iPrincess of the Prom(An iCarly Fanfiction)

9. Hit the Face, Not the Heart

Reader's Discretion Advised.

This book is a little more mature than iMakeover as I'm now a little more mature than who I was back when I started that book. So just a heads up, don't be so surprised about anything being PG-13, got it?

Freddie's POV

NO.

No, no, no,

no, no, no, no.

NO.

NO.

This can't happen. Meaningless little crushes are one thing but full blown, 'I-get-hard-when-I'm-touching-her' infatuation is completely out of control. 

I imagined before that she might smell like strawberries. I don't know why. She does eat them a lot, maybe that's why? Or how the shampoo she uses is in a pink container?(don't ask how I know that.)

But she didn't. She also didn't smell like meat or chocolate or fat cakes, like some may think.

She just smelled sweet. Merely a light, barely there sweetness. I don't think it was perfume. I think its just her...

No Freddie!

Bad!

I shake my head and slam it down on my keyboard in frustration. Apparently I can't even do that right though.

As I thunk my head down, I knock into the glass of water I placed to the right of the monitor on the desk(under a coaster of course, I'm not crazy, you know).

Anyway, as I hit my one ear into the glass, it wobbles and tips, spilling all over the keyboard and touching a few of the cables sticking out from the bottom of the dated piece of technology. I feel a sting and pull away just before I get really shocked.

I sigh. It would be me to die by electric shock from spilling water on my keyboard. Awkward, klutzy, and techy. Exactly like me and the polar opposite of funny, confident, rebellious Sam. I sigh again, this time in frustration, and rise up to pace the room. It's already been three hours since it happened yet I'm still so unbelievably antsy, I can't even sit down normally. It was only a hug to test myself but I failed the test miserably, and now I'm paying for it. 

I can still feel her on me.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

One week later...

"Alright, so we've got fund-raising, donations, selling stuff on the show, and of course the, ehem,  people auction. Am I missing anything?" Carly looks from Sam to me expectantly, as if she thinks we're actually still paying attention after she's been rattling on nonstop for over forty five minutes.

Sam yawns and raises her hand like she's in class, and Carly looks at her tiredly. Granted though, Carly is kind of acting like an irritating teacher at the moment.

"Yes Sam?" she asks wearily, even though the blonde hasn't even spoken yet. It doesn't matter I guess. It's expected for Sam to be the one asking stupid questions and making fun of everything. That's her entire persona to most people and usually, they're right. Not always but usually.

Sam slouches down even further in her beanbag and absentmindedly scratches at a little scar on her hand from when she crashed her bike into a tree in seventh grade. I remember it well since my mom was the one who had to take her to the emergency room. Her own mother had been too out of it to come pick her up. 

"Well," she starts. "When you say fund-raising, do you mean like something stupid like the cookies Spencer was selling to help that little girl a few years back, or like the idiotic Yankee candle sales at school that no one ever buys? Because if so, I'll be sick those days."