Check That Out
Sam hated the beach.
Sam had hated the beach for a long time – ever since she turned thirteen and decided that she was a Goth. She didn't do 'sun'. She didn't do 'sweat', either. So currently she was cooking under a black towel, wearing a black hat and dark sunglasses, and swimming in deodorant.
Proudly, Sam knew she would come back from the beach trip as flawlessly white as when she left.
However, this was no longer the only reason that Sam hated the beach.
Sam was sixteen now. Danny would be turning sixteen in a week. Tucker was three months older than Sam and was already gloating regularly about his driving privileges. (Sam wasn't learning how to drive. She didn't really need to, honestly. She still got chauffeured whenever she didn't feel like taking the bus.)
Today, as Sam sat cooking in her blanket, thankful that the Fenton RV had been carted off with the Fentons inside, Sam hated the beach because of her best friend.
"Go long!" Tucker called.
"Okay!" Danny pounded by Sam, kicking up sprays of sand, his hair wet from the earlier dive into the water he'd taken. "Throw it already, Tuck! You know I'll catch it!"
"All right, man, you asked for it!" Tucker answered, tossing the Frisbee lazily, high into the sky.
Sam watched as Danny ran and sighed irritably.
Sam had had a crush on Danny Fenton for almost two years now. It had ebbed and flowed, and sometimes she thought Danny liked her back, but they always both backed off from anything more than a 'fake-out make-out' at the last minute. Sam knew why. She understood why. She didn't want to lose Danny's friendship any more than he wanted to lose hers, and being more than threatened that very thing.
But oh … it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all.
Danny was hot.
Over sophomore year, Danny had outgrown that awkward stage of adolescence. His shape solidified. He got taller. His shoulders filled out a bit. And what had once been a child's chest, helplessly without definition no matter how many ghosts Danny fought, was now very, very much 'defined'.
Granted, Danny was in a wife beater at the moment, but still.
If Danny went Goth … he'd be totally irresistible, Sam thought absently. She could imagine him in all black clothes, a tight-fitting shirt, a choker, and just a touch of black eyeliner to really bring out thost baby blue eyes. Granted, he'd only look the part. Sam didn't think he could pull off the necessary disaffected scowl (trademarked). But the mental image was nice.
Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, Sam didn't need the real thing.
Besides, whether it was in her head or not, the only thing she could do was watch.