"Denny Yogman?"

The shorter, squatter Yogman peered up from his corner of the tabletop, only to glare into the eyes of his nemesis; his social-and for all intensive purposes, mortal-enemy.

Two years ago, just the sight of one of the Yogmans would send Robot's body into defense mode, claws flying to his bulb to protect them from greedy, unwashed hands. But this wasn't the case anymore. Only slightly taller, with his bulb making up most of the difference, the automaton could pose intimidation over the singular brother if he wanted to, even without busting out his lasers (not that he could. They were controlled by his emotions anyway.) But it wasn't in Robot's nature to bully himself into winning an argument, especially if he had a much more powerful intellectual argument to make.

It was only two days ago that Robot had come home to make the painful discovery of Grampz's departure. With no other unit to go to about Isaac, Davvy and Phillips, Robot had had to mull over who to go to now. He knew from the moment yesterday that he told Crystal about the Yogmans that he was going to regret it. But they were the only technically-competent humans Robot could think to make something out of this information. Mr. Mitchell was the other possibility, but being the adult he was, and being a part time counselor now, he'd be obligated to tell the authorities about this. And Robot grimaced at the thought of the police getting involved in this.

The only thing that could challenge a plan for a robotic rebellion was a plan for a rebellion, starting with the enslavement of a robot-that being himself. Robot's bullies were the last humans he wanted any help from, but they were also the only ones who might have any idea what Isaac and the robots were planning to do, and how to squash it before it happened.

Robot would have cast a shadow over the devo-hat sporting boy, if the lights were on.

In the far back of the chemistry lab-the same one Clara's father had paid to rebuild-Denny had made himself comfortable in the darkened classroom, with his scientific supplies surrounding him as he worked with a bunsen burner. Aside from the flame it produced, strapped to Denny's head was a small headlamp-the only other source of light in the room, and his work light. Even a C-average student could figure that he had not turned on the classroom light to avoid being spotted.

The automaton wouldn't bother asking how Denny had got himself into a locked classroom that wasn't scheduled to be used for five more hours. The Yogman's had never bothered to adhere to the rules as to where and where they were not allowed on campus, or in the school-particularly the air vents. And these days, respect for locks at the school was at an all time low-even the Ghost Writer who'd broken into The Gab's storage room to steal a typewriter didn't give a care. As it was, Denny had left the room unlocked for when he exited, and Robot had not needed to noisily break the lock off in order to get the room.

The Yogman gave Robot the acknowledgement of eye contact before resuming his work, as if he was still all alone. Given his history with the Yogman's as a pair, this was a fairly mild reaction to Robot's unbenounced arrival. Still, Robot was expected at least a verbal acknowledgement, even if it involved the phrase "get lost!" or the exchange of some cuss words that would get them both sent to detention.

"Listen," Robot sighed, "I am aware that I am probably the last individual you would imagine sharing a frank conversation with. However, given the time that has elapsed between our last unpleasant run in and now, I beseech you to consider the possibility of perhaps... giving me some advice."

With a jolt, Denny lowered his wrench. Clutched in the tool's teeth was a piece of metal with some wires. Robot wasn't positive, but it appeared the human had been trying to solder some sort of little circuit board. Could it belong to another amateur robot he had been trying to build? Whatever it was, using the bunsen burner as a torch was... awfully clever. Especially given that welding torches were difficult for minors to attain. Robot supposed the Yogman's didn't earn their genius titles for nothing.

"Advice?" Denny demanded with the tone of a dog, snapping at a home intruder. "For what?"

"Exactly at what you're best at," Robot explained. "Plotting rebellion."

Denny snorted. "Forget it!"

"Denny, this is a matter that threatens to turn yours and my lives upside down," Robot said, grimly. "If it goes too far."

"If you want help with any planning," Denny shot back, "Take it up with the jerk with dinosaur breath. He's the one with the schemes to take over the school. I do technical stuff. Always have, always will!"

Robot stood back and watched with a brand new comprehension, as Denny went right back to his work. Now that he'd thought about it, the automaton had never seen Lenny's hands at work with any of the devices used to try to capture and/or torture himself. Tech was always Denny's deal. Robot wondered why he'd never noticed this before-possibly because he had been encouraged from day one to think of the Yogmans as a two-headed singular entity.

But if Denny wasn't involved in the planning of Lenny's schemes, than had he come to the wrong brother?

He still had to try. "You were only not involved in the planning because Lenny didn't let you, did he?" Robot asked. "He just generated the idea and expected you to fill in the details for how to get it done."

Denny didn't respond, but his gloved hands gradually pulled away from the flame once more.

"I bet you could make plans just as well as Lenny, if not better."

Denny sat there, staring at his work. For such a short adolescent, he had the expression of a forty year old, up to his eyeballs in tax files. Competent in what he was doing, but overwhelmed by the workload.

Like a hairpin in a lock, Robot felt something finally giving way. Denny was listening to him. And suddenly he wasn't sure how he felt about it.

Clearly, the Yogmans were in the middle of some sort of disagreement, one that wasn't going away very quickly. So there was a reason there were separated at the moment, after all. Had Robot pointed out the flaw in Lenny's domination of the pair at the perfect time? Was it unfair to the brothers that he should be doing this?

He didn't know why he cared. These were the Yogmans, for crying out loud. But still, it felt like there was a special place in the underworld for little robots that turned fraternal brothers, once joined at the hips, against each other.

Denny folded his arms on the desk, but continued to refuse to meet Robot's gaze. "How'd you even know where I was?"

"Well, the school has you scheduled for P.E. this period," Robot explained, coming close enough to rest his right arm on his side of the tabletop, like a cop leaning over a perp. "So I knew I could cross off the gym from the list of places you might be."

"You're so witty, Jones!" Denny snapped, throwing his fist against the black-painted tabletop, and finally looking Robot in the eyes. "You sure they didn't design you to be a clown? Entertaining at birthday parties?"

"Are you going to help me?" Robot asked. "Or not?"

Denny drummed his fingers on the table, bunsen burner still brightly lit, just inches from his fingers. He reached beneath the table and turned the valve that at last extinguished both the gas, and the flame. "What's in it for me?"

"I can't believe I had to promise Denny a regular supply of computer equipment until the end of the semester," Robot complained, shaking his head. "Just to get some advice. Thankfully there's plenty in storage from the factory at home."

"That's what you get for bargaining with a Yogman," Cubey told him.

"Believe me, if I thought anybody else could help me on this matter, I would have sought them out instead," Robot sighed. "I just hope Denny proves the same loyalty to me that he did for Lenny back when they were talking."

The last of Robot's sentence was silenced by a roar in the distance.

Before the start of what would have been their regularly scheduled 7th period class, Robot and the outcasts of Polyneux made their way down to the mandatory assembly taking place in the thundering gym. The three main doors were locked in the open position, but the hallway outside was congested with bodies,as the entire school was instructed to head inside at once for the biggest pep rally of the year: The annual school pride assembly.

"Oh boy, here we go again," Mitch muttered under his breath, as they approached the overwhelming hub-bub.

"They make us sit through these stupid assemblies every-" Cubey said, being cut off having to dodge wild students chasing each other by zooming left and right on his skates. "Ugh. Year. Does anybody even like them?"

"Sure, if you're a cheerleader," Tom said, thoughtfully. While he was too shy to comment about girls, his eyes did flit over to some particularly loud and animated girls in the long yellow sleeve shirt and short skirts, standing by the nearest throng of lockers to the gym.

"Interestingly, my optical sensors don't detect Clara anywhere," Robot noticed, speaking out loud as he scanned the cheerleaders he passed. Or Stacey unit, for that matter.

"Probably gearing up for this thing. Pep rallies are her Olympics, aren't they?" Mitch asked.

"Tally told me the girls were bragging about having a big show to celebrate going to the state championship," Tom explained. "Might take up half of the rally's time."

"Oh, is Tally the name of your new girlfriend?" asked Mitch with a smirk, making Tom blush. News about him being in a relationship had spread to the rest of the group of friends, but Robot was the only one who knew that Tom and Tally had never partaken in kissing yet. And he wasn't sure how he felt about being the keeper of such a personal secret.

"Oh, perfect," Cubey groaned. "So we're not even gonna have time for the game where Ms. Wilson gets to call on students to answer trivia and get get-out-of-detention free cards? Come on, guys, we're 8th graders! We're upperclassmen now! Let's all just ditch-nobody will know!"

"Will you quit griping?" Shannon finally spoke up. "We could ditch, but we're not," she said, stopping Cubey with her body, "because we're here to support one person: Stacey. She's going to state too, and we're very proud of her. Now, move!"

Cubey grunted, and moved. Shannon didn't strike the same fear into his heart that Pam did, but she had picked up a thing or two from Cubey's forceful-natured crush.

Mitch bumped his cube-solving best buddy in the shoulder. "It won't be so bad. At least we get to see more of the cheerleaders."

Cubey smirked back. "Right. As if you're going to be looking at them."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mitch said, stopping dead in his tracks. His sneakers, which only appeared on his feet three months out of the year, squeaked on the freshly waxed floor, courtesy of Clancy.

"Oh, you know..." Cubey said, starting to whistle mockingly and skate on ahead of the group, in graceful zig-zags.

Shannon gave Mitch a concerned look, to which the headphone-wearing boy ignored, and walked onward towards the gym, now with a scowl. If Mitch had interpreted that remark as an insinuation that he would prefer to be looking at the athletes over the cheerleaders, than Mitch would have been justified in being angry. But Robot, watching on in curious silence like the data collector he was, didn't think that's what Cubey meant. And when June passed, he happened to notice her twirling a strand of black hair around her finger nervously, and biting her lip.

Passing the threshold of the gymnasium, three thousand student's outdoor voices joined together to form a sound that went from grating, to deafening. In the middle of the room, a series of long, yellow, cushioned mats were laid out in parallel lines to the bleachers to create a perfect square. Far off in the back of the room, out of the equipment closet, McMcMc was struggling to drag the last mat, prematurely unrolled, when Mr. Workout approached him, visibly sighed, and took it out of his hands. McMcMc stood there, folding his arms across his chest, and looking emasculated.

"8th graders?"

The band of outcasts including Robot and Shannon turned and saw that Coach had called out to them. Standing before the first line of the court with a clipboard, he thrust his finger to the far left-side bleachers. "To the left, all the way down! Don't clog the walkway!"

"Jeez," Tom muttered, as the group filtered through the narrow strip between the open bleachers and the court. "Does he ever turn off his coach-mode?"

"Only when they lock him up in the closet at night for sleeping," Mitch said, looking to Robot. "Right, RJ?"

"Huh? Oh," Robot said, feeling heat surface on his metallic cheeks. "A robot joke. I see..." Lately the robot jokes were coming fast enough to him that he was able to at least give a slightly clever retort back, but the sounds and crampedness of the gym were distracting.

Not to mention that aside from Stacey and Clara, his eyes were peeled for sight of someone else.

The bleachers were divided into four sections, with the 6th and 7th graders on one side, and the 8th graders and various school staff to the other-just in case the graduating class got a little too rowdy, they were seated across from the only people who would remind them that they were still at school. While a spot at the bottom would have been preferable, they were all occupied by bigger, stronger, more popular 8th graders. Without even asking, Robot, Shannon and company climbed higher.

Robot forced himself to remember Socks' new hair and clothes, but even as he ascended the stairs with the others, he didn't see his ex-best friend anywhere.

It became quite clear apparently why Cubey, leading the group on his skates the way he'd done in the halls, had chosen the third row from the top, as sitting on the far left of a long stretch of empty bench was Pam Simon. He took the seat on the bench next to her, and while they didn't say anything, the two exchanged a nod. It looked entirely unromantic to Shannon, but she figured, 'not my relationship. Not my business.' Though she was curious about the vacancy of the bench and if Pam had arranged with Cubey to save the entire stretch for her companions. Given Pam's forceful nature, it wasn't hard to believe she could make this happen.

The remaining kids all scooted in and sat down. And when Mitch seated himself next to Cubey, both turned to Robot. "No sign of ol' compadre?" asked the headphone wearing boy, briefly removing the device from his ears so that he could hear better.

Knowing exactly who they were talking about, Shannon glowered a little. And not so easily determining who they were talking about, June raised an eyebrow at her, curiously. To the boys, Robot just shook his head. "I will turn on my friend-seeking vision, but I don't think he's here."

"That'll be a surprise, given the way he used to love staring at all the girls before he made the basketball-" Cubey said, before the sound of a foghorn cut off every small conversation in the room. Several of the students, mostly 6th graders, threw their hands over their ears and cried out in pain.

The remaining students trickling into the room who had no part in the assembly scattered for their designated sections, like mice running for a hole in the wall. Before long, Mr. Workout, the Coach, Polyneux's only female gym teacher, Ms. Reblin, and Ms. Wilson-dressed in jeans and a T shirt, instead of her normal secretary clothes all came together on top of the freshly laid mats, while Gretchen Wilson held the microphone. "Let's start off this pep rally right: Which grade do you think can get the loudest for the Rainbows?"

The students of Polyneux joined together in a collective scream.

Ms. Wilson nodded at a silent hand gesture Mr. Workout made at her, estimating how much time she needed to stall, before pointed to the 6th grade bleachers for the start of the traditional war-of-the-grades. "6th graders! This is your first assembly, so I'm gonna explain how this works. If you wanna win this challenge, you have to get loud-as loud as you can! But do you think you can get loud for the Rainbows as the upperclassmen? Come on, underdogs, show those older kids what you got!"

The sixth graders' went wild. The youngest and more hazed students were yanking their hair, jumping up and down on the bleachers, doing anything and everything to be seen, and be heard. They were fresh out of elementary school, loaded with pre-pubescent energy, and even with their premature voices, made quite a racket. The shrill quality of their voices in particular made them hard to ignore, even by the students who were plugging their ears with their fingers.

"Very nice," Ms. Wilson said into the microphone. "Now," she turned to the seventh graders' bleachers, seated right next to them. "Seventh graders, you already know how this works. You're the middle graders, you've gotten over the hump! You should have the most school spirit-come on, seventh graders!"

Just like the sixth, the seventh graders generated a great thunder of noise. Right away, the differences in the voices were apparent, as more of the boys in seventh had already begun the voice change, but not all. The chorus of the 7th grader's voices was the most unharmonious of the lot, and the bodies that rose from the bleachers were the most drastically uneven-some kids as tall as the eighth graders, some as short as the shortest of sixth graders. It was the big divide.

"Ohhh, sixth graders, I think the seventh graders got you beat," Ms. Wilson teased. She turned on the heel of her rarely-seen sneakers, and pointed somewhere in the vicinity of Robot and his friends. "And now here's the eight graders-the big shots-the ones on top. Eighth graders, this is your last year to show your school spirit, so you show your rainbow pride, right here, right now! You want the underclassmen to beat you? Come on, I wanna hear you!"

Almost every body in the eight grade bleachers shot up around them, and the sound created was unreal. Even if the war between the grades was stupid, even if they had been the ones to stubbornly keep their seat in the bleachers in seventh grade, they weren't doing it now. No eighth grader wanted to have an underclassmen beat them. The wave of age superiority was too infectious. Even Cubey and Mitch, who had scoffed at the idea of the assembly, stood and joined the chorus of meaningless screams. Ms. Wilson said something into the microphone, but Robot couldn't pick it up over his hearing receptor, because the noise had created a wall around him.

Though they had rose from their seats as well in the wave of motion, Robot and Shannon had been the only eighth graders-that they were aware of, anyway-who made no noise of their own. Both of them were less curious about who would win the grade-wars, and more curious about Mr. Workout's tapping his foot on the floor, impatiently.

"Since when did cheerleaders need safety mats?" Robot thought out loud, giving Shannon a questioning look.

"They don't, normally," Shannon admitted. "This has gotta be part of some stupid routine Clara thought up..."

"Ooohh, eighth graders!" Ms. Wilson said into the microphone. "This is gonna be close. But who's to say only the students can have a good show of school spirit?" She turned to the bleachers on the left of the eighth graders. "Can Polyneux's own staff get louder than all of you?"

All the teachers who had been awkwardly piled up in the bleachers, as if they made up the total of Grade Zero, rose from their seats. At once, all the teachers, even the ones who adhered to a strict personal policy of quiet maturity, furiously clapped their hands, shouted and whistled for the cause for which they had dedicated a part of their lives to-this very school.

"It's gonna be a landslide!" Ms. Wilson shouted, before handing the microphone to Mr. Workout.

"We'll be announcing the winner of this year's school spirit at the end of the assembly," the friendly gym teacher explained. "Let's just see if you seventh graders can catch up when we bring out the talent..."

The seventh grade bleachers began screaming in angry protests. Robot grimaced, realizing if he had started school just one year later, he'd be a part of the grade that was being lampooned. No matter how immersed he became in the middle school experience, rallies always seemed so barbaric to him. He only put up with them when Socks became a player on the basketball team, and Shannon had become a cheerleader. And even though he was terribly upset with him, Robot found himself using his regular seeking vision tactics to hunt for the acne covered, smelly boy he used to call a best friend, as if nothing had changed.

Is that the best you can do?

In the girls locker room, Stacey had just pulled on her freshly washed cheerleading dress, and gave herself a look in her locker door mirror. As tiny as it was, it was free of anyone's judgemental eyes but her own. She was expecting the dress to fit looser, like it fit before it went into the laundry machine, and was disgusted to discover not an extra wrinkle of fabric on her body anywhere. Someone well rested, well fed, and generally more well of mind, might assume a wash in hot water had shrunk the looser fitting dress. But in Stacey's state of mind, it meant only one thing: The scale had lied. She hadn't lost any weight in the past week at all.

A mocking voice in her head clicked its tongue.

Sad, really.

"Stacey!"

Stacey Watkins spun around and beheld the only face on the cheerleading team that looked worse than her own. "Clara... you look terrible," Stacey found herself saying, bluntly.

The captain of the squad had dark, sleepless rings under her eyes that she hadn't even tried to cover up with makeup. Her dark purple lipstick, which she only wore for drills with an audience, was quickly smothered over cracked lips. And her usually smooth hair was standing up on all sides. Pride was probably the only thing keeping her from putting it up in a ponytail, like Stacey always did to her own.

"It doesn't matter," Clara said quickly, shaking her head (and Stacey almost believed her). "Listen, Robin was supposed to get back from her doctor's appointment by now but her mom's car broke down. She won't get back in time. I need you to take her place in the set."

Stacey felt herself gently swaying back and forth on her ankles. Uncomfortable silence fell over them. "But that's... the bottom right base."

"Yes! The final pose won't work unless we have seven girls at the bottom, and you're the only one I could ask! Please, Stacey! I'll make it up to you!"

Stacey felt her inner conscious, leaning on the suddenly huge, suddenly glowing red 'no' button. The one that would finally break her out of this spell. The word was right there, under her tongue. No. No. Like it was the most familiar word in the English language.

But when she saw the desperation in Clara's eyes, and her brain betrayed her by replaying that statement from Workout again:

I don't think she realizes how lucky she is to have a friend like you...

She bit her lip, so hard it almost bled.

Stacey couldn't say it. "Alright," she uttered, instead.

"Thank you, thank you," Clara said quickly, hurrying up to the gym without so much as an affectionate touch of the shoulder. Actually, for doing this big of a favor, Stacey felt like a hug was in order. Clara sure had no issue about hugging her boyfriends in public.

Maybe this is just what Stacey got for being Ms. Popular's best friend.

"There he is!" Robot shouted.

As the audience of children gradually lost steam, members of Polyneux's various athletics teams, fashionably late and all dressed in their street attire, slipped through the front doors and sat in the bleachers directly opposite Robot and company. Among them was a boy with jet black hair that was curling on the ends from an unmaintained straightening.

"That traitor, he's sitting with the basketball players!" Mitch shouted.

"I never thought he'd treat the team like a second set of friends," Cubey said, thoughtfully for once.

"Neither did I," Robot said, putting on a sad expression. At the bottom middle bleacher on their opposite side, Socks-or as he rather be called these days, 'Tim'-was seated right next to Vinny, one of his closest team members. While the other athletic boys were laughing and shoving each other, Vinny was nodding and listening to something Socks was telling him.

"And here comes Clara," Shannon noted, pointing to the dishwater blond girl, rocketing up the girl's locker room steps. "Probably gonna give lover boy some attention before she goes on."

And on cue, that's exactly what happened: Clara ran to the teams, found Socks, exchanged some words that were inaudible beneath Ms. Wilson's voice on the microphone, kissed him, and took off.

Or at least, that's all that appeared to happen, to Robot and his friends.

"And I've been trying to tell her for days," Socks told Vinny in a near-breathless voice. "Because I don't know who else I can talk to about something this impor-"

"Wait, ain't that her?" asked Vinny, cutting Socks off, and pointing to the girl in purple lipstick, rapidly approaching them.

"Clara!" Socks shouted, surprised to suddenly see her, running towards him. "Where have you been? I've called you for days! Why didn't you pick up?"

The captain stopped in her tracks, looking a little confused to be confronted. "I'm out of the house a lot, Tim, you know that." Clara said back to him, trying to speak in a half-sweet voice, but clearly not having the patience to make it convincing enough. "I'll make it up to you," she told Socks, just like she told Stacey. "I promise."

Vinny, who'd been sitting next to Socks, gagged and scooted over for a second so Clara could briefly press her lips on Socks'. For a boy who used to secretly worry that no girl would ever kiss him-least of all someone so pretty and popular-he didn't think it was normal. But every kiss they shared now was less and less exciting, less passionate. Less everything. And it must have showed, because Clara gave Socks the briefest insulted look before walking off.

With her gone, Vinny slid back next to Socks and cocked an eyebrow at him. "You were saying?"

But Socks 'humphed' and turned away. He didn't feel like talking about it anymore.

"Man, you are a lucky dude," cried out one of Polyneux's junior football players, slapping Socks on the black. "Out of all the people here, she chose you."

"Lucky," Socks said, looking at his black shoes, so new they still smelled more like plastic instead of corn chips. "Sure."

"And we're proud to announce that the Cheerleading team is going to be representing us at state-an honor that hasn't been seen at this school since 1959!" Mr. Workout announced into the microphone, as Ms. Wilson finding her way back to the bleachers. "In celebration of their achievement, the girls have prepared a special routine that hasn't been attempted since the high school championship of 1979. Give a warm welcome to your 1987 Winter Cheerleaders!"

The audience roared. Half mature enough to celebrate the sight of some pretty girls, and half immature enough to take the excuse to get as loud in school as they could. The 6th grade bleachers had the strongest divide, with some of the shyer kids too afraid to make so much as a peep, while the others were screaming like kids running wild at a pizza place at somebody's birthday party. One bolder boy near the top even stood up on the bleachers and pulled up his shirt, showing off his bare chest as if it were painted. Without a doubt, Robot's friends knew the 6th graders had won the war-of-the-grades this year.

In a way, it was a relief. Losing to the underclassmen sucked, but, surely, none of them were that embarrassing just two years ago, right?

Clara was the first to appear, taking her train of silent, diligent girls along the perimeter of the safety mats. The last girl in the line was Stacey, who was not last because of her spot on the pyramid, but because she'd had to go up the stairs carefully so as not to get lightheaded. None of the other girls seemed to notice.

But her vertigo and shaking limbs took a backseat, as soon as the music started drifting towards them from the bass-amplifying speakers. Somehow, hearing it over the speakers instead of Workout's portable cassette player put her body in action. Stacey felt herself losing her individuality her weakness, as she became part of something greater, a cog in a machine. She followed the moves of the beginning floor routine with no issue, twirling her baton and flying beneath a threshold made of the other girl's arms. She even managed her back-flips alright, one after another after another. Although on the very last one, she felt herself almost loose her footing, and stumbled a bit on the landing.

"Go on, Stacey!" Shannon shouted, standing up in the bleachers. "Show 'em what you're made of!"

"I don't believe she can hear you, Shannon," Robot noted, nervous to inform her. Stacey was right in the middle of another back-flip, a tricky one that required her to jump over another girl, and landed face away from the 8th grade bleachers.

"I don't think she cares," Pam muttered to herself, just as Stacey rolled from that trick, right into a flawless cartwheel. "What a show off. Just like the rest of 'em."

Shannon turned and glared at her. In that moment, something inside her snapped. She grabbed the automaton seated next to her by his shoulders. "Hold still."

"Wait, what are you-?" Robot started, but quickly realized what Shannon was doing.

By turning Robot's left hearing receptor two notches to the left, Shannon caused his mouth to jut out a speaker, from which the girl used as her makeshift megaphone. (Using the megaphone had been her favorite part of cheerleading). She shouted directly into his left antenna, which carried her voice like a microphone, through his hearing receptor, and out of his mouth at an ear-splitting volume.

"GO ON STACEY! WE'VE GOT YOUR BACK!"

Robot's entire body to rattle with the sound of her voice. Robot's speaker practically trumped the sound of the gym's music speakers, and made the surrounding students, Mitch, Cubey, June, Tom, and Pam, to scoot away.

Much against Pam's belief, Stacey cared enough to look up that time. And a warm smile crossed her tired face, though she didn't pay her friends attention for too long.

Her eyes were on the bleachers on the opposite side.

Just when it felt like she was getting her second wind, Clara made the motion to begin setting up the two-high pyramids. These were the standard pyramid formations where two girls held one more third girl above their heads in their hands. And while they were easy for a cheerleader with two years of training, Stacey was still a base in this one, and had to concentrate on spotting the person who's life was literally on her shoulders.

The flyer, the girl at the top who performed the spinning and body contorting in the other girl's arms, did a fantastic job-at least from Stacey's vanish point. She was too concentrated on moving her feet and keeping her shaky arms level with the other base girl. She was sort of curious how Clara was doing, being the flyer on top of another pair of girls, considering how shaky she looked in the locker room.

Back when Shannon was on the team, Stacey was still learning all the basics herself, and even though she wasn't as quick and nimble back then, she ached for those days. She and Shannon had been bases to a shorter girl in the practice two-tier formations, and she felt like their fast friendship made them better teammates. From a textbook standpoint, the core of cheerleading was about trust and communication. Despite Shannon's lack of grace, she and Stacey had effortless communication, and that gave Stacey more confidence in herself. She felt uneasy about having to catch another girl in her arms, but in front of over two thousand students, Stacey did-proving she could be counted on.

Which made her even more determined to do what she had to do now.

"They seem to be forming the big pyramid now," Robot said, his hands over his eyes to reduce glare from the gymnasium lights. "This is their big show-stopping stunt? I seem to recall you doing this in sixth grade. What's so special about it?"

"Captain must've planned something crazy for the top." She turned to Robot with a grimace. "Let's just hope for the sake of the girls at the bottom that this thing is quick. Basing for the pyramid is killer on the arms."

"I'm going to get a drink of water," Pam suddenly announced, standing up in the bleachers. Since she was on the farthest end of the stretch of bench, she was close to the stairs anyway. She merely thumped the back of the head, belonging to the random kid sitting on the steps in front of her, blocking her way, and began descending.

"Wait, don't you want me to come with you?" called June after her, confused.

"Oh, no, I can get it myself. You stay right here," she looked at Shannon, and despite her best efforts to look cool and unbothered, could not hold back her glare from her best friend. "With that one," she pointed.

June looked at a loss for what just happened. When Pam had disappeared far down the court, she turned to Shannon, eyes wild with too many questions to ask at once. "What was that about?"

"It's a long story," Shannon groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose, keeping half a mind on her embarrassment and half on the show.

"Why do you let her talk to you that way?" Mitch asked. His head swiveled briefly in Cubey's direction, and surprisingly, Pam's admirer had nothing to add. He looked as lost as June.

Shannon rubbed her knuckles in her hands thoughtfully. "You know, Mitch," she said, voice starting in her 6th grade mousy tone, and cracking from that into her current, more confident one. "I really don't know."

Stacey felt herself slowing down, as her new spot in the big pyramid sank in. It was a sudden change in the routine that she'd practiced with Clara and the others for weeks, so it made sense that she was mentally preparing for the change. But if gut-clenching hesitation wasn't the other factor, she didn't know what else was.

"Wait a second," Shannon said under her breath. "What's Stacey doing? She's never a base!"

"What?" Robot asked, eyes snapping back into his head. Mitch, Cubey and June turned around to see what was wrong. "What's going on?"

"Stacey shouldn't be at the bottom, she's middle formation-she's always been middle!" Shannon suddenly shouted, rising to her feet in the bleachers again, looking on the edge of panic. "Ooooo, if Clara had something to do with this..."

Down on the floor, Stacey's arms were already starting to quiver, as the girls forming second layer of the pyramid quickly mounted their backs. The worst part about this formation was that while she was facing Socks, she couldn't move her neck upward enough to see what he was doing. She didn't dare turn around to get a peek at the kids in the 8th grade bleachers.

Just six feet away, out of earshot, Workout leaned next to Clara and whispered. "Have they practiced this trick often?"

"Every practice after school for two weeks," Clara said confidently.

"And has Stacey always been a base? I would think she'd be one of the flyers," stated Workout with a confused look.

"She's covering for Keyata today. It's fine, she's practiced as a base before, don't worry," Clara told him, speaking in such a matter that implied that she was the teacher, and he, the student.

Despite this, and a nagging sensation he couldn't peg, Workout kept his mouth shut. It was just for one stunt. Clara knew what she was doing. And Stacey always came through.

On the bleachers with the sports teams, Socks felt himself losing interest in the action on the floor. And it didn't feel right. When the cheerleaders were having a bad day, they still cheered on the team. They still cared. But he didn't remember feeling this lonely in such a long time, since before he met Mitch and Cubey in elementary school.

Even then wouldn't perfectly describe it, because back when he was a clumsy little kid with no guy friends and no older siblings, he still had Shannon, his childhood neighbor and pull-through playmate. There was even a picture of them together on their newly learned two-wheel bikes somewhere in Socks's mom's photo albums.

Socks had intentionally pushed thoughts like these to the back of his head when he realized Robot had a crush on Shannon. It felt weird, trying to get his old best friend, and his new best friend, together. The only way to remedy this was to try and forget just how close he and Shannon used to be. How much he knew about her, that Robot still did not.

Shannon must hate him now. For being that one true confidant, and turning his back on her. And no matter his own frustrations with her, it hurt to know.

He wondered if she felt the same way about Stacey. His eyes moved to the bottom of the pyramid. He didn't know how she could be doing this, holding a bunch of other girls on her back. And that didn't even account for all she put up with as Clara being her captain. Stacey was a tough chick. Tougher than Socks could bite off. Maybe that's why they didn't work out. A gal like that deserved better than a boy who couldn't even make a sentence around her without stammering.

As Socks ran his hands though his black-dyed hair with regret, shifting his gaze shamefully from Stacey back to Clara, he honestly wondered if he had what it takes to be that kind of boy.

Second layer loaded, Stacey felt the third layer of girls go-the layer she herself would have been a part of, normally. It only then occurred to her that if she took Robin's place in the pyramid, that someone else had taken her own. She didn't even have the pleasure of looking up to see who that was. She knew it wasn't Clara. She was a flyer. Always at the top, by her own design.

A pair of unmistakable pink sneakers pressed themselves to the back of Stacey's newly washed uniform. If nothing solidified Clara's trust in Stacey, it was that upon her back and nobody else's she used to climb to the top for the real stunt-a body bucket catch between two girls on top of two layers of others. Thought to be impossible by most of the cheerleaders at Polyneux, Clara had demonstrated via video cassette that the stunt could be done, although she glazed over the fact that the cheerleaders in that video were grown women in college who'd been doing these stunts for a much longer time.

In any event, it felt good to be trusted. To be appreciated. Especially after a certain overweight redhead treated her like she didn't exist.

Although right now, feeling "good" was entirely adrenaline based. It felt like she was supporting twelve hundred pound bags of liquid concrete from touching the floor, and every time they shifted an inch, sparks of pain shot down her wrists.

"That's my man right there," the girl next to Stacey said to the girl second down. "Isn't he cute?"

Stacey had no idea how they were even looking up in their position. But as a wrist above her moved, she felt like she could look up again. She couldn't resist. She had to see what he was doing.

There Socks was, directly in front of her on the bottom bleacher, almost close enough for eye contact. It would have been perfect. But Socks wasn't looking eye level. The black-haired shell of a boy was looking up.

And like the world itself was added to Stacey's back, reality settled on her. He was looking at Clara. That was his girl. He would always be looking at her. Stacey was as further from his mind as she could be.

You might as well be invisible, the voice said. Factually, and unsympathetic.

The world became fuzzier, and fuzzier, until finally, everything went black. And there was the briefest flicker of euphoria before the weight of the world came crushing down on Stacey Watkins.

The most abused cog in the machine had just broken.

In this chapter, Robot seeks advice from a very unlikely source. Stacey gets ready to show off her hard work during the tricky pyramid formation for the school pride assembly, but Clara's last minute request makes her nervous about whether or not she can handle it. And Socks has something to get off his chest, but his girlfriend's selfish nature is making him wish he could still talk to his old friends about it.

I feel like this chapter might be boring at times, due to the amount of exposition, and I really hope it isn't. I've been really on edge about posting this particular chapter due to the drama about to unfold. Let me know if the characters start to veer out of character and I'll try to revise the writing. Otherwise, I'm letting it gooooooooooooo

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Whatever Happened to Robot Jones? © Greg Miller & Cartoon Network