The Tilt-A-Whirl

by: bluebottlebutterfly

Summary: "I need someone to go on the Tilt-A-Whirl with me," she says. Oh. Well. I don't like rides that have the potential to make me violently ill, but I agree anyway.

Pairing: Seth/Summer. Sort of.

Anything you need to understand this story? Um, you kind of need to have seen "The Carnival", but if you haven't....why not?

A/N: Okay, my first "OC" fic, probably the first of many, however. It's Seth/Summer, because, against my better judgement, I am very firmly behind that pairing. I know that Seth will probably end up with that Anna chick, and it makes me sad. I do not know why. Maybe because she wears too much makeup for him. Wouldn't want dear Seth to get lead poisoning or anything like that....

***

Summer looks up at me, hand on her hip, eyebrow raised a little. "I need someone to go on the Tilt-A-Whirl with me."

Oh. Well. I don't like rides that have the potential to make me violently ill, but..."Okay," I say anyway, deciding that if Ryan can get on a Ferris Wheel when he has a height phobia, I can spend the rest of my night with my head in a toilet if it means I can sit next to Summer for three minutes.

We get in line behind a guy with slicked back blonde hair, who is making out with his equally blonde girlfriend, his hand firmly placed on her ass. Summer folds her arms over her chest, bites her tongue, and looks away from both me and the trysting couple.

"You could try to look even a little bit psyched to be going on this ride with me," I tell her.

Summer turns her head so that she's looking at me again, eyebrows raised. "So what's with the new girlfriend?"

Awesome, she's catching on. I always knew she was smart.

"What are you talking about, Queen of Ice?" I look over the shoulder of Large Blonde Guy and see that the line is moving. At the same time, I notice that Large Blonde Guy and Freakishly Small Blonde Girl are not. Unless you count tonsil hockey as movement, in which case they were doing an awful lot of moving. Too much moving, one might say.

"I saw you making out with her," Summer says, jerking my attention back to her. I almost hear a note of jealousy in her voice, but assure myself that I am probably just imagining it. Anna's good at making Summer jealous (or so she says--Anna, that is) but I don't think she's that good. I figure it will take a good couple of months before Summer throws herself at me. I decide to have some fun with her in the meantime.

"Who?"

"That girl," Summer says disdainfully, as if that clarifies anything. "The blonde girl. You know--the slut?"

"Hmm," I reply thoughtfully. "Well, I've been making out with so many sluts, Summer, you're just gonna have to be more specific than that."

Summer shoots daggers at me with her eyes. Metaphorical daggers, of course. With her rage problem, Summer Roberts shouldn't be allowed near anything with a sharp edge. Although I have seen her with cuticle scissors. Rather than responding immediately, however, she stands on the tiptoes of her Sugar wedge sandals (so I read the label) to look over the shoulder of Large Blonde Guy. "Why aren't we moving?" she demands in her best 'I'm-a- spoiled-princess-everyone-bow-down-now' voice.

"Because they are busy," I tell her patiently. "Say, Summer, it's gonna be a long wait, what do you say we....?" I jerk my head in the general direction of Ken and Barbie in front of us.

She narrows her eyes at me in that trademark 'As if' way. "Not on your life, Cohen," she says distastefully. "After seeing you with Britney Spears's trash, I don't even want to think about what sexually transmitted diseases I might get from kissing you. Ew."

"Ah," I say thoughtfully. "Ah, but if I hadn't kissed Anna--"

"Oh, you admit it!" Summer almost gasps. She narrows her eyes angrily and pokes Speedo Boy in the neck with her acrilyc fingernail. "The line's moving, Bucko!" she yells, adding an extra poke for emphasis when he tries to bat her hand away. "Move with it, or get a room!"

"Nice," I tell her admiringly.

She shoots me another Look as Bucko flips her off but allows his Mini-Me to pull him by the arm to catch up with the line. "Babe..." Bucko whines.

"It's my favorite ride!" his girlfriend giggles. "Come on, we can make out all we want later...."

"Whore," Summer mutters, holding her head up as she walks to catch up to them. I walk alongside her, ducking my head down. "So, you and....her. You're going out, then?"

I am 95% sure I'm not making up the jealousy in her voice. "No," I say slowly, wondering briefly if Anna would say that this is the right answer. "Why? Jealous?"

Summer clicks her tongue sarcastically. "Oh, as if. Me, jealous of a blonde bimbo? Ew."

Her second 'ew'. I'm getting to her. "You don't want me making out with anyone but you!"

"Cohen, I have never even made out with you, and never will, so I am not jealous!"

We have reached the front of the line, and Ken and Barbie are still making out, strapped into their little egg-shaped seat. Summer narrows her eyes at them again.

"I hope she throws up in his mouth," she mumbles.

"Hmm. Actually, Summer, we did make out, remember? That Time We Made Out By The Pool At My Grandfather's Birthday Party?"

"Hmm, remember: The Time That Cohen Didn't Get Frenched?"

She keeps bringing that part into it. "I didn't French Anna, either."

Summer glances at me as the grubby carney lets us step onto the platform with the cars. "Really," she says flatly, breaking the stare and walking past me to one of the cars--the one with the least chipped paint and most stuffing left in the seat, I note. She looks distastefully down at the seat, just as grubby as the carney, sighs, and sits down. "Make any sudden moves," she adds as I lower myself into the car next to her, "and I'll cut out your tongue so you can't French anyone."

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you, Summer?" I make a face and reach down for the bar to secure us. "Right," I mutter, pulling on the red-painted iron pole. It doesn't budge. I pull harder. Still no movement. "Oh, come on," I breathe exasperatedly, cursing my father's lack of Strong-Man genes, for possibly the millionth time.

Summer looks down at my struggle and raises an eyebrow. "Need help, Cohen?"

"No," I insist through clenched teeth, still pulling. Finally, after about two more minutes of strained muscles, I manage to ease it into its correct position, and I lean back in the egg seats, proud of myself. Summer, I notice, has reached into her bag and is filing her nails. "That's great, Summer," I say, "I do all of this work for you and how do you repay me? By sharpening your nails into little razor sharp points. That's beautiful."

Summer continues shaping her nails with the little board for a moment, then looks up at me. "Did you say something?"

I wonder why I bother sometimes.

The ride starts up, and Summer gasps in surprise, dropping her leopard print nail file and gripping my arm as the egg-cart twirls around the pre- set track, making me dizzy and a little nauseated.

But I'm happy.

Because I remembered why I bother.

****