Disclaimers: I own nothing you rocognize, please don't sue.

A/N: Okay, for those of you who don't know, and you all should, this is a Brooke/Peyton future fic. That means femslash, people. If you don't like the idea ofc girl-on-girl anything, then you must me kinda slow since i warned you in the summary... But, this is actually a sequel to my fic "Dreaming" although it's not neccasary for you to have read it first, I wish you would though. Sorry if it gets confusing, ask if you have questions, and I'm super sorry if i don't update as regularly as I'd like to, school and whatnot. Now that I've bored you all to tears, "Sometimes They Come Back":


I've always wondered about babies. Not the whole part where they come from, I understand that. The mechanics of it isn't difficult to grasp, although when my mother first told me I was sure she heard it half wrong. All the other kids would waste their time looking up the words "penis" and "vagina" in the dictionary when the teacher wasn't looking, and all I could wonder about was why people had babies. To glue a bad marriage together. To carry on the family name. Because they wanted a succesor to mold in their own image. Because the condom broke. And why did people have more than one when others couldn't have any? This doesn't seem fair. Children are conceived every day, maybe every minute for reasons that are less than noble and nobody stops to wonder why? Take me for example. I was an accident. My mom says I'm the greatest thing that ever happened to her, but that doesn't change the fact that she didn't want to have me in the first place. I was a happy accident, but an accident nonetheless.

I was at the kitchen table this morning, poking at what I think is supposed to be eggs, while Mom goes on about something or other over the phone. That's the last time I let her cook while talking to Grampa.

"Hey, let me say hi real quick?" I asked as I pushed away the offending breakfast. "Mom, let me talk to Grampa? Mom!"

"I am on the phone!" she told me, like I can't see her. Whatever, I'll call him later. Mom goes on about work and I climb up the counter and raid the cabinets for pop tarts. There's fruit in those, right?

I can't find my other boot. It's raining and I'm not about to walk to school in soggy sneakers. You show up damp and people will go on and on forever about how you wet your pants or something. Can we say juvenile? I have no patience for stupid people.

I have to yell three times before mom gets her butt moving. I've told her that I'll get detention the next time I'm late for class, but does she move any faster? No. I actually think she takes her time. She can't find he keys or something, which is dumb because they're on the counter where she left them, they're just under some mail. I tell her that I found them, and can we go now?

Driving with my mother is a fate I'd wish on no man. And driving in the rain? Pedestrians and motorists alike beware. I'm gripping the seat with white knuckles when we come to a screeching halt in front of school, and I have exactly six minutes to get to class. I'm halfway out the door when mom realizes that she forgot her wallet and has no money to give me for lunch. I roll my eyes, expecting as much and tell her I packed my own lunch last night.

"Girl after my own heart," mom says. At least it's stopped raining. She kisses me goodbye and I'm thankful she wasn't wearing lipstick yet. Going to class with a bright red lip print on your forehead does not equal cool. Speaking from experience here.

Before entering the classroom I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the tenth circle of hell. I make it into my seat just as the bell rings. Go me. It's lots of pointless information about numbers and books and science and history before I can go to lunch. But who needs to know all that stuff anyway? When are you going to be asked about the symbolic elements of "Lon Po Po"? I don't plan on being an statistician or accountant so beyond addition and subtraction, how much math will I need to know?

Lunch is another ordeal entirely. At least in a classroom, people are assigned to sit with me, no such luck in the cafeteria. You'd think after three years at this school I'd have made one friend, but no. The library seems like my best bet. There's no one in there except the librarian and she's like a million years old and probably can't see me anyway. I stare out the window at everyone else and wish it would start raining again.

When three o'clock rolls around, I'm about ready to jump off the roof. But I mill through the endless mass of screaming students and jump on my mother instead. She asks me how my day was. I thinks it's an unwritten law for parents that they have to ask this every single school day.

"Slow and painful death," I tell her, and she takes my backpack off my hands, I swear the thing weighs more than I do.

"That good, huh?" I groan a response. "Hey, I want you to meet a friend of mine."

"I didn't know you had any friends," I say seriously. My mom scoffs at the same time some woman laughs, pressumably at my mother. I'm about to say something to the woman who has the nerve to laugh at my mother, but Mom interupts me.

"Don't encourage her," she warns the woman. They know each other?

"Sorry, sorry," the woman bends down a little so we're eye-to-eye. "And how are you today?"

I so do not appreciate the depricating tone, I mean I'm not three anymore. "I've been better, lady."

The woman straghtens up and Mom swats the back of my head. That means either shut up, go away, or mind your manners.

"Sorry, it's nice to meet you, a pleasure and all that. Can we go now? I have homework" I say, turning to mom and trying not to roll my eyes.

"Well, my daughter has apparently forgotten her name as well as her manners. She's Kessie. Kessie, this is Brooke."