The character "Cookie" is popularly known as "Cookie QT" in the fandom. She was that in girl in The Green House who told Lincoln his social life would be out the window if he didn't get his shit together. I guess at some point she had a cookie, hence her name? Idk, I went with it.

Clyde McBride was starting to think he was hopeless. Puny, weak, and asthmatic, with big glasses literally taped together like a dork in a low-budget teen comedy, he was the epitome of pathetic.

And that was just the outside. Inside, he was wracked with abandonment issues, rejection issues, self-esteem issues...even his problems had problems, and Dr. Lopez, whom he saw thrice a week, literally referred to him as "Clyde the Case." As in head case. Or maybe basket case. Those were the same thing, though, right?

Eh, whatever. Anyway, he was an all around dweebtard, but he was better than he used to be. Before Howard and Harold adopted him, he lived at a group home in Detroit, a rough and tumble facility where the older boys picked on him mercilessly and the staff ignored him, He wet the bed up until he was eight and pooped himself once or twice. That alone was humiliating, but every time it happened, the staff made damn sure the other residents knew. Damn it, they'd cry, voices resounding through the halls, McBride pissed the bed again! The other kids made fun of him extra hard on those days...and coincidentally, those were the days he wound up in one of the bathroom stalls, sobbing silently with his head hung, being as quiet as possible because if anyone heard, they'd tease even worse.

But that was the past, and though it bothered him on a subconscious level, he never let himself dwell or throw pity parties. Hey, lots of people have it rough...rougher than he did. He was never abused or molested or starved, so what right did he have to bitch? Oh, boo hoo, people were mean to me. So? Did you die? After he first moved in with his dads, he did dwell a little, and let me tell you, it ate him up inside. Then, one day, Dr. Lopez told him something that he'd heard before, but really only clicked then. Harboring these feelings can only hurt you, Clyde. You need to let go.

The clouds parted and for the first time ever, he got it. She was right. His depression, his anxiety...it was all him. He could keep it to his chest like a hoard of toxic waste, or he could let go and make the best of things.

He chose the latter.

Now, years later, he was almost twelve, had a nice home, two loving parents, a network of chums, pals, and acquaintances, and a best friend in Lincoln Loud. There were Lincoln's sisters, too, but he wasn't sure what category to put them in: Friends...or pals. To him, pals were different from friends. Friendship is stronger, palitude is more casual. You nod to a pal as you pass him in the hall, but for a friend you stop and chat. He liked Lincoln's sisters (Luna was a real bro, Leni was sunshine and goodness incarnate, and Lola, while bossy, had a soft side that was all the sweeter because of its rarity), but they weren't really friends. Then again, they weren't pals either. Hmmm. He'd have to think deeper on that, but suffice it to say, he wasn't a socially maladjusted outcast, he knew lots of people and they seemed to like him. Wah-hoo.

A lot of people seemed to hate his black fucking guts though. Older boys from the middle school called him weak, dumb, and gay, and a bunch of random people created a Facebook page about how much he sucked. There were fifteen likes...fifteen! And some of them from grown ass men he'd never met in his life. Like...uh, why the Clyde hate, guys? I'm not saying I'm likeable or anything, but damn, a Facebook page? Really? The hell did I do to you?

He messaged the page asking wtf, and they fired back with a laundry list of reasons he was the worst person ever.

You're useless
You're not needed
Your crush on Lori is creepy
Your dads are more interesting than you
You nosebleeds are gross.

Followed by a middle finger.

Damn. Clyde was fair - he sent back a fire emoji cuz wow, you just roasted the fuck out of me. He logged off with more questions than answers (like who the hell are you and how do you know all this?) and while he laughed it off at the time, later on, lying awake in bed, he went over it again and again, his chest growing heavier with every pass until he could hardly breathe. That asshole was right, he was useless and gross and all that other stuff; he tagged along on all Lincoln's zany adventures...then what? He came home and sat on the couch, kind of like a vacuum cleaner when you're done with it...you know, put it in the closet until next time. Left to his own, he didn't do much of anything, he just...existed.

As for the nosebleeds...yeah, he agreed, they were gross and doing a load of laundry every three days because all of his shirts were splattered with blood was a pain in the ass. Was his crush on Lori (umf) really 'creepy', though? He went back to the last time he was at the Loud house. He and Lincoln were sitting on the couch playing Steal That Car: Botswana when Lori (umf) passed by with an overfull laundry hamper in her arms. Clyde caught a whiff of her sweet perfume and stiffened. Oh no. "Lincoln," she called over her shoulder as she went into the kitchen, "I dropped my sock, can you grab it?"

"Yeah," Lincoln muttered, transfixed by the onscreen action, "gimme a minute."

Sock? As in...the garment Lori wore over her beautifully crafted foot? He looked over the back of the couch, and there it was, lying lost and forlorn on the floor, blue and ankle high with white trim. Clyde's heartbeat sped up and his stomach coiled like a snake (join or die, motherfucker). All he had to do was lean over, reach out...and Lori's (umf) sock would be in his hand. He imagined it still warm with her body heat...saw himself grinning giddily down at it...pressing it to his nose and sniffing.

That last one snapped him out of it. Oh, God! Lori's (umf) feet were exquisite and all, but a sock was a sock and...just ew.

Yeah, he thought later as he lay in bed, his crush on her was creepy...but have you seen her? She's stunning. Warm brown eyes, silky blonde hair, small but perky breasts - he shipped him and her hard.

No, literally, he wrote a fanfic where they got it on once. She was on top and pinned his hands above his head, then...dominated and had her way with the boy.

And you wonder why people call you creepy, Clyde.

I know, but Lori (umf). She's not only a beautiful woman, she's also an older woman...more experienced and mature. Nothing's hotter than that. And yes, he realized he kind of had a mommy thing going on. Not like he wanted to do his actual birth mother (Christ, who does that?), but the mother / older sister dynamic really did it for him. Dr. Lopez said he was seeking the mother he never had and transferring his repressed emotions onto Lori (umf). Maybe so. Then again, maybe he just dug older chicks. I mean...come on, Lori (umf) has curves. What did a girl his age have? Flat chest, shapeless body, no butt...they also wouldn't take care of you like an older girl.

For better or worse, creepy or not, Clyde liked 'em old. You know what Smokey from Friday says: The older the berry, the sweeter the juice. Lori (umf) was seventeen, and that struck Clyde as a damn good age for a little cradle robbing. You might say the odds were stacked against him, but he was determined to make her his girlfriend by (amost) any means neccessary - he wasn't gonna kidnap her and make her, but he also wasn't going to just stand there and let the most perfect, angelic creature to trod the earth slip through his fingers. Oh no. He'd move any mountain, swin any sea, and fight any bad guy.

Bad guys like Bobby Santiago.

Oooh, Clyde hated him. Bobby was just some punk kid looking to get his little chorizo stick wet; Clyde was a man who wanted a real, committed relationship. Why Lori thought Bobby was the better choice, Clyde would never know. Hey, I got issues, but I'm not some punk faggot in a green shirt like hey, broham, gimme some skin.

Remembering how Bobby tried to steal Lincoln away from him the same way he stole Lori made Clyde fume. I don't have shit, and here comes this dickhead down the pike with everything trying to take my girl and my best friend.

Deep breath, Clyde.

In.

Out.

Anyway, on the morning of September 28, Clyde woke to the beeping of his alarm, his mind muddled and his eyes blinking. He leaned over, turned it off, and flopped back against the pillow, his hands coming to rest on his naked chest like Dracula in repose. His head rapidly cleared, but his vision did not; the world was a watery blur and he could hardly make out the light fixture above the bed. It'd help if he put his glasses on, but hey, one step at a time. He used to wear contacts but those irritated his eyes, and God help you if one fell out. He scratched his head, kicked the blankets down, and sat up with a stretch. He was nude save for his boxers - once upon a time, he wore tighty whities like Lincoln, but then his nuts started growing and suddenly being restricted wasn't comfortable anymore.

That's something Lincoln didn't know anything about; he hadn't hit puberty yet, so he was still a little boy. Clyde had hair under his arms now and his voice was deeper...not much, but enough that everyone noticed. Lincoln still sounded like a little girl, and Clyde bet his nuts were the same size...small, slack, not producing any testosterone. Hiya, little man, Clyde saw himself saying. He was inexplicably six feet tall with bulging muscles and Lincoln was three inches, maybe four. They looked like Spongebob and Cousin Blackjack in SB's memories. He's gonna kick my ass, Gary!

Only Blackjack was the real little man. Clyde never understood that. Was he always small, and Spongebob remembered wrong...or did he just not grow? That would mean Spongebob was even smaller once. How small are real sponges, anyway?

He'd worry about that later. Right now, he needed to get up, get dressed, and get out the door; school started in an hour and he wanted to get to Lincoln's house on the earlier side...that way he could watch Lori (umf) getting into the van. That's right, snowflake, shift that gear! Shift it good.

Getting up, he crossed to the dresser and pulled out a pair of jeans, which he then put on. Next came a long sleeved yellow and blue striped shirt with a white collar. For some reason, his fathers just loved striped shirts. Clyde had one in every color known to man...even a pink and purple one that made him look like a gay Freddy Krueger. Clyde didn't really give a shit what he wore, he was just glad to have clothes. Back in the group home, he only got new threads when the old ones started rotting from his body. To be honest, though, he wouldn't mind a fur coat like one of the rappers on BET. Those were cool. His dads wouldn't mind, but it'd probably wind up being fake since they were into that PETA crap lately. You know middle aged gay men, always following the latest, hottest trends. Clyde loved them but come on, tofu? Cleopatra eats better than this!

The funny thing was, a lot of the tofu products they bought made big noise about how much they tasted like meat. JUST LIKE HAMBURGER! Maybe Clyde was missing the point, but...why? He, personally, believed that eating other people was wrong (unless we're talking sexually, then it was aokay), and he'd throw up a little if he bit down on a burger that TASTES JUST LIKE HUMAN FLESH. No, thank you, I'll pass. Got any beans?

Yes...but they're kidney beans!

He laughed. Puns were awesome. That's why he liked Luan so much; she could come up with them like that. No one else appreciated that shit, but it kept him rolling.

Dressed for the day, he put his socks and shoes on then went straight into the bathroom; since he was an only child, he didn't have to wait in any wack ass lines unlike Lincoln. His sisters did it on purpose, though; every time that boy had to pee, they suddenly mobbed the bathroom like it was Elvis or something. Me! No, meeee! They did it to him, too. One time, he went to go use it only for Lana to whip out in front of him and rush in. Damn, alright. He waited, then she finally came out in a cloud of green, shit scented air. I feel five pounds lighter, she happily proclaimed. Yuck, okay, this is rank but manageable.

Then Lynn did some kind of flying back leap, landed in front of him, and slammed the door with a smirk.

Fine.

When she came out, the stench of hers and Lana's combined brands made him gag. She's all yours, McBride, she said and slapped his back.

Nah, nevermind, I'll wait 'til I get home.

In the bathroom, he took a whizz (I keep doing this, I must have a fetish...piss on me, Lori, umf) then checked himself in the bathroom mirror. Was it the lighting, or did his upper lip look a little darker than usual? He turned left and right, then tilted his head slightly back. Yep, it was darker. He was growing a stache!

"Nice," he complimented, and he reflection grinned knowingly. if he grunted and strained really hard, maybe he'd develop one like One Eye Jack. One Eye Jack was the man. Not only was he badass af, he was also a positive black male role model. Outside of his dad, he didn't see that too often. You had Obama, but he was a lying politician, and, uh...you know, there isn't much color in Royal Woods. You had a stray Asian or Hispanic here and there, but discounting that, place was whiter than a Maroon 5 concert.

Wonder how Lori would look as a black woman.

Probably just as umf as always, but in mahogany. Ummm. They could really play big sister / little brother then. His smile faltered as he imagined their encounter. Ever see Joe Dirt? I'm your sister, I'm your sister...YOU'RE MY SISTER *cums*

Ugh, why do you always have to make shit creepy?

Well, my past experiences…

Fuck your past experiences, nigga. Tighten up.

Alright. Fine. Damn. He grabbed his toothbrush from the wall mounted holder, held it under the sink, and added toothpaste. He brushed virogously because caivities sucked, then spat. Next, he gurgled with mouthwash. He pointed a finger gun at the mirror and winked. "Looking fly, my man."

He slapped the sinktop, turned, and went into the hall. A deep, otherworldly hush hung over the house, so loud if made his ears hurt. Light spilled from the kitchen, which told him his dads were up...they were just being very, very quiet.

Must be hunting rabbits.

Nah, but seriously, you'd be surprised by how little noise two gay men make in the course of their daily lives. Harold and Howard were what Clyde thought of as refined & fosisticated (that last one came from Spongebob..or maybe it was something else, idk). They dressed well, read classic literature while sipping wine, and enjoyed the proverbial finer things in life, like knick knacks, doilies, bronze busts on pedestals, and caviar. Harold was a tentrued linguistics professor at Shipman University in Elk Park, and Howard wrote a nationally syndicated advice column (Ask a Gay Man). Neither one was a snob - they were kind and accepting of everyone - but they also weren't the types to suffer a mess, getting their hands dirty, or loud, sustained sounds like the kinds you hear at Lincoln's house. There were times the sleepy tranquility really got to him and he started feeling suffocated. Man, he would say, this place is sucking me dry, I'm going to Linc's where there are people, noise, and LIFE.

Ten minutes at the Loud house, though, and he came running home. Lola yelling in one ear, Lana in the other, Luan cracking joke after joke after joke, Leni, Lynn, Lucy popping up outta nowhere, screaming, crying, fighting, Lynn Sr. singing along to the radio as he shook his ass...cooking dinner in his pink apron (looks like I'm not the only one with a gay dad). Coming back after a few hours at Linc's place was like a drink of cold water on a hot ass day.

Then the cycle repeated itself. Wah, I'm lonely; wah, there's too many people here. He did get lonely, but he didn't know if he wanted fifty sisters like Lincoln.

Come to think of it, you know what the Loud house reminded him of?

The group home.

Shiver.

In the kitchen, Howard stood at the counter, using a butter knife to smear toast with avocado spread, and Harold sat at the table with a mug of coffee at his right hand and his face buried in the morning paper. A big black and white photo of Nicolás Maduro stared at Clyde as he sat, eyes closed and neck stretched. VENEZUELAN LEADER TOPPLED IN COUP, HANGED, PARADED THROUGH STREETS. Below that: New President vows "holocaust" of socialists.

"Morning, son," Harold said and flipped a page.

"Good morning, honey," Howard said over his shoulder, "would you like some toast?"

Clyde's stomach rumbled at the promise of cold avocado patee. Knock it all you want, but that shit was bomb. "Yes, please."

Howard laid two pieces - cut diagonally - on a plate and added a pinch of parsley, then brought it over and sat it in front of him. "Here you go, dear," Howard said and touched the side of Clyde's face, "eat up."

"Thank you."

Clyde picked up a piece of toast and took a bite. Um. He never had avocado before he moved in with Howard and Harold, and the first time he saw it he held his hand up and shook his head. Nah. He eventually tried it out of guilt (these guys brought me into their home, the least I can do is eat some of this avocado stuff). Now it was his favorite food. After chicken nuggets. And pizza. And ice cream. Oh, and calamari. Fifteen bean soup.

Okay, it's in the top ten. We'll leave it at that.

Clyde demolished his toast and downed it with fresh squeezed orange juice; umm, love that pulp. Howard sat with his legs crossed and his face propped in his upturned palm, watching Clyde with motherly affection. Clyde didn't know shit about gay dudes when Harold and Howard adopted him (come to think of it, he still didn't), but, like many kids his age, he assumed that in a same sex relationship, one partner was the "man" and the other was the "woman." That is: He was under the impression that one conformed to a traditionally "masculine" role while the other adhered to a more "feminine" one. Nu-uh. That's not how it went down, at least not with Harold and Howard. They were two dudes in love who shared everything equally and did what needed doing as a team, none of this "Iron my shirts, bitch" bullshit. Although, Howard was more matronly than Harold, and Harold was just a little more in touch with his masculinity than Howard. In a way, yeah, I guess you could say Harold was the man and Howard was the woman, but, eh, what does it matter? That's between them. I love you guys, but leave me out of it; I like girls.

Like Lori (umf).

Speaking of, he needed to get his black ass in gear if he wanted to catch a glimpse of her before school. He slammed the rest of his juice, swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and got up. "I gotta go," he said, "bye."

"Have a good day, honey," Howard said.

"I will," he said.

"Get good grades and make us proud," Harold said and flipped the page to another picture. Maduro lay in pieces on the ground like a snek that died rather than joined; a man in glasses stood over him with a wicked grin on his face and a meat cleaver in his hand. The caption read: Extraño Jose admires his handiwork, proclaiming, "Dictator, the other, other, other white meat."

Clyde couldn't make any promises, but he did anyway. In the living room, he grabbed his backpack from the wall mounted coat rack and slung it over his shoulder, then stepped through the door. The day was mild and bright, not cold, not warm, just...there.

Hey, kind of like him.

His smile fell a little and a strained breathless laugh burst from his throat. Heh. Good one. *Fire emoji*

That stuff about him just existing was self-loathing bullshit, though. He lived a full and happy life apart from Lincoln and his sisters. He had a sweet collection of Ace Savvy memorabilia, went antiquing three times a month, played bridge at the senior center, and -

Oh, my God, I suck even worse than I thought. I mean...I like all that stuff, but let's take a step back and see me how other kids my age see me...how Lori sees me. Ol' bushy head black boy in a pink and purple striped sweater gushing blood down his face and doing the robot in the middle of an antique store while a prissy gay man shoved toast down his throat. Dr. Lopez looked on in disappointment, jotting something down in his therapy log that was probably as judgemental as it was insulting. Clyde has serious self-images issues and is basically the most pitiful loser I've ever met. Then she logs onto Facebook and clicks over to the page she made. CLYDE HATERS OF ROYAL WOODS. Only instead of 15 likes, it had 1,500...then 15,000, then 15 million, then...EVERYONE LIKES THIS PAGE. EVEN HOWARD AND HAROLD.

You're safe now, son, Harold told him when they brought him home from the pound, this is your home forever. Only he was lying. The group home was his home forever, and they took him back there. See ya, nigger, Harold waved, his skin darker than Clyde's. Lori was there too...and Bobby…laughing and pointing, Lori covering her mouth with her hand. Literally bye, Clyde.

He stood on the doorstep of the group home, hyperventilating and struggling to keep from breaking down. Well, at least it can't get any worse.

Then Janice the afternoon staffer came out with a big pot of Stouffer's beef stroganoff. Soup's on, mosshead. Clyde's gord rose and in the present, he gagged. There were a lotta boys to feed and not enough funding. Meals had to stretch. Soup, Chili. Stroganoff. Every night. Not bad at first, then months of sour cream broth, undercooked noodles, meat soaked in milk and barely brown...they spit in it, too, he just knew it. He never saw them but how they grinned...like the Kentucky Colonel on TV. My 5 dollar fill up will fill you up. Right, Phillip?

Clyde shook his head and came back to the present. He was having another episode. Nothing to worry about, it happens. He swung his backpack around, unzipped it, and took out his pills. He unscrewed the lid with one shaky hand, popped a tablet into his mouth, and dry swallowed. There, nothing wrong, no spit, no Facebook page, nothing but a boy and his determination to see his boo.

She wasn't really his boo but...eh, you know by now.

Dropping the bottle back into his bag, he slipped his arms through the straps and went down the walkway. Trees lined the street, their leaves beginning the slow fade to amber and gold; sunlight filtered through the boughs and fell over him in warm shafts. His breathing gradually slowed and the knot of tension in his chest released. Ahhh, talk about feeling ten pounds lighter.

Episodes like that didn't occur much these days but when they did, he always came out of them feeling strange...spacy...like he was being pulled through life instead of waking on his own. Right this way, Clyde, we need you for this segment...then it's back to the closet. He didn't hear voices or see things that weren't there like a fucking skitzo, he just...had daydreams...vivid, psychotic daydreams. He was cool now, though.

Two blocks from Lincoln's house, he spotted his friend Girl Jordan on the other side of the street, walking with her head down and pink buds in her ears. Oh, shit, whaddup? Everyone called her Girl Jordan because there was also a boy named Jordan, so she needed some kind of identifier. She was a total bro, by the way - liked video games, burping, hanging out and blocking the hallway. She kind of reminded him of Lynn, but she didn't play sports. Unless you count kickball on the playground. He didn't.

Last spring, she was short and thin, now she was tall and thin, over five feet with spindly legs and gangly arms. Clad in dark blue shorts and a yellow T, she wore her blonde hair in a French braid and had a jaunty little bow stuck to one side. Blue. Every time he saw it, he got triggered because it was the same color as Lori's favorite tank top. She reminded him of a gazelle (Girl Jordan, not Lori); long, graceful neck, uh...idk, that's pretty much where the comparison ends. Clyde quickened his step to catch up with her.

He closed half the distance when she started across the street. She stopped in the middle, whipped out her iPod (or maybe it was her phone, he couldn't tell from here) and fiddled with it. Clyde stepped off the curb and froze when, ahead, a car whipped out of a side street and started right toward her, its engine roaring and chants of "O'Doyle rules!" bumping from the open windows. His heart seized and he cried out a warning, but she didn't hear.

Clyde had blacked out many times in his young life (like the time Lori - umf - put her arms over her head and her tank top rode up to reveal the tip of her ass crack), but it was always followed by him flopping to the ground like an epileptic. This time, it was followed by him dashing into the street like that football player in the Youtube commercials (I gotta make things harder). The world slowed to a crawl: Jordan standing where she was, completely fucking oblivious; the car bearing down, its chrome grill gleaming in the morning sun, seeming to smile in anticipation of the coming kill (ten points!), his heart pounding in his ears in super slow mo. He watched as if from outside his own body as he drew closer, closer, his vision jostling like a handheld camera in one of those dumb found footage horror movies.

He was four feet away, three, the car closing the final yard. "O'Doyle rules!" the chant continued, "O'Doyle rules!"

Girl Jordan looked up and their eyes met just as he sprang forward, his feet pushing off the pavement. A flicker of horror flashed across her face...then the world slammed back into normal speed when he crashed into her. They left the ground, and for a moment they were airborne, Jordan flying back with her arms and legs out in front of her and Clyde soaring like Superman on his way to rescue Lois Lane. The car shot past, crazed cries of "O'Doyle rules!" trailing behind; the front end clipped Clyde's foot and a bolt of pain shot up his leg; he cried out, sure the appendage in question had been severed, and gritted his teeth painfully together. Girl Jordan landed hard on her butt and slid across the sidewalk before coming to rest against a tree. Clyde came down six feet to her left in a heap, his head hitting the cement and his skull screaming in agony.

The car's tires screeched as it turned sharply onto another street. "O'Doyle rules! O'Doyle rules!"

Clyde moaned and stirred. His head hurt like a motherfucker, his ankle throbbed hotly, and his glasses were gone, probably smashed in the middle of the road. He pushed himself weakly up on his arms, and that's when the shakes started. Previously, he was too amped up in the moment to realize what he was doing, but now...now…

He took a series of deep breaths and fought down the panic welling in his chest. Girl Jordan sat against the tree, eyes wide and slack jawed, her face the color of sour milk. She, too, shook, her budding chest rapidly rising and falling as she sucked for oxygen. Clyde's hand brushed something, and he squinted.

His glasses.

Sweet.

He picked them up, slipped them onto his face, and the world swam into focus. Jordan gaped into space, looking like a shell-shocked refugee whose trailer had just been carried off by a twister. Clyde tried to get to his feet, but his knees wouldn't support him, so he crawled over instead. "You alright?" he asked.

She jerked him a startled glance, then nodded stiffly, her nostrils flaring. "Y-Y-Yeah, I-I...I didn't…"

"Yeah," Clyde said, "I know. You weren't paying attention. I saw." A humorless laugh exploded from his throat and he hung his head. Real smart, stopping in the street like that...God, if he was two minutes later getting out the door, hell, one minute later…

"N-No, I-I guess I wasn't," she stammered. She licked her lips and drew a deep breath. "Thank you."

Clyde got to his feet and stumbled back, almost losing his balance; his ankle was sore, but unbroken. Thank fuck. He had enough issues without adding disfigurement to the mix. Girl Jordan looked up at him, still dazed from her near brush with death, and he held out his hand. She stared at it confusedly for a moment (why is it brown?) then took it. He pulled her to her feet and let go; she swayed unsteadily but didn't fall. "My heart's still racing," she said and laughed nervously. "That was...that was really scary." He grimaced, and her features softened with concern. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, then glanced hurriedly at his watch. If he hurried, he could still catch Lori (umf). "I gotta go, you sure you're fine?"

She nodded. "Yeah, yeah...I'm...I'm good." She gave him a double thumbs up and flashed a sheepish smile.

"Cool. See ya."

With that, Clyde lumbered away to go perv on Lori (umf).

On the other side of the street, two girls stared after him, one tall with almond shaped eyes and black hair, and the other short with a heart shaped clip in her brown locks. The former wore a black skirt and a white T-shirt with a red star emblazoned across the front, her books pressed coyly to her chest; the latter wore a purple skirt, purple knee high socks, and a purple jacket. Her brown eyes smoldered with evil and her pink lips carved up in a devious little smile. "Wow," she drew appreciatively, "did you see that?"

Stella nodded jerkily. A red blush colored her freckled cheeks. "Uh-uh," she said, "that was really brave."

Cookie bit her bottom lip. "And fucking sexy." She tracked Clyde with her gaze, staring openly at his cute little butt. She and Stella were walking along, minding their own business like they did every morning, when Jordan stepped out into the street and almost got squished. Stella called out to her, but she didn't hear because she had her ear buds in like a dummy. Just when it looked like all hope was lost, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome came out of nowhere and saved the day. "God, he's like an action hero." Cookie's little heart gently pounded against her budding breast and her quivering knees knocked shakily together. There was nothing...and she meant nothing...hotter than a strong, masculine man, and, sister, Clyde McBride was a Man with a capital "M".

Stella swallowed thickly and turned her head to follow Clyde. He limped across the street the car came out of, hit the other side, and disappeared down the walk. "Yeah," Stella said dreamily, "he really is."

"That butt," Cookie said, "those toned arms, his mustache. Oof, come to mama." Her stomach twisted into funny shapes and the ever pulsating spot between her legs burned like a bed of coals. She was three weeks into her twelfth year, and ever since she was eleven and a half, her body cried incessantly out for the touch of strong, manly hands, the kiss of firm lips, the sting of penetration by a big, aching, black, macho fucking dick. Sometimes it addled her brain to the point that she couldn't think of anything else, and every scrape of her panties against her center teased her until she leaked like a faucet in a by-the-hour motel bathroom. None of the boys she knew were any good - Rusty looked like a clown, Lincoln was more of a girl than her, and Poppa Wheelie weighed at least 800 pounds. But Clyde...nngh~

Next to her, Stella shifted uncomfortably, her blush deeper and her chest expanding with her deep, ragged breaths. She wasn't as horny as her friend, but even still, late at night, when her parents and little sister were in bed and the house was silent, she hiked her nightdress up and played with herself to thoughts of boys, relieving the pressure that always built during the day, like steam in a boiler. She could never bring herself to go all the way, so she stopped before she came; fevered, panting, heart slamming, body trembling. In the light of day, abiding shame consumed her, and she vowed with the solemnity of a devout Christian to never, ever do it again. Try as she might, though, she was a growing girl...and growing girls have needs.

Being an avid reader and seeker after knowledge, she was intimately familiar with the chemical processes her body was going through; like most girls, she was flooded with hormones...hormones that screamed in her ear night and day with single-minded frenzy. She read somewhere that fourteen is a girl's most fertile age, but that was a lie; she was twelve and she knew instinctively that she could fertilize a freaking rock.

Unlike Cookie, however, she was too shy to say as much. Also unlike Cookie, she wasn't attracted to Clyde's masculinity...she was attracted to his selflessness. That was an admirable quality, she thought, and her body agreed, for even now, it begged her to let Clyde give it his love child.

"He's very handsome," Stella said evenly, "and heroic. And...and…" she winced at the sensation of moisture between her legs. Oh, no, not again. Her panties would be damp for the rest of the morning and her thighs tacky. God, think of something else, please and thank you, anything but...that.

"And I'm gonna fuck him," Cookie declared. Stella gaped at her. They'd been friends since Stella moved to Royal Woods a year and a half ago, and in that time, Stella had seen her steely resolve. When she made up her mind about something, she did it, no ifs, ands, or buts, and the fire in her eyes and the fixed set of her jaw told Stella that she was going to...be with...Clyde, no two ways about it.

Stella's heart sank into her stomach. She didn't like confrontation, especially with someone she considered a friend, and that's exactly what she was going to lead to...because she wanted to be with Clyde too.

Normally, she would have backed timidly down and cut her losses, but her pounding heart, clutching core, and knotting stomach decided her. "I-I like him too," she said.

Cookie fixed her with a dismissive look, then rolled her eyes. "Get bent, he's mine."

Stella's jaw dropped...then snapped closed again. Her whole life, she had been meek, letting people walk on top of her from her demanding parents to her friends and classmates. She backed down from things she wanted time and again to avoid conflict, but this time was different. Clyde's act of heroism set him apart from the other boys in Royal Woods and marked him as the kind of man a girl could build a life with.

She was not going to give him up. "You just want to screw him," she charged, "I want to be his girlfriend and -" she stopped herself before she could say have his babies, God, having a baby right now was not smart...she had to finish elementary school, then go to college, then establish herself in a good career (basically live the life her parents set out for her), but even knowing all this...she did want his babies.

Now.

Her body thristed for it so badly it hurt, and she couldn't stand another second.

"Oh, here we go," Cookie said longsufferingly, "Miss Rose Petals and Soft Music. If you want a girlfriend, honey, I hear Lincoln's available. A real man like Clyde needs a real woman like me, not some little Disney princess wannabe." She balled her hands, pressed them to the side of her face, and batted her eyelashes. "I beweve in fairwytales."

Stella's eyes narrowed and her body tensed. "At least I'm not a slut," she sneered. "You'll probably give him an STI."

"Oh, Cwyde," Cookie mocked, "kiss me in Paris. Wite me poetrwy." She dropped the act and regarded Stella with disgust. "You'll probably chicken out before he even puts it in. I, on the other hand, will mount him and ride him like a bucking bronco. He's not gonna pop my cherry, I'm gonna pop his. Meanwhile, you'll be crying because it hurts weal bad."

Blood crashed against Stella's temples, and she probably would have decked the smaller girl if Jordan hadn't walked up. "Hey, guys," she said amiably, "what's…" she trailed off when they both whipped their heads around. "W-What's going on?"

"Get lost," Cookie snapped.

"We're arguing over who gets Clyde," Stella said tightly.

Jordan's face crinkled bemusedly and she looked between them. "What?"

"We're into Clyde now," Cookie said impatiently. "He saved you from certain death, and that's hot as fuck. I wanna fuck his brains out and Stella wants him to play her Barry White and draw her a bubble bath."

"That's not what I want!" Stella cried, even though it did sound really nice. "I just don't want to pump and dump him like Miss Thang here does."

"Keep talking, bitch," Cookie snarled, "and I'll knock your ass back to Laos. Green card and all."

Growling, Stella lunged at the little bitch, but Jordan got in between them and pushed her back. "Knock it off," she ordered, "both of you."

"She started it," Stella hissed through her teeth.

Cookie put her hands cockily on her hips. "And I'll end it too."

"Stop!" Jordan spat. "Cookie, leave her alone." She expected this kind of thing from Cookie - she was a feisty little scrapper who thought she could take on the world - but she was taken aback by the flush of rage in Stella's face, and the burning intensity in her normally gentle eyes. Jordan had known the Asian girl for close to two years, and she'd always been reticent, docile, and submissive. That she was like this suggested they were taking this whole thing really freaking seriously. "Chill out. Clyde isn't worth fighting over."

Stella and Cookie both glared at her. "Yes he is," Stella said, "he's brave and selfless. He risked his life to save you. That's beautiful."

"Maybe you weren't looking because your blonde head was shoved up your ass," Cookie said, "but he dove, like, six feet after running faster than Usain Bolt on meth. It was the manliest thing I've ever seen, and I don't' care who knows, it made me wet."

Jordan's face creased in disgust...but her heartbeat quickened when she remembered Clyde standing over her, his hand outstretched and his warm brown eyes staring tenderly into hers. Something stirred deep in the pit of her stomach...and she hung her head in defeat. "Damn it. I'm into him too."

Stella groaned and threw her head back, and Cookie uttered a harsh, humorless laugh. "Oh, that's nice. I got two skanks to deal with now."

"Screw you," Stella said. She wasn't used to using such crass language, and it felt both strange and somehow liberating. That was beside the point, though. She, Jordan, and Cookie all liked Clyde, which presented a huge problem. Almost every war in history started because multiple people wanted the same thing. Land, oil, to wantonly kill people (WWII...everyone went kind of crazy in the thirties and forties). She didn't particularly want to fight Jordan and Cookie, but she didn't see any other options; Cookie wasn't going to back down, Jordan probably wouldn't, and there was no way in hell she was. That left them at an impasse.

Jordan sighed and looked from her to Cookie, her lips scrunching. "Alright...what do we do? We can't all have him."

"We're not all gonna have him," Cookie said, "I am. You can have Rusty and Poppa Wheelie."

A flash of revelation came over Stella and her heart leapt. She did some quick mental gymnastics and searched her plan for flaws. There were many but it was easier than the alternative. "W-Why can't we all have him?" she asked tentatively. Jordan and Cookie both looked at her like she was crazy. She wasn't, by the way, she just believed in compromise. They all wanted the same thing and none of them were willing to forsake it, therefore, they had two choices: Share it or go to war and rip each other apart. War, she thought, accomplished nothing but destruction, heartache, and pain. Working in common, however, could achieve anything. "I don't mind sharing. We just have to, like, lay ground rules."

Jordan's brow knitted in contemplation. Cookie rolled her eyes. "Yeah," she said nastily, "that's not gonna happen."

She started to brush past, but Jordan stopped her. "Why not?" she asked cautiously. "I mean...we could make it work."

Cookie pulled away and shot her a dirty look. "Because I'm not UNICEF, honey, I don't give to the needy. If you want him, you're gonna have to take him fair and square." She flashed a smug, tight-lipped smile. "Which I don't think you can."

Jordan's eyes narrowed to slits and she put her hands on her hips. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," Cookie said.

Stella sighed. So it was going to be like this.

"We'll see about that, kid," Jordan said.

"Yes we will," Cookie said.

With that, she brushed between Jordan and Stella and strode away, her steps quick and savage. Both girls glared after her, then looked at each other. "Wanna team up?" Jordan asked. "I'll share if you do."

Stella considered a moment, then thrust out her hand. Jordan took it and they shook. "Let's go," Jordan said. "We gotta get to Clyde first…"