so angry ... I think I'm scared of her."

Carly was on her feet. "Oh, come on—" she began angrily.

"No," I said softly. Slowly. "Not like that." I looked at her. "I think I'm scared of ... not only what she's been doing to me, but that she's not ... good enough for my mom."

AN: I'm sorry if this isn't quite as polished as it should be. I didn't go through it as many times as usual, though it seemed mostly okay. But then again that may just be my mood tonight.

And finally, finally it feels like we're getting somewhere. lol And please go easy on my best impersonation of Ordinary People's awesome revelation scene in Freddie's "Midnight Confession." I tried. And it honestly didn't start out that way.

And on a more irrelevant note, Freddie's little dream scene was the last bit I'd written back towards when I first started this. Gah, that's already coming up to be three months ago. How did this ever get that long? Reading back over it is already inducing nostalgia. Sniff.