A/N: Welcome to sixth grade! I'm not as pleased with this chapter as I am with the others, but I don't know how to improve it. It's kind of choppy, but . . . I'll let you guys decide.

"Ugh, I don't get this," Sally muttered during study hall, resting her head in one hand. "Do you get this?" she asked Sherry, who was reclining in the chair next to her.

"Hell no," Sherry replied. "You know I don't like crap like this."

"'Crap like this'?" Sally raised her eyebrows, smirking.

"You know, math, school, whatever." Sherry pulled out a lip gloss and began spreading it across her lips. "Good luck, Sal."

"Hey, you need help?" Ned asked, sitting down on Sally's other side. Sherry took one look at him, curled her lip, and left, sitting down in a chair across the room.

"Well . . . yeah," Sally said.

"No problem," Ned said with a grin. He began to explain the math problem to her, but she didn't hear a word of it. She was torn between embarrassment that she was sitting alone with Ned and repulsion at her desperate need to be popular.

And, of course, guilt that she was hurting poor Ned through all her indecision.

The thing was, when Sherry had told her to ditch Ned, she began seeing him the way everyone else did — as this little weirdo, a freak. And it was hard to laugh and have fun with him when part of her was wondering what everyone else was thinking.

Finally, she'd gone to Sherry and told her that she was embarrassed by Ned. Sherry had just looked at her coolly and said, "You know what you have to do, don't you?"

Sally hadn't gotten any sleep that night; she'd spent half of it trying to convince herself that it didn't matter what other people thought, and the other half imagining herself surrounded by tons of good friends, laughing and not worrying about anything. That fantasy would be interrupted, though, by thinking of Ned, who'd be sound asleep, not realizing that this would be their last night as friends.

With that thought she'd roll over and start the whole process again.

Now she was nearing the end of sixth grade and their friendship had all but collapsed. Only Ned's limitless courage and determination kept them together, and it was hurting both of them. Whenever Ned saw her — especially when Sherry was clinging to her, which Sally kind of liked because it made her feel popular — a flash of pain would cross his face, and guilt would wrench at her heart.

Which was why she'd never just told Ned to leave her alone; she could never stand knowing that he'd look like that all the time.

"Do you get it now?" Ned asked, looking up at her.

"Yeah. Thanks, Ned. That helped me a lot." Ned grinned at her and gently shoved her with his shoulder.

"That's what I'm here for."

"Thanks for helping Sal with her math dilemma," Sherry said, sticking her head between Ned and Sally's, "but we have to go."

Sally winced at Sherry's tone. "Sherry, no we don't, I can stay and —"

"Come on!" Sherry pulled Sally to her feet as the bell rang.

Finding Ned in the sudden rush of people, she shouted, "I'll call you later, okay?"

"Sure," he said. "Looking forward to it." She saw it again; the flash of pain, the humiliation and longing. A strained smile quickly took its place, though, and he waved with one hand before turning and disappearing into the crowd.

Sally had never hated herself more than at that moment.

Sherry steered Sally into the girl's bathroom. Once they were inside, she put her hands on her hips.

"You're going to call him later?" she demanded.

Sally shrugged. "Well, maybe."

"That's not ditching him. That's calling him."

Sally shrugged. "I can't do it, Sherry. I still like him a lot, and I don't want —"

"Hon, you can and you will. It's really the best thing for you, trust me. I mean, aren't you happier now than you were before?"

Sally shook her head, not disagreeing, just trying to clear it.

Was she happier? She thought about how she'd felt before, back in elementary school when everything had been simple and clear. That had been happy. Now . . .

Ned's face flashed in front of hers again.

Now . . . she was miserable. And it was self-inflicted misery, because she could walk away whenever she wanted, and go back to Ned, who she enjoyed hanging out with. She could leave, and she wouldn't.

Good God, she was an idiot.

"Listen, Sherry . . ." Sally hesitated. She'd never been good at standing up for anything, ever. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I'm going to go have lunch with Ned. It's just that . . . I miss him, and I think that — I mean, if I have to choose between you and him . . . I'm going to choose Ned." Sherry's eyebrows shot up, but she didn't respond. "Ah, I'm sorry." What was she supposed to say now? "Uh, bye." She turned and left before Sherry could say anything, feeling lighter than she had in a long time.

Her fingers were white on her books as she entered the cafeteria, scanning the tables eagerly. Normally she'd be nervous, standing alone in front of so many people — not that they were looking at her, but still. However, after finally standing up to Sherry, she was beginning to feel like she could do anything. So, thrilled and emboldened by her newfound audacity, she crossed the cafeteria, searching for a familiar mop of brown hair.

Ah. He was sitting at a table in the corner, next to an acne-ridden boy with glasses and a rather plump girl. The girl and boy were talking enthusiastically, and Ned watched them with a wistful smile on his face. Every so often one of them would ask him a question, and he'd answer cheerfully enough, but his smile wasn't as bright as she remembered. He didn't sit up nearly as straight, either — he looked a little like he was trying to sink into his chair, actually, and he was picking at his food listlessly. The Ned she remembered couldn't stop eating; she'd often envied that he could eat whatever and stay rail-thin. Sally realized that she had avoided really looking at her best friend for the past several months.

Another pang of guilt shot through her chest, and she swallowed hard before stepping forward.

There was an empty chair next to Ned — most of the table of empty, in fact. The girl saw Sally standing there awkwardly and nodded, gesturing at she could sit down. Ned, who was still staring at his salad, hadn't noticed. Sally set her books down next him, settling into the chair nervously.

"H-hi, Ned." Her voice was almost too soft to hear, but his head snapped up, and he whipped around to face her, still holding his fork and splattering her slightly with salad dressing. He smiled sheepishly, and brushed at her sleeve. His grin widened, revealing two gapped front teeth.

"Sally!" His smile melted as quickly as it had come, and he regarded her with wary politeness. "Do you need help with homework or something?"

"Oh! . . . No, not at all." She flushed. "I . . . I just. . . ."

"Sally?" Sally turned around to see Sherry standing over her, her hands on her hips. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"

Oh no you don't. Sally shook her head. "No. Sorry, but I'm kind of busy."

A shadow fell across Sherry's face, but she didn't lose her smile. "Come on, Sal. This is getting ridiculous."

She shrugged. "I'm sorry." She started to turn back toward Ned, but Sherry put her hand on Sally's shoulder, sitting down in the seat on her other side.

"Listen," Sherry said, keeping her voice down so Ned couldn't hear them. "What are you playing at? You want something? My earrings? Ricky?" Ricky was Sherry's current boyfriend. "Whatever you want, you can have it. Just come back to our table."

Sally shook her head. "All I want is to have lunch with my best friend," she hissed, turning back toward Ned. "Okay?"

Sherry glanced back the way she'd come nervously, then to Sally with a desperate expression on her face. Sally suddenly wondered whether Sherry depended on her to be popular. It didn't seem to make sense, but why else would Sherry be so determined to get her back with the "cool" kids? Sherry did seem to have more friends now than she did in elementary school.

"Ned," Sherry snapped, making Sally jump. "Can I talk to you . . ." her eyes roved over the cafeteria, searching for a quiet spot, "over there?" She jerked her head toward the water fountains.

"No," Sally said, surprising herself.

Sherry's eyes narrowed. "I just need to talk to him for a second."

"It's okay, Sal," Ned said, standing and giving her a weak smile. "I'll be right back." He followed Sherry over to the water fountains. After a few seconds of indecision, Sally climbed to her feet and crept after them.

"Ned," Sherry murmured, her voice soft and sugary-sweet, "we both care about Sally a lot, don't we?"

"I do," he replied guardedly.

"You see," she continued as though he hadn't spoken, "Sally has a lot of potential. She could be the most popular girl in school, if it weren't for. . . ." She let her voice trail off, and looked down at her shoes to conceal a large grin.

Ned, unable to see the smile, felt like he was going to be sick. "'If it weren't for?'" he prompted.

"Well . . ." Wiping the grin off her face, she met Ned's eyes. "You."

"What about me?"

"It's her friendship with you that's bringing her down, you know. So it would be better for her if you were to back off."

"I can't do that," he said, appalled. "She's my best friend."

Sherry sighed loudly, her patience gone. "You idiot," she snarled. "You realize that Sally's been avoiding you all year? She knows that she's better off without you. Everyone knows it. You're the only one too stupid to get it. So grow up, moron, and leave Sally alone!"

Ned just stared at her. Sally had been trying to get away from him? Was she really happier without him? Whenever he'd seen her, she'd seemed so miserable. . . . He didn't think he should trust Sherry, but some of the things she was saying made sense. He knew he wasn't well-liked, and he knew, for reasons he couldn't understand, that Sherry was. And he had hardly seen Sally that year, but he'd assumed that it was because she'd been busy.

It tore him apart, but it made perfect sense. He'd been so stupid. . . . To his humiliation, tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He ducked his head and turned, hurrying back toward his table.

Sally rushed forward from behind a garbage can, dropping all pretense of not listening. "Ned —"

He ignored her, picking up his books and shoving through the large doors that led outside.

At least he didn't run.

Sally was paralyzed with horror for a moment. She didn't like Sherry, but she had never expected her to be this . . . cruel.

Ned . . . poor Ned. He didn't deserve this, not even a little bit.

He deserved a much better friend than her.

Sally turned to Sherry, who cringed, as though expecting Sally to break her nose. Admittedly, it did sound like a pretty good idea. But Sally had neither the time nor the strength to do that.

So, with a withering glare at her ex-friend, she turned and ran after Ned.

He was not crying. Nothing in the world would ever make him admit that the moisture in his eyes was from anything other than the wind, which was blowing in his face.

Even if he was crying, it certainly wasn't because of Sally. Just because he'd realized that his only friend hadn't really liked him, and was better off with other, more popular people, and that Sherry and Sally were probably laughing about what an idiot he was right now. . . .

Why would that bother him?

Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Ned?" Sally asked softly.

Ned lurched away from her, wiping at his eyes furiously. Damn the wind!

She drew her hand away, biting her lip. "Oh, Ned. . . . I'm so sorry!" Her voice cracked on the word "sorry," and she collapsed onto the ground, her hands over her face.

Ned, still not facing her, glanced over his shoulder to see her bawling facedown on the grass, not even worried about ruining her clothes. She looked up, and he turned away, staring resolutely at the soccer field.

"N-Ned . . . I . . . I can't believe I was so . . ." It was hard to tell what she was saying between sobs. It was a few minutes before she could speak coherently, but when she'd calmed down a bit, she wiped her nose on her sleeve and sat up. "Sherry doesn't know what she's talking about," she said firmly. "I'd rather have you as my only friend than have a million other friends like that crapweasel."

Despite himself, Ned's eyebrows shot up his forehead, and he turned slightly to face her. "Then why haven't you talked to me all year?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

Sally's face paled, as though she'd hoped he wouldn't ask that question. "Because . . . I was stupid. I was a total moron, and I thought that I'd rather hang out with Sherry, but I don't." She was speaking extremely quickly, and her words tumbled over one another in their haste to be said. "She's mean, and annoying, and she's done lots of bad things, and we don't have nearly as much fun as I do with you. And the other kids aren't any better. Some of them are smart, but they're jerks, and the ones who aren't smart steal all my answers for homework, and I can't stop them because we're supposed to be friends. You're a million times better than them, Ned." Her voice dropped to a whisper, and she ducked her head. "You're a million times better than me, too. A billion. You're so nice, and funny, and smart. And I've been such a . . . a bitch."

The fact that she swore surprised and reassured him more than anything else. Ned turned all the way to face her.

Emboldened by the fact that he was facing her at last, Sally continued. "I know this is selfish for me to ask, and that you're going to say no, and I'll understand, but I miss you too much not to ask." She bit her lip, tears filling her eyes again. "Please be my friend again."

Ned took a deep breath. "I'd love to, Sal," he began, watching her tearstained face, still red and puffy from crying, light up, "but how do I know that you won't go back to those guys?"

"I'd never," she said passionately. "I'd rather eat a barrel of flies than talk to any of them again."

He desperately wanted to believe her. But. . . . "Prove it," he said.

"W-what?"

"Prove that you'd rather be friend with me than them."

For a second she looked terrified — assertiveness had never been her strong point. Suddenly, though, her face stiffened in resolve. She looked over her shoulder at the cafeteria, then rose to her feet, taking Ned's hand and dragging him indoors.

Sherry had returned to her table with all the other popular kids. After a second's hesitation, Sally strode up to them. "Sherry . . ." She unbuckled a friendship bracelet that Sherry had given her the previous year and tossed it onto the table. "Go to hell. As for the rest of you —" Her eyes traveled up and down the table at all the kids sitting there. All of them were beautiful and charming and vapid. She smirked. "Find someone else to copy your homework off of." She turned back to Ned, her smirk spreading into a wide grin. "Did I do it?" she asked him eagerly, ignoring the confused and irritated looks the popular kids were giving them.

Ned laughed, dropping her hand and linking arms with her. "Yeah," he said with a smile, "definitely." He jerked his head toward the doors that led outside, where their stuff was still lying. "You hungry?"

Sally beamed at him, and ran toward the doors. Ned caught up with her, skipping and singing loudly some song they'd made up in second grade. It was partly a test, to see if she'd be embarrassed to be seen with him at his most hyper, but to his delight she began skipping as well, singing even louder than him.

Sally sat down on the grass, opening her lunch bag and pulling out a sandwich. "I really am sorry," she told him yet again.

"I know," he reassured her. They sat in silence for a moment.

"It's been a kind of crappy year, hasn't it?" Sally said after a while.

"Yeah, it has." He grinned, and bopped her on the nose with his carrot. "We'll just have to make sure that next year is better."

She laughed, throwing part of her cookie at him, which he caught and ate. "Next year will be the best. I promise."

A/N: I think a lot of people are going to hate Sally this chapter, but I'm not trying to make you hate her. The thing is, I've read several NedxSally stories where Sally stands up to the bullies without a second thought, aweing and amazing everyone with her clever wit and her unwavering bravery.

The thing is, most girls are very image-concious, and are very worried about how "cool" they are. So I, personally, would empathize more with a Sally who reacted like this to that bold Sally I mentioned earlier. And this might strike you as a bit OOC right now, but don't worry -- Sally will become much more mature nad braver now. This was kind of a growing experience for her.