Another one shot from me, Moseph. Another birthday fic, as a matter of fact. This one for my lovely friend, XBeLLaViTaX. Happy birthday! Hit it, boys!

Newsies: Bonne fete a toi! Bonne fete a toi!

Spot: Bonne fete cher Ashleigh!

Newsies: Bonne fete a toi!

Newsies singing in French. How much better does it get?

If I were a cell phone, where would I be?

"MO-OM!" I holler downstairs.

"WHA-AT?" she hollers back.

"WHERE'S MY CELL PHONE?" I hear footsteps thudding up the steps.

"Why?" she asks from my doorway.

"I need to check my messages!" I answer urgently.

"Why?" she asks again.

"Just tell me!" I snap. She sighs.

"I don't know, Ash. Maybe it's under this pile of filth," she says, gesturing to the rapidly growing mound of dirty clothing.

"Well...why don't you call me?" I suggest.

"What?" she asks in confusion. Honestly, middle-aged people. You'd think they'd be used to technology by now.

"Call me and when the phone rings, I'll be able to find it!" I tell her, exasperated. She rolls her eyes at me and plods into the next room. Within a few seconds, I hear a muffled ringing coming from the toe of my left Converse All-Star. Holding my breath (I do not have nice smelling feet), I fish it out and hang up.

"Thanks Mom!" I call into the other room. As I'm opening the voice messages, I hear my mother plodding back down the stairs.

"You have no new messages," the tiny electronic voice informs me, without a trace of sympathy.

"Ah! Stupid bitch!" I yell, throwing the phone down on the floor. Unfortunately, it bounces back into the pile of clothing. With a frustrated scream, I begin to throw clothes aside. No cell phone.

"MO-OM!"

"Jesus Christ, what's wrong with you?"

I stare blurry eyed at my best guy friend, Kenneth, who prefers to go by the name Kid Blink.

"He didn't call. He still hasn't called," I tell him miserably. Blink rolls his visible eye.

"God, do girls really do that?" he asks. I glare at him. "Okay, when did he tell you he'd call?"

"Wednesday."

"Ash, that was only two days ago."

"Last Wednesday."

"Oh, he's not calling you back, hon."

"Thanks for the warm words of encouragement, Oprah," I say sarcastically.

"Oh, I'm sorry, were you looking for a girl response?" Blink asks, falsely sympathetic. "Don't worry, sweetie, he's just an ugly pig. I bet he's flaccid, too," he adds with a gay lisp. The snort escaping my nose is inevitable - I don't try to fight it. "Aha, see? You're already over him."

"No! We had a great date, he said he'd call me and nothing!" I cry. "What is wrong with men? Really, Blink, what did women do to you guys? Why do you hate us?"

"Whoa, hey, don't go attacking men!" Blink says, holding up his hands in defence. "Guy's a pig, and I told you that. Don't blame us."

"You're right," I sigh. "Sorry. But, really, why? Why wouldn't he call me?"

"Okay, here's the reasons I can think of: he's seeing someone else, he didn't enjoy the date, he thinks you're ugly, he's gay, he's gone on vacation, or his home planet has called him back to the Mother Ship," Blink says, ticking off the reasons on his fingers. I elbow him in the stomach. "Oi, we comedians are so underappreciated."

"Yeah, yeah, shut it, Kenneth," I say. Blink glares at me, but shuts up. "I just...need to meet someone else."

"What is with this need to have a boyfriend, Ash?" Blink asks me curiously. "Can you not be alone?"

"I can be alone," I insist stubbornly. "I just want to meet someone else. To get over Guy. Someone with a six pack."

"So, basically you want to score," Blink says sarcastically.

"Stop with the sarcasm! I can only take so much before 9 A.M!" I yell. "Look, I want to meet someone else, end of story."

"What if you don't?" Blink asks in his plan voice.

"Blink, what are you talking about?" I ask cautiously.

"I bet you that you can't abstain from hooking up with a guy in the next two weeks," Blink challenges.

"What are the terms?"

"No flirting, no dating, no making out for the next two weeks," he says. "Winner gets five bucks. And lunch. Deal?" I pause.

"Deal," I agree, taking his outstretched hand.

"I like Italian," Blink informs me.

I'm about to take my seat in my dreadful first period math class (Algebra 2. No better than Algebra 1) when my teacher stops me.

"New seating plan," she says. "Stand at the back and I'll direct you to your seat." I sigh in exasperation and walk to the back wall, slumping against it with my fellow classmates, whose names I hardly know. It's only the second month of the first semester and I've been focussing more on keeping up than getting to know the people in my class. I hate seating changes. I tune out as Ms. Brightman calls out names and points to desks.

"Ashleigh? Over here, please," she snaps, putting her finger on my new desk. I push myself off the wall with my back, plonk down less than gracefully in my new seat and glance to my left. Whoa. I double take. Oh God.

"Trey! Over here!" Ms. Brightman's voice shrieks back into my head and distracts me from the guy sitting next to me. Get out of my head, bitch! I curse silently. All right. Back to the task at hand. Introduce yourself. Talk to him. Flirt a little.

Wait! No! Damn! The bet with Blink! Damn that sarcastic cyclops! No, he's just too hot to ignore. I can talk to him without flirting. I'm capable of that...right?

"Hi. Are you new here?" The guy looks at me in confusion. I almost faint looking into his blue eyes. They're so beautiful, they hurt.

"Um, no. I'm not," he answers before turning back to what appears to be a graphic sketch.

"Well, I'm sorry, I just don't really know anyone in this class. I'm Ashleigh," I say in my best "I'm-friendly-and-not-threatening" voice.

"I know," he answers, not taking his eyes off his drawing.

"Well, who are you?" I ask, my patience beginning to wear.

"Spot Conlon. Nice to meet you," he says, still sketching without looking at me. I pause. I'm out of introductory comments and questions.

"So, how do you know me if I don't know you?" I ask curiously.

"I watch people. And I listen. Something I notice that you do not," he says. Damn, I wish he would look up.

"Hey, I listen!" I say, indignant.

"Yeah, because reading People and trying to stare inconspicuously at the foreign exchange student is listening," he says sarcastically, picking up a red pencil crayon and shading lightly.

"How did you know that?" I ask, before I can stop myself.

"Like I said, I watch people," he says again.

"I was admiring his..." Think of a lie! Think of a lie! You're not a stalker of hot, Swedish polo players! "Okay, I was staring at his hair. It's so pretty!" Spot gives a little laugh and puts down the pencil crayon, staring critically at his sketch. "Done?"

"Yeah. But I'm not sure I like it," he says, wrinkling his nose. Oh, that nose...

"Well, can I see it?" I start to reach for the paper, but he snatches it away from me.

"Uh, sorry. I don't show people my stuff," he says, sliding it into his binder.

"Oh, yeah, sure." I nod. So, to flirt or not to flirt? The guy is hot - no denying it. Even Ms. Brightman is eyeing him in a very disturbing and wrong way. I do have the bet with Blink, but he's not here...unless he's watching me. No, no, we went over that during "the government is spying on us" phase. So, if he's not here and he's not a spy for the government, I can flirt a little with Spot Conlon. It doesn't mean anything. Meaningless flirting.

"Ashleigh?" My head snaps up at being addressed by Ms. Brightman.

"Yeah?"

"Answer the question?" I freeze. When did she start teaching? Probably somewhere in the time that I was pondering flirting with Spot. I look over at him; he already has his binder out and is writing down the date. Wow, he has neat printing! That's freakishly nice writing for someone so...male. I wonder if I can get him to -

"Ashley? The question?" Damn it! I keep getting sidetracked. Okay, Spot doesn't exist. He doesn't exist.

"I, uh...three?" I answer uncertainly. Ms. Brightman sighs and asks Andy the same question, which has something to do with polynomials or binomials or some other nomial. By this time, I'm already tuned out. Normally, I would take out a magazine or something, but Ms. Brightman has moved me to the front row, the very place I dreaded most. How can you properly zone out if you're right where she can watch you?

My attention drifts back to Guy, that bastard. I wonder if he's called yet... Inconspicuously, I dig out my cell phone and turn it on. It makes a faint sound and the teacher turns around, but I hide it in my coat pocket until she turns back. I bring up my voicemail - still nothing.

I'm just putting away my phone when a large shadow is cast over me. Damn. I look up innocently at Ms. Brightman. She doesn't say a thing, just extends her hand and nods at my cell phone. Reluctantly, I place the cell phone in her palm. She walks away, pulls open her desk drawer and drops it in, before turning her attention back to polynomials. I glare at her back and at Spot when he snorts slightly. He mouths "Smooth" to me and shakes his head, scribbling down a note about something math related that I missed.

Well, I can't get any more screwed over in this class - might as well try to save myself a bit and take a few notes. I take out a piece of paper and begin to write down the date.

Now that I know Spot Conlon, it feels like he's stalking me. Or perhaps I'm the one stalking him. No difference - I see him everywhere now.

I go to my locker - his is three down from mine. I sit with Blink at lunch - he sits at the table behind mine. I walk into my fifth period class - he's coming out of his fourth in the same room. I would take the opportunity to talk to him, but not only is Spot usually wearing headphones, he also wears a perpetual "back off or I'll kick you in the face" look. So, for the rest of the day, I try to forget those piercing, blue eyes.

But that's difficult, since he's there, even when he's not there. Does that make sense? It seems like I hear people saying his name all the time, but they're not. I think I hear his voice, but it's just some random guy who sounds only slightly like Spot. I've come close to tackling what must have been at least twenty shortish guys with blue eyes and sandy hair.

I would worry about my sanity if I hadn't lost it long, long ago.

On the way home, Blink is babbling about some basketball game between him and some other guy who I don't know. I'm not even listening, rather trying to push Spot out of my mind and succeeding only in seeing him shirtless and wet.

"And Trey grabbed my legs, but I slam dunked the ball anyway and I totally kicked his ass and those skanky girls - you know, the ones with those big, ugly coats? - those skanky girls were checking me out and -" Blink stops. "Ash? Something bothering you?"

"What? No, nothing's wrong," I answer distractedly.

"I just got the feeling that you haven't heard a word I said," Blink says.

"Well, sorry, but I'm not all that interested in one-on-one basketball games between you and whoever and skanky girls checking you out," I reply.

"What are you thinking about?" Blink asks, nudging me gently with him elbow.

"Do you know Spot Conlon?" I ask before I can stop myself.

"Short guy? Kind of keeps to himself? Yeah, I know him," Blink answers casually. He pauses and raises an eyebrow. "Why? Are you thinking of calling off our bet?"

"No, I'm not. I met him today and I was wondering about him," I insist. "He's kind of a mystery." Blink simply shrugs.

"I've got nothing on him. Like you said, he's a mystery. Never seen him in any sports," he says.

"He's been in my math since February and I just noticed him on Friday, since Brightman sat me beside him," I tell him. "Maybe I'll try Jules. She's involved in everything and knows everyone, maybe she has something on him."

"It's worth a shot," Blink says with another shrug. "So, can I tell you about the rest of my game?"

"Oh hey, Ash. Can you hold on for one second?" I'm greeted by Julia's manicured finger while she wraps up a few minor details on the spring dance. Finally, she signs off with her signature greeting ("Ciao!") and flips her phone closed expertly.

"So, what's new with you?" she asks, popping open her sushi container and pulling out a fancy pair of chopsticks.

"Oh, well, you know, the usual," I say as she squeezes a salmon roll between her chopsticks. "Look, I was wondering if -"

"Oh, hold on a second," she interrupts as her phone trills. She snaps it open, makes a few quick arrangements with what sounds like a yearbook committee member and snaps it closed again, turning her attention once more to her sushi and me.

"What can I do for you today, Ash?" she asks, popping the entire salmon roll in her mouth. She glances down at her watch. "And before you start, I have to leave in ten minutes to meet with the prom committee, so I don't have long to talk."

"Well, I was just wondering if you knew of a Spot Conlon?" I ask. She pauses, cocking an eyebrow in thought.

"Spot Conlon? Is that his real name?" she asks thoughtfully.

"I wouldn't know. I only met him on Friday and I figured you of all people would know him," I tell her with a helpless shrug.

"Why do you ask?" she asks with a devilish grin. "What happened with Guy? Still hasn't called you back?"

"Well, no, but I'm not looking for - how did you know about that?" She looks at me with an "oh, please" look and takes another stab at her sushi.

"Tell me a little about him. What does he look like? What does he do? I need information!"

"He's on the shorter side and he's got really, really blue eyes. His hair is sort of a sandy colour and he's always wearing headphones. And he likes to draw. That's all I know. Can you help me?" Jules thinks for a moment.

"I think I know who you're talking about. I haven't seen him around at any of the clubs or sports. But I think he has the art class before mine. So, if you're looking to land him, I'd lead with that," she informs me, popping the last of her sushi in her mouth.

"Oh, no, I don't -"

"Sorry, I've got to go now, Ash. Good luck with your guy!" she cries as she flies off to the library to meet with the rest of the prom people. I'm left alone at her now empty table, staring at the trash spotted floor. Am I getting on the insane side with this Spot hunt?

"Hey. Hey. Ash." A round, hard object, which feel suspiciously like a pen, pokes me repeatedly in the arm. "Ash. Ash!" The voice is incessant in my ear. I know it's Spot, but I'm trying to ignore him. I still have one more week before I win Blink's bet and I've taken on the facade of a perfect math student. I pretend to be taking notes and listening intently when I'm actually scribbling down song lyrics (today's selection: Killer Queen) and paying no attention whatsoever.

She's a killer quee-een, da da da, dum dum dum, da da da da da- "Ash!"

"What?" I whisper harshly, turning my head so Spot is just in the corner of my eye.

"We're talking about adding and subtracting polynomials," he tells me with a smirk.

"I know that. What do you think I'm writing?"

"Oh, right, sorry." He pauses. "Ash? How do you combine like terms?" Damn it.

"Why? Don't you know?"

"No. Why don't you tell me?"

"Well, you...you...just piss off, Conlon." Spot's smirk widens.

"Whatever you say." He leaves me alone. For a second. "Killer Queen? That's not even their best song." I slam my pen down on my desk.

"Do you think I care? I like the song, okay? I don't care if it's not their best. I don't care if it's their worst. I don't care if it's the crappiest song of all time! I. Don't. Care." I figure this will get him off my back (people usually tend to when I yell), but it only spurns him on.

"No, the crappiest song of all time is 'Come To Me, O My Love'." All right, I agree with him there. The choir sang it at the winter concert. It's a terrible song, and it doesn't help that the choir has a collective voice that sounds like rusty nails being driven into steel. I won't tell him that, though. That might spark a conversation and I might not be able to control my instincts. And damn it, I'm not losing another five bucks to Blink.

"Leave me alone, Conlon," I hiss, turning back to Queen.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Please, don't let me interrupt your note taking," he says sarcastically.

"Bite me."

"You really think you're better than me, don't you?"

"I do not."

"Yes, you do, or you wouldn't be acting like such a bitch."

"I'm not being a bitch!"

"Um, yeah, you are."

"Well, maybe if you weren't being such an annoying prick, I wouldn't have to be a bitch."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

"Detention, Spot. Ashleigh. Here, at lunch." Ms. Brightman glares at us, her chalk still held at the blackboard. The rest of the class stares at us and sniggers.

"Great. Can't wait," I whisper, glaring at Spot.

My fingers walk up and down my leg as I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Three more days. Three more days. Three more days.

Ahhh! This is killing me!

But why is it killing me? Spot's just another guy. I don't have to flirt with every good looking guy I see.

Do I?

This is ridiculous. I can't believe I made this bet in the first place. I am completely in control of my hormones. Completely.

Blink's just crazy, that's what it is. I am so capable of this. I'm not guy crazy. I'm a perfectly normal teenage girl, who has regular interests and hobbies. Aside from guy watching. Like, um...

Movies. I like watching movies. For instance, I just watched Swing Kids yesterday. Yeah, that's a good movie. You know, action and drama. It's moving.

And I so do not like it just because of Christian Bale. Pah. Yeah right.

And I like to hang out with my friends! You know, Blink, my best friend. I always have a great time hanging out with him. And there's no sexual tension whatsoever. I canjust be friends with a guy. I've seen him shirtless plenty of times, when I swim at his house. And I've never felt more than platonic love for him.

His guy friends on the other hand...

No! No! This should not be this hard! I am capable of being alone! I am an independent woman! I'll get my own door! I'll pay for my own dinner! I'll buy my own bling! Wait a minute...

Damn you, Destiny's Child.

The house I live in, I bought it...

No! Different song! Sweet Caroline! Bah bah bah! Good times never seemed so good!

Oh God. I've resorted to Neil Diamond.

I think I was better off with Destiny's Child.

I very gradually make my way to my seat in math. I'm causing a traffic jam. I don't care. The longer it takes for me to get to my seat, the sooner class will start and the less time I'll have to possibly talk to Spot. I'm almost ignoring him. He's not exactly a chatty fellow, but still, I'm barely acknowledging him. I do feel bad, because he's a nice guy, but still.

One more day. Just one more day.

The bell clangs, signifying the start of school. The class rises for the national anthem, then plops back down in their seats for the announcements. No one listens to the announcements, probably due to the fact that Marie Foster, announcer extraordinaire, has the most monotone, lifeless voice I've ever heard. God help the students of this country if she ever decides to try her hand at teaching.

I glance over to my left, as I usually do every morning. There's Spot, as usual, head buried in sketchbook. He hasn't noticed my looking at him, so I quickly turn my head. Resist the urge. Resist the urge.

Yes! Urge resisted! I no longer feel the will to tackle him to the ground and inhale the smell of his laundry detergent!

I am, of course, lying.

Maybe I'm just confused. Maybe I have feelings for laundry detergent, not Spot. I mean, I do like the smell of it. It gets my clothes clean. It removes stains. It keeps my blacks black and my whites white, as well as his. Laundry detergent is a miracle product!

It's the laundry detergent. Not the Spot. Definitely the laundry detergent.

"'Scuse me," Spot mumbles to me, as he reaches across me to retrieve his red pencil that has conveniently rolled away from him.

It's the Spot.

"So, what do you want to do tomorrow?" I ask, throwing the bouncy ball against my ceiling. Reliably, it bounces back at me. Good ol' bouncy ball. I've been bouncing it off my bedroom ceiling for half an hour while I talk to Blink on the phone and it's only hit me in the face three times!

"Ah! Bloody hell!"

All right. Four.

"Well, we could always go see a movie. But oh no, I'm five dollars short. Ash, would you be able to lend me a five?" he says sarcastically.

"That was a lame one, Blink," I tell him.

"I know, not my best, but still, no worse than my peking duck joke."

"Ugh. Don't remind me. The horrors of it still haunt me to this day."

"All kidding aside, how are you doing on that bet?"

"I'm still holding up! The bet ends tomorrow morning and I'm completely fine! Haven't flirted or made dates with any guys," I inform him cheerfully.

"Damn. Well, don't forget, there's still 10 hours until the bet officially ends. I have spies, you know," he says.

"Marc and Sam don't count. They're too stupid to chew food. They just swallow it whole."

"Hey! Those are my friends!"

"Come on, Blink."

"Yeah, okay, you're right."

"Ash-LEIGH!" Argh! Why does my mother insist on calling me for dinner in a voice similar to Auntie Em's?

"JUST A MINUTE, MOM!" I yell, putting my hand over the receiver. "I gotta go, Blink. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay. Remember, I have spies..." I hang up before he can finish that sentence.

The car I'm drivin', I bought it...

SERIOUSLY!

I stride into math class. It's over. It ended. I'm a free woman once more. Blink paid me this morning. We have plans to meet for lunch at the pizza place.

I'M FREE! FREE AT LAST!

I plonk into my seat happily. Oh, how little I know.

"Out of your seat, Ashleigh. We're having another seating change," Ms. Brightman informs me. I stare up at her in horror. What?

"I'm sorry?"

"New seating change. Move to the back, please."

WHAT?

Slowly, disbelievingly, I gather my things and move to the back. I can't believe she's doing this to me. I can't believe it. This is so unfair. So unjust. There was a seating change two weeks ago! Why? Why is she torturing us like this?

"Ashleigh! Next to Trey!" Ms. Brightman is pointing at my desk, her eyes boring into my head. She doesn't like me so much. I make my way over to the seat in the front row (again!) next to Trey, a blinged out, "gangsta", lily-white kid who lives four houses down from me.

"Hey," I mutter to him.

"'Sup," he says with an acknowledging head nod. I simply look away. I really don't know how to talk to people who talk like that. Especially wanna-bes like Trey.

I crane my neck to see where Spot is. He's in the second row on the opposite side of the room, in between Margot and Keith. Margot is already flipping her hair and giggling loudly. Grand. Thankfully, Keith isn't as flirty, due to the fact that his attention is rivetted on the redhead in front of him. Also, Keith is straight, so that helps. A body seats itself in the chair next to mine.

Ooh! Goody! The foreign exchange student! A distraction!

His hair is so shiny...

Spot's hair is really shiny too...

In fact, if Alberik's hair was just a few shades lighter, it would be almost the exact same colour as -

No! No no! This is bad! Get over Spot! He's on the other side now! He's probably already forgotten about you, so you might as well just forget about him.

Besides, he probably only dates artsy girls with piercings and...glasses and...paintbrushes.

"Now, if you would move into your discussion groups, please!" Ms. Brightman says as the class gets out of their seats. Discussion groups? I thought they were only in English. I look at the board, trying to find my name in a discussion group.

Group Four: Frederick, Ashleigh, Karen, Spot

I do a double take.

Group Four: Frederick, Ashleigh, Karen, Scott

Damn it. I was this close. Scott and Spot look similar, don't they? Since I have yet to move from my seat, the rest of my group crowds around me. I look over at Spot. He's surrounded by his group too. There's no way of penetrating the interior.

Why do I watch government conspiracy movies if they cause me to talk and think like that?

I zone out as the rest of my group talks about algebra.

"Ashleigh?" I look over. Janet is looking at me.

"What?"

"Don't you want to write some of this down? This is a midterm evaluation, you know."

Shit.

"Er, um, yeah. Sure..." I dazedly pull out a piece of paper and try to copy down the terms I hear them using. I'm paying no attention. I've probably misspelled every word they've mentioned, because my mind is elsewhere.

Before I know it, the bell clangs. It's over. My group scatters and I collect my things, walking out of the classroom.

"Hey. Ash." A voice buzzes in my ear. I turn and look over my shoulder. Spot's grinning at me.

"Hey Spot," I say casually.

"So. Enjoy sitting next to the foreign exchange student?" he asks, catching up to walk beside me.

"Well...yeah. It's all I can do not to stare at his hair all period long," I admit.

"Wish I was as lucky as you. I have to sit next to Margot," he grumbles. He follows with a perfect imitation of her giggle and I laugh.

"So I take it she's not your type?" I ask.

"Not really. I prefer girls whose hair actually moves. I swear, nothing can penetrate the hair spray that engulfs her head."

"So what is your type then?" I like where this is leading.

"I don't know. Girls who think, for one. And I tend to like the bitchy ones," he adds, smiling at me. My stomach leaps slightly.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, I like girls who can argue and don't let themselves be blinded by good looking guys." If he's talking about me, I'm going to die. I will.

"Really."

"Really." There's a brief pause. "What are you doing tonight?"

"Um, nothing." My stomach leaps again. He looks at me with those beautiful blue eyes.

"My band's playing at Paul's tonight," he says. He has a band? They have a gig at a restaurant? This heightens his appeal. "It'd be awesome if you came." My smile widens.

"Yeah. I'd love that," I answer. I'm somewhat lost, momentarily, then I regain my dignity. "So, what does your band play?"

"Oh, a few original songs. Mostly covers, though."

"Like what?"

"Killer Queen."

It's done! Kind of a lame, sappy ending, and it's not exactly Pulitzer Prize winning material, but I like it. So there. Happy birthday Ashleigh!

newsiesmoseph