Disclaimer: Shortman kids are mine, "HEY ARNOLD!" isn't, "Snow Tiger" is a poem written by Yusef Komunyakaa (dat name).

Looking Up

Part 4

Phil sang in a tone thick with melodramatic depression, playing his harmonica in tune with his words, "Nobody knows, the trouble I've seen, nobody knows my sorrow…" He did a particularly long solo on the harmonica, before taking in a deep breath, "Nobody knows the trouble I've seen, nobody knows but you losers…" He took in a deep breath to start playing again.

Zack had finally had enough of this, and he rolled his eyes full circle and snatched the harmonica out of his hands. "Oh, just shut up. When did you become such a little emo?"

Phil looked at him gravely. "The day you were born."

Half of Zack's brow snapped up. "I was born long before you, pippy. That's not possible."

"Sure it is. My soul was just floating out there somewhere in the cosmos," he waved his hand by the window, gesturing to the stars, "perfectly innocent and happy, until suddenly there was a deep pain in my stomach. I didn't know what it was until I was born years later and saw your fat, beastly face grinning down at me like a freaking triple, bacon cheeseburger!" His voice had been gaining in momentum practically since the first few words left his mouth, and by this point he was nearly nose-to-nose with Zack and scowling angrily.

Zack just gasped in pleasant surprise, though, much to his irritation. "Bacon cheeseburger! How did you know?" He wiped a few fake tears from his eyes and sniffed, before he suddenly grabbed Phil to him and pretended to chomp down on his hair. "I wonder if you taste like one too!"

Phil screamed, kicking his legs and arms around in a ferocious motion that looked like he was trying desperately to make a snow angel on the car seat.

Zack had mercy on him faster than normal and released him to slam himself up against his side of the car, panting like he'd just survived Armageddon. Zack could only chuckle at his usual drama, feeling very gel thanks to the late hour. "Ah, Philly, you make things far too easy."

Phil's eyes flashed, and Zack warily realized he wasn't anywhere near done with his freak out. His words were ground to death through clenched teeth, "I swear, Zack, you had better shut up…"

Zack just tilted his head at him and smirked, unable to resist. He was clearly too tired to think straight, but he couldn't think about that right now. "When have you ever known me to shut up, little man?"

Phil's brain short-circuited right at that moment and he flew forward in a crazed frenzy to try to physically force Zack's mouth shut with his bare hands. "Right now!"

Zack blocked him off effortlessly with his arm and cackled, suddenly overjoyed with the situation. "You're so cute!" he gushed, snickering at his brother's flustered attempts.

Phil's entire face blanked and arms froze, his cheeks slowly tingeing a deep shade of red. He looked ready to explode.

He thankfully didn't get a chance to, though, before Helga was unexpectedly in both of their faces with her eyebrows taking up half of her eyes in a murderous glare, her deep eyes swirling with a fury unbridled even by the most vengeful of gods. She screamed at them in a harsh whisper, "That is it. Your scrawny asses are mine, as soon as we get home I'm breaking out the pick axe! I'll chop you both into little bite-sized pieces, load you into the trunk, and since then Arnold and I will only have the good kids, we'll go traveling all over the world like we've always wanted at freaking last and litter your little chunks of ass all over the continents like party confetti and dance around like teenagers!" She panted, her teeth clenching hard enough they thought they could see the cracks already starting to form.

Zack and Phil stared with eyes as round and large as dinner plates, utterly gobsmacked into silence. This didn't last very long before Zack had to whisper to Phil out of the corner of his mouth, "I think I finally figured out where you got the lunatic tendencies from."

"Shut up!" both Helga and Phil yelled at him in unison, their eyes setting aflame.

Zack wisely zipped his lip, literally making a motion of it before putting his hands in his lap.

"Helga, love," Arnold's gentle voice rang in the front seat, startling Helga out of her ire. She blinked out of it almost as if she were in a dream, and looked back around at her husband trying to drive the car with one hand, his other preoccupied with holding a sleeping Amanda to his chest.

"Oh." She blinked and turned back around in her seat to take hold of the wheel, just as the turn came up for them to turn into their neighborhood. One of the biggest kickers about their home was that it was just far enough away from the city lights that you could see the stars out. Arnold said it was about smack-dab in the middle of Hillwood and Pleasantville—the cities that regular people and geography snobs that had never been to either cities considered the quintessential Hell and Heaven of New York, one busy and filled with muggers and old buildings half-falling apart, the other right along the countryside and filled with a bunch of eerily happy, smiley farm folk. Arnold and Helga had made sure to steer as clear away from any of that as they possibly could.

Their home was just beyond the trees and down a long, winding road filled with humble, two-story houses much like their own with a fair distance between each one. The only true downside to their home, other than the distance from P.S. 118, was that it meant visits from Arnold's cousin, his wife, Lila, and their eerily pleasant, snorting son were much more easily made. They'd made sure to conveniently forget the address to it whenever they called, even though they'd lived there for years now.

The car was silent as Helga drove the last few miles to their home, with Ham snoozing in the back, Zack about ready to join him, and Phil stiff and trying to figure out how to steal his harmonica back. Arnold just smiled at Helga affectionately, hoping to calm her down as much as possible so that she'd fall asleep more peacefully. Whenever Helga fell asleep angry, it usually meant either a lot of kicking or a lot of clinging was in order—and Arnold was exhausted and not feeling particularly lucky tonight. But a few smiles and loving touches were usually enough to melt her into a much more pleasant state. The years of therapy sessions, family counseling, marriage, and motherhood had definitely paid off in mellowing her out for the most part, and Arnold was ridiculously thankful for that at times like these. He loved her when she was fiery and worked up, but not when it was almost two in the morning and he had to get up for work at six. He was going to be a zombie in the morning.

Helga smiled back at him tiredly, and Arnold took it as a very good sign. A few minutes more of driving down a road slick with rain from hours before, and Helga was pulling into their driveway and shutting off the heater. As the car clicked to sleep, Ham blinked his eyes open to glance around dazedly at his surroundings. He yawned, stretching, "Are we home?"

Zack could just manage to mumble in his almost-sleep, "No, we're at the glue factory and preparing to kick you out, Asstein."

Ham couldn't bring forth the brainpower to produce a suitable response, so instead he just stuck his tongue out at him, too tired to care that Zack's eyes were shut and he couldn't see him.

"Okay, you guys," Arnold whispered to them, being very mindful of Amanda curled up in his chest asleep, "is anyone hungry?"

Helga gawked at him, appalled that he'd dare to ask. Though there had been a ton of snacks at the party, there had been no actual dinner, but Helga was perfectly happy with ignoring the subtle grumbling of her stomach if it meant sleep, even if it meant she'd wake up starving in the morning. But she was a grown woman—they had three growing boys, of course they were going to be hungry—how dare Arnold bring it to their attention. If there was one thing Helga did not want to do right now, it was go anywhere near their hellhole of a kitchen. Helga made sure to be very clear, "Arnold, I swear, if you're going to go down this road, you're doing it alone."

Arnold turned his half-lidded eyes on her. "It's okay, Helga, I took the liberty of buying a frozen pizza yesterday on the way home from work. You won't have to lift a finger."

"Good, 'cause three men and a boy couldn't have made me, especially not you panty-waisted ninnies," Helga retorted tonelessly, her expression flat.

Ham looked ravenous at the suggestion of food. He didn't even hear his mom as he leaned forward in his seat to look at his father with large eyes, mystified. "That sounds incredible, Dad."

Zack snorted in his sleep, waking up just enough to smirk at his brother. "You're easily pleased at two in the morning. But yeah, I mean, I could eat." His focus suddenly came down on Phil's hand trying to discreetly pull his harmonica out of his breast pocket, and his hand snapped up to grab his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. Phil's green eyes snapped up to him, gloppened, and Zack smirked darkly, the moon casting shadows across his face as he forced his hand far away from his shirt. "Nice try, Philly boy, trying to steal from me in a moment of weakness. You've learned well, grasshopper." He let go of his wrist and buttoned the first few buttons of his plaid shirt, still smirking. "But for the hundredth time, you fail."

Phil growled at him, his impatience getting the better of him in his exhaustion. He snapped up straight then unexpectedly, his face going pleasant as he clasped his hands together and grinned cheerily. "Oh, the hundredth time? Really? Does this mean I get a prize?" A giggle of delight bubbled up from deep in his throat.

Zack raised half his eyebrow at him at the display, before he stuck a finger in his mouth and popped it in his ear. Phil's act immediately shattered and he screeched, batting his hand away in a panicked frenzy. Zack just chuckled, his eyes half-lidded and in a very zen state of mind at the moment. "There's your prize. Enjoy." His attention went to Ham exiting the car then and he scooted over to follow out after him and his mother, not paying another thought to Phil or how he looked like he was trying to amputate his ear.

Phil growled after him, rubbing his ear with a ferocious vigor. He rubbed his hands together then, mainly to try to get rid of any Zack-spit-residue that may be on them. He shuddered a little just at the thought. "Ooooh," he scowled, "you just wait, Neanderthal, you'll get what's coming to you. Even if it kills me." He clenched his fists until his fingernails dug his palms raw.

Arnold turned around in his seat to look at him strangely.

Helga threw a bag of peas over her shoulder as she rooted through the refrigerator, which was shortly followed thereafter by a bag of corn. Zack just narrowly managed to dodge the peas, then the corn, but he only had a split second to be proud of himself for such crafty movements before a can of yams conked him on the head and rattled his brain around in his skull. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he collapsed on the floor. Helga didn't even notice.

Ham walked into the kitchen moments later with his mouth posed to speak, only to have half of some leftover meatloaf sealed in plastic wrap thrown into his mouth. With eyes that held only a mild amount of surprise, Ham pulled the wrapped item out of his mouth and coughed. "Geez, Mom, what are you doing?"

Helga grunted, "Trying to find where the hell the idiot that is your father hid the pizza!"

Ham blinked, an odd look crossing his face. "Um, Mom, Dad already put the pizza in the oven…"

Helga paused, and Ham could just see the shift of her eyes as they fell upon the oven that was indeed on, before her shoulders stiffened. Ham zapped himself down behind the island, and threw his arms up over his lemon-shaped head, expecting the worst. Noticing Zack laying on the floor with a knot on his head then, Ham squeaked and repelled away, almost wondering if he should be trying to make a run for it. Nothing came, though, and after a few tense, paranoid seconds, Ham slowly peeked his head up over the counter.

Helga noticed this and rolled her eyes, a small, boxed peach cobbler in her hand and the refrigerator door closed now. "Don't worry, Ham, I'm pleased, not angry. Get off the floor, I haven't swept in a week. Who knows what's down there."

Ham twisted his face and stood up, still wary. "What about Zack? What happened to him?"

Helga looked at him quizzically. "What do you—" she noticed him passed out on the floor, "Oh." Blinking a few times, Helga finally just shrugged. "He must have passed out. We're all tired, Ham, don't judge your brother." She eyed the back of the cobbler. "Even if he's pretty much begging for it." Helga sauntered over to the microwave and popped the peach dessert item inside, setting the timer for ten minutes. As she walked over to throw away the box, she noticed the pizza one thrown out on top of the pile. Tossing the peach box away, Helga picked up the pizza box and raised an eyebrow in interest. "Focaccia," she read to herself before snorting and throwing the box back in. "Damn Italians."

Meanwhile Ham was busy inspecting his older brother blacked out on the floor, a slow forming smile of delight appearing on his face. "This is fantastic."

Helga walked over to stand beside him and stare down at her eldest son, his pale face totally pleasant despite the epic bean so contradictorily growing on his head. Helga hummed ruefully, almost wanting to shake her head but somehow unable to summon the energy. "I know. He looks like such an angel in his sleep. Nobody would even know he was the world's biggest pain in the ass." She blinked suddenly, crossing her eyes. "Er, butt, whatever." She rolled her eyes, knowing her husband would scold her for cursing in front of them when she wasn't blinded by rage and could actually help it.

Ham looked at her a second before looking back down at his brother, his bottom lip held tight between his teeth awkwardly. "Uh, I was thinking more along the lines of pranks." He snapped his head over to her to grin charmingly, rubbing his hands together. "Just think of all the things we could do to him."

Helga gave him the fish-eye. "Oh, no, you are not taking advantage of your brother in this state—"

"But Mom, when will an opportunity like this ever come again?" Ham looked at her pleadingly. "This kind of thing never happens!"

Helga huffed, rolling her eyes at his overdramatic assessment. "Ham, Zack sleeps all the time, just like all of us, just get him then, when we're all not half-dead and you have school in the morning—"

Ham put his hands on his hips and gave her a hard look, incredulous. "No, Mom, Zack sleeps in his room at all times, with the door dead-bolted shut. That gap under his door? He blocks it off with a board that he put rubber padding under so you can't push it out of the way. The window you're always saying has such thin glass? He replaced that long ago with bullet-proof glass, and replaced the locks so it's impossible to get in, not to mention he has some of the thickest curtains I've ever seen. Heck, I think he even sound-proofed the place, I don't know—I haven't seen inside his room since I was eight! He's prepared for everything." He whipped a hand in Zack's direction, his eyes narrowed. "You can't tell me not to take advantage of this."

Helga stared at him like he'd lost his mind. She knew her boys had a sort of rivalry going on with Zack but Ham was making it sound like an all-out war. He'd been looking under his door, and checked his window… How did he even do that? There weren't any trees by Zack's side of the house. He'd have had to get out a ladder… either that or he found her old grappling gear. The thought made her a bit wary. So she decided to try a different approach—she narrowed her eyes. That alone put him on edge, and Helga smirked. "Joshua Abraham, I am shocked with you. What kind of a man are you, taking a cheap shot like this. That's like kicking a man in the balls and running away. How dishonorable."

Ham looked at her a tad dryly. "Yeah, well, desperate times call for desperate measures, and it's his own fault for leaving his pants down." He turned away then, putting a large hand on the counter and leaning against it as he glared at a wall. "Besides, Zack told me once that honor was a crock. Whatever works, works. He even said, and I quote, 'While the enemy is rambling on and on about honor, I've already won the million and am living it up in the Bahamas.' " Ham huffed, looking at her angrily. "Zack deserves what's coming to him. You've seen how smug he is—I hate to say it, but he's right. He always wins. And it doesn't make any sense. If the natural balance of things isn't going to knock him off his pedestal, then I will." He walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out some whipped cream and sweet and sour sauce.

Helga observed this with an amused smirk. She stepped over to put a hand on his shoulder. "What do you think you're doing?"

Ham snapped his head to her, his look firm. "Mom, I'm not passing this up, I'm sorry—"

Helga quickly shook her head and snatched the whipped cream out of his hand, smirking. "No, what are you doing with whipped cream? The old hand-and-feather trick? How cliché can you be? Not my son." She stuffed it back in and pulled out some hot fudge. "Try this, it's sticky as sin, and it'll take him at least half an hour to get it all out of his nose, and even then he'll never be able to look at chocolate the same again."

Ham blinked at her, pleasantly surprised, before a grin broke out across his face. Helga just smirked back knowingly. Ham took the fudge from her hand and turned it around in his hand, his eyes falling halfway as he gazed at it. "Thanks, Mom." He held up the sweet and sour sauce. "But I was gonna slather the whip cream with some of this so if he tried to lick it off, he'd be in for a surprise."

Helga hummed to herself, putting a hand to her chin as she thought this over a moment with a cocked brow. "Not bad, but there's no telling with Zack—he might end up liking it, or he'd at least pretend to to make it seem like you lost. Too weak. It needs more of a punch." She pulled out some ultra hot sauce and a jar of pickles. "The pickle juice is easy enough, and with hot sauce, it's a guaranteed disaster." Helga's eyes narrowed evilly and she chuckled.

Ham's eyes widened and he snatched the contents out of her hands with enthusiasm. "Nice." He took a large step over to place all the jars and bottles on the counter, before he practically raced over to the cabinets, grinning at his mother. "I think I have some leftover itching powder in here from my last attempt. I was hoping he'd mistake it for pepper, but instead it just ended up in my bed." Ham narrowed his eyes, before he chuckled, smirking. "No mercy."

Helga laughed almost maniacally as she wandered over to him, grinning at him. She patted him on the back. "I like the way you think, kid. It's his own fault for leaving his pants down, right?"

Ham laughed right along with her. "Exactly!"

The sound of moaning and groaning made them both freeze in their spots, before the unmistakable sound of shuffling clothes and feet. There was a pause, and a mumble of, "What kind of a pizza is this," before footsteps pounded in their ears. It didn't take long for Zack to be right behind them, and he tiredly put his arms around their shoulders and looked between them. "Care to explain what the hell happened?" He rolled his shoulders, his eyes losing focus for a second as he groaned. "And why I feel like someone threw a brick at my head?"

Helga was the first to recover from having their plans shattered, and she sent Ham's stiff face an apologetic look before turning towards Zack to take a closer look at the goose egg on his head. "I don't know, love, you must have passed out or something. You do look exhausted." She hissed at his hiss when she touched the spot, and quickly retracted her hand. "I'm sorry."

Zack unclenched his eyes and tried to smile. "It's okay. But I didn't pass out, I think I got knocked out. The last thing I remember is dodging some vegetables and then there was this sharp pain." He winced, reaching up to rub at his head. "Criminy, if I didn't have sense before, I certainly have it now."

Helga chuckled weakly, her face flushed. "Oops."

Zack looked at her through a squinted eye with half his brow raised, before he turned around and sauntered out of the room, grabbing up the whipped cream and sweet and sour sauce on his way out. He flashed them a grin just before he disappeared out the door. "These go great with pizza!"

Ham stared after him with his jaw on the floor and sparks shooting out of his head.

Helga just chuckled, shaking her head as she stared out in the direction he'd gone with a hint of pride. "Yeah, that's my son, all right." She twisted her face. "Don't know where he got the odd taste pallet, though. Must be from Arnold's crazy side of the family. Gertie, probably… which would actually explain a lot." She grimaced.

Ham's response was nothing more than a vague nod of his head, still utterly flabbergasted. He didn't know whether to explode, scream, or just start smashing furniture against the walls. He was saved from having to make that choice when the oven went off, and the smell of freshly cooked pizza filled the air. His stomach rumbled and he grabbed it, conceding defeat with a sigh. "Give me an extra large piece."

"Can do," Helga chuckled at him, already pulling the pizza out of the oven. She walked over to place it on the counter, pulling her pink oven mitts off of her hands as she went.

Amanda's small, pink form came meandering in the doorway, rubbing her foggy eyes. "I smell food."

"That you do, Faith!" A knife the size of her head plunged down into the cutting board, and zinged back and forth as Helga let it go with a grin. "How hungry are you, darling?"

Amanda blinked, looking absolutely beat. "Just one small slice, please." She sighed, her pigtails drooping down low as she closed her eyes. "I'm tired."

Helga cut into the pizza with a rushed vigor, yelling out to the rest of the family in the living room, "Right, I want all you nincompoops shoving this crap down your throat as fast as you can and in bed within ten minutes, teeth brushed! This is not a drill, this is…" she blinked frantically, distressed, before shoving the knife even harder into the pizza with an almost violent jerk of her hand, "really hard to cut! Damn you, Italians, and your fancy words and thick crusts! Focaccia my ass!" She jerked her head to Ham, who took a step back almost without thinking. "Get some plates! Paper plates! This crap's not worth washing dishes!" She muttered then to herself, angrily, "Or the constipation medicine I'm no doubt going to have to buy from that snot-bagged yenta at the pharmacy tomorrow. Thank God for peach cobbler, that should put a kink in the system."

There was a sudden mumble of a yell from the living room.

Helga blinked, pausing in her near-annihilation of their meal to look towards the door. "What was that?" she yelled.

The mumble came again, a bit louder but still not discernible.

Helga huffed. "Speak up, I can't hear you!"

Zack's voice rang true this time around, possessing a much louder voice, "Phil just said something about having diarrhea!"

Helga's face twisted, and a record screeched in her head, causing her to clench her teeth a second. "Agh… thanks for sharing, Phillip! Great timing!" She stuck her tongue out.

There was an angry shout, then the furious stamping of feet up the hall before Phil appeared in the doorway, his hair crazy and eyes mad. "I said, focaccia sounds like a diarrhea medicine, not that I had it!"

"Oh, well, thanks for making dinner sound that much more appetizing, Phil," Helga retorted, dead-eyed.

Phil glared at her. "How do you think I feel? I'm the one who had it pass through my head."

Zack appeared behind him and grabbed his shoulders, shocking him into jumping forward and nearly slamming into the counter. Zack just grinned, his arms falling to his sides. "That's because you have the most screwed up mindset of the family." He chuckled. "Mentioning diarrhea right before dinner. Only you would do that, Philly Beans."

Before Phil could protest, their father came wandering into the room, looking a bit lost as he glanced among them with eyes that were only half there. "What's all this about diarrhea?"

A dazed Amanda leaning against the kitchen counter was the one to answer, "Oh, Phil just said he had diarrhea or, or something." Her chin fell onto her chest.

Arnold hummed, as if processing this, before he wandered over distractedly to aid his wife. "Ah, well, take some Pepto-Bismol or something. I think there's some in the bathroom."

Phil snapped around with wild eyes, his finger in the air. "I didn't say—"

Zack interrupted him flatly, walking over to stand beside him, "Phil, seriously, stop talking. You'll only destroy more of your dignity."

Phil puffed out his bottom lip as Zack walked over to help their parents load the food onto the plates with Ham, and spun on his heel to stalk out of the room. As soon as he was out of earshot, safely in the empty seclusion that was currently their living room, he ducked down behind his favorite lazy boy chair and smirked. A piece of paper was retrieved from his sweater, and the grin that cracked his face could set entire fields to flame. "Dignity, Zack? Oh no, you won't have any room to talk about any of that." He chuckled darkly, eagerly unfolding the notebook paper in his hands. When he'd snuck into the kitchen while the sunshine-haired teenager was passed out and his mother and brother were busy rustling through the cabinets, his only intention had been to get back his harmonica, but something about the tiny scrap of paper had been too intriguing to leave behind. It was folded too tightly, a few too many times, as if he'd been attempting to make it small enough that it would just disappear from existence all together. Even in his sleep, though, he somehow knew he was up to no good, and Phil had fled as soon as the first eyelid twitched, miraculously making it out unscathed.

He just had to look at it one more time, make sure it was really real. It seemed almost too good to be true, too perfect, too far-fetched of the self-proclaimed unconquerable Zack—for a moment he thought it must be a trick of some sort. It couldn't possibly be real, and yet it was right here, sharp around the edges and wrinkled in his hands. Phil had to hold back a burst of genuine giggling just at the notion of his situation. Years and years of wit-filled banter while simultaneously searching for weaknesses had finally paid off. Zack's weakness was that he was secretly a powder-puff.

Phil always knew that Zack was laid back, and he'd caught him a few times either staring out the window at the birds singing in the morning or staring intensely at the words of a book, but he'd had no idea it was this bad. Right at the top it had his name scrawled none-too-gracefully in blue ink, as if it were rushed, and the original assignment's goal written much more neatly on the first few lines. Write a metaphorical poem. It can be any type you like. The poem itself was confusing. Phil wasn't much the metaphorical type. He was pretty straight-forward, he'd like to think, and he was deadly honest—a fact he was sure some people would much rather do without. But that little fact aside, though metaphors and hidden messages weren't his element, he didn't care. Even if he couldn't decode what exactly Zack meant by the poem, it didn't change the fact that he'd written a poem, well and with a clear passion, not to mention half of it was in pink ink (it must have been a very desperate time). That alone was enough to ruin him.

Snow tiger

Ghost sun half

hidden, where did you go?

There's always a mother

of some other creature

born to fight for her young.

But crawl out of your hide,

walk upright like a man,

& you may ask if hunger is the only passion

as you again lose yourself

in a white field's point of view.

In this glacial quiet

nothing moves except—

then a flash of eyes & nerves.

If cornered in your head by cries from a cave

in another season, you can't forget

in this landscape a pretty horse

translates into a man holding a gun.

What kind of mystical nonsense was this? Phil was a very specific type of artist, he was obsessed with script writing, film, acting, and was an avid enjoyer of poetry but usually only of the seventeenth century variety for whatever mindfarty reason (not to mention he preferred rhyming, but whatever), but he could tell when "regular" poetry was good, and this was—but still, he didn't know what it meant. From what he could figure just from his second read, Zack was the man with the gun, and everyone else was the tiger. Zack was the dominating type, it would be like him to write a poem like that. But meaning or no meaning, he had him. He had him and his fluffy poetry and rushed, crappy pink handwriting and – he stuck his tongue out, wiping his hand on his pants – and his sticky white rice and cheese puff crumbs. He clearly didn't have much of a respect for his talents.

But what did it matter? What did any of it matter? He'd won. He'd finally won. He had blackmail, in it's purest form, on Zack. His reputation couldn't afford being good at something as shamefully girly as this. He could have Zack begging on his knees within twenty four hours if he wanted. Finally. At freaking last. And he'd done it before Ham, no less—although that wasn't that surprising, Ham wasn't exactly the crafty type. But oh, Phil was, Phil knew how to be sneaky, he'd had more than enough practice, and by flying pigs, if it hadn't paid off. Phil hugged the paper to his chest, shutting his eyes in bliss.

Who needed women, when there was revenge?

Zack stretched his long arms high in the air, releasing a yawn that had been trying to escape him for the last five minutes, before he shrugged out of his blue and black plaid shirt. It fell to the floor in a crinkled pile, and he reached down to pluck it off the floor and hang it up in his closet. He didn't bother with hanging up the rest of his clothes, just tore his black t-shirt over his head and threw it to the floor, which was shortly followed by his belt.

A soft, blue sleep shirt was pulled up his arms and slowly buttoned, his blue eyes roaming the glow in the dark stars he'd stuck to his ceiling when he was eleven, just barely visible in the dim lighting of white Christmas lights hung along the walls. His ceiling was low, and his room relatively small—cozy, one might say. But it was big enough for a bed, a desk, a chair, and even a small couch, and that was all he really wanted in his bedroom anyway. His bare feet clawed into the plush of his white carpet, bracing himself as his eyes inevitably fell to his homemade, tye-dyed curtains.

Curiosity had been eating at him for the better part of the day, and he found himself wondering if he could even see outside with it as dark as it was. Despite his doubts, Zack pulled up his plaid pants and glided like a ghost over to his window. Pulling back the old comforter, he peeked outside across the way.

The house next to them had been for sale for as long as he could remember. Families came and went within weeks, never staying and never bothering to take the For Sale sign out of the yard. Zack didn't know what was wrong with it. It seemed like a perfectly nice house, not unlike his own. An old, hairy neighbor about a mile off had made up a story once that it was haunted, but Zack didn't trust the source. The guy called himself Fuzzy Slippers, for Pete's sake, when from what Zack could observe he should be calling himself Hairy Toenails.

Zack and Jaron had spent the night in it once when they were thirteen to prove it was safe, even going as far as to drag Ham along. Or, maybe 'drag' wasn't the right word—more like begged him not to come only for him to threaten telling on them if they didn't let him… okay, so they didn't drag him along at all. He dragged them, but whatever, it all ended in the same conclusion. The entire affair had cost them a rant from Phil calling them crazy for even humoring such things, and then gained them a big laugh when they'd come home to find out that Phil had spent the night in their parents' room with a Wally stuffy.

But the house had proven perfectly fine, homey even. The interior was very warm and the carpet soft enough that they almost didn't need sleeping bags. It had actually been rather anticlimactic, save for Jaron randomly screaming in the middle of the night for no good reason.

But the house had been empty for well over two years now, and Zack thought everyone had finally just given up on the poor little house. But there it was, right before his very eyes.

A light was on, and the shadow of a stranger.

The bell was ringing. Oh man, the bell was ringing. Why did the bell have to be ringing? There were so many other times it could be ringing. Why now of all times?

Zack gulped, finding that even with his arm in a sling, his legs felt like the most broken parts of himself right now. He almost wished all of his limbs were broken—then he'd be a full on invalid, and incapable of going to recess. Then again some of the kids would get a kick out of playing the "I'm not touching you" game if he couldn't do a thing about it, and he'd be reduced to trying to bite their fingers off, an idea he did not relish at all when thinking of Booger Boy and his pudgy fingers that always seemed to be stuck up his nostril—right only, mind you—whatever, like there was any point in being picky about it… Holy moly, he wished that pun was intended.

Clearing his thoughts with a deep breath, he tried to stand up from his desk, and nearly collapsed to the floor from how shaky his legs were. He huffed, "Darn it."

Mrs. Holt was beside him in a second, taking his arm and helping him stand up straight with eyes that had never been this concerned before. "Are you okay, Zachary? Do you think you can walk?"

Zack gaped at her, and snatched his arm out of her hand, offended at the touch. Despite it, he at least tried to be polite, though his response was curt, "I'm fine." Not making anymore eye contact than necessary, he walked out of the classroom and down the hall, glad she wasn't following.

Well, he wasn't dead yet. That was a good sign. Zack walked a little easier, his eyes everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

Kids cleared the halls when they saw him, some practically racing away when they saw the cast over his arm, and Zack ducked his head low. He'd never thought it would be so important to him what these kids thought of him, but it hurt. He could handle being invisible, but not to be visible only as a source of destruction. The kids balked as he passed, held their books tighter, grabbed onto friends' arms.

Zack was used to it by this point. He knew not to make eye contact, he knew not to express emotion—a smile unnerved them, a frown scared them, but indifference they couldn't make a fuss about. So Zack walked, steadily and eyes down, as if he didn't have a huge cast over his arm or a bully waiting outside to break the other.

The very thought made him stiffen, and suddenly, he stopped dead.

All the kids held their breath, willing him to continue forward.

Zack's mind was busy as he stood, barely breathing lest he break the tense silence in the air, waiting for him. It seemed that no matter what he did, these kids didn't like him. If he was quiet, they were suspicious. If he smiled at them, they ran in fear. If he frowned, they nearly fainted. None of them had ever taken the time to get to know him, even before August. He'd always thought that friendship was natural, but there was nothing natural about this.

It hadn't bothered him before what these people thought, but now that it affected him, he was irked. He'd had the worst day of his entire life yesterday, had his parents in hysterics over a lie he'd told, a lie he'd told in order to protect the very person he hated. He had no patience for this anymore. If they were going to be like this, then, well, who was he to deny them?

Taking in a breath, Zack twirled around on his foot and hesitated. Every eye was on him, gasps ripping from peoples' throats. They all seemed to repel away from him. Despite himself, Zack found this amusing. You'd think he was the bully with the way they were acting, but he wasn't. He'd never been nor would ever be a bully. Yet here they were, terrified. Nobody wanted to be associated with the damned.

Blinking, Zack felt a small smile curl his lips, slowly giving show to some teeth. He jerked forward, and they all took a step back. He held back a snicker. It had never occurred to him before, but he held some power over these people. These stupid, stupid people.

Licking his lips, he said, "Ooga booga."

Their eyes all widened in horror and a raven-haired girl in the front fainted with a gasp, further startling them all as they jumped backward from her.

Zack burst into laughter, and, feeling inspired, he scoffed. "Criminy, you'd think you guys had never seen a baseball injury before. Excuse me." He humphed and turned on his heel, pushing through the doors to exit out to the playground, leaving them all with their jaws dropped.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't the truth, but they couldn't handle the truth. Clearly. He was protecting them, just like he was protecting his parents. This was his burden to bear—it was his own fault after all. Reading poetry in class. What kind of a boy wrote poetry? And willingly read it in front of everyone he knew? Foolish. He wouldn't make that mistake again, not for as long as he lived. The problem was that he liked writing poetry. It gave him a sense of peace to be able to put his feelings into words like that. It had just never occurred to him before that other people might find that weird. He'd just have to burn them after he wrote them or something. He didn't care if anyone read them anyway, he just liked writing them.

With these thoughts in mind, he walked at a snail's pace to the center of the playground, a place he felt to be the safest out of all the grounds. Dead center in everyones' line of sight meant clear witnesses. But then again, did he really want that right now? August would come for him sooner or later, no matter how he avoided it, and he wasn't sure he even wanted witnesses for that anymore. They all reacted so strongly to seeing the extent of his damage on him. Normally August would just pull him behind somewhere so no one could tattle on him or any teachers could see, so nobody ever really knew what he did, they just knew he did something—now they had a better clue, and it was scary to see. Zack couldn't entirely blame them for their reaction. He was scared too.

Speaking of scared—Zack locked his legs, stopping them from knocking against each other. This was not the time to show fear. He would just have to talk to August and work this out somehow. He wasn't sure how, but there had to be something he could do to stop this. He didn't know why he thought he could say anything now, he'd been trying for many months to get him to stop, many attempts that had all been to no avail. What made now any different?

He supposed because this wasn't just about himself anymore. Now it was about his family.

Home always had been his one safe point. When he got home from school, he could immediately wash his hands of his day, no matter how bad, as if it had never happened. At home he could be himself and prank his dad and hide in the laundry bin for hours snickering at his father's enraged yells for him to come out and explain himself. He could blow raspberries on Ham's arm and have him scream at him to stop, and have fights over whose leg Phil was going to be attached to for the evening. And soon there was going to be another baby. He was going to have another brother to raise heck with, and he was starting to get those butterflies in his stomach at the idea. Now August was starting to creep his way into his personal life, and Zack couldn't play that game. When the baby was born, Zack wanted to be in one piece for him, not scattered across the pavement in little smears.

Darn it, he was Zachary Shortman. His brothers looked up to him, his father feared him, his mother—okay, his mother scared everyone, so he couldn't say anything there. But still.

A hand clasped his shoulder then, and Zack gasped at the ominous voice, "It's time, short man."

His heart going a hundred miles an hour, Zack sucked in a deep breath and shut his eyes. A death sentence. That's what it sounded like.

I'm pregnant.

Arnold, we're the worst parents ever.

You know you can talk to me about anything.

Zack, did something happen?

You gotta look up, you gotta be strong…

Everything will be fine.

Zack's eyes opened.

"No. No it's not."

Heavy metal music burst into the room, a guitar screeching in time with someone screaming like their life depended on it. Zack spazzed awake with a frightened yell and flew off the side of the bed, landing face down in his carpet.

Groaning, Zack reached up to blindly look for the off button, pressing anything and everything that was pressable until his alarm clock finally shut up. Zack sighed in relief, just allowing himself some time to enjoy how wonderfully comfy his carpet was. He'd never noticed before, but it was magnificent. He could just lay there forever.

The light doze he'd found himself in was ruined by a pounding on his door. "Zack," his father called, his voice heavily muffled through the door though he could hear him all the same, unfortunately, "you've got to wake up! Everyone's already eating breakfast! I made waffles!"

Zack groaned, not feeling particularly up for the idea of food right now. His stomach grumbled then, and Zack grumbled back. "Unfair."

He dragged himself up from the floor, his eyes still closed, and walked over to open his closet. He knew his room like the back of his hand, and had no trouble maneuvering around to find what he needed. Jeans, black shirt, plaid shirt, belt, hairbrush—where was his hairbrush? Groaning, he stumbled over to his curtain and lazily pulled on it. It didn't budge. Frustrated, he grabbed it with both hands and jerked it open, nearly ripping it off of the curtain rod and falling back on his butt.

Hissing at his clumsiness, Zack tried to open his eyes, only to have them burned with the bright light of morning. Gah, why did his room have to be facing the east?

Groggily, like a rising zombie, Zack pulled himself up from the floor to face his window, basking in it's glow and slowly allowing his eyes to adjust to the light.

He noticed his brush laying on his windowsill then as his blindness wore off, and grabbed it up with a grin. "Ha! Triumph!" Without thinking, his bright eyes went back out the window and noticed his new neighbor's window was wide open. Instantly interested and curious, he leaned in closer and tried to see what they looked like through bleary eyes.

As soon as his eyes adjusted to be able to make out the figure in the window, his jaw dropped.

It was some chick—getting dressed. She was just pulling her shirt off, giving view to a ridiculously brightly colored bra, when she turned in his direction. In a flash of widened eyes and flailing lips, she pulled her shirt back down and threw her curtains closed.

If Zack wasn't still brain dead before, he was now. And fully awake, he might add. He had never seen—or this was the first—but how was it even—and first thing in the freaking morn—Okay, he should really shut up.

Still wide-eyed and gaping out his window with his hands gripping his curtains, a long, odd squeaking noise drew out of his throat. Should… Should he tell Sophie about this? That probably wouldn't be wise, but he might feel guilty if he didn't.

Oh, what was he going on about? It was a complete accident, one that barely lasted a second and he couldn't even see clearly from the distance, and the chick was practically asking for it with undressing right in front of an open window. What kind of idiot did that? Second story or not, she did know there were other people out here, right?

Letting out a breath, Zack shut his curtains tight and wandered over to his mirror. With a delicate flourish, he brushed his hair out so it was neat and tidy and grinned proudly at himself… before it all sproinged up into crazy cowlicks and his face dropped. Damn his father.

The scent of waffles filled his nose then, and his father beat on the door for the second time this morning. "Zack, I've got blueberries!"

Okay, no, strike that. His father was a god.

By the time Zack made it down to the dining room, the usual sight filled his eyes. Light streamed through the windows, and a big plate of waffles was in the center of the table, along with a small plate of bacon that seemed to be placed there absentmindedly, a vase of wildflowers at the end of the table that somehow was always miraculously filled with different flowers each morning, and a big glass container of syrup that Phil and Amanda were currently fighting over while Ham just palmed his face. His father was an excellent cook, and sometimes Zack wondered why he didn't just make all of their meals—irrevocably, his father and mother had an agreement that he made breakfast and she covered dinner, because his father was a morning person and his mother was… not.

With the plate his father had shoved in his arms when he'd finally come out of his room in hand, Zack took his usual seat beside Ham and raised half his brow at Amanda and Phil each trying to manhandle the syrup away from each other. Much more awake now, Zack grinned over at Ham, enthused in the chaos as he usually was, "What's been going on down here? Can you not function without me for five minutes?"

Ham gave him a tired look, a large hand covering half his face. "Zack, put a cork in it, for one day, please. I have a headache."

"Ahhh," Zack sympathized, leaning back and balancing on the back legs of his chair, "get a little too schnockered at the party last night? I know how that is."

"No you don't," Ham said plainly, rubbing his hand over his eyes.

"Is this your way of saying you did?"

Ham shot him a look. "No."

Zack chuckled, grabbing a piece of bacon. "Good, 'cause I seriously think that punch was spiked."

"What?" Phil's eyes snapped to him, suddenly on high alert.

Zack looked at him gravely, taking a jerking bite of his bacon for emphasis and waving it at him. "You heard me. That stuff knocked me right out and I woke up all confused."

"Well, you're always confused." Phil meant it as an insult, but he didn't look it; just intent and calm. His actions contrasted that as he grabbed the syrup from Amanda again and sat it on the far end on his side of the table, smirking at her. "But I drank that punch too, and I was fine—"

"You passed out in the bathtub and then let Dad carry you to the car," Zack cackled. "Ah, criminy, I almost forgot about that. I still have pictures. That is so going viral." He looked over to Ham, who was much more computer savvy than him, and asked with a mockingly starstruck grin, "Josh, you think you could make Philly a star?"

Ham's only response was to throw his waffle in his face, not appreciating him trying to pull him in on a joke at such an early hour.

Zack tore it off and sputtered, wiping his face. Despite the unpleasant event, Zack looked even more amused than before, a fact Ham found vexing. "How is it you claim to be the nice one yet you're the only one of all of us with violent tendencies?"

"Who said I don't have violent tendencies?" Phil asked from across the table with a dark look, his lips sneering up in a mischievous smirk. Memories of his unique find from the night before flashed through his mind, and gave his look a more authentic realism to it. He liked that Zack still thought he had the upper hand. It was more amusing than infuriating now.

But still Zack found ways to press his buttons, as he burst into laughter at his look and gave a loud snort. "Oh, please, Phil, it's too early for you to be this cute. Have you seen yourself? Violent tendencies or not, you're a pipsqueak. Nobody's afraid of you."

Phil burst up from his seat and pointed his fork in his face with a maniacal scowl, the very blunt fork his parents had gotten especially for him. "The school board was afraid enough of me to expel me! Don't you sit there on your high horse and tell me I can't intimidate people!"

Even with a fork in his face and an enraged mad child sneering at him, Zack looked relaxed and happy. "They expelled you because you argued with the teachers and went off into mad rants about the subjects, not because they were afraid of you. You're just astoundingly annoying."

"It was not—" Phil started, before freezing to a stop with his face strained. He'd been expelled for much more than that but he wasn't about to tell him about any of that. Sometimes he forgot there were certain things he couldn't just blurt out in the middle of his rants. Relenting, Phil settled for growling at him, "They were intimidated by my high intelligence and were too prideful to admit that they were wrong. Buffoons, all of them. Not to mention their drama club was filled with inexperienced children with no idea how to do anything, let alone make a good play."

"Oh, hm," Zack bit his tongue between his teeth, eyes wandering up in sarcasm, "children acting like children? Perish the thought, Philliam Fancy-Pants. To think you scold me for having an ego."

Phil huffed melodramatically, rolling his eyes. "I don't have an ego, I simply don't underestimate myself. I'm capable of things, and I know I am. And I most certainly don't go on and on about myself day and night like you." He gave him a sharp look. "There's not a humble bone in your scrawny, string bean of a body. When you bump into a wall, you glare at the wall like it was it's fault rather than your own moronic hide's! You're the first to sing your praises and the last to admit to your mistakes! If there is one thing you cannot joke about, it is anyone having a more bloated head on their shoulders than you!" He shoved his finger straight in his face.

Zack let out a long stream of air from puckered lips, a laugh underlying his breath. "Now that was a doozy." He clapped his hands, forcing a mile long grin onto his face. "Bravo! Once again you have proven yourself to be the most severely lacking in sanity of our entire family."

"Okay, wait," Ham suddenly interjected into their conversation in a slow voice, his face wide open and disbelieving, "have you even met our family? Am I the only one who can see this? The last time we visited the boarding house, Grandma Gertie was walking through the halls on stilts claiming there were ninjas on the ceiling, Grandpa Phil told us he single-handedly whooped Hitler's butt and won the war, Grandpa Bob told us in a totally pleasant voice that he almost died from gas once and gained inner peace because of it, then offered to make tea for us in his own personal backyard yurt—and, seriously, does no one remember Mom going completely bananas on you guys in the car last night? How can you say with a straight face that Phil is the most insane?"

Zack blinked at him, a tad blank. "I don't see your point. I like Grandpa Bob's yurt. That's some good living. Dad and I helped him rebuild it again when I was a kid, too, so it's built very sturdily. Nothing's taking that baby down. I want a yurt when I'm grown up."

"I know," Phil commented, sticking a forkful of blueberry waffles in his mouth, "that tea he makes makes me feel really peaceful. Like nothing can hurt me."

"Oh, that's because he adds sedative in yours," Zack commented offhandedly, pouring some syrup over his waffles.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Okay, seriously, you're missing the point," Ham stressed, placing his hands palm-down on the table. Enunciating each word heavily, he tapped his forefingers on the table in tune with his words, "There is no sanity, in this house. Or in this family in general, at all. Can we just be clear on that?"

Arnold, who had entered the room moments before, sank down into a seat at the head of the table and sipped his coffee. "Oh, they're just having fun, Ham. Let it be. I used to be just like you when I was your age." He nudged him with a tired smile. "But you know if things ever changed one day that you'd miss it."

Ham sighed, rubbing his cheek and looking as if even that little bit of movement was exhausting. "I just don't understand how I can be related to them sometimes."

Arnold shrugged, smiling his understanding smile. "If it helps, I see the resemblance. You're just tired now is all." Sipping his coffee some more, he muttered, "All of us are." Noticing Amanda sinking down in her seat, he called over in concern, "Amanda, are you all right?"

She just mumbled something incoherent and yawned, but Arnold got the message loud and clear. Smiling gently, he asked, "Amanda, if you're too tired to go to school today, you can stay home."

This seemed to get Amanda's attention well enough, and she blinked drearily at him, trying to wake up enough to respond with something other than tired garbles. "I, I can?"

Arnold nodded. "Of course. I'm your teacher, aren't I? I can tell when a student isn't fit for the school day. I'll just give you your assignments when I get back, and you can stay home and sleep in with Mom."

Amanda looked a bit more like her usually bubbly self, but just as she opened her mouth to voice her appreciation, a yawn interrupted her and left her dazed once more. Arnold just chuckled. "You're very welcome, Sweetheart."

Zack gaped at this development. Amanda got to stay home, just like that? Zack was tired—maybe not tired enough to stay home from school, but he could play it off. If he could stay home today, maybe then he could play up the whole "spiked punch" deal and pretend he was sick. If he could stay home long enough, by the time he got back, Pam wouldn't even remember anything about him, let alone his poem. She may be stubborn, but Zack was slick. He could do this easily. His mouth was already open, his fullproof speech formed, yawns ready, and spiked punch story at the tip of his tongue in case he needed it—when the doorbell rang and interrupted his plans.

Arnold's head lazily pointed in the direction of the front door, his face curious. "Who could that possibly be?" Confused, Arnold slowly rose up from the table and exited the room. The sound of the door opening was heard, and a few mumbled words they couldn't make out, before there was a long pause. Then, "Zachary Shortman!"

Zack blinked in surprise. He'd only just woken up, he usually didn't get his dad this mad until after he got home from school. More baffled than afraid, Zack yelled back, "What?"

Once more, his dad bellowed, "Get out here right now, young man!"

Oh God. Zack walked calmly out of the room, leaving behind his very curious family, and wandered into the hallway to see what was up. He asked, not even noticing their guest who'd suddenly gone rigid at the sight of him, "Geez, where's the fire, Dad? Don't tell me Timmy fell down the well again—"

"This is no time for jokes," his father's tone rang deadly serious, chilling almost, and if Zack was the type to be afraid of fluffy puppy dogs barking at him, he'd be terrified. Zack smirked at his inner joke, but Arnold just continued to keep his stony expression, unamused. "Zachary, I've always known you were a trouble maker, but I'd thought better of you than this. I am deeply disappointed with you."

This got Zack's attention, and his father's words sent a pang of hurt through him. "Dad, seriously, what did I do?"

"Well, why don't you ask our guest, Peeping Tom?" Arnold said sarcastically, gesturing an arm to the girl Zack finally noticed was in the room, and his jaw dropped. Her jaw had long dropped, so they were just staring at each other in shock now. The girl's lollypop hung deafly from her tongue, the stick pointing down.

"You?" they both burst suddenly, pointing fingers at each other in disbelief.

Pam spluttered, nearly choking on her lollypop before she grabbed it out of her mouth to gape properly. "You're my new creepy neighbor?"

"You're my new idiot neighbor?" he asked in a similar tone.

There was a pause where they just stared at each other.

Arnold seemed confused, and though his face remained stern, he had to ask, "Wait, you two know each other?"

"Unfortunately," Zack answered distantly as if he were floating above them, looking dead.

Pam just gawked at him more, before waving her lollypop at him as realization dawned. "You—You—You were spying on me while I was getting dressed! You're a sicko!"

Zack's nostrils flared in defense, blue eyes setting aflame. "All I did was open my curtains, and then boom, half-naked chick! It wasn't my fault you were stupid enough to get dressed right in front of an open window! You were asking for it!"

Pam's face went red at the point, before she got defensive again and shouted, feeling humiliated and having a distinct need to destroy her offender, "I was on the second story, your curtains were closed, and I was in a rush! I can't think straight when I'm just waking up, and you didn't exactly look away! Pervert!"

Zack's eye twitched. "I am a teenage guy…" He flailed his arms at her, his voice raising into a shout, "What the hell did you expect me to do? Why don't I shove shoes on sale in your face and expect you to just walk away?"

Pam growled, slapping his arms away from her as she shouted, "Oh my gosh, how stereotypical can you be? Who says I care about shoes?"

Zack's eyes took in her beat up, old white sneakers, and his eyes fell flat. "Ah, yes, I almost forgot you weren't a girl."

Pam smirked eagerly, her face turning smug as she announced in an amused rush, "Well then I guess that makes you gay! Ha!" She threw a finger in his face and exploded with laughter, suddenly finding the entire situation hysterical.

Zack balked, taken aback by this, before he just flittered his hand at her and turned away. "An imitation of a woman's body is still a woman's body—"

Before Pam could rage at this, Arnold finally cut in, flustered and looking thoroughly perturbed now, "Hold on, what exactly is going on here? Where do you two know each other?"

Pam opened her mouth to respond, but Zack beat her to it, "We met at school yesterday and she was at the party last night. That's all." His eyes remained narrowed. "And now apparently we're freaking neighbors." He snapped a glare in her direction, his fists clenching tight at his sides. "Stop invading my life!"

"Oh, like I did this on purpose," she spat.

"Well it's really starting to look that way," he yelled, getting in her face with his teeth bared in a scowl.

"Kids, kids," Arnold threw his arms in between them, really disturbed at seeing his son flying off the handle like this, "stop it! This is no way to be acting so early in the day! I have to drive you to school in five minutes, we don't have time for this. Zack," he looked to his son, having apparently forgotten all about being angry with him, much to his relief, "get everyone and put them in the car. You can bring along some food on the road, but you have to finish it in the car, okay?"

Zack made a point of not looking at Pam as he saluted his father and nodded. "Aye, aye, Football Head." Spinning on his heel, he marched purposely away before his father could lecture him about calling him that, only to stop in the doorway of the dining room when he saw Ham and Phil both freeze in their spots, caught in the act of eavesdropping. Zack blinked, finding this fact very interesting, and a slow smirk darkened his face as he took a step into the room, making them take a step back. "Well, well, what do we have here?"

Ham looked instantly away and Phil just stared at him.

Zack's eyes became hidden beneath his eyebrow, deep eyes darkening with a warning. His patience for the morning had run out. "I expect I won't have to tell you what will happen if you speak a word of this ever again." He took another step deeper into the room, but they didn't move this time, stunned as they were, and Zack leaned down into their faces, smirking. "Emphasis on the ever."

Ham just waved a quick hand at him and walked over to grab his waffle from the table, not wasting a second and his voice completely detached from the topic, "I didn't hear anything."

Phil stared up at him a moment longer, weighing his options, before he sighed and rolled his eyes. "Sure, whatever you say, Zack."

Zack leaned further into his face, his smirk falling. "'Sure'? I was hoping for something more definite than that." He was serious about this. He didn't want anyone speaking another word of what his deal was with that girl. That might lead to finding out about his grade, which would lead to snooping, which would lead to—He couldn't even think about it.

Phil pouted in his face, wishing he could use his dirt on him now just to wipe that look off his face. But he wanted to savor this, not waste it first thing in the morning when he was still tired and Ham was right there. Despite his displeasure, though, he was surprised. Zack rarely looked serious. Whatever was going on with that girl, it was big. He'd have to tuck this little piece of information away for future reference. Nodding his head, Phil grumbled, "I won't breathe a word." 'Breathe' being the operative word. He'd just have to remember to hold his breath the next he spoke of it.

Zack seemed pleased with this, though, the fool, and he stood back up. "Good." He grinned, looking back to his usual self instantly as if he hadn't just threatened them with the gallows. "Now you heard Pappy, make it snappy!" He clapped his hands and walked across the room to pick a dozing Amanda up from her chair. Holding her in his arms like a china doll, he walked out of the room to put her to bed. As soon as he was out of the room, Phil practically flew across the room and out the other door to sneak through the kitchen. He stealthily threw himself up against the wall by the door leading into the hallway, and listened keenly in on what their guest had to say.

"Well, you have to at least let me give you a ride." His father, on another thoughtless charity binge. Phil rolled his eyes.

"Oh, wow, could you? That would… actually be really incredible."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Oh, it's nothing, it's just, you know, new house, new neighborhood, uh… it's just great to get along with at least one of my new neighbors."

"Yeah… I'm sorry about that. Zack usually doesn't act so… so much like a bully." The disturbed note in his father's words was humorous.

"Agh, he's not a bully. If anything, he probably thinks I'm his." There was a laugh at that, and Phil snuck a peak to see what he was dealing with. The first thing he noticed was the red hair, and his eyebrows furrowed. Zack never had liked red heads, it had been a fact he'd vaguely noticed over the years but never really thought anything about, but this called more attention to it. Phil made a note of this. The next he noticed was that she was pretty. Messy hair and clothes aside, her eyes were kind and open and her complexion clear and fair. Perhaps a bit average for Phil's taste, but Zack fancied himself the ladies man—the fact he'd be this on the outs with a pretty girl was curious. Phil tapped his chin, wondering. "What could she have done…?" he whispered to himself, squinting his eyes at her as if he could squeeze the secrets out of her through his eyelids.

His father talking again snapped him out of his thoughts and made him hide back against the wall again. "I can't see Zack ever being bullied." His father sounded amused just at the idea. "He's too self-assured of himself. Bullies go for the weak, and Zack's never been weak. You saw how he stood up for himself with you. He's a strong boy." His father was proud. Comical.

Maybe he was strong now, but not after Phil was done with him. He would make sure of that.

A/N: So there it is. There is more written after this, but it all leads up to the climax thaaaat I'm having trouble writing. D: Reviews make me want to write a lot more, though... :3 But you don't have to. D: BUT IF YOU WANTED TO—Okay, I'll shush now. xD

Oh, and that whole thing with Phil and the diarrhea medicine and Focaccia? Completely factual, based on a true story. e_e I was laying on the couch exhausted and all congested and my mom was like, "We're having Focaccia pizza for dinner! :'D" and I was just like, "-_- Sounds like diarrhea medicine." And my mom was like, "What?" 'cause the congestion made me sound like a bad Donald Duck impression, and I repeated myself and my brother was like, "Oh, she said she has diarrhea or something." And I spazzed out and was like, "NO! I said it sounds like diarrhea medicine!" And he still didn't hear me I guess 'cause he was like, "So take Pepto Bismol and shush!" and then my mom burst into laughter and I was just like, "FUUUUUUUUUU!" ...I just had to write it. xDDD *Slaps forehead*

Now I just wanted to mention that starrynights1987 made a family crest for these guys on Deviant. :D It's friggin' awesome! High recommendation. Check it out!

Am I forgetting anything? Uh—OH YEAH! Writergirl97 and I are doing a sort of Q&A thing on her fics and mine. We've been talking about it and we have a plan made up of how we're going to do it, so... ASK AWAY xD We'll be answering any and all questions at a later date, I guess. We're still working out the kinks. xD But basically, the questions can be about anything concerning these guys—the characters, her stories, my stories, or us as authors. Hell, the questions can even be directed at a specific character if you want. Like, you could be like, "YO, Phil, Y U SO SHORT? Y U NO WEAR STILTS?" You know. xD So if you're curious about anything, there ya go. *Shrugs* Should be fun. xD

And dat's it for now. x_X

REVIEW!