A/N: Bubbles is usually portrayed as a simpleton, but as seen in some of the episodes, she is really more kind-hearted than stupid. Naïve to an extreme. She has her moments of brilliance (and I'm not counting the time she coincidentally scored the highest on HIM's little test by coloring in circles to form a flower).
I thought that, with her open, honest, and truly caring personality, her adolescence could be a time of many changes.
Sorry to add another PPG/RRB story to the mix, but I started this one during the summer of 2002 and then abandoned it. I thought I'd dust it off and let it fly, see if it grew wings. It's one of those stories that could stand alone, I think, but I'm tempted to continue it, as my original plans for the story go beyond what is contained in this chapter.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Powerpuff Girls, the Rowdyruff Boys, but I do claim responsibility for poor Bubbles' situation in this story.
~~~~~~~~~
They were at it again.
My sisters were quarreling. This is nothing new. They had been in competition since I can remember. I was rarely involved in these altercations. No one expected me to be, either. For the most part, it was because I was too kind-hearted to say anything that would hurt anyone's feelings. That in itself should have made me the mediator, trying to smooth things over between them, pointing out both sides and hoping for a smiling, happy resolution.
Truthfully, I didn't feel smart enough to take on such a hefty role. That's not quite true. I'm smart enough, but I lack confidence where my sisters are concerned. Every time I thought of a reasonable solution, it was shot down before the words finished falling from my lips.
My sisters don't think much of my intelligence. Blossom was the family genius. Everything comes easily to her. Buttercup was the tormented soul. I was merely fluff - the ditzy blonde - the naïve trusting fool.
My solace came from my art. Creating beautiful works of art filled me with hope and pride. This irritated Buttercup to no end, of course, seeing canvases filled with rainbows breaking through treetops, fish jumping out of ponds, woodland animals frolicking in a field of impossible hues. If only she knew.
Hidden in my footlocker, under books of "schmaltzy" poetry (Buttercup's description) and a few stuffed animals, was what I thought of as my Dark Portfolio. In it were sketches I'd created in those fleeting hours of my despair.
Most people thought that Buttercup was the loner, and that Blossom and I had formed some kind of alliance. To outward appearances, that was probably true, because I agreed with just about everything Blossom said. At first, it was mainly because I just couldn't understand the terms she was using but figured she knew best, no matter how she phrased it. I know she is really intelligent and has a vast vocabulary, but sometimes I felt like she does it on purpose, to make herself feel superior.
The funny thing is, Buttercup has always been closer to Blossom than I'll ever be. For starters, the two of them just thrived on conflict. They were both strong willed and determined to emerge from their verbal battles the victor. I, on the other hand, just wanted everyone to get along. That made me, in their eyes, a sap. I'm sure Buttercup has a few more colorful phrases to describe me, but I try not to think too much about that; it's just how she is.
I know that's what they think of me, even if neither of them said as much to me. Buttercup would hurl insults in my direction when I wouldn't take her side, but I knew that she actually enjoyed the challenge of facing off against Blossom on her own. My agreement was unnecessary; if I were bold enough or uncaring enough to take a side, it would have been just another spoil of victory for whichever sister I might have agreed with.
When the Rowdyruff Boys reappeared a few years back, it was almost immediate that the six of us faced off with determination. To my relief, they had lost their drive to destroy and were more in competition with us to see who did the town the greater good. I don't have to tell you that it often ended up in more damage to the town, despite my protests.
Things were different between all of us in more ways than that. We were on the brink of becoming young men and women, and with that, all the urges that didn't exist when we were five were just making themselves known.
I confess, I had a crush on Butch in the beginning. He reminded me so much of Buttercup. Let me say this - it's true; girls really do swoon over dark heroes. Hidden in my Dark Portfolio is a collection of sketches of Butch, my brooding warrior. I used to imagine being the sunshine in his life, turning the storm clouds over his head to rainbows. I pictured us starring in every sappy romance that ever graced the silver screen, up to and including his saving me from some danger that I know darn well I'm perfectly capable of handling on my own. Doesn't a real romance deserve a little two-way rescue, though? I wanted to save him from his internal demons, ones that he didn't even have. But it was a nice fantasy to dream about during my early teenage years.
Only one problem. I was never very good at deception, and I wore my heart on my sleeve. All I gained from my infatuation was heartache. Butch had no tolerance for my feeble attempts to brighten his day. If I put a hand on his shoulder, he'd knock it off and tell me to stop bugging him. On one of his nice days. If he was in a particularly black mood, he'd tell me to give up, that he could never feel passion for such a milquetoast. At the time, I didn't know what it meant, but I knew from the way he said it, in that cold degrading way he has, that it wasn't a compliment. When I looked up the word later that day, I cried. I think that's what made me determined to expand my vocabulary, to compete with Blossom's ability to put things into words. I even went as far as buying a Word of the Day calendar. I keep that hidden away, too, leaving the one with the puppies and kittens on it proudly displayed on my desk, like the good little ray of sunshine and fluff that I am when I'm not crying over an injured squirrel. It's not always a wounded animal that brings tears to my eyes, but my sisters don't need to know that.
I know Buttercup and Blossom were annoyed with my crying, but I couldn't help it. I feel things deeply. When I am happy, the world is full of joy and laughter with me, but when I am sad, I could cry oceans. I can't count the number of times when I drove my sisters out of the room with my sobs. Maybe that's why they don't think that I cry for anything meaningful. I do have a tendency to fall apart easily with the slightest nudge in that direction.
I mentioned that Blossom and Buttercup are a lot closer than I am to either of them, and how most people assume that Blossom and I are united against Buttercup's rebellious nature. The funny thing is, I actually understand Buttercup better than I understand Blossom.
Buttercup is like the other side of the same coin (like that analogy? I may not align myself with Blossom, but I sure do listen to her). Where I laugh, she sneers. Where I grieve, she rages. Where I cry, she'll throw a tantrum to rival a spoiled five-year-old, only frightening in its intensity. But she is really deep. I'm sure Blossom is, too, but she puzzles me more, because I always see her as a thinking person more than a feeling person. For all that Buttercup would like to pretend that she is the queen of quiet angst, she is an open book to me.
That's not to say that she's faking it. She holds a wealth of emotions inside, and she really does have a lot of unresolved conflicts going on in her mind, not in the least of which is her relationship with Butch.
Relationship.
OK. I know that I said I had a crush on Butch "in the beginning." That's not to say that I ever got over it. It only made me work on the things that I knew he hated. Things about myself. Like the crying. Like being "vapid" and "vacuous" and a host of other words that he's spit at me when he's feeling particularly angry. I know his anger was never focused at me, not really, but I took everything he said to heart, and was determined to turn things around. Ridiculous, isn't it? To change for another person the very core of your personality?
Bet you didn't think I could "wax philosophic" as Buttercup would say. Yes, that's right, Buttercup. Not Blossom. It's tough to be a brooding drama queen (or a goth, or whatever she thinks she is or wants to be this week) without the correct "turn of phrase." It's amazing the things I can pick up with the right motivation. Sadly, I can't TALK to anyone like this, because I feel on the spot and too much like I'm trying to be something I'm not. Maybe I am. It comes so naturally to Blossom - all the right words, that almost-sneer that she graces you with when she knows she's said something that puzzles you. Honestly? Brick is incredibly turned on by that little smirk of hers. I've known that all along. Well, I am the empathetic one. Which is better than being pathetic, I suppose. Maybe that's one of those superpowers that is just starting to emerge, now that I think of it. Empathy. I like that word. Of course, I don't think I need to rely on any special powers to see that Brick is completely ga-ga over Blossom. It's completely obvious. Unless you're the Professor, perhaps. Blossom has said with fondness that he's refusing to accept that we are on the "brink of a hormonal uprising." Then she winked at Brick and Boomer, who were sitting on the couch at the time, and they both licked their lips in response. If my emerging new "power" is empathy, maybe she's taking a page from Sedusa's book.
But enough about Blossom and Brick for now. I was talking about Butch, my dark anti-hero, my heart, my weakness.
I should have known from the very beginning that he wasn't for me, but does any woman ever choose a suitable mate using logic? Still, I should have known that Butch didn't want to be rescued. I don't know how everyone thinks that he and Buttercup hate each other. They exude raw animal magnetism if they are within fifty feet of each other. The sparks in their eyes, which everyone else sees as a fight waiting to happen, tell me that they are within an inch of ripping each other's clothes off. I may be innocent, but I understand sexual attraction. Probably more than any of them, even Blossom, Queen of Innuendo and Subtle Gestures.
Of course, Butch likes to pretend he is panting after Blossom. He does it to tick Buttercup off, and it works. For someone so smart, she doesn't realize that this is part of his courtship. Someday something will ignite their powder keg, and they will come together in a binding flash of passion so great, the whole city of Townsville will need sunblock. It hurts to see him flirt with her that way, because I know that's what it is, and I am jealous.
For whatever reason, everyone assumes that Boomer and I are "an item." Maybe it's to tie up loose ends, maybe to make a nice color scheme out of all the pairings that haven't happened yet, but nothing could be further from the truth. As I've hinted at, Brick and Blossom have a relationship similar to Butch's and Buttercup's, although with FAR less smoldering beneath the surface. They ignore the attraction they feel for each other, but it's there. The fact that Butch continues to hit on Blossom only heightens Brick's interest. Blossom alternates flirting back and outright telling him off. But it's that coy little smirk, I'm telling you, that gets him every time. Brick, I mean. Maybe Boomer, too, come to think of it. But once again, it's obvious that it's only a matter of time before my sisters hook up with their soul mates. Assuming there is such a thing as a soul mate. I'll bet you're surprised I doubt it, aren't you? I guess I always thought Butch was my soul mate...the yin to my yang, just like the way Buttercup and I are two sides to the same coin. Maybe "soul mate" is just another romantic notion used to sell romance novels and movie tickets. Wow. I have been hanging around Buttercup too long, I'm becoming cynical just like her.
Anyway, having said all that, when it comes to me and Boomer, well, we end up just watching the sparks fly from the sidelines. I moon over Butch every time he's within sight, and he sighs quietly whenever he sees Blossom with his brother.
Sometimes I almost hate my sisters. Blossom. She is smart and worldly and sophisticated, and pretty, and every guy wants her. EVERY guy. I'm not exaggerating. I told you, I am in tune with how people are feeling, far more than is healthy, I'm sure.
Buttercup. Buttercup is tough and exotic, with a mysterious demeanor and trim athletic build. Basically, she's an alluring all-around bad ass. Attractive to those with a penchant for danger. ("Penchant" - that was today's word of the day on my calendar. I'm running out of room to hide those darn pages.)
Then there's me. Blonde, buxom, and bubbly. In other words, your stereotypical bimbo. The fact that I'm not confident enough in myself to speak as eloquently as I can in this journal helps reinforce that image every time I open my mouth, especially if I gape for a moment and close it with a snap. Butch once told me I looked like a blow up doll when I did that, and Brick and Buttercup laughed. Blossom hit Brick on the back of the head, but she looked like she was holding in a giggle, herself. It didn't help matters. Encouraged by the reaction, Butch went on to list the features of Blow Up Bubbles, the latex toy of frustrated adolescent males everywhere. They weren't very flattering, reducing everything about me to my external appearance, and suggesting that I had nothing between my ears or within my heart. By the way, I didn't know what a blow up doll was before that day, but I had a pretty good idea of what one was by the end of the evening.
Now I'm not being immodest when I say that most girls would love to have a figure like mine, because it's true. I took philosophy by mistake one semester (don't ask), and we all sat around in a big circle on Mondays and had a debate and discussion on whatever topic was brought up first. Well, one weekend, a girl in class had just broken up with her boyfriend, and the question put before the group that day was "beauty vs. brains" - and let me tell you, most of the girls admitted that they'd rather be beautiful than smart, if they had to choose one or the other. I am glad that Blossom wasn't in that class with me. Then one of the girls looked at me, like she was checking me out, and it was obvious she was angry with me for looking the way I do. It's not like I can help it.
So I have a figure to be envied, one that is envied, but the girls at school don't know what it's like. Guys stare at me, not because I've said something witty or because they appreciate my gentle nature. They leer at my breasts, make crude comments and even cruder gestures. And the BLONDE jokes. I try to put on a brave face and smile at them, showing them I bear them no ill will, but it just makes them think I'm stupid and they make fun of me all the more. As if I'd really go to a store and not know the difference between a TV and a microwave. As if I sit at the kitchen table and stare at the orange juice because it says "concentrate." (OK, I admit, I actually did that one. Blossom laughed so hard she cried.)
The fact that I have had to deal with this attention since before I hit my teens made Butch's little "love doll" insult really hit home. That's another thing. You'd think that we'd all have gone through puberty at the same time, right? Nope. Buttercup will probably never have a very large bosom, not that she wants one. (And I'd know if she really did envy me. Maybe she knows, and doesn't want the attention)
I was twelve when I "gained a rack" as Butch would say. Even though he pointed it out in just those terms back then, I still thought that it was a way of showing his affection for me, his adolescent mating call. How naïve I was. And am.
Despite the fact that Brick sometimes laughs at Butch's less than appropriate comments towards me, he more often than not acts like an older brother. He's actually quite protective of me. If anyone other than Butch had made those types of comments, Brick would have beaten the crap out of them. He scowls darkly at the guys at school if they slip up around him. It only makes it worse when he's nowhere around, because they've been waiting for a chance to leer, but sadly, I have gotten rather used to it.
If I weren't so entranced by Butch, I'd probably have swooned over Brick. Even if he's so smart, he scares me. Butch scares me, too, but I still can't help wishing he would sweep me off my feet.
Such thoughts are disloyal to Buttercup. I'm happy for her, really I am, even if she doesn't know that she's found her "soul mate" yet. (There's that word again. Maybe I do believe they exist and just don't want to admit that Butch isn't mine.)
It just HURTS to see them together, almost as much as it hurts knowing that they are both hurting for want of each other. A love triangle that no one except me sees, pretty funny, isn't it?
Boomer seems bored by the whole thing. Because he's not as boisterous as Brick or as rowdy as Butch, my sisters think he's like me. He's not. He and I really don't have much in common. He has leered at my ample bosom on more than one occasion, but other than that and the occasional "don't you think Blossom looks nice today?" we don't have much to say to each other.
I made the first overture of friendship towards him. One day while our siblings were going through their elaborate mating rituals, I turned to him and asked him what he thought of Blossom's ideas on some project we were all working on. He looked at me oddly, then proceeded to go into a long, admiring review of her new moves, adding in the occasional comment about how well organized her plans were. I nodded and smiled and suffered through it. I knew all that already, and listening to Boomer meant less time watching Butch, preferably if he was wearing something sleeveless. Oh, I could salivate a gallon or more just watching his arms flex as he gestures during one of his anecdotes. But I was talking about Boomer.
After that day, Boomer and I had what might pass for conversation. Usually about Blossom. He would ask me if I thought she'd like this or if she preferred that. He had to be blind if he didn't see the chemistry between her and Brick, though. I told you that we weren't very much alike. The feelings between Blossom and Brick were so thick I could almost SEE them. I won't get started on what I "saw" between Buttercup and Brick, two peas in a pod if ever there were, despite my fondest wishes to the contrary, horrible sister that I am.
To be fair to Boomer, he may have been blind when it came to the direction of Blossom's affection, but apparently he paid more attention to ME than I thought. No, not like that.
I must be a bigger fool than I thought, and haven't been as good at hiding "it" as I hoped. I told you I typically wore my heart on my sleeve, but lately I've been trying to cover it with a sweater, ha. Yeah, I get that little bit of black humor from Buttercup.
Boomer and I were sitting on the floor one afternoon. I had given up on my algebra and started doodling in the margins of my notebook. I kept sneaking glances in Butch's direction, sighing inwardly.
"You're not his type, ya know," Boomer said, out of the blue.
Although I'd swear I'd gotten better at covering up how I feel about Butch, I have never been able to hide my feelings once confronted with them, and Boomer's comment took me by surprise. My face turned bright red as I bent over my notebook, trying to pretend I was fascinated with the squiggles on the page.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said brightly, my eyes shining with unshed tears as I forced a smile on my face and looked him square in the eyes. Little tip I learned from Buttercup. Look 'em straight in the eyes when you lie. Apparently she's wrong about that "works every time" theory.
Boomer frowned at me, as if deciding if I was really dumb enough to think he'd fall for that.
He put his hand on my shoulder awkwardly. "Bubbles," he said, and I felt my stomach plummet at the tone in his voice. "I don't mean to hurt your feelings, but I thought you shouldn't get your hopes up so high."
None of the guys had ever actually touched me before, and to have the first contact with any one of them be out of PITY was not to be borne.
I stood up, feeling my back go ramrod straight despite my efforts at looking relaxed and carefree. It didn't much matter, anyway. Boomer wasn't going to be fooled, and Butch's attention was focused on Buttercup as usual.
I glanced at him briefly, noting that apologetic look in his eyes. "Hope is what makes living bearable," I said, and retreated to my room by flying. I knew that I wouldn't be able to walk out of there without doing something stupid like walking into a wall. Any wonder I'm the bimbo? I can't help it. That's how things work. You try to make a statement with your body language, and then you trip over your shoelace or something like that. So I zipped out of there, and I didn't look back once to see if anyone noticed my abrupt departure.
Just another day in my life. "The joy and the laughter" - my ass.
I thought that, with her open, honest, and truly caring personality, her adolescence could be a time of many changes.
Sorry to add another PPG/RRB story to the mix, but I started this one during the summer of 2002 and then abandoned it. I thought I'd dust it off and let it fly, see if it grew wings. It's one of those stories that could stand alone, I think, but I'm tempted to continue it, as my original plans for the story go beyond what is contained in this chapter.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Powerpuff Girls, the Rowdyruff Boys, but I do claim responsibility for poor Bubbles' situation in this story.
~~~~~~~~~
They were at it again.
My sisters were quarreling. This is nothing new. They had been in competition since I can remember. I was rarely involved in these altercations. No one expected me to be, either. For the most part, it was because I was too kind-hearted to say anything that would hurt anyone's feelings. That in itself should have made me the mediator, trying to smooth things over between them, pointing out both sides and hoping for a smiling, happy resolution.
Truthfully, I didn't feel smart enough to take on such a hefty role. That's not quite true. I'm smart enough, but I lack confidence where my sisters are concerned. Every time I thought of a reasonable solution, it was shot down before the words finished falling from my lips.
My sisters don't think much of my intelligence. Blossom was the family genius. Everything comes easily to her. Buttercup was the tormented soul. I was merely fluff - the ditzy blonde - the naïve trusting fool.
My solace came from my art. Creating beautiful works of art filled me with hope and pride. This irritated Buttercup to no end, of course, seeing canvases filled with rainbows breaking through treetops, fish jumping out of ponds, woodland animals frolicking in a field of impossible hues. If only she knew.
Hidden in my footlocker, under books of "schmaltzy" poetry (Buttercup's description) and a few stuffed animals, was what I thought of as my Dark Portfolio. In it were sketches I'd created in those fleeting hours of my despair.
Most people thought that Buttercup was the loner, and that Blossom and I had formed some kind of alliance. To outward appearances, that was probably true, because I agreed with just about everything Blossom said. At first, it was mainly because I just couldn't understand the terms she was using but figured she knew best, no matter how she phrased it. I know she is really intelligent and has a vast vocabulary, but sometimes I felt like she does it on purpose, to make herself feel superior.
The funny thing is, Buttercup has always been closer to Blossom than I'll ever be. For starters, the two of them just thrived on conflict. They were both strong willed and determined to emerge from their verbal battles the victor. I, on the other hand, just wanted everyone to get along. That made me, in their eyes, a sap. I'm sure Buttercup has a few more colorful phrases to describe me, but I try not to think too much about that; it's just how she is.
I know that's what they think of me, even if neither of them said as much to me. Buttercup would hurl insults in my direction when I wouldn't take her side, but I knew that she actually enjoyed the challenge of facing off against Blossom on her own. My agreement was unnecessary; if I were bold enough or uncaring enough to take a side, it would have been just another spoil of victory for whichever sister I might have agreed with.
When the Rowdyruff Boys reappeared a few years back, it was almost immediate that the six of us faced off with determination. To my relief, they had lost their drive to destroy and were more in competition with us to see who did the town the greater good. I don't have to tell you that it often ended up in more damage to the town, despite my protests.
Things were different between all of us in more ways than that. We were on the brink of becoming young men and women, and with that, all the urges that didn't exist when we were five were just making themselves known.
I confess, I had a crush on Butch in the beginning. He reminded me so much of Buttercup. Let me say this - it's true; girls really do swoon over dark heroes. Hidden in my Dark Portfolio is a collection of sketches of Butch, my brooding warrior. I used to imagine being the sunshine in his life, turning the storm clouds over his head to rainbows. I pictured us starring in every sappy romance that ever graced the silver screen, up to and including his saving me from some danger that I know darn well I'm perfectly capable of handling on my own. Doesn't a real romance deserve a little two-way rescue, though? I wanted to save him from his internal demons, ones that he didn't even have. But it was a nice fantasy to dream about during my early teenage years.
Only one problem. I was never very good at deception, and I wore my heart on my sleeve. All I gained from my infatuation was heartache. Butch had no tolerance for my feeble attempts to brighten his day. If I put a hand on his shoulder, he'd knock it off and tell me to stop bugging him. On one of his nice days. If he was in a particularly black mood, he'd tell me to give up, that he could never feel passion for such a milquetoast. At the time, I didn't know what it meant, but I knew from the way he said it, in that cold degrading way he has, that it wasn't a compliment. When I looked up the word later that day, I cried. I think that's what made me determined to expand my vocabulary, to compete with Blossom's ability to put things into words. I even went as far as buying a Word of the Day calendar. I keep that hidden away, too, leaving the one with the puppies and kittens on it proudly displayed on my desk, like the good little ray of sunshine and fluff that I am when I'm not crying over an injured squirrel. It's not always a wounded animal that brings tears to my eyes, but my sisters don't need to know that.
I know Buttercup and Blossom were annoyed with my crying, but I couldn't help it. I feel things deeply. When I am happy, the world is full of joy and laughter with me, but when I am sad, I could cry oceans. I can't count the number of times when I drove my sisters out of the room with my sobs. Maybe that's why they don't think that I cry for anything meaningful. I do have a tendency to fall apart easily with the slightest nudge in that direction.
I mentioned that Blossom and Buttercup are a lot closer than I am to either of them, and how most people assume that Blossom and I are united against Buttercup's rebellious nature. The funny thing is, I actually understand Buttercup better than I understand Blossom.
Buttercup is like the other side of the same coin (like that analogy? I may not align myself with Blossom, but I sure do listen to her). Where I laugh, she sneers. Where I grieve, she rages. Where I cry, she'll throw a tantrum to rival a spoiled five-year-old, only frightening in its intensity. But she is really deep. I'm sure Blossom is, too, but she puzzles me more, because I always see her as a thinking person more than a feeling person. For all that Buttercup would like to pretend that she is the queen of quiet angst, she is an open book to me.
That's not to say that she's faking it. She holds a wealth of emotions inside, and she really does have a lot of unresolved conflicts going on in her mind, not in the least of which is her relationship with Butch.
Relationship.
OK. I know that I said I had a crush on Butch "in the beginning." That's not to say that I ever got over it. It only made me work on the things that I knew he hated. Things about myself. Like the crying. Like being "vapid" and "vacuous" and a host of other words that he's spit at me when he's feeling particularly angry. I know his anger was never focused at me, not really, but I took everything he said to heart, and was determined to turn things around. Ridiculous, isn't it? To change for another person the very core of your personality?
Bet you didn't think I could "wax philosophic" as Buttercup would say. Yes, that's right, Buttercup. Not Blossom. It's tough to be a brooding drama queen (or a goth, or whatever she thinks she is or wants to be this week) without the correct "turn of phrase." It's amazing the things I can pick up with the right motivation. Sadly, I can't TALK to anyone like this, because I feel on the spot and too much like I'm trying to be something I'm not. Maybe I am. It comes so naturally to Blossom - all the right words, that almost-sneer that she graces you with when she knows she's said something that puzzles you. Honestly? Brick is incredibly turned on by that little smirk of hers. I've known that all along. Well, I am the empathetic one. Which is better than being pathetic, I suppose. Maybe that's one of those superpowers that is just starting to emerge, now that I think of it. Empathy. I like that word. Of course, I don't think I need to rely on any special powers to see that Brick is completely ga-ga over Blossom. It's completely obvious. Unless you're the Professor, perhaps. Blossom has said with fondness that he's refusing to accept that we are on the "brink of a hormonal uprising." Then she winked at Brick and Boomer, who were sitting on the couch at the time, and they both licked their lips in response. If my emerging new "power" is empathy, maybe she's taking a page from Sedusa's book.
But enough about Blossom and Brick for now. I was talking about Butch, my dark anti-hero, my heart, my weakness.
I should have known from the very beginning that he wasn't for me, but does any woman ever choose a suitable mate using logic? Still, I should have known that Butch didn't want to be rescued. I don't know how everyone thinks that he and Buttercup hate each other. They exude raw animal magnetism if they are within fifty feet of each other. The sparks in their eyes, which everyone else sees as a fight waiting to happen, tell me that they are within an inch of ripping each other's clothes off. I may be innocent, but I understand sexual attraction. Probably more than any of them, even Blossom, Queen of Innuendo and Subtle Gestures.
Of course, Butch likes to pretend he is panting after Blossom. He does it to tick Buttercup off, and it works. For someone so smart, she doesn't realize that this is part of his courtship. Someday something will ignite their powder keg, and they will come together in a binding flash of passion so great, the whole city of Townsville will need sunblock. It hurts to see him flirt with her that way, because I know that's what it is, and I am jealous.
For whatever reason, everyone assumes that Boomer and I are "an item." Maybe it's to tie up loose ends, maybe to make a nice color scheme out of all the pairings that haven't happened yet, but nothing could be further from the truth. As I've hinted at, Brick and Blossom have a relationship similar to Butch's and Buttercup's, although with FAR less smoldering beneath the surface. They ignore the attraction they feel for each other, but it's there. The fact that Butch continues to hit on Blossom only heightens Brick's interest. Blossom alternates flirting back and outright telling him off. But it's that coy little smirk, I'm telling you, that gets him every time. Brick, I mean. Maybe Boomer, too, come to think of it. But once again, it's obvious that it's only a matter of time before my sisters hook up with their soul mates. Assuming there is such a thing as a soul mate. I'll bet you're surprised I doubt it, aren't you? I guess I always thought Butch was my soul mate...the yin to my yang, just like the way Buttercup and I are two sides to the same coin. Maybe "soul mate" is just another romantic notion used to sell romance novels and movie tickets. Wow. I have been hanging around Buttercup too long, I'm becoming cynical just like her.
Anyway, having said all that, when it comes to me and Boomer, well, we end up just watching the sparks fly from the sidelines. I moon over Butch every time he's within sight, and he sighs quietly whenever he sees Blossom with his brother.
Sometimes I almost hate my sisters. Blossom. She is smart and worldly and sophisticated, and pretty, and every guy wants her. EVERY guy. I'm not exaggerating. I told you, I am in tune with how people are feeling, far more than is healthy, I'm sure.
Buttercup. Buttercup is tough and exotic, with a mysterious demeanor and trim athletic build. Basically, she's an alluring all-around bad ass. Attractive to those with a penchant for danger. ("Penchant" - that was today's word of the day on my calendar. I'm running out of room to hide those darn pages.)
Then there's me. Blonde, buxom, and bubbly. In other words, your stereotypical bimbo. The fact that I'm not confident enough in myself to speak as eloquently as I can in this journal helps reinforce that image every time I open my mouth, especially if I gape for a moment and close it with a snap. Butch once told me I looked like a blow up doll when I did that, and Brick and Buttercup laughed. Blossom hit Brick on the back of the head, but she looked like she was holding in a giggle, herself. It didn't help matters. Encouraged by the reaction, Butch went on to list the features of Blow Up Bubbles, the latex toy of frustrated adolescent males everywhere. They weren't very flattering, reducing everything about me to my external appearance, and suggesting that I had nothing between my ears or within my heart. By the way, I didn't know what a blow up doll was before that day, but I had a pretty good idea of what one was by the end of the evening.
Now I'm not being immodest when I say that most girls would love to have a figure like mine, because it's true. I took philosophy by mistake one semester (don't ask), and we all sat around in a big circle on Mondays and had a debate and discussion on whatever topic was brought up first. Well, one weekend, a girl in class had just broken up with her boyfriend, and the question put before the group that day was "beauty vs. brains" - and let me tell you, most of the girls admitted that they'd rather be beautiful than smart, if they had to choose one or the other. I am glad that Blossom wasn't in that class with me. Then one of the girls looked at me, like she was checking me out, and it was obvious she was angry with me for looking the way I do. It's not like I can help it.
So I have a figure to be envied, one that is envied, but the girls at school don't know what it's like. Guys stare at me, not because I've said something witty or because they appreciate my gentle nature. They leer at my breasts, make crude comments and even cruder gestures. And the BLONDE jokes. I try to put on a brave face and smile at them, showing them I bear them no ill will, but it just makes them think I'm stupid and they make fun of me all the more. As if I'd really go to a store and not know the difference between a TV and a microwave. As if I sit at the kitchen table and stare at the orange juice because it says "concentrate." (OK, I admit, I actually did that one. Blossom laughed so hard she cried.)
The fact that I have had to deal with this attention since before I hit my teens made Butch's little "love doll" insult really hit home. That's another thing. You'd think that we'd all have gone through puberty at the same time, right? Nope. Buttercup will probably never have a very large bosom, not that she wants one. (And I'd know if she really did envy me. Maybe she knows, and doesn't want the attention)
I was twelve when I "gained a rack" as Butch would say. Even though he pointed it out in just those terms back then, I still thought that it was a way of showing his affection for me, his adolescent mating call. How naïve I was. And am.
Despite the fact that Brick sometimes laughs at Butch's less than appropriate comments towards me, he more often than not acts like an older brother. He's actually quite protective of me. If anyone other than Butch had made those types of comments, Brick would have beaten the crap out of them. He scowls darkly at the guys at school if they slip up around him. It only makes it worse when he's nowhere around, because they've been waiting for a chance to leer, but sadly, I have gotten rather used to it.
If I weren't so entranced by Butch, I'd probably have swooned over Brick. Even if he's so smart, he scares me. Butch scares me, too, but I still can't help wishing he would sweep me off my feet.
Such thoughts are disloyal to Buttercup. I'm happy for her, really I am, even if she doesn't know that she's found her "soul mate" yet. (There's that word again. Maybe I do believe they exist and just don't want to admit that Butch isn't mine.)
It just HURTS to see them together, almost as much as it hurts knowing that they are both hurting for want of each other. A love triangle that no one except me sees, pretty funny, isn't it?
Boomer seems bored by the whole thing. Because he's not as boisterous as Brick or as rowdy as Butch, my sisters think he's like me. He's not. He and I really don't have much in common. He has leered at my ample bosom on more than one occasion, but other than that and the occasional "don't you think Blossom looks nice today?" we don't have much to say to each other.
I made the first overture of friendship towards him. One day while our siblings were going through their elaborate mating rituals, I turned to him and asked him what he thought of Blossom's ideas on some project we were all working on. He looked at me oddly, then proceeded to go into a long, admiring review of her new moves, adding in the occasional comment about how well organized her plans were. I nodded and smiled and suffered through it. I knew all that already, and listening to Boomer meant less time watching Butch, preferably if he was wearing something sleeveless. Oh, I could salivate a gallon or more just watching his arms flex as he gestures during one of his anecdotes. But I was talking about Boomer.
After that day, Boomer and I had what might pass for conversation. Usually about Blossom. He would ask me if I thought she'd like this or if she preferred that. He had to be blind if he didn't see the chemistry between her and Brick, though. I told you that we weren't very much alike. The feelings between Blossom and Brick were so thick I could almost SEE them. I won't get started on what I "saw" between Buttercup and Brick, two peas in a pod if ever there were, despite my fondest wishes to the contrary, horrible sister that I am.
To be fair to Boomer, he may have been blind when it came to the direction of Blossom's affection, but apparently he paid more attention to ME than I thought. No, not like that.
I must be a bigger fool than I thought, and haven't been as good at hiding "it" as I hoped. I told you I typically wore my heart on my sleeve, but lately I've been trying to cover it with a sweater, ha. Yeah, I get that little bit of black humor from Buttercup.
Boomer and I were sitting on the floor one afternoon. I had given up on my algebra and started doodling in the margins of my notebook. I kept sneaking glances in Butch's direction, sighing inwardly.
"You're not his type, ya know," Boomer said, out of the blue.
Although I'd swear I'd gotten better at covering up how I feel about Butch, I have never been able to hide my feelings once confronted with them, and Boomer's comment took me by surprise. My face turned bright red as I bent over my notebook, trying to pretend I was fascinated with the squiggles on the page.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said brightly, my eyes shining with unshed tears as I forced a smile on my face and looked him square in the eyes. Little tip I learned from Buttercup. Look 'em straight in the eyes when you lie. Apparently she's wrong about that "works every time" theory.
Boomer frowned at me, as if deciding if I was really dumb enough to think he'd fall for that.
He put his hand on my shoulder awkwardly. "Bubbles," he said, and I felt my stomach plummet at the tone in his voice. "I don't mean to hurt your feelings, but I thought you shouldn't get your hopes up so high."
None of the guys had ever actually touched me before, and to have the first contact with any one of them be out of PITY was not to be borne.
I stood up, feeling my back go ramrod straight despite my efforts at looking relaxed and carefree. It didn't much matter, anyway. Boomer wasn't going to be fooled, and Butch's attention was focused on Buttercup as usual.
I glanced at him briefly, noting that apologetic look in his eyes. "Hope is what makes living bearable," I said, and retreated to my room by flying. I knew that I wouldn't be able to walk out of there without doing something stupid like walking into a wall. Any wonder I'm the bimbo? I can't help it. That's how things work. You try to make a statement with your body language, and then you trip over your shoelace or something like that. So I zipped out of there, and I didn't look back once to see if anyone noticed my abrupt departure.
Just another day in my life. "The joy and the laughter" - my ass.