Adult-FanFiction.org : Cartoons

Notebook Paper	By : acsoundwave Category: +1 through F > Danny Phantom > Het- Male/Female Views: 10355 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Notebook Paper
- 1
Notebook paper and pen. It’s the background noise in schools nationwide as it’s crumpled and tossed into garbage pails. Pages in spiral notebooks and three-ring binders turn and ruffle; sheets are folded.
Folded into what? Sometimes, it can be origami; or a game. It can be the world’s smallest football. It can be a canvas for some bored student with a rainbow of ink pens and a hatred of dull white space.
But its main purpose--hence the name--is to bear notes. Notes for class, essay outlines, student council meetings, sports plays.
And of course: the secret, forbidden bearer of messages between fellow classmates.
For the classroom is meant to be a serious place. The teacher, dedicated yet jaded, eyes the room with a mixture of hope and disdain for the small mob of young humanity imprisoned in their desks. And no more appropriate locale for this scene exists than within a high school.
In high school, a student’s body is mature(or in the process of maturing); prepared to engage the rigors of adulthood. Yet the student’s mind retains the wild, reckless zeal of the child; fearless, and blind to the pitfalls that lurk in the wilderness of maturity.
Two students in a somewhat atypical high school have learned the value of the locker. For one student, it’s a place to store her textbooks. For the other, it doubles as a prison for the weak--with him as the jailer.
Both are about to discover another use for the locker: as a mailbox. A safe, neutral hiding place for the bleached wood pulp courier of their words and thoughts.
Where will this discovery take our two students? The only way to find out: it’s to see what they’ve written on....
Notebook Paper

byline: Anubis C. Soundwave
She is pretty. Nice red hair, probably soft. Lovely green eyes. And she’s way smarter than me--which, oddly enough, I like in a girl.
So where are my feelings for Jazz? Where’s that roller-coaster ride, swing-higher-and-higher-on-the-swings feeling that makes me act like a total moron when I’m around her? I love that.
Now I don’t feel that way. I only feel...like I’ve learned some math. Woo-hoo.
The feeling’s still there...just not for Jazz. And it’s all her fault.
The fault of the object of my affections. I still don’t even like her that much--she’s pushy and overbearing about everything. What we normal people eat, music we listen to, cars we drive. She needs to lighten up and realize the world’s not going to implode because I ate a triple-decker at the Nasty Burger.
Then again, filling her locker with hot dogs and sausages was a bit over the top. A big smokie that fell in her mouth did give Kwan and me ideas for the rest of the day.... She had red-hot wieners sticking out of her shirt, between her.... Let’s file that under: more ideas.
“...Dash? Can I drag you back into reality for a minute?” asks Jazz.
“Huh...?” I wake from my thoughts on how to show my crush different uses for meat. Reluctantly. “Sorry, Jazz; got kind of distracted.” Still am.
“I noticed.” Since Jazz is so focused on proving that “no one is un-tutorable”, I doubt she noticed my erection. She probably saw me blush. (Imagine that: a big lunk like me blushing.)
“Let’s take a break,” she offers. “You seem to have some things on your mind.”
Understatement.... “Sure.” I grin slightly. “There’s this girl I’m interested in. I mean, I’m really into her. But she doesn’t know it.
“Not only that, but she hates my guts. And I deserve it; I’ve been a jerk.”
“I’m sure the girl doesn’t hate you,” says Jazz soothingly. Geez, what a mother hen.
“It’s just that when you harass people weaker than you--like my brother,” she continues pointedly--as though I don’t get it, “her resentment is natural.”
“Then both you and my crush will be happy to note that Fenton has graduated from my School of the Fist.” Yeah; Fen-twerp got sick of being the nice kid and decided to resume pulling his pranks on me. We have an established prank war going on this year--me and my crew against him and his buddies.
It’s on a point system, and Jazz’s baby brother is up by one because of the damn lies he spread about me being gay! The crappy story about me trying to come on to Fenton while I’m wailing on him has taken a life of its own. The one about me and Kwan having a hidden thing died fast, and that one’s more plausible. (Kwan and I do see each other naked on a day-to-day basis.)
Gray’s in on it; I just know it. She still has a thing for Fenta-rooney. Paulina’s innocent--she loves to spread rumors, period.
“...so. You don’t have feelings for me anymore?” asks Jazz. She really doesn’t miss anything.
“I hope you’re not hurt,” I smile bashfully. “Someone else...t-that girl. She took me by surprise.
“I can’t get her out of my mind. You do understand, don’t you?” I ask. “No hard feelings?”
Jazz covers her mouth, her eyes shining with emotion. “Give me a few minutes to...compose myself, Dash.” She runs out.
I guess she took it harder than I thought.
= * = = * = = * = = * = = * = = * = = * = = * = = * = = * = = * =
Once in the sanctity of my bedroom; I hop onto my bed, grab Bearbert, and...laugh. The nightmare is over!
Dash has let me go. I don’t believe it.
Even though Dash is basically an extra Danny to me--minus certain ghost powers--I wouldn’t have minded his crush so much. In fact, except for the bullying of my brother and other nerds--and the invasion of personal space--I have to say: it was actually kind of cute.
Now, with him focused on his prank war with Danny--which I already knew about and thankfully stayed out of--Dash really isn’t bullying anymore. He’s matured into something that’s almost dateable.
I did want to help Danny; he looked so forlorn....
= * =
“But Jazz....” Danny was covered in orange glop, which had the consistency of Nickelodeon slime. “He’s gone too far! You’ve got to help me....”
“Oh, no. I’m not taking sides in a prank war--especially one that you started.
“You and Dash have to work this out yourselves.” I chuckled slightly.
Danny’s eyes widened. “We don’t have a thing!”
“Maybe if you hadn’t spread that rumor about him being gay,” Sam quipped, “people wouldn’t be thinking that about you.”
“Whose side are you on? Did you forget about the meat locker incident!?”
“No. I didn’t.” Sam blushed, remembering hot dogs and sausages in...questionable places.
“Dude, that was two months before we called prank war,” noted Tucker. “The hot dog thing was a separate--and well-deserved--hit,” he added, glaring at Sam. When it comes to meat, those two will never agree.
“My guess was that I’d ruined Dash’s little meal at the Nasty Burger,” seethed Sam.
I decided to inject a bit of logic into the conversation. “You and your PETA activist friends dumped gallons of fake blood all over him--and other diners.”
“Including me. I still taste like ketchup.” Tucker stuck out his tongue in mild disgust.
“What about the lives of those innocent cows!?” ranted Sam. “You all have blood on your heads!”
“Moving this back on topic,” sighed Danny wearily. “Jazz, I need your help to end this prank war with me as the winner.”
“No.”
“What!?”
“I think this prank war is boorish and juvenile, Danny. However, as long as Dash is trying to outwit you--and you him--he isn’t bullying anyone.”
“So that’s why Rodney and his gang are committing pranks in your name,” smiled Tucker.
“Along with the band nerds, the anime nerds, and the computer and math geeks....” Sam rolled her eyes. “It’s like the whole unpopular segment of the school has silently agreed to rise up against Dash’s reign of terror.
“Congratulations, Danny. You’re covered in the Gooze of revolution.”
My brother gave Sam a thin, sardonic grin, grabbing a handful of glop. “Here, Sam. Have some revolutionary goop.” He gently flung said goop onto Sam’s face, and walks out of his room.
“...gross....” Sam disgustedly tried to wipe the goop off her.
= = =
While I won’t miss having Dash chase after me at all, I’d like to help him out with this girl at least. Someone’s got to show him why his usual approach is wrong. No wonder he has no steady girlfriend.
For one thing, his personal space invasion must be stopped.
= = =
Jazz is back; she looks...happy? Hmph. Must be in denial.
“So,” she asks, “have you told this girl how you feel?”
“No!” Suddenly I’m thinking that Jazz isn’t as smart as I thought. “You think I’m going to open myself up to her after having been an ass to her and her friends all this time? Only to have her verbally gut me like an eggplant?” I’d say trout, but this girl’s almost a vegan.
“You’ve got to let her know; not only for her, but for yourself. At least then the two of you know where you stand.”
“Presuming she believes me....” What is this crap, Jazz? Watching too much Degrassi Junior High?
“Dash, hear me out. I know how stupid I sound,” she adds, reading my expressions correctly. “Unfortunately, it’s true.
“You said your thoughts are consumed by this girl, right?”
I nod. Those thoughts tell my hands to drift to places they shouldn’t be. My bed sheets have been sticky every morning since it happened.
“If you’re worried about telling her flat-out how you feel,” sighs Jazz, “then write her a letter. You can sign it ‘Your Secret Admirer’.”
“Me? Mushy love letter? These elements do not mix,” I scoff. “Besides, how do I deliver it without it being mistaken for a random salvo in the prank war?”
Yes, Jazz; I know Fentina and I could end the prank war. “How about short little notes?” she suggests aloud after her muttering. “Girls like subtlety in a boyfriend. And your current strategy of ‘Hey.... You like quarterbacks?’ is not working.”
Damn--do I really sound that dumb? Jazz is right. Besides, the girl I like is fit, but she hates sports. No point even asking that question.
“I could do that,” I smile. Nothing mushy or flowery. I’d just have to keep it clean. I’ll borrow Kwan’s Kinky Thesaurus. It’s worked for him faithfully since he compiled it in the sixth grade.
“And how long you keep up the ‘Secret Admirer’ angle is all up to you,” Jazz continues.
“Sure.” It won’t be long. She’ll start thinking it’s Fenton, and I can’t compete with him when it comes to her....
= = =
“A note?” I skim the note. Interesting:

I’ve been thinking about you for a while. You’d be surprised to know that I think you’re kind of sexy. Your secret admiral.
Whoever he is, he can’t spell that well....

PS: Send me something--even a “stop writing me notes, you stalker!” note will do. :)
Oh, how cute.... Handwritten emoticons.

Put it in Locker 723. That’s the only way our game can work right now. Two-way street. You in?
Hm...I have to say I’m curious. On the one hand, curiosity killed the cat. On the other hand, the cat has nine lives.
I pull the note close to my chest, smelling a bit of cologne. My “admiral” is a cheesy character. I turn to my locker, taking out my books for morning classes.
Watch out! Kitty’s on the prowl.
= = =
This stupid war ends now.
“My hair!” screams Kwan for the seventh time. “It’s. Streaked. Blond!”
“Shut it, dude--my hair’s fucking blue!” moans another player.
“Mine’s white,” cries a 270-pound linebacker. “I’m not Dennis Rodman, damn it!”
“Guys, calm down. We’ll nail Fenton for this!” I run my hands through my own hair--marred with black and red streaks. Someone in the geek legions thought I should look like Yu-Gi-Oh. However, I was able to rinse out enough of the dye to have...goth hair.
“Yep, they got you good this round, Baxter,” quips Coach Tetslaff. “It’ll take weeks to grow that dye out.”
“Those three must pay. Now!” demands a tight end.
“An example must be made,” adds Kwan. “My patience is at an end.”
“We’ll handle Fenton and Foley.” I sigh.
“Dude, what about Manson?” spits a fullback, who Manson shot down for a date. “This has her earmarks,” he adds, tousling my wet hair.
“She goth-ified you,” winces Jeff, doing his Master Shake impersonation. This sort of nerdy attachment to TV is why he’s on Special Teams.
I wonder what she’ll think of it....
“We’re leaving Manson out of the prank war,” I state. “Period.”
“She shaved me bald, man!” spits a running back. “My proud African mane!” That dude had an afro-dreadlock mix which was a lice-prone health hazard. She probably did us all a favor.
“Listen. She’s a girl. There’s nothing we can do that won’t make us look bad. Besides, the only reason she’s involved is because we involved her. We keep her out; she won’t bother to punk us anymore.
“That leaves Fenton and Foley wide open for punishment. Manson’s the real brains behind this.”
= = =
Is that so...? I could so give Dash a loogie from up here. He can’t even see me. As Danny Phantom, I am invincible.
Why does Dash keep rubbing his new goth hair like that? It’s almost as though he...likes it.
My adversary takes off his towel, putting back on his regular clothes: black T-shirt, blue jeans, white sneakers, and the ubiquitous letter jacket. Because of his new hair, he foregoes the gel; instead raking his fingers through.
Cheerleaders are actually eyeing him. They like it. And if those girls like that, Sam would melt.
Wait a minute. What am I saying? This is Dash I’m talking about. He and Sam are oil and water.
Dash sighs; a slightly dopey, lovesick grin on his face. “...wonder if Manson got my note,” he muses. “It’d be cool if she wanted to play.”
Play? Note? Sam had a cologne-smelling note this morning.... Couldn’t be.
Dash splashes on a bit of the same cologne.
Just in case.... I see the chalkboard; and I have an idea. A really, really awful idea....
= = =

BEWARE...!

IF U VALUE YOUR LIVES...

U WILL LEAVE DANIEL FENTON AND TUCKER FOLEY BE....

AND FOR U...DASHIELL BAXTER....
I’m watching this freaky ghost writing on the chalkboard--after he erased our plays! Who the fuck calls me Dashiell!?
The ghost continues:

U WILL NEVER BOTHER SAMANTHA MANS--*
Kwan finally figures out that a ghost is pranking us--either that, or Fenton’s outdone himself.
He’s taking no chances. “Ah! Ghost!” Kwan shrieks.
Neon pink and green lasers were fired at the chalkboard.
“Did someone say ‘ghost’!?” demands flimsy Fentonio’s super-sized dad, in all his orange HAZMAT jumpsuit glory.
Another ghost hunter, some hottie in black and red, appears. “Show yourself, ghost! You can’t hide from me.”
“Oh, fuck!” I hear someone whisper. Sounds a bit like Danny Phantom. I hope he’s not on Fenton’s side in this prank war--we can’t beat him.... He goes all invisible and stuff....
“He’s getting away, hon,” says Fenton’s lusciously-hot mom. Damn that clingy blue jumpsuit.
“After him!” commands Mr. Fenton. Fenton’s parents pursue the still-invisible ghost.
“Oh, no: that ghost is mine! I know that ecto-trail anywhere....” The black-and-red hottie follows after Amity Park’s resident ghost hunters.
Another ghost appears, frightening the team again. He looks lame, like some construction worker or something.
The ghost reads the chalkboard. “Hey! I am the Box Ghost!” he fumes. “And ‘beware’ is my catchphrase!”
The “Box Ghost” flies around, then stops right in front of Kwan. “Beware!” he screams, causing Kwan(he’s such a wuss sometimes) to squeal like a little girl.
He floats over to me. “Accept no substitutes,” he warns me before leaving the locker room.
= = =
It’s so amusing watching Sam get mad at Danny.
“And...?” Sam scowls.
“...I won’t use my ghost powers to prank Dash and his friends because my parents, Valerie, and possibly even the Guys in White will be on my ass--putting the whole school in danger,” pouts Danny, trapped inside the Fenton Thermos.
“And...?” continues Sam, tapping her foot.
“I will never, ever, under any circumstances call you that which henceforth shall be known as the One Name That is Not to be Spoken in Reference to You.” Danny sighs. “Will you please let me out now!?”
“I suppose that will appease some part of my wrath.” Sam frees Danny from the Thermos.
Someone taps my shoulder; I turn around to face...an angry Box Ghost. Damn; I thought it was Dash.
“Guys,” I sigh in a bored tone, “Box Ghost.”
“Hey!” spits said lame ghost, pointing an accusing finger at Danny. “You have stolen my copyrighted and trademarked catchphrase....”
“What!?” Danny zaps Boxy into the Thermos. “You can’t copyright ‘beware’!” Danny rolls his eyes as he powers down.
“Danny, companies have copyrighted dumber words than that,” I note.
“Maybe, Tuck; but he’s dead. What’s he going to gain from royalties?”
“...boxes?” quips Jazz.
“Leave the wry, sardonic wit to me, Jazz,” grins Sam.
Danny snorts. “Now, Sam: about that note. You promised to tell me about it during lunch. It’s about that time.”
Sam smiles, blushing slightly. “It’s from a secret admirer--who can’t spell.”
“It was easy enough to read that you liked what he had to say,” scowls Danny. Knowing my friend as well as I do, I’m guessing jealousy. Which for Danny and Sam hook-up purposes is a good thing.
Sam loses her smile. “I’m curious.”
“Can I read it?” asks Danny.
“You mean you haven’t already?” spits Sam, eyes glittering.
“I’m respecting your privacy.” Danny winces, tensing his fists.
“Then please continue doing so. I’d really appreciate it.”
Time for me to break up the tension--and get a peek at that note! “Danny,” I say aloud, walking up to Sam, “if Sam wants to keep her little love note a secret, she should be able--got it!”
Snatching the letter from Sam, I bolt, with Danny--holding the Thermos--behind me.
= = =
Jerks. Jerks. Jerks!
“All I want to know,” says Danny, who I’m angry with for being nosy, “is if you answered the guy’s note.” I scowl at him as he returns my note.
“Do you think his cologne is ‘sexy’?” adds Tucker, waggling his eyebrows. I seethe. I’m furious with him for taking his general inclination towards stupid one step too far.
I adopt my best Mandy impression. “To answer you both: none of your fucking businesses.” Grabbing my salad, I leave for some fresh air.
Better to do that than ruin a good friendship with harsh words. Especially over a note from a guy I don’t even know.
I did answer the note, but I still find it weird that Dash’s locker is the drop-off point. Dash is actually good at playing crude mind games--he has to be in order to psych out other teams.
He certainly managed one on Danny--who got all “stoo-pid” during Dash’s party last year. From what Danny told me, the fun was sucked out of the party before Technus arrived. Somehow, I can’t be too angry at Dash about switching the stupid dress code on Danny--especially now.
“Want some Bac-Os?” grins Dash, behind me.
“Get away, Oscar Mayer,” I hiss, covering my salad.
Dash backs away. “There is another hot dog joke to be made here,” he sighs whimsically, probably referring to the fact that I’m bent over to shield my food from bacon bits, “but I can be a gentleman.
“I’ll even be forgiving about what you did to my hair,” he adds, his face close to mine.
I back away slightly--taking my salad with me--and pull myself into a sitting position. Dash leans back on the grass, next to me; a bemused little smirk plays on his face.
After a few minutes of peace and quiet--how weird it is, to not notice Dash--I notice a soft, almost-tickling pressure moving up my thigh. Pleasant, yet unsettling; because the movement moves toward...dangerous waters.
I note a white-socked foot nudging my skirt up, that foot belonging to Dash, who had apparently taken off his sneakers. It seems that he fell asleep--no. He’s very much awake, if his big toe is nudging there.
While a part of me admires his athletic flexibility, (and a part of me is aroused for obvious reasons) the bulk of me plans to throttle him. But lunch is nearly over, and in being a perv, Dash has held onto his title as Lord of the Jerks--thus sparing my friends from such an honored distinction.
I stand abruptly, cutting off his fun. “Thanks for keeping me company, Dash,” I smile thinly.
Dash makes a mocking kissy-face at me. “Anytime, baby.” He returns my peeved smile.
I leave, heading back inside the school. Heh. In a warped, quirky little way; I think we both meant what we said.
Kind of...fun.
= = =
He thinks I’m stupid. Thinks I can’t read him; wouldn’t understand him.
Fact is, though: I’m his best friend. Dash is basically my kid brother. (I’ve got him by two months.)
Consequently, I know his tastes in girls. He’s not picky about breast size, but proportion and shape. The girl has to be smarter than he is. Those are aspects I know because he’s told me, more or less.
What Dash doesn’t tell me--or what he really tries to hide, anyway--is that he’s into.... Girls that are...well, “feisty”. He doesn’t necessarily like these girls, but they make him uncomfortable. That gives him a kind of charge.
Dash and I both know a girl like that. And I’m going to poke at him until he more or less admits it.
“...now will you please let this fucking subject die?” demands Dash.
“No. It’s weird, but you two kind of go together.” I try another tack. “What do you think of Sam’s breasts?”
Dash’s reactions...always so funny. He slurps a bit more strawberry milk than he planned, calmly sets down the carton, turns to me--scowling--gulps down his mouthful of milk, takes a deep breath, and sighs.
“Manson’s aren’t big,” he observes sedately. “They’re just the biggest things on her body. That makes it kind of cute.
“Probably interesting for sucking purposes.” Dash absently licks his lips, more than likely imagining her liking it.
“Hm....” I pull from my carton of chocolate milk.
“There are a lot of advantages to being with girls of her build,” I continue after a moment. “Sam did a stretch--*”
“--and knocked out two basketball teammates out for the season, they craned their necks so hard. Kwan....” Dash is so predictable. No, I’m not joining the basketball team. I’m no Yao Ming.
“The basketball team will get players in time for the season,” I reassure him.
“One of them was our starting forward,” Dash winces. “I’ll have to rotate and play both forward positions.”
“Maybe Tetslaff could find a way to free up the shooting guard position. Jeff wants point; point wants to score more, so he wants shooting. Shooting’s only seen three weeks of starting lineup action--he wants your forward position.”
“Tetslaff can’t afford to start the freshman in power. He’s green.”
“But she’d be more willing to let you show him the ropes; let him do the lion’s share of both forward positions...if you were busier.” Like with a girlfriend, Dash. Take the hint.
“I could always say that I need to focus on my schoolwork.” Dash and I both snort at this. “As if.”
“You silly card....” It’s funny. I’m one of the only five people in the whole school who knows that Dash isn’t a big idiot. Which is kind of stupid, given the fact that normally you can’t be in the athletic department unless you’ve got a C-minus average.
With that D average he had last year, though, most people thought it was a miracle he got promoted--let alone still on the football and basketball teams. Most people don’t know him.
Inside Dash’s head are a few switches. One of them is Eddie Haskell-mated-to Dobie Gills. He still has his voice, but it has a “golly, gee-whiz; Mister” quality to it, like the teenage boys in those ‘50s sitcoms. The teachers eat it up like so much nostalgia candy.
(I’m glad he’s on my side.) Principal Ishiyama and Lancer weren’t quite as impressed, so he still had to study his ass off. He managed to convince them to hold his summer school sessions during the year; basically, Dash stayed after for summer school classes the entire spring semester.
And the gang is still together...minus Cindy and Val. I kind of miss Valerie. She’s probably still mad. And as for Cindy, at least she hasn’t haunted the school yet.
At any rate, I won’t let Dash end up bitter and alone. Sam’s almost a perfect fit. “Dash,” I smile. “What’s one thing that Sam’s got going for her?”
“You’re still hung up on this?” balks Dash. Silly goose, of course I am.
“Just name one,” I plead.
Dash sighs. “With Manson, I know where she stands. Blue is blue, apples are apples, and meat is for bloodthirsty monsters like me and Tucker Foley.”
He laughs. “Which means that for the most part, she won’t change who she is just to please somebody; or act like someone she’s not. If she changes, it’s her thing. That’s awesome.
“I sound kind of mature. Yuck.”
“It happens periodically. You could just ask her to hang with you after school....” Take the damn hint....
“Dude. We are oil and water. Oil and water! We do not mix. I am the Exxon Valdez spill; she is the pristine waters of the Pacific. She hates my guts.
“And quite frankly, I feel more comfortable with our ‘relationship’ staying that way.”
“Uh-huh....” I finish my milk, watching as Dash’s cheekbones turn red. Dash’s problem is that the whole “I’m into Sam(that is “Manson”) but I’ll never admit it” thing has been building for over a year.
Something’s got to give. I have eyes on you, my friend....
= = =
I wonder if she’ll let me.... Part of the game, right?
Ooh, here she comes....
“Dash!” Damn, that’s starting to sound kind of nice.... “I...didn’t expect you at your locker so soon...” she stammers.
“With it being between second and third period, I’ve got to get my books. Why wouldn’t I go to my locker?” I scoff, knowing full well why she’s there.
I lean in close to her. Really close. “Hope you weren’t planning to prank me,” I smile sweetly, touching the back of her neck. Very. Soft. Skin. “Lot of trouble convincing the guys not to bother you--especially after the hair thing....”
Manson rolls her eyes. “I’m out of it,” she scoffs. She’s so...kissable isn’t the exact word I want to use. I’d prefer something more involved.
The key to getting that--in part--lies in how well I can play dumb to the whole note game. Manson’s smart enough to wonder why the drops are made between her locker and mine. If she figures out that I’m the recipient of the notes she drops into my locker(and she’s written me some doozies--yum...!), I’m sunk.
This’d be so much easier if I could smoothly pass notes in class. Plausible deniability, as the note changes several hands between sender and recipient. But after seeing what Lancer did to Ernie and Sakura when they were passing love notes--and theirs were of the ooey-gooey/lovey-dovey variety(...freshmen)--I don’t plan on being exposed like that.
Short of a drug bust--not a one in Casper High history(minus the ghosts, Amity Park’s a real sleepy town....)--nobody’s going to search our lockers. Got to play this part of the game until she’s used to us as a thing. Hell, until I’m used to...us.
“So what were you planning to put in my locker?” I scowl, backing away from her. How will she answer this?
Manson levels one of her patented gothic scowls at me, sticking the note back inside her textbook. Judging from those rosy cheekbones and shoulders, though; I know the note’s a response to my little dare:

Hey, Hotness. Despite what you say; I still think the “blond jock strap”, as you call him, might be a contender for your heart. Call me insecure, but I want to see if he can please you like a man should. If I end up losing to him, at least I know you’re happy--and in good hands.

If Dash ever asks you if he can “eat out”, just let him. I can feel that C-spot of yours twitching. Let me know either way. YSA. ;D
= = =
I can’t believe I did that. Wait--revising statement. I’ve always been curious about oral sex. What I can’t believe is that I let him do that....
Not only did he pull a Gene Simmons between my legs this morning, but I enjoyed it. With him.
Dash Baxter. Very disturbing....
In all fairness to Dash, I feel that I more or less owe him something. When itches hit you like this, you’ve got to scratch.

Going to do one better than what you asked: I’m going to check out his plumbing--if that’s okay with you. >:D
Ooh, I’m dirty.... This is what happens when you have two male best friends.
Since my run-in with Dash in the halls last time, I have to be more careful. I make sure the coast is clear, then slip in my note.
I note my watch, letting me know that it’s lunchtime. Considering I might have to swallow a lot of other things, I may as well start with my pride.
Especially since I’ll have to ask Paulina for...help.
= = =
I knew she’d come, sooner or later. Star owes me twenty bucks--I banked on today.
She scowls at me. “How egregiously do you want me to ingratiate myself?” she asks.
I laugh airily. “Now, now; I don’t want you to say anything you don’t mean.” I do want her to admit what she’s doing and who she’s doing it with, but that would be asking too much of her. It’s taken a lot just for her to come to me.
I have my suspicions. So do most of the kids at school, who think that Madame Goth here is plotting to seduce her precious dork at last. They are wrong.
No real proof, but I’ve noticed things.... like Dash and Manson lagging behind in laps during gym this morning. Took fifteen minutes for them to make their last lap.
How stupid do they think we are? They could have made a flour sack in that time.(Ever since the Health Sciences class last year, that’s become sort of a code word....) Dash probably could have passed if off as fatigue, but then he licked his lips and ogled her like he was some evil cartoon cat or something. Manson...she looked alive for once, so I know something went down.
Not sure whether she went down on Dash or vice-versa, but they did something crazy this morning.
“...I need to know if....” Manson swallows air. “...you have the March back issue of....”
She draws close to my ear. “Cosmopolitan...” she hisses in disgust. She hates this magazine.
I smile sweetly at her. “I’m just curious as to why you would need Cosmo.”
“I usually hate this magazine,” she scowls, “but it does have a few redeeming qualities--more than I can say for some.” She quirks an overgrown, bushy eyebrow at me.
“It has a decent section on...sex techniques,” Manson continues, blushing. “I know that the March issue has articles on fellatio, but I left my copy at home.”
“You’re into oral sex!?” balks Star, making Manson blush harder.
“Relax,” I smile, “it’s just us three girls here. And I’ll be happy to lend you my copy.
“On one condition--and this is to help you: let Star and me take wax and tweezers to those woolly eyebrows.” I feel it’s my duty as a woman to make other girls a little prettier--even hopeless causes like Miss “I’m-Not-Some-Shallow-Insipid-Girl-With-Ronald-McDonald-Eyebrows”.
Manson rolls her eyes. “...never mind,” she scoffs as she leaves us to our lunch in peace.
Oh well. If she begrudgingly reads Cosmo, there just may be hope for her yet.
= * = = * = = * = = * = = * = = * = = * = = * = = * = = * = = * =
...plumbing...? What’s she up to?
Guess the only way I’ll find out is if I answer the note. Too bad Kwan’s right next to me, or I’d write. (He loves to read over my shoulder.) I’ll have to answer her in class.
“I’ve been thinking about the oil and water thing,” says Kwan. (Imagine that: him, thinking.) “I don’t believe we got it all right.
“The oil’s more like olive oil, I think,” he continues, pouring some of said oil into a water bottle. And Sam’s personality is more like vinegar than water.” He pours the vinegar; the oil floats neatly atop the vinegar.
I shrug. “You’ve proven my point nonetheless. We don’t mix.”
“Granted.” Kwan takes the bottle of oil/vinegar to Manson, scowling over her dry salad; I follow behind.
“Hey, Sam,” Kwan grins, somewhat crudely. (He’s still pissed about the residual blond streaks in his hair.) “Relax; this is just olive oil and vinegar. Dash says they don’t go together.”
“Dash would rather devour the flesh of innocent animals,” Manson states coolly. I started to make a comment about how I devoured her innocent flesh during gym this morning(and she was delicious), but with Kwan trying to make subtle points here, I thought better of it.
“He wouldn’t be caught dead eating a salad,” she continues. Sure I would--if it’s on top of a burger; sandwiched neatly inside a warm, crusty baguette. (No more Alton Brown for me.)
Kwan hands Manson the oil and vinegar; she shakes it together.
“Haven’t you two heard of a vinaigrette?” she smiles whimsically as she finishes shaking the oil and acetic acid together.
Manson splashes said vinaigrette (and yes, I do know what a vinaigrette is--thanks to both Alton and Kwan’s fascination with Iron Chef)over her edible foliage.
“You can shake them together like this,” she says innocently, “or you can leave them separate. Either way, oil and vinegar taste great together over a bed of lettuce.” Gathering a forkful of vinaigrette-moistened veggies, Manson lifts the salad-laden fork to my parted lips.
...that dressing doesn’t taste half bad. Or the lettuce, carrots, and that grape tomato. “You make a good point, Manson,” I admit. At least she isn’t depriving herself. If she’d just leave my diet alone, she’d be almost cool.
Not that it really matters who we date; it’s just that seniors usually get first pick, so all the obvious geek hotties are taken(and I mean that in every fucking sense of the word). Damn the seniors.
With that in mind, it should be obvious to even Fen-tonio why I’m downplaying Manson--even to the point of calling her Manson. (Despite the fact that she gets pissed off by being called by her real name--and I love pissing her off....)
I’d really like to go steady with her; haven’t felt like this in a while.
Kwan and I leave Manson to her salad, returning to our lunch. Resolving to deal with Fenton and Foley after school(their latest prank: setting up our lunches to shoot condiments in our faces); we calmly take what dry napkins we find, wipe our faces, and leave the courtyard.
“So,” grins Kwan, “you were right. Oil and vinegar don’t really mix.”
“Duh.” I roll my eyes.
“Still.” Kwan pulls me to his side, a huge grin on his face. “Things don’t always have to mix to go together.
“But somehow, my friend, I think you’ve already figured that out.” Winking at me, Kwan leaves.
That jackass somehow knows I was making a smoothie with Manson’s nectarine this morning.
= = =
“Star, this is stupid!” I wince. It’s my ghost hunt day; and I have to track down that white-haired dope. “I’ve got plans for tonight.
“I can’t waste time in this musty old bookstore.”
“Blame Manson for being goth and having a creepy hangout like the Lurk and Skulk Bookstore.” Star rolls her eyes. “I want to know what she’s reading.”
“Why? So you can report to Paulina?” I quip.
“That, and I’m curious for myself. Haven’t you noticed that Dash hasn’t been himself lately?” asks Star.
I smile slightly. Of course I’ve noticed that Dash hasn’t been much of an ass this year. Between his prank war with Danny and his secret admirer notes to some girl usually called “Hotness”, “Lovely”, or “Cutie”; there’s not much room left for wedgie-related shenanigans. It’s either football or geek harassment for that idiot, and I still have enough respect for his puny mind to know that he loves football too much.
Most people, of course, are chalking up Dash’s bout of maturity to puberty finally reaching his brain. The fools.
Manson had left to take a potty break; we sneak on over to Manson’s table, wearing horrible goth disguises. (Star, for example, looks like a blond mime; I look like the short Crush cousin from My Life As A Teenage Robot. That was a good show--wish it’d come out on DVD....)
Star’s lower lip trembles; her cheeks redden.
I pick up a book. “Hmm: ‘The length of an adult human penis averages between five to seven inches....’ Average diameter, basic shapes, erect versus flaccid.... My dad will kill me if I read any more of this.” I’d be better off wearing the suit, and Dad still doesn’t want me hunting ghosts.
Star decides to brave another of Manson’s tomes. “...What’s a ‘forty-ounce’?” It involves adult beverages in a size appreciated by an ethnic subculture--she wouldn’t understand.
“It seems to fit with what Paulina and Manson were talking about earlier,” continues Star, “you know: fell-ah-she-oh.” Fellatio, Italian for “playing the flute”. Only Manson’s not planning on joining the school band next semester, judging by this print of “Pasiphae and the Bull” by a minor Romantic artist. (Where my grandma comes from, that’s called “barnyard lovin’”.)
Manson leaves the restroom, and we scurry back to our table. The goth stops by a counter to borrow something from the lesbian at the register. (Star had asked for some reason.) Manson sits back down at her table, casually taking out the item: a dildo. She studies between her books and some notes she scribbled. (I skimmed a few of those notes. She’s a bit excited about “sucking schlong”. Don’t even want to know what schlong means....)
The girl pops the dildo into her mouth, nursing on the end of it for a bit. In some attempt to simulate real-world conditions, Manson slowly feeds as much of the dildo as she can into her mouth; tilting her head back and sucking it in, little by little.
Star’s eyes widen; my skin heats up. “I think we should bail, before Manson starts getting into it,” she whispers. I nod in agreement, and we leave--as Manson has already started to Photoshop an image of the lucky head-receiving idiot to-be in her mind.
Can’t blame her, though. I still think of things like that with Danny.
= = =
My skin feels so hot. The shower seems to make everything--crazier.... And if he pushes it any deeper into my mouth, he’ll impregnate my tonsils.
That’s...pretty stupid.
I look languidly up at Dash, barely able to see his fuzzy outline. (Too much water in my eyes.)
It’s bigger than I’d thought(I’d always imagined Dash overcompensating for a small member....), but thankfully the size still exists in the real world. (If he’d actually had a porn-sized penis, I was going to call a doctor. That’s not healthy.) Still so stiff....
Dash had better not urinate in my mouth. That is such a turn-off.
What’s up with my brain? It has a frightful case of the sillies....
Oh, my god.... I’m starting to sound like Mom. Ew.
Dash pulls out abruptly, leaving me to suck on air....
I didn’t screw up, did I--what the hell!?
= = =
“What the hell did you rip my shirt for!?” I hear Manson yell. Her cheeks are red, her lips look like swollen black cherries, and her now-bare chest is dripping with water and sweat(and if I think of her sticky little peach right now, we won’t leave the locker room--bottom line); yet she has the nerve to wonder why I ripped open her shirt? Her drenched white spaghetti tank top, which melded to her breasts like cling wrap even before the water hit it? The same sick little shirt that revealed as much as it clothed?
She should be applauding my self-control here.
I draw Manson close, licking the water off her jaw; tasting salty-sweet skin, sweat, and shower water. “I tried to be good,” I hiss into her ear--licking it. “I wanted to stay in your mouth--felt great in there....”
“What are you doing...?” she whispers; I muffle that last part with a kiss.
“Want us to get closer,” I sigh huskily, a bit winded. “Can’t leave you hanging, baby.”
Manson still has the presence of mind to...cover there, shaking her head. If that’s supposed to be a “no”, then that explains eighty percent of the acquaintance rapes in this country. (Doesn’t excuse; just explains....) I know it’s hot; but I need words.
She leans onto my body(sending more mixed signals!). “...no...” Manson manages to pant.
“Don’t worry,” I reassure her, rubbing her shoulders(and silencing my inner frat boy incubi). “I’m not about to force you into something you don’t want.” No matter how much said inner demons yell at me to take her. If all I can get is a first down this play, I’ll get a first down.
Of course, I am in field goal range.... “Ever had it in your ass, Manson?” I whisper roughly. (Trying to stay in character as the jock who’s been happily blindsided by unsolicited kinky sex favors from the goth geek.)
She pulls back from me slightly, although still in my arms. (Where I’m beginning to like her....)
Her eyes widen with curiosity. “No; I haven’t had anything inside any part of me--except for...you know.” She’s talking about my tongue lashing exercise inside her. “I’ve always wondered what that would....” Manson blushes(all over! “I am a gentleman. I am a gentleman....”), putting a delicate finger to her lips.
“Wanna try it?” I grin crudely. “You won’t lose anything.” Okay; technically, that’s sort of a lie--sexual contact is sexual contact. I just figure that she’d rather have my seed go in her taut little ass than in the untested birth canal(where a whole new world of problems could crop up).
Please, Manson. Please let me do this. I’ve always wanted to have anal sex with a girl. I actually did it one time--with Kwan. It was a thing, over the summer. We were curious. It’s never spoken of again.
It was straightforward with Kwan. We took turns; one of us bending over while the other stuck it in. Felt...okay to me, but I really wanted to do it to a girl. Soft, supple, pliant, yielding little body; with so many buttons to push and tweak.
Kwan’s...not that. If I had ever thought I was attracted to guys, that little encounter compelled my inner queer to commit seppuku.
Now that I think about it, the stupid girls feeding on the “Fenton and I have a thing” rumor probably think that because Fenton’s girly and weak; I’d be into him. Nope. Fentina and I still have the same basic male parts; Manson, on the other hand, has...more to play with.
I want to play. With every. Single. Part.
= = =
“Liking this?” Dash grunts, then lowers his head to resume sucking my breast.
“Yeah....” I sure said a lot. Dash continues to thrust his penis inside my rectum--and he’s really been looking forward to this...!
I’ll have to remember this position...because I love it. Legs bent over partner’s shoulders, parted almost spread-eagle; vagina flush against partner’s abdomen(secretions making things as slippery as the water). Body against body, seated nearly upright....
“Hey....” In one fluid movement, Dash shrugs off my legs, then pulls us both in an upright sitting position. Why do athletes...feel the need to show off...? Yet here I am, easily amused; bouncing my butt up-and-down on his...pogo stick while he rubs my back.
I was clothed when this started.... Dash was naked.... How’d I get naked...?
“...you thinking about having Fenton do this to you...?” he smirks. How could he...?
What makes Dash think that I would superimpose Danny’s face, voice, and body over his; while he’s doing all of this...? (Never mind that; for a brief few moments, it was true.)
“...be honest, now,” Dash continues.
“And...if I was...what would you do...about it...?” I smile, studying my current partner’s eyes--also a beautiful shade of blue.
In answer, Dash lowers me gently down onto the shower floor. I’m flat on my back, looking up at him as he resumes plunging into my anus.
Sometimes I wonder.... Is Dash an angel(albeit a really bad one)...?
= = =
Fuck, fuck, fuck! Where’s the note!? Where’s that damn note?
All I have here are Gray’s stupid trig notes. Why’d that bitch have to plow me over...?
= = =
That ghost boy is so dead--if he wasn’t dead enough already. “Give me my trig notes, you son-of-a-bitch!”
The dumb ghost reads the paper. “...you’re Sam Manson’s secret admirer?” he balks.
What...? Dash. That dummy was in the way while I was chasing after this white-haired, green-eyed freak; and we got our papers mixed up.
I fly over to the ghost. “Give me that!” I spit, snatching Dash’s love note to...Sam Manson....
I take a deep breath. “I’m going to return this note to its rightful owner. Then I’ll settle my score with you.” Leaving the half-witted ghost scratching his head; I fly back toward the school, then will my suit away.
This idiot and his stupid crushes. This one with Manson looks like it’s pretty serious. Mr. Secret Admirer and Manson have been flirting by note for about two months.
But what does this mean for Danny? Is Manson letting him go completely?
Dash is heading over here, probably with my trig notes. I would not have thought he could fall in love like that...not since Cindy.
“Hand over my note and no one gets hurt,” Dash scowls.
“Relax, lover boy,” I smile slyly, making Dash blush and fume. “I want my trig notes first.”
“Done.” He disgustedly hands over my notes, and I hand him his little sweet nothing to the goth. (I was tempted to hold it over his head, but he might have been pissed off enough to shred the trig notes--and I plan on going to college. My toil at the Nasty Burger is going to pay off.)
He starts to walk off, then halts. “Hey, Gray!”
“What?” I demand.
“Not a soul knows about this.”
I roll my eyes at his “secrecy”. “What makes you think I care?”
I’ve known for a while that Dash was writing dirty notes to someone--and that Manson was responding to dirty notes from someone--but only today did I get the connection. The only reason why I didn’t connect the dots sooner was that I didn’t give a shit.
= = =

Lady Delicious, the time has come for you to meet the mind behind these cheesy come-ons. We’ll learn more about each other face to face. Under the bleachers, after school.

Though I want to warn you: Don’t be startled if you already know a bit about me. ;D -- YSA
Startled...? Doesn’t he mean surprised? I do have an idea of who my admirer could be--I just hope I’m wrong.
My chances of being wrong are very slim. Maybe I shouldn’t go.
Then again, if I hadn’t been so curious the first time I’d kissed him--which was, of course, only to break the hold Ember’s love spell had on Danny--I wouldn’t remotely suspect Dash.
I had to break Danny’s love spell-besotted heart, so the kiss had to be convincing. Stupid Dash.... When I kissed him, his lips were parted; his tongue was kind of wet.... I slid in my tongue, wanting a bit of open-mouth kissing experience out of this. (Hey, if I have to kiss someone I don’t like, I ought to get something out of it!) He responded, moving his tongue inside my mouth. And sadly, it convinced Danny.
I wonder to this day if Danny thinks there might have been something to that kiss. And after the last couple of...things...with Dash, I’m beginning to wonder that myself.
Chalking it up to hormones just seems to be a cheat; an easy out to me. Could be that my curiosity has once again gotten the best of me.
Just the sheer thrill of being wanted excites me; discovering that I’ve consumed someone’s thoughts to the point that they want me to pleasure...a guy I don’t like.
Which, obviously, doesn’t make much sense--unless my admirer is that guy.
One way or another, I’ve got to go. I do hope I’m wrong. Although....
I am starting...to dislike him less.
= = =
“May I see you after class--*” I hear Mr. Fenton gasp, wondering what he did to earn my disapproval. Yet once in a blue moon, he and his associates are not waxing idiotic; I have no quarrel with him--as of yet.
No, the student I wish to speak with is more reasonable--although not quite as studious as I’d like him to be. “--Mr. Baxter,” I finish, treating myself to Fenton’s mild sigh of relief.
“...sure thing, Mr. Lancer.” Baxter grants me a small, confused smile.
Class ends, and my students disperse.
Mr. Baxter remains at his desk, bashful yet agitated. “Is this gonna take long?” he winces.
“Am I detaining you from something, Mr. Baxter?” I adopt this gently-smiling sleepwalker’s expression, one students hate.
“Kind of....” Mr. Baxter looks out the window. “I’m meeting somebody after school.”
“And you’re concerned about being late to your appointment.” I sigh. “I wonder sometimes, if you’ve ever considered the consequences of being late to your classes.”
Considering that he’s a fine athlete--and I do love football and school spirit--I’m usually willing to grant Mr. Baxter and his teammates a bit of leeway. (Moreso than the bulk of the student body. A bit unfair, some say; but such is life.)
However, he has been late to two classes in a row. Mr. Baxter has written missives to some feminine other in this school over the past few months, one of which I confiscated. (He’s still burning about that one.) At the time, I had said nothing, as he at least paid me the courtesy of not passing the note in my class.
Ms. Tetslaff had also voiced concerns about Mr. Baxter--and Miss Manson’s, oddly enough--fifteen-minute lap. (A lap that also made both students late for their next classes.) As vice-principal, I have to--at the very least--feign concern about their academic progress. (Not that I don’t actually care--I do. However, I’ve never been very good at making my concern their concern.)
Ten minutes pass without a word between us.
Mr. Baxter eyes me wearily. “Haven’t you ever been in love?” he sighs in exasperation. He then covers his mouth; apparently what he blurted out wasn’t meant for my ears.
I study the embarrassed boy. “The wilderness of passion is an exhilarating and special place; I am certain, Mr. Baxter.
“And with that said, I strongly advise you to realize that if you wish to partake of its fruits undisturbed,” I continue, “then you had best remember your responsibilities here in the real world.”
Mr. Baxter blushes, granting me a friendly, apologetic grin. “Guess I have been a little distracted, sir,” he admits.
“So I’ve noticed. Would you like to talk about it?” I ask.
Baxter gives me a look similar to Fenton’s. “...no?”
Naturally. What was I thinking? Students don’t talk to teachers about their lives. “You may go, Mr. Baxter.”
“Thank you, sir. Won’t happen again.” Baxter bolts out of my classroom, returning momentarily to retrieve his books.
After all: it’s Friday, and he’s found a possible girlfriend.
= = =
“If your goal was to keep me waiting,” says Manson peevishly as I gently clamp my hands over her eyes, “then it worked. I don’t think it has the effect you want, though.”
“Don’t know about that,” I hiss into her ear. “You did wait, didn’t you?”
“For an hour, it seems like.” It’s only been fifteen minutes, but I definitely relate to her. “Are you going to tell me who you are,” she continues, “or do I have to guess?”
I feel her eyes rolling beneath my hands; in other words, she’s guessed the damned obvious. Maybe I should have given her a few dares to fool around with Fenton, to throw her off the scent. Yeah, right: so I’ll never see her again.
Last thing I need is thoughts of Manson moaning “Oh, Danny....” after all of my hard work. (And yes, I do know the dork’s real name.)
I release Manson’s eyes, pulling her close to me; her back flush to my chest. “I think we should start dating.”
She snorts out a laugh. “And kill all of our friends? You could survive--you have a nicely-sized entourage--but I only have two really good friends. I’m not ready to lose them.”
“Who says that it’s anybody else’s business?” I grin. “Did you tell your buddies who I am?”
“No, Dash,” says Manson wryly, outing me. “I didn’t tell them that I’d long suspected you were my secret ‘admiral’.” Geez: “admiral”, “admirer”--aren’t they the same thing? Snotty little know-it-all goth with a creamy, sensuous neckline....
“My friends suspect, but they have no proof; I have tons of plausible deniability,” I smirk.
Manson turns to face me, placing her arms around my shoulders. “So we date in secret.” She likes this idea....
So do I. “Yeah.”
= = =
Who is this guy? Sam’s dating...him. She’s dating her secret admirer(and still trading notes with him, damn it!) and she still won’t tell me who he is.
I’ve actually had a whole weekend without a single ghost. Spent Friday night gaming with Tuck. Now, I’ll have some time alone with Sam. And hopefully, she’ll tell me more about this guy.
I pick up the phone, calling Sam. I know to call her cell phone rather than her home--she’s hardly there since he came along. (Yeah, I’m being a total heel.) “...hello, Sam; it’s me.
“...I’m so amazed; I thought you’d moved out....” To be with him. I hope he’s not a senior. “...sorry. That came out wrong.
“Look. Maybe we need to spend some time together, just the two of us.... It’ll take me about five minutes--you know that....” Yes, Sam, being able to fly has its upside--even if a downside is that my dad or ex-girlfriend might decide to shoot at me.
“Where will we go...? Oh--anywhere you’d--hold on.” No. Not the blue wisp of ghost sense. Weekend shot, yet again. “...I’ll call you back later, Sam. Have to punch the time card....” I hang up.
I am going ghost, and I will so paste the ghost who ruined this for me.
= = =
...she doesn’t really live here. Look at this place; it’s so normal. Too unexpected, even for Manson. It’s a nice, comfy place; it just doesn’t feel like it’s been lived in all that much. Not like I’d expect her family home to really be.
No embarrassing mom sticking her nose in, no dad polishing the double-barrel shotgun over the mantle, no old juice stains in the carpet. I don’t even see any old photos of her and her friends mugging for the camera.
It feels more like a front lobby than someone’s home.
“Is something wrong?” Manson asks. I can’t blame her for not letting me in too close yet. I haven’t earned that privilege.
I still want to know, though. Her lap looks very comfortable, so I place my head on it. “What are you up to this weekend?” I ask.
“...I’m going to have the house all to myself,” she smiles.
Innocent girl. I’ve got plans for her; this sweet, shy creature.
= = =
“And you did this why!?” I fume at a smirking Dash. Damn him for being cute when he does that....
Dash folds a loose sheet of notebook paper, our signal. “I’ve got reasons.”
“Mind naming a few?” I am not waiting on a note, pal.
“I just think we could all benefit from getting to know you a little better.”
“You mean the way you yelled ‘Party at Fenton’s!’ last year?” I scoff. Ember, the ghost bitch I ultimately blame for this whole mess, crashed that party with Youngblood; nonetheless, why would he want to trash my place?
Unless....
I scowl at Dash, then leave with Danny and Tucker.
Tucker grins. “At least you talked your parents into getting you your own slice of suburb,” he notes.
“You have your own house,” states Danny sedately.
“Just an idea I had.” I shrug.
“So you just throw the party at that house, instead of the mansion with the bowling alley,” Tucker continues.
I shake my head bemusedly as I open my locker. Unsurprisingly, a note flutters out.
Danny laughs ruefully. “I doubt it’s going to be that simple, Tuck,” he says, looking right at me.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I balk.
“Judging from your reaction, I’m guessing your boyfriend’s going to be there--and he’s going to want to see where you really live.”
“Boyfriend?” Tucker blinks. “What boyfriend? When did Sam get a boyfriend?”
“The guy Sam won’t tell us about. He’s got his marks all over her,” Danny seethes, glaring at the satin ribbon around my neck. (Underneath it are two love bites, “seals of steady” from the big dumb blond boy I’m going to kill.)
“You weren’t spying on me again, were you?” I scowl.
“I didn’t have to. Paulina noticed the bites this morning, remember?”
Of course I do. "You should invest in turtlenecks, goth. That little ribbon hides nothing. That new boyfriend didn’t waste any time marking you as his, huh?" Die, Paulina; you shallow bitch. Die....
“Haven’t you learned by now to ignore Paulina?” I spit aloud.
“Normally I would, but the two red marks on your neck are hard to miss. Either your boyfriend’s a vampire, or you lost a fight with a vacuum cleaner.”
Wrong on both counts, Danny; unless there’s something my “boyfriend’s” not telling me....
He is a wonderful, sexy boyfriend(one who has left bright red butterflies all over my thankfully-clothed back); none of this can change the fact that he’s the royal Lord of the Jerks.
Although right now, Danny is doing his best to dethrone the sap.
= = =
“The hell with it.” Danny’s furious.
I look up at him. “Danny, you promised her that you wouldn’t.”
“I promised her that I wouldn’t use my ghost powers. I won’t let this go on--not without knowing who’s taking her away from us.” He means, of course, from him. I’m happy for Sam no matter what.
“Tucker, I don’t want to take her away from her boyfriend.” Danny, why lie? “If she has to keep him a secret from us, that means there’s something wrong with the relationship.”
This is getting stupid. “Danny,” I sigh. “If you see what’s good about her, you’ve got to know that someone else will.
“And anyway, it can’t be too hard to guess on our own who the boyfriend is; presuming we care. By the way: I don’t.”
Danny just stares at me.
“If Sam’s happy,” I continue, “then maybe we should trust her judgment. He’s not faking a European accent, whoever he is.”
Danny glares at me, then finally speaks. “It’s really not Sam at all. I have a problem with the guy.”
“The guy.” We both already have a good idea of who’s been necking Sam. The list is short. It wasn’t either of us. Kwan and Jeff are both too weird. That fullback that was flirting with her at the start of the year was shut down.
As highly improbable as it is, there’s the Sherlock Holmes dictum to think about. However improbable it may be, when you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains has got to be the truth.
“He doesn’t deserve her,” Danny says sullenly. “He shouldn’t be near her. How dare he touch her...love her...!
“Tucker, I hate him!” Okay, he’s being irrational.
“Dude, it doesn’t matter. It’s all up to Sam. She’d do the same for you, and you know it.”
“He has everything else! Does he have to have her, too?” Definitely irrational, man.
“Danny! Get a grip. He doesn’t have everything. And if you feel that strongly about it--if you really think Sam can do better--then don’t sulk. Fight!”
Now’s my chance to get this idiot and Sam together. “The party’s a perfect opportunity to show Sam other options.” Options like: Danny Fenton. Take the hint.
“You’re missing the point.” Danny looks miserable. “If Sam really loves this guy--this undeserving, unworthy jackass--and I manage to keep them apart, they’re both going to hate me for a long time.”
I’m not feeling very sympathetic. Whatever the man’s faults, he at least admires Danny Phantom. And unlike a certain Nasty Burger employee Danny’s still in love with, he’s not out to kill any of us. (Harass us for days on end, yeah--but not to kill us.)
“Forget I said anything.” I stand up, frustrated. “I’m staying out of it, Danny; you’re on your own.” I leave.
= = =

The big day. It’s the moment of truth. (Not that I love you any less. I don’t even blame you.)
I’m writing this during some dull assembly, about another standardized test to determine my fate after high school. Spring break starts next week, and I’ll have her all to myself.
I hope.

Look. I don’t even know where you really live. It’s just not in that house. My friends still don’t know about us(and they won’t). I probably don’t really deserve your trust. I may not even deserve you. The fact is, though: I love you. You have my heart; I’m still a selfish enough asshole to demand your trust.
This is low, even for me--tugging at her conscience. But it is the truth.

We had several parties last year--not counting dances at school. The first you didn’t come to because Fenton was too stupid to invite you. (So many girls, dressed like you. Creepy.) The second one, none of you came by. Life just doesn’t feel right without your sardonic face. |D The third--at Fenton’s--got crashed by ghosts.

There are times when I just want you around, times when you--just by being you--cheer me up. And anyway, you need to quit being so shy. Show off for once, Luscious. I’m taking you on a trip--enjoy the ride.

Love. -- D
Ending it with love and cheese.
= = =
I read his stupid note. He has the gall to admit being an asshole; I think on some level he’s proud of it.
With me, it doesn’t involve love so much. (I do love him, but I don’t know the level or intensity of that love--I don’t know him well enough to say.) Instead, it’s curiosity; it’s me wanting to know more about him.
It’s as though he’s telling me a really good, engrossing story; it grows more and more interesting as it progresses. Then the jerk stops right at a pivotal point.
I...I need to know. He’s not being fair. I need to know how this story ends. I need to know how much I love him.
Not only for his sake, but also Danny’s. I love Danny very much; I should at least know all of my feelings before I decide--because either way, I’m breaking a heart.
The bell rings, and Paulina approaches me. Can’t choose the man’s friends....
“So, where are we headed?” she asks.
I sigh. “We’re all going to our homes to get ready; the party isn’t until seven.”
“Right, but we don’t know where you live.”
“We’ll meet inside the Nasty Burger at five-thirty. Then I’ll lead the way to my house.”
“Okay.” Paulina saunters off. Glad she’s gone.
Looks like I’ll have a few more hours to make my decision.
I see him over there, a smug little grin on his face. So handsome. What’s wrong with me...? I don’t even know how to feel anymore.
Maybe I am in love.
= = =
So...this is how the ultra bicycle-vegetable lives. Very posh.
As I notice Manson blushing the way she is--in a non-Addams Family formal dress for once--I wonder what else she’s hiding.
Aside from the obvious, not-a-secret-at-all thing she has with Dash; the dummy trying pointedly to avoid her. She hovers around her two geek friends, who are the only ones(besides me) not acting like kids at Disney World for the first time. (When you’re accustomed to the finer things of life from infancy, you’re not wowed by opulence at others’ homes.)
“Where’d you hear rumors about an indoor bowling alley, Kwan?” asks Manson, giving Foley a sideways glare.
“I...can’t really say,” winces Kwan. My guess is that he cornered Foley and...pressed him for some details.
Manson snorts. “Does it really look like there’d be a bowling alley in my--oh, no,” she groans, noting a secret panel revealing...a bowling alley. An old lady in a motor scooter drives out with her elderly friends--including my abuela.
“Grandma....” Manson grins stupidly. “Your game’s over already?”
“Of course,” old lady Manson snickers. “They never stood a chance.”
Emerging from the bowling alley are a group of old men who look more like whipped dogs. Obviously, they lost this round of the War of the Sexes. Puerto abuelito....
His eyes perk up on seeing me. “Paulina!”
“Hi, grandpapa....” I give both abuelos a hug.
Manson eyes this as a sign of the apocalypse. “Our grandparents know each other.”
“Si, nina, si; we bowl every week,” grins abuela to Manson. “You and mi nieta,” she adds with pride(naturally; good looks run through both halves of my family tree). “Beauty, beauty....”
I flutter my lashes, being mock-bashful--making abuela laugh. Manson rolls her eyes and stalks toward her dad.
“Where’d you learn to bowl, boy!?” complains an old man to said dad, Mr. Manson--the guy with bright yellow Willy Wonka hair.
“Your grandfather’s rolling in his grave,” crows another codger.
Mr. Manson sighs. “I just had to play Dad’s spot,” he mutters. “Never mind the fact that I can’t bowl....”
“Dad,” scowls Manson. “Shouldn’t you be upstairs with Mom, her sorority sisters, and their spouses?”
“Considering their party is doubling as your debutante ball, shouldn’t you?” grins Mr. Manson crudely.
Manson sighs, beaten. “You’re right.” She turns to us, her guests, after Mr. Manson and the senior citizens leave the den. “You all want to watch some movies?”
Amid answers of “sure” and “yeah”, Manson reveals the movie theater, where Foley and Kwan are already entertaining themselves...with Bible Black.
“What the hell!?” balks Manson. “Tucker!” She yanks Foley away, possibly to her secret torture chamber for the terminally stupid. (That geek definitely qualifies.) Fenton follows after, equally annoyed with Foley. (He’s kind of cute like that...for a dork.)
Kwan, oblivious to the disappearance of his Japanese cartoon porn watching partner, is still eyeing Minase and his latest conquest. “Ooh! She’s gonna feel that in the morning....”(Yes, I’ve seen this stupid movie before.)
Dash is sneaking off while everyone else(mostly guys) is distracted by Bible Blegh. I’d rather see where he’s going....
= = =
What are the three amigos talking about now...? Manson’s upset with Foley.
“Did you have to mention the bowling alley!?” she groans.
Foley grins stupidly. “Wanted us to ride the wave while it lasts, man.” He drops the grin. “Besides, Kwan can be very persuasive. Very. Persuasive.” Foley rubs his head.
My guess? Kwan deployed his dread Noogie Third Finger Style. It has broken nerds with thicker skulls.
“The whole school’s here, almost,” scoffs Fenton. “Except for your boyfriend,” the loser adds pointedly.
Manson scoffs. “He’s here. Probably too busy bowling.” Now I wouldn’t say that. For one thing, I hate bowling. I refuse to be seen in hideous clown shoes.
Fenton smiles at her with understanding. “Why don’t we take a break from everything?” he asks.
Manson sighs. “I really do need to lie down, especially after finding out my grandma’s friends with Paulina’s grandparents....” The girl shakes her pretty little goth head.
Tucker smirks. “You two take a break. I’m going back to watch some more hentai.” This perv will be lucky if he gets any in college.
But Manson and her geek hero alone? I don’t think so.
I “stumble” into their view as Foley leaves. “...hey, Manson,” I grin stupidly, overdoing the dumbass jock thing(though everyone would say “not by much....”). “Which way to the...you know. Had a bit too much punch, and--*”
Fenton cuts me off. He’s being a real bastard! “Two doors down, that way.” He points to my left, giving me an “I’m on to you, you son-of-a-bitch” look.
I move into his face, giving him a “what are you gonna do about it, jailbait?” look in return. “I asked Manson. It’s her house, Fen-ton.” I hope she sees I’m trying to be nice. It’s hard to let go of such a fun habit.
“Seriously,” I plead to Manson--whining a bit, “where’s the bathroom?” I really do kind of have to go....
She casually points down the hall the same way Fenton did, not even aware of our little staredown.
“Told you,” smirks Fenton, silently mouthing “dumbass” when Manson’s back is turned. Dork can be a little prick when he wants, I’ll grant him that.
“Whatever.” I dismissively wave him off as I head toward the bathroom, flipping Fenton the bird on the second wave. (I think he’s too stupid to have caught that....)
Damn, I’ve gotta pee....
= = =
That bastard’s going to pay for flipping me off.... After invisibly making sure that Dash actually went into the bathroom(did not need visual....), I phase through Sam’s house into her bedroom.
No one’s sneaking in her room to get any from Sam--not if I have anything to say about it.
Sam opens the door, finding that I beat her to her room. “You’re being overprotective again.”
“And I was right one-and-a-half times,” I scowl, folding my arms. The half being the “Gregor” thing. She of course will counter with Valerie(who broke up with me) and Paulina(who I’m over).
“Your sister doesn’t count,” hisses Sam.
“Just because you’re not my sister doesn’t mean I shouldn’t protect you. I don’t want you to be hurt.”
“Danny, my boyfriend isn’t a phony; he’s just an idiot guy. Considering I hang around idiot guys, and deal with idiot guys in letter jackets every day at school; I think I can handle him.”
If I were honest, I’d admit that I’m less worried about him hurting Sam than I sound. He was smart enough to actually convince Sam to be his; even he wouldn’t blow it. He’ll do everything in his power to make her happy.
What I’m worried about is that he’ll succeed. It’s wrong, it’s petty, and it reeks of Vlad Masters(who, if he’s still spying on me, is getting a real laugh out of all this!) for me to try to keep them apart.
But damn it, I love Sam too much just to let him make her another easy notch in his WIN column.
Sam has apparently been studying me a moment. “I think you should go now; enjoy the party. I need to be alone.”
“Sure,” I smile thinly. “Then your boyfriend will appear out of nowhere, making you forget all about being alone.”
“I can hear you,” scowls Sam. Which means I said something aloud that should have stayed in my head.
“This is me, going.” I give Sam an apologetic look and leave. I know it’s true; but I didn’t mean to say it.
Must have needed to be said.
= = =
Danny was right. About eight minutes passed between Danny and the boyfriend(who kissed my cheek just as I started to doze off).
Right now we’re both all...snuggly(is that a word? becoming mother....); I run my fingers through his hair, back to its gelled golden-blond self. Or it would be if it were daylight. Under moonlight, it’s more of a shiny white-gold.
I want to kiss him, to feel him(again!); but then I’d have a lot of explaining to do for Mom. Him thinking that my parents are reserve members of the Lollipop Guild won’t help matters.
It’s nice to know that he’s another of the few people who thinks my parents are weird. (Count Danny’s equally-weird parents among that list, although at least the Fentons are cool in a quirky way.) My dad’s okay, but my mom’s just plain nuts.
One good thing out of this ball/sorority reunion/teen party/bowling tourney for the aged is that my dear beau is still making lame attempts at mimicking Sean Connery.
“Samantha, you darling little slip of a girl,” teases the boyfriend in a bad Errol Flynn impression. (Which sounds more like Remy Buxaplenty with a cold. and yes, I watch Fairly Oddparents. Cosmo has so much goth potential....)
I grip his undone red bowtie(which, incidentally, reinforces the Remy image in bad, fan fiction-writing ways). “Don’t call me Samantha, Dashiell,” I grin cannily.
Dash merely sighs. “Certainly, Samantha. I want to reassure you, Samantha; that I’ll never call you something you don’t want to be called. My dear Samantha, who I don’t want to disappoint in any way.”
I would scowl at him, but when Dash traces circles on my arms with his fingertips--like he’s doing now--I feel lightheaded. My scowls turn to pouts. “You’re a jerk,” I manage to hiss at him almost laughingly.
“I know.” He pulls me to him; I nuzzle against his neck. Damn him and his good choice of colognes....
“Remember when you told me about two crazy things you’ve always wanted to do?” he asks after letting me nibble his neckline.
“I think so....” He’s up to something again!?
“I’ll give you more details next Friday,” he says casually, returning to his task of licking my ear.
Unsurprisingly, we continue tasting each other’s skin in silence, leading from neck and ear to jaw and cheek; from jaw to chin, from cheek to nose....
Dash and I study each other quizzically a moment, both of us annoyed that we’re right in a situation we had agreed to avoid. I take his lower lip in my mouth; he takes my upper lip in his mouth.
It won’t go any further than this, I’m sure. Maybe his hands are moving my dress up inch by inch. Maybe my hands are too far up his shirt--roaming his chest and back--to stop his hands from cupping my buttocks...ooh.
Maybe my legs are out of control, wrapping around his waist--!
“What am I doing!?” Dash blurts in disgust, pulling away from me and killing the mood. I stare at this idiot a moment, then notice a spy....
“Great. Paulina’s going to totally get the wrong idea,” he continues, identifying our spy.
I sure hope Paulina’s as stupid as she is shallow. “Why are you kissing me!?” I sputter in outrage.
“As if! I thought I was kissing a hot girl!” Dash balks.
Paulina folds her arms. “Considering that Manson isn’t dressed like a zombie today, Dash,” she smiles thinly, “your mistake is perfectly understandable.
“I think you both should come downstairs now, though; before her parents start to worry.”
“Yeah; that’s a good idea. Not a word of this, Manson,” scowls Dash, jabbing a big, “threatening” index finger in my face.
I laugh. “This never happened.”
“We’re all about to play Spin the Bottle anyway.” Paulina leaves with a knowing smirk on her face. That...girl....
Dash buttons his shirt, watching Paulina leave. “We can at least pretend she bought that, right?”
“Remember: ‘plausible deniability’....” I give Dash a lopsided grin.
Dash scowls smilingly at me, though it’s more of a cute pout. “Shut it, Manson.”
= = =
Am I wrong for wanting to stay out of it?
“Kwan, they’re doing something,” insists Paulina, in my face. “I saw them making out with my own eyes.”
“Will you let this die? For the, like, thirtieth time; Paulina,” continues Dash, “you didn’t see what you think you saw.”
“Please quit lying. You were all over her.”
“And I told you, I thought she was a girl I’d actually be interested in. Bad case of mistaken identity.”
Of course, Dash is lying through his teeth. The problem is that Paulina’s putting him on the defensive, making it easier to deny his relationship with Sam.
“Guys,” I interject. “Let’s just start our conversation over. From the top:
“So, Dash, what are you up to for Spring Break?” I continue in deadpan, like that scene in “Rabbit Seasoning”.
Dash catches my cue. “I’m going to take it easy this weekend,” he responds in kind.
“Yes. You are. With your girl-friend,” says Paulina in mock-deadpan. “Figures you’d take his side, Kwan,” she pouts.
“What!? I’m not taking sides. There’s no sides to any of this. It’s simple: one of you is a shameless snoop, and the other is a lousy liar.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” fume my two friends.
“You two figure it out. I need some space. When you’ve worked out your little tiff, call me.” I leave Dash and Paulina to their stupid argument.
Plopping down at an empty lunch table, I bury my head in my hands. “Friends...!”
I note hearing that word in stereo, and lift my head up; finding Tucker across from me. “Your friends being idiots too?” I sigh.
“Yep. They’re not going to listen to me,” continues Tucker, “so I may as well let them hash it all out.”
I smile thinly. “That’s what I was thinking. So, what are you doing for Spring Break...?”
= = =
I envy Kwan’s library of anime smut. All I can do is download fifteen-second clips online--and then only when my folks aren’t home.
“Which one do you want to see next, Tucker?” grins Kwan. “ Night Shift Nurses , or Midnight Sleazy Train?”
“Explain Midnight Sleazy Train,” I ask. The name sounds interesting.
“There’s a late night, after-hours subway car; where passengers have hot orgies.”
“Put that in!” We’ll save Nurses for later. I still hate hospitals and anything connected with them, even if the nurses are drawn like supermodels.
We start to watch Sleazy Train, and it’s getting...interesting--damn it!
Danny’s calling again. Pause. Switch phone to vibrate. Play.
Kinky....
= = =
“...Tucker!?” I splutter, trying not to wake Kwan. “Where’s Sam?”
“Not here, dude.” groans Tucker, “She asked me to take care of her phone while she was away on her trip.”
I power down. “She’s with him, isn’t she!?”
“I honestly don’t know, Danny. She knew you were half-stalking her over her boyfriend. Calling her cell because you don’t trust her to be home...Danny. This has got to stop.”
“If it were anybody else, I’d be home playing videogames right now.”
Kwan stirs himself awake. “Fenton...that guy is my best friend. He’s going to treat Sammy like royalty; and if they’re together--we still have no proof that they are--then we just have to deal with it.
“Besides, you had a whole year to make your move. Now,” continues Kwan tiredly. “If you want to hang, then calm down. If not, then leave the same way you came.”
“Fine. (Especially since I can’t leave without revealing my own secret.) Okay if I watch some cartoon smut?” I smile wanly.
“More the merrier,” grins Kwan sleepily.
“What were you watching?” I ask Tuck as Kwan drifts back to slumber land.
“Night Shift Nurses. I’m glad you’re here. The hospital thing really kills the mood, you know.” Tucker rubs his arms.
I put a friendly arm around Tucker. “Let’s make fun of the rapist doctor-in-residence,” I quip, having seen the fifteen-second clips.
= = =
We stand by the lake in front of the frat house. Our clothes, inside a duffel bag, are drifting across on a small canoe.
Manson’s not happy with me, having second thoughts about the whole thing. “I said I wanted to go skinny dipping, and I wanted to see an orgy. I don’t want to swim naked in a university lake outside a small regiment of horny frat boys; and I certainly don’t want to sneak inside that frat house to watch them deflower sorority girls--and possibly high school students.”
I laugh. This was her crazy idea; I’m just putting it into action. “That’s why I’m giving you a sporting chance to back out of the second thing.
“The canoe should reach the other side of the lake in a minute,” I explain. “First one of us to reach the canoe--and our dry clothes--gets to decide what else to do. All you have to do is win the race.”
“Oh; that’s fair. I can swim, but you’re on the swim team,” Manson scowls. Her skin really glistens in the moonlight.
“We could always make love, you know,” I smile whimsically. I blush because I wasn’t supposed to say that aloud.
Manson also blushes, licking her lips nervously. “Let’s just get our clothes. I’ll even give you a head start,” she adds with a grin.
“Nice try.” I pick her up, cradling her naked body in my arms Rhett Butler-style, and carry her wriggly butt into the lake; where I release her. “You’re not running around the lake while I’m swimming.”
“Are you calling me a cheater?” Manson spits.
“I’m calling you someone who could stand to take a few more chances in life.” I give her a sweet, chaste kiss--because I’m going to behave.
The canoe lands on the other side. “You ready?” I smirk. She glares, turning towards the canoe. “On your mark, get set, go!”
I let her go ahead for a second, watching her slim, pale body slide beneath the night-darkened water. (She could so make the swim team.) Time for me to win this thing.
We swim across, reaching the canoe at about the same time. Manson and I climb inside...
...only to find the duffel bag with our clothes gone. She’s gonna kill me.
= = =
A thin guy in glasses wearing a university T-shirt holds the damned duffel bag with our clothes. Nice one, Dash. No one would notice two naked teenagers outside their campus.
“Damn it! That nerd has our clothes!” So speaks my wet and nude master of the obvious.
Sure enough, said “nerd” notices us(we duck in time) and summons his frat brothers. One beefy frat boy emerges from the building, a cast extra from Animal House--complete with bedsheet toga.
“So, pledge--what do you got there!?” Beefy asks the pledge.
Atrocious English.... I bolt upright. “It’s ‘what do you have there’, you idiot! Do they teach English in coll--*?”
Dash drags me back down. “Get the fuck down, you--*!” The canoe capsizes, and we’re back in the water.
Our drenched heads emerge from the lake, where Beefy smirks at us.
“You two lovebirds looking for this?” mocks the jackass, waving the bag around. We glare at him as he opens the bag, taking out Dash’s pride and joy. (That’d be Dash’s letter jacket.) “Ooh, Casper High.
“If you kiddies want your clothes back,” Beefy continues, “then you gotta come on a my house.”
“Is that some lame-assed attempt at being clever!?” I seethe.
“Let’s see, bitch: I’ve got your clothes, while you and your little piece of(he reads Dash’s student ID--why would Dash carry that!?) tenth-grade jock cock are wet and buck-naked. Who are stupid now!?” Laughing, Beefy and the pledge leave us to stew in the lake.
I scowl. “You will die for this, Baxter.”
= = =
“We’ve gotta sneak in,” I state.
Manson shakes her head. “No! All we have to do,” she continues, “is march in the front door, explain that we were being stupid, and ask the RAs to get our clothes back from Mr. Meaty.”
“Yeah; and while they do that, they also call both our parents, and we’re grounded until we’re thirty. But if we just go in undetected, grab our clothes, and go; nobody’s the wiser.”
“You mean you don’t want to see an orgy anymore?” Manson raises an eyebrow.
“Do you really want to see that fat bastard naked?” I counter.
She flashes me a “hell, no!” look. “Let’s get our clothes.”
We sneak past the RAs, scurry into the elevator, reach the top floor, and slip into the frat house lounge(where they’re having their coed claiming ceremony.). Fat-ass has two hotties squirming in his lap, one being a cocktease; the coed tickles the guy’s tip with her(what’s the best damn word!?)...vagina. That’s the mature word, vagina.
Manson and I duck behind a three-on-one before the big one notices us; my slender, pale-skinned classmate crawling ahead of me.
I catch up to her. “Listen, Sammy: unless it looks like we’re doing something, we’re going to be fending off advances all the way to our duffel bag.” I’ve already had two girls--and a damn guy--groping my crown jewels.
Manson nods, and deftly slides underneath me. She circles her arms around my shoulders; her slim thighs around my waist--close to my ribcage. Basically, I’m on all fours, and she’s clinging to me like a tree sloth. (A soft, wet, and horny tree sloth.)
“Moan a little,” I hiss. Manson scowls, but complies.
We finally reach the bag.
“Oh...harder...!” Manson overacts.
“Don’t hurt yourself, baby,” I hiss. “You’re so nice and tight.... I wanna savor it....”
Manson releases me, pulling me on top of her--the duffel bag between our bodies. “...are you telling me that I’m overacting?” she hisses.
“You know damn well you’re overacting,” I whisper, stealing a kiss.
“No more; not here,” she smiles, placing a soft hand on my collarbone.
“Let’s get out of here, then.” I return her smile, then fall back into character. “Time to set it off, baby.”
“Yeah...” adds Manson.
“Make you sweat till you bleed.”
“Oh...so intense...!”
Lard-ass, unfortunately, has caught on to us. “Fakers! We’ve got a pair of little high school fakers in here!”
The bacchanal stops as we scramble upright. I search the bag; something’s missing...
...and it’s on the fat fuck’s head, like a sheik’s headscarf. “My letter jacket! This bastard’s got my letter jacket!”
“Dash, you have over fifty of those jackets,” counters Manson.
“Yeah? Look what else he’s got.” I point to the man’s thick, short penis; wrapped around it is Manson’s perennial green scrunchi.
Manson wrinkles her lip in disgust. “He can have it now. Let’s just go....”
Manson and I leave the lounge as my letter jacket is being defiled. It will be avenged.
= = =
We spent the next two days of Spring Break getting Dash’s letter jacket back from that guy. Just look at him, hugging it like a favorite pet.
“...no one will ever hurt you again, my baby. Never evers.”
“That’s not a word,” I scowl.
“It is now. Anyway, at least we had some kind of fun.” Dash puts his one of fifty-odd Preciouses back in his closet with the others.
“We’ve still got two days left,” he continues. “Anything else you want to do; or would you like to just hang here with me?”
I have to ponder this. On the one hand, being alone with someone this reckless and playful will lead to things I don’t want to contemplate, because I won’t regret anything I do.
On the other hand, my only other insane fantasy involved watching prostitutes ply their trade at a brothel--and I’ll be damned if Dash won’t find a way for us to wind up in one.
Therefore, since either path involves Dash getting me in trouble, I’ll just stay here. One, I have to know how the story ends. Two, at least here, no obese blobs of frat boy are around to disgust me with bad grammar.
And three, I want to kick “QueeB’s” ass at Doomed once and for all. (His skill is how we “rescued” his letter jacket.) Though I guess Dash would recognize the stupidity of playing computer simulations of sports he plays in real life.
I don’t like him nearly as much as Danny. (Danny couldn’t get me in this much trouble if he tried.) But what’s between us is real, it’s intense; it’s visceral. It’s tender--in a wicked sort of way.
I’m hooking up his console. Gaming helps me blow off steam.
= = =
A guy has to reevaluate his options, right?
The girl of my dreams didn’t have the same feelings for me that I had for her. She was my closest friend since grade school. She’s also dead--that door is shut for good. I miss her like hell, but I can’t bring her back.
Another girl I really liked wasn’t remotely interested in me; another cute redhead. And as much as it bruises my ego, she’s happy that I’ve lost interest in her. Oh, well: Fenton would never have let me be his brother-in-law.
Which leads me to the vegetarian goth who kicks ass in videogames. We first locked horns officially in sixth grade. (Puberty was working on me and my clique; while she was flat-chested and her guy friends had(and still have) no chance of catching up.) By the time of ninth grade at Casper High, we’d established that the only thing we had in common was that each of us had a mutual dislike of the other.
Of course, it was always fun to tease her. But then, it’s always fun to tease Fenton; and I knew that prick would strike back sooner or later.
She usually has it coming--messing with my mud pies, for example; and drenching me in ketchup--I will not forget that. Ever.
But she kissed me. That was.... Knowing that we pretty much loathed each other, why did she stick her tongue in my mouth? More to the point, why did I half-want it, even then? The geek gag reflex kicked in, but by then it was too late. Confusion, desire, and the eternal itch to piss off Fenton had set in. (Everyone in school just knew they were more or less a thing.)
Then there was the time when that evil guidance counselor was around. By the time she got through helping me, I felt like warmed-over shit. (Kwan, of course, was whining about being a hobo; what an idiot.) Manson ran her fingers through my hair. That had felt nice....
Shortly after that, the dreams started. Sexy little dreams of my arms full of innocent Sammy. Dreams that ended with me waking up a sweaty mess, laying flat on my bed.
Next was the end-of-the-year play, something we had to perform for Lancer’s class. (Stupid, but unless I wanted to take his freshman English again, I was going to do it.) It was Antony and Cleopatra, by Shakespeare; I got cast as Mark Antony. Miss I-like-anything-with-occult-features was Cleopatra, which translated to her in clingy white linen dresses. (For some reason, at the time that triggered an image of Manson in a simple linen dress, Kwan and me in Egyptian loincloths--and Foley as a pharaoh with crusty feet.)
Knowing that our characters kiss in one scene, I milked that for all it was worth. If I learned nothing else from that, I did find out a second thing we have in common: Manson and I both enjoy the act and anticipation of kissing.
Meanwhile, there was the ongoing “does Danny love me” drama; featuring Fenton’s thing with Gray, two brief dating sessions with Paulina, and Manson with that asshat “Gregor”.
Summer came and went, during which puberty finally decided to be Manson’s friend. Towards the end, she and I hung out at the park one afternoon; and she mentioned this weird sex thing about centaurs. I wondered at the time how many penises she thought one had.
I don’t know; but between everything last year and what we’ve shared this year, I believe that the creature casually playing Luigi’s Mansion is my 110-pound slice of heaven.
I do know--it pisses me off enough--that even now, she adores Fenton. Fine. They have years of history together.
But I won’t let her forget what we’ve got either; and while she’s here, she’s mine.
Body and soul.
= = =
“Dash....” The idiot is tickling me....
He also starts tasting my neck. “Oh, what a surprise; you’re ticklish,” he grins slyly. “Then again, girls like you always are.”
“How many girls have you met like me?” I ask wryly.
“None. I just always imagined you as ticklish. You have to be,” he continues, doing less tickling and more intimate roaming, “because I can’t keep my hands off you.”
Kiss on my throat, and the tickling lessens. Then my chin; the tickling lessens. Then.... no more tickling. I just feel his hands under my shirt. (Actually, it’s his stupid “loser chic” T-shirt--basically Danny’s shirt in his size.)
I feel...warm. “Dash,” I smile, “you look overheated. Let me take that off....”
“Sure...” sighs Dash as I slide off his usual black T-shirt.
Dash slips my shirt off me. “I don’t want you simmering anywhere except on me.” He pulls me close. “You know where this is headed.”
I kiss him softly. “I don’t care.”
= = =
I...could do this...all day.... Just...I never thought...it’d be...with her....
I shout her name. I hear mine. Can’t think.... Too good....
...she has the prettiest eyes.... Shiny.... I’m staring at her, looking up at her....
They aren’t big...but they bounce....
I want her in every way.... Does this count as doing something...? ‘Cause I’m definitely going back...on my word.
= = =
It’s the moon. Has to be. Crazy things happen under a full moon....
But it’s a crescent moon.... A starry night, then...?
It’s just that...he’s looking right into my eyes.... His eyes are almost glowing....
No, he’s not a ghost--definitely not....
One thing’s for sure: he’s not--screaming his name again--to call me Samantha--ooh; he hit a spot--in public ever again....
And if he tries...I’ll just mention the teddy bears....
= = =
I feel like I ran a marathon or something. Heh. Did I win?
Let’s see: what do you fix a vegetarian for breakfast? Sausage would be out even if she ate meat like normal people, so....
Blueberries and strawberries. Bananas. I think she’s had enough banana....
Waffles. Can’t go wrong with waffles. Just a sacrifice of three unhatched baby chickens for the mix. Oh, please, mother Gaia; forgive us lowly humans. That joke died in the brain....
= = =
A guy’s room. I’m naked, in bed, in a guy’s room. I doubt we were playing Dance Dance Revolution.
Ravens pennant. Dumpty Humpty CD. Sports trophies. I see a picture of Paulina, Kwan, and Valerie on the nightstand.
Definitely not Danny’s room. So who did I...?
He walks in with waffles, fruit, syrup and milk. It’s all coming back to me....
= = =
Sooner or later, we’re going to finish eating. We both reach for the last strawberry.
“Let’s do this the grownup way,” I grin. “Rock-paper-scissors.”
“Sure.” My--well, classmate still fits, I guess--my classmate returns the smile. “You do that.” The girl filches the strawberry while I set up for rock-paper-scissors.
“Hey! No fair.”
“I like strawberries almost as much as you like mud pies,” she states simply, savoring the berry.
“That aren’t actually made with mud from our football field. And no, Manson; I will never let you live that down.”
Manson sighs. “And you still blame my friend Danny.”
I nod. “My friends talk me out of any stupid ideas. The week before your stunt, I had wanted a new menu of pizza. Paulina said, ‘No.... The goth geek will go crazy...’.”
“Not if you had some vegetarian choices. Or a few with plain cheese.” Manson chuckles. “Anything’s better than the mystery meat.”
“With the gray-brown gravy.... Except for the grass-on-wheat, that slimy culinary delight has to be the worst the school system has offered us to eat.”
I smile at her as she smiles at me. Someone’s got to ask this question. Manson will ask it.
= = =
Dash, I feel weird about what we did last night.... No. It didn’t feel weird at all.
Dash, is there anything you want to talk about...? No. It’s obvious what we both want to talk about. He wants me to ask, the big wuss.
No dice, Baxter. You got us into this mess; you’re getting us out.
= = =
The hell with it. “Samantha. We can’t pretend that a lot’s going to change,” I sigh. “I’m still an ass, you’re still you.
“The only thing that’s different about our relationship is....” What, dumbass? That there’s a chance of a relationship!? I wonder to myself.
“You want me to fill in the blank?” asks Manson. Funny. Those old habits of mine won’t go away. She’s still...damn.
She’s hot. Beautiful. And for one night, she was mine. So why the hell am I letting her go to moon over Fenton the Fucking Clueless Idiot?
Oh. Wait. Because I’m a dumb jock, and I am as stupid as I look.
Sure, on the outside, Kwan would say “Attaboy!” and claim I dodged a bullet. But when the rest of my crew leaves, it’s more like: “Dash! You fool! You did that with her, and you let her get away?”
Not like I have any real choice here, though. I fix my eyes on Manson. “It’d be stranger for us to suddenly say: ‘hey, we had sex--now we’re dating.’ To hell with our friends, right?”
“No,” Manson pouts.
= = =
Tucker would have a coronary. As for Danny...geez.
“Exactly.” Dash rolls his eyes. “You’re probably wondering how Fenton will take it. Your friend has ways of finding things out about me.” He glares at his closet, where his secret stash of teddy bears resides.
What Dash says is true, though--more than he’ll ever know. I hope Danny didn’t spy on me last night. He and I both agreed after “Gregor” that we’d stop stalking each other.
Anyway, a heartbroken Danny isn’t something I want to see ever again. Except this time, I might actually break Dash’s heart.
“This is taking a lot out of me,” sighs Dash. He looks so forlorn, like he needs a hug. I squeeze his hand; he smiles a bit.
“I want us to happen,” he continues earnestly. “At the same time, I know you still have feelings for Fenton. I won’t pretend you don’t. Went down that road in the eighth grade, and I swore I’d never do it again.”
“Cindy Malone?” I ask. Kwan had told me about that once.
“Yeah. The guy was a loser--and I’m not talking ‘geek loser’,” continues Dash, giving me the “L” sign over his forehead, “I’m talking loser. She slept with him; he impregnated her and dumped her.”
“And she killed herself.” Danny, I know, would never abandon me.
“I know Fenton’s better than that; otherwise you’d have cracked open his balls or something,” scoffs Dash. I’m not that bad, am I? “But you and he probably have something you don’t realize you have. I remember him kind of stalking you during your Gregor phase; then again, I was kind of stalking you too.
“Jeff and I were making fun of that ass the whole time.”
“Jeff’s family’s from Hungary,” I note wryly, remembering the bowl of goulash the guy plonked on my lunch tray the day after my breakup with Mr. Phony. I had politely declined Jeff’s offer.
= = =
I wonder if she knows that she stole my first kiss that night, during the concert with the ghost chick. I had plans for that kiss; plans that involved a cute cheerleader and my first car. I’m also debating whether or not to tell her that she was my first...lover.
Considering that I’m--what--fifteen; it shouldn’t be such a shock to people. But since I’m popular, everyone assumes that I’ve fucked from the womb. Not Paulina though--because her dad scares the crap out of every guy she dates.
I tore through something--I took her virginity--last night.(A lot more important than a first kiss.)
Did I even use protection? No. It’s like my brain completely shut off. Whatever--it’s not like she had anything. Except lots of glittery grape-flavored body gloss over her smooth, creamy shoulders, back, legs.... And her goth lipstick.
I woke up this morning looking like I’d escaped from some old Boy George video, and I smelled like sweaty Dimetapp cough syrup.
Wow. I’d do it all over again.
= = =
I hate Paulina. She gave me this stupid condom at the start of Spring Break and I didn’t think to put it on him.
I want to say that it all happened so fast, but that’d be a lie. We both saw this coming when we started the game months ago; now, Dash...is a part of me.
That. Is weird.
THE END
- 1
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Notebook Paper