Warning: Intense Profanity Ahead. My portrayal of Griffin is much grittier than Nickelodeon's clean-cut, boy band version.
It stared her in the face as though challenging her to steal it and burn it. Sam's slumped body rocked back and forth in turbulence on the weathered green seat of the city's monorail train. Sam intently fixed her steely blue eyes at the insipid poster behind the plastic casing. There were colorful ads displayed all over the walls of the public transportation caravan; hemorrhoid ointments, burger joints, blood-donation facilities, teeth whitening pastes, realtors, pimple cream… and the only seat open on the crowded convoy had to be in front of the latest romantic movie poster coming to theatres near you. A sadistic unknown force had to be messing with her.
She hated the smile of the teenage girl shown, with her lustrous hair and unmarred skin fawning over her cute, dimpled football player. She was merrily tossing over her shoulder a Polaroid photo of a similar looking girl who had frizzier hair and glasses. By the looks of it, it was the obvious, vapid, transformative teen movie where an unattractive girl with an amiable personality would be awarded a skin-deep makeover and… oh my gosh, so unexpectedly, gains the attention of the popular boy she'd been lusting over for so many years to finally capture his heart. It was shallow in every sense of the word and the lesson of the story, typical and uninspiring. It pissed her off that girls were expected to fit such an unattainable mold to find appreciation.
Sam's fingers ached for the comforting feeling of a cold, steel spray can; her ears yearned for the soothing sound of the clacking from the hollow ball inside. Without it, she would just have to resort to other means of defacing the placard. She weighed her options carefully. Spit was always the go-to, convenient choice, smearing across the brightly lit pane expressing all of its abhorrence. Sam could make it a sticky one too. Rather than sliding off and hitting the floor, it would dry and stay there for days, even weeks, carrying her message of revulsion across time.
But communicating disgust was not enough. This poster was promoting delusional expectations, it was hazardous! She couldn't stand by and do nothing. The guilt would eat her up alive if she exited the train with such an inadequate act. No. This heinous, unforgivable level of offense required fire and lots of it. She pulled a lighter out of her back pocket and flicked it open, circling her pinkie finger in the flame while she rationalized her behavior. After all, this was a government owned facility. That meant that it belonged to the people, the citizens of the state right? She was a citizen of the state! Yes, it made perfect sense to Sam. Part of this train belonged to her, albeit a very small part, but nonetheless! As a property owner, she had rights too.
Sam's eyes darted around the car. Lot of witnesses... She began to have doubts. She cursed under her breath as fate dealt her another blow. There was an off-hours officer reading a newspaper, sitting at the other end of the car. She wished she had packed a powdered doughnut to throw down the aisle and distract him with.
"Seventy-seventh street!" a voice blared over the loudspeakers. Urgh, this was her stop. No way… It's too late. Getting that poster out of the frame would mean flexing her muscles, which would mean revealing her very abnormal strength to a brunch of strangers, which was about as appealing as eating boiled cabbage for breakfast. On the other hand… she always did like a challenge.
The train lurched to a halt.
She could do this. It was now or never. She tucked her lighter into the wrist of her sleeve.
The doors hissed open.
Before her thoughts were even fully formed, she sprang from her seat and grabbed one of the metro poles, swinging herself around and using her momentum to deliver a lightning-fast snap kick. Her leg lashed upward in a blur. The people at the door gasped. The tip of her sneaker struck the plastic with such precision that the entire plate instantly shattered.
In her mind, she was performing a public service by destroying this false advertising. Well… maybe not. Maybe she was just having a bad day. But it was too late to second-guess herself. She swiped the crumpled poster from its frame, tearing it in half in the process.
"Hey!" a gruff male voice barked, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Yup, just as expected, the pudgy cop with coffee stains on his blue uniform ran towards her. But he posed no problem. He looked like a big round bowling ball knocking down pins left and right as he tried to navigate through the crowd of passengers. She however, a freaking ninja, was already using the remaining force of her movement to propel her out the door.
"Freeze!" the cop cried. His face reddened. "You there! Don't move-"
The doors slid shut, silencing him.
He was still yelling and gesturing frantically but Sam knew there was nothing he could do. The train was pulling away from the station. The piercing shriek of the wheels drowned out any other noise. Watching him was like watching a movie with the sound turned off. With a miserable half-smile, Sam waved at him while standing at the platform. She figured she'd be polite for once in her life.
Within seconds, he was gone.
She looked around the metro station. Several onlookers were glaring at her. Time to haul ass out of here before one of them calls another cop… She whipped out her lighter and did the deed, feeling the tiniest twinge of satisfaction as she tossed the burning, black, curling paper onto the concrete floor. She hurtled through the turnstiles and dashed upstairs into the cold Seattle night. What was left in her dust was a flaming poster of the latest cinematic romance feature turning to ashes.
"Yo Puckett!" Griffin's voice sounded from underneath the rusty automobile he was working on as she dragged her feet through his garage, "What's the latest?"
"Do you want to have sex with me?" Sam gloomily invited.
The metallic clang of a pipe rang out accompanied by the sharp, wounded call of a mechanic in pain. "OUCH! Damn. What did you say?"
"Do. You. Want. To. Have. Sex. With. Me." She looked at him sullenly, her eyes swimming in desolation.
"Where is this coming from?" Griffin asked, sliding out from underneath the car and wiping his grease-stained hands on a tattered rag. His left eye had a ring of oil surrounding it and Sam briefly wondered if his mother was a raccoon. His eagerness floundered as he caught sight of her. His ex-girlfriend wasn't carrying herself the way she usually did, proud and full of life. She looked unusually pale and fragile tonight, as though she would fall over and shatter like glass at the instance of wind.
"Offer expires in five… four…" Her slender fingers ticked off a running countdown.
"Now hold on a second," the tall brunette stepped closer to Sam, looming over her like a stony gargoyle. He placed his hand on her chin and tilted it up towards him, searching her eyes for clues.
"Three." She disinterestedly continued.
"Sam, tell me what's going o-"
"Two."
"HEY. KNOCK IT OFF SAM." Griffin's voice escalated in anger, his neck muscles bulging and contracting as he shouted at her. "YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BULLY ME INTO FUCKING YOU." He sucked in a deep breath as he endeavored to rein in his anger. "This is the reason I don't know how to be around you for more than two hours at a time! When you're on the rag and you pull some crazy stunt like this without letting me in on the know!"
She shrugged her shoulders aimlessly. "I'm just doing you a favor, Griff. I know you want to. You've always wanted to. Well, the carnival's open. One night only. And you've been selected to win a single rider ticket." Her voice was lifeless as she hopped up and parked herself down on his workbench. Her eyes scanned the dirty warehouse. "It's not so bad. Not exactly Paris in the springtime, but I could do worst."
"Goddamn it, Puckett." The engine jockey picked up a spare wrench, throwing it at the wall in frustration. "You're a walking brain aneurysm! I know your M.O. has always been to be a callous bitch, but do you really have to talk about it that way? Try a little tenderness for once, huh?"
"WHY? What's the point? I'm not soft and I'm not sweet and trying to be is harder than calculus and I can barely count past my fingers and toes! I'm not a Carly Shay! I'm never going to be on the same level as Carly Shay. She's just… She's always going to be better than me. " Sam admitted in resignation.
"Hey. I might be nothin' more than a greased up knucklehead, but I know you Sam. I know you cause you're just like me and you're hurting really bad right now. I wish I could tear my eyeballs from their sockets and hand 'em over to you 'cause you've always been the baddest, hottest, most capricious girl I've ever met in my life. And you're absolutely right. I've always wanted you. But not like this… Never like this." Griffin picked up a pack of cigarettes, shaking one out and placing the tip in between his lips. He needed to calm his nerves. "If I was just a little bit more of a jackass, I would've jumped at it though." His hands dug into his pockets looking for a match.
Before he found it, a source of tinder was held out for him. Sam offered her lighter in kindness. He leaned carefully into the fire, making sure the oil on his hands stayed far away from it. It caught his cigarette and he sucked in, sighing in relief as the stress ebbed from him. "You okay?"
"Yeah... yeah, I'm much better. " Sam nodded, surprised herself to find that she wasn't lying
"We don't have to do it tonight if you ain't feelin' up to it," he said brutishly, taking in another puff.
"No, I want to," Sam responded. "I've almost got enough, just one more and I can stop."
Griffin smiled at her, "That's my girl. Chin up soldier." He walked to a clothing dryer that was chugging away at the corner of the garage and opened up the lateral door. Pulling out a black long sleeved shirt, black yoga pants and a black ski-mask, he threw it over to Sam who caught it with deft hands. "Warm, just how you like it babe."
"You are not color-blind!" Carly put her hands on her hips. Freddie and Carly were still sitting in their beanbag chairs in the filming studio and they decided to play a game. The fair-minded girl was sure that her tech producer was cheating though and she was planning on calling him out for it.
Freddie frowned while crossing his arms, "I think I would be the one to know."
Carly stared at him. Her hands slipped from her waist, flopping at her sides. "Seriously? You're color-blind?"
"Yeah… why do you think my mom picks out my clothes for me? I can see most colors, I just can't tell my reds from my greens. She's so overbearing because she feels responsible for it. Even though she sees perfectly, her family's side is the carrier of the flawed gene. I mean, girls are really lucky that way. Colorblindness is determined by the X gene and so if a girl has one faulty gene then she has a second X to make up for it. But because guys have X and Y, when they found out my X gene had the colorblind allele on it, I was out of luck. It's not a big deal. A lot of the Benson men had it."
"It's just that you've never told me," she confronted him.
"Yeah, well you don't need to worry. You can't catch it." Freddie smirked, "And that's why we're doing this now. I tell you something I've never told anyone else before and you do the same, right?"
Carly stayed silent as she ogled Freddie's eyes, studying them, not sure what she was looking for. Freddie's eyes didn't look color-blind. They looked… well… like regular, everyday eyes. Could he really not be able to tell red from green? "Please, by all means Carly, keep staring at me like that. It does wonders for my self esteem."
"So you were born that way… did you ever wish you weren't?"
Freddie nodded. "Well sure. There was a pretty ugly incident involving hot sauce a few years back." He grimaced at the memory. "But most of those taste buds grew back. Eventually." He scratched the back of his neck. "I've pretty much given up on spicy. It's just not for me. I like.. Um… I've decisively chosen to stick with sweeter substances." Freddie grinned at her as though he was trying to tell her something.
Carly opened her mouth to respond but as soon as she did, she was interrupted by Spencer barging in while clutching his cell phone. "I NEED A HUG FROM MY LITTLE SISTER." He exclaimed distressingly and lifted her up off the floor, clamping her arms to her side so she couldn't hug him back. Her feet dangled in the air helplessly.
"What's the matter Spencer?" She asked cautiously. If her older brother was caught up in some wacky scheme or adventure again, she wanted no part of it.
"The guy from the art gallery just called me. He's been trying to get a hold of me for two days! His art gallery was broken into! All the money he had in his safe disappeared and my Peanut Putter sculpture was taken apart and stolen! I worked on that thing for like three weeks…" Spencer frowned like a boy who had lost his puppy. "I'm so sad."
"Peanut putter?" Carly repeated, a little confused. Peanut… putter… why did it seem so familiar? "Wait, what specifically did they take?"
"My four-iron golf club! It was the special one that Sasha Striker gave to me for my birthday. She had it engraved and everything." As soon as he said, 'golf club,' Carly's mind flooded with the memories of the night before. Oh no. Sam's smile. A tin ball shooting off the building. A jet plane. A nearly unnoticeable stickiness on a lower section of the handle…
"Stay here!" Carly cried out as she ran to the elevator. Two minutes later, when she returned, she held something silvery and very familiar in her hands.
"What's that? You went out and bought me another four-iron?" Spencer asked. Carly shook her head briskly, she held the golf club out in front of him and rotated it. On the side of the rod, as the light hit it, an inscription shone through, reading, 'For Spencer, try to beat my record in this punk! From S.S.'
"Where'd you get it?" Spencer prompted dazedly.
"Sam had it…"
"Where is she now?" Freddie demanded of Carly's lanky, older brother.
"I don't know. I thought she was with you guys. We came back a while ago from the Groovy Smoothie." Spencer informed them plaintively.
All three brunettes stared at each other, a heavy silence settling like a blanket on top of them. Without a word, Carly grabbed her jacket from the coat rack and began marching towards the stairs. "Hey, where are you going?" Spencer asked worriedly.
"I'm going to find Sam." Carly declared, not looking back. Please be safe Puckett.
Author's Note: Phew. That foreshadowing I planted in Chapter 2 finally paid off. That only took... a month and a a half. Mostly, I'd like to know what you all think of Griffin. Thank you to sockie and skandarfan for being new reviewers. A new chapter = 2 to 6 hours of work. A new review = Priceless. ^_^
Addition: Because some were concerned, I need to clarify why my story which was previously labelled Sam/Freddie has been switched to Carly/Freddie. It's current status is in no way reliable in conveying to you what the final couple will be. It will switch back and forth and is only the status quo of the last written romantic chapter. This story is a love triangle and in being so, it WILL inflict pain. Conflict is the lifeblood of resolution. I don't believe in instant gratification. If you're choosing to abandon my story because it does not serve your pairing and you can't handle the suspense, then obviously my writing was never meant for you. Good luck. :)