Hey, y'all! Back with another one-shot excluding the Davenports, and if you read the summary, it is on Alistair. Slight problem I must address: the correct spelling deemed by daphrose (who as you all know is the Lab Rats expert) is "Alistair." Although the wiki page says "Alaster," I'm going with the natural spelling. Please don't review simply to point out that mistake. No, I am not full back, in fact, I am not back from my official hiatus at all, but I had this all set to go so I won't keep you waiting! Enjoy and R&R!

Disclaimer: I do not own Lab Rats.

"I think it would be an interesting change," was all Mum said when I walked in from school after she dropped a bomb saying I would become a foreign exchange student.

I had a pen pal in that state in the United States of America. (What a long country name… Ireland is short and to the point!) And he told me everything I needed to know about the state he lived in…Cali… California. I think. States are on odd idea. Why divide a country into so many sections? Why not divide a country in these "states" to a much bigger country, like Russia?

But I digress. Mum signed me up as an exchange student, and two weeks from now, I'd be boarding a continental plane, ready to sign up, in California, me and my Irish ways, for an American high school.

Feel the enthusiasm!

"It'll be fine," my friend Beibhinn*, or Beib, as we simply called her, coaxed.

"Easy for you to say," I snapped back. "That's what they all say in books—'It'll be fine,' the high-pitched voice cries, and then the hero goes off and gets killed but because it's a book it gets, oh, I dunno, resurrected or whatever. It won't be fine!"

"Whoa, easy there, Al," Beib says, cracking a smile. "How do you know it won't be fine?"

"Because…" I sputtered. "Well, you're not the one going to a foreign country across a big sea and then having to deal with the American snobs that like spring break, pickup trucks, and extra large portions, and plus they have different traditions—I highly doubt that the use the word "eejit" anymore—"

"Calm down, Al," she says, her soft voice rising slightly. "You're babbling now."

I was. I was angry. Mum thought she knew what was best for me, but when are mums going to realize that their precious little babies who are sixteen years old want, well, a little freedom of choice and independence here and there? Cue a wide audience gasp!

"Sorry," I said genuinely. "It's just… I'll miss you, Beib."

When I told my pen pal about Beib, he cracked up (as he wrote back, he said) and then wrote, "Don't you mean babe?" In my next letter, I had written back, "What's a babe?" and he told me, writing back once more, that he had fallen off his chair laughing.

Apparently, "babe" is the American word for 1) an affectionate form of address, typically for someone with whom one has a sexual or romantic relationship, or 2) a literal baby.

Beib was not the kind of girl who cried easily—like a baby—(as we said it, "bubby"), even if she had a general soft, easily emotional kind of demeanor. Oh, no, it was far from that. Beib had always been my best friend since I was six (so ten years, then) and she was the kind of girl that, once making a decision, never went back on it.

I bet I'm making her sound like the best girl in the world.

I would never tell her about some of her faults: she is too stubborn sometimes, extremely clumsy (sometimes I think it's on purpose for attention), very pale legs but really tan arms (it's stranger than it sounds) and she has a habit of always interrupting me whenever I'm talking about something she deems "boring."

But she's a great girl besides all of those . . . foibles. (Isn't that a great word? Learned it back in sixth grade.) I wouldn't say I had an "American sexual or romantic relationship" with her. She was simply my best friend, and she had always been my best friend.

She was pretty in a way: splash of cute little tiny freckles across the face, clear green eyes, wavy red hair to her shoulders, and long legs.

But she is not my babe. She is just a friend.

If you haven't noticed, I have a very bad habit of digressing.

"Al? Earth to Al. Al!"

"Wha—? Oh, sorry. I was… just—thinking, I guess." I really didn't want to leave. I liked my life here. In all those books where the main character is torn away from his or her homeland, and they always say they want to go back, but in the end, when offered to go back, they say they want to stay.

That's not me. I'm outta California once I finish the year.

"How long will you be staying?" Beib asked, quickly changing the subject.

"A year," I said obstinately.

"Only a year?" Her forehead wrinkled in confusion. "Don't exchange students stay longer than that?"

"If I have to go, I'm not staying for long," I insisted. "Besides, I don't want to go."

"I know that," she said, frustrated. "But my point is, it's a good opportunity. Don't—" she paused, putting her hand up and reading my mind, "—say that I would never know."

I closed my mouth.

"It'll be fine," she repeated. "We can still text."

I help up my phone. Limited text. I was done until November—I only got 500 texts per three months.

"Okay," Beib said, not drawn back. "Write to me."

"Write!" I exclaimed. "Nobody writes!"

"Got a better idea, genius?"

I didn't.

"Didn't think so."

And with those parting words, she left, waving me goodbye, and climbed onto her horse that was waiting for her.

Americans ride cars, I thought, kicking the dust. Why waste gas when you could ride a perfectly good horse?

"So," I said, two days later. "Plane trip is in three days."

"Yes," Mum whispered, tearing up. "I'll miss you, Ali-baby."

"Mum!" I'd asked and asked and asked her to stop calling me "Ali-baby." Doesn't she know that baby nicknames for sixteen-year-olds are not appreciated much? And I think it's pretty universal, after all. I liked "Alistair," plain and simple. Or "Al." Preferably Al… though…

"If you're going to miss me, why send me away?" I said hardheadedly.

"Alistair… it's not that easy. We're not in a good financial case here. It would be better to send you over into the States, where you have a better chance of getting a Ph.D."

It made no sense. It made absolutely no sense. Weren't schools cheaper here?

"And schools are cheaper here, but it's just… It's complicated. I don't know how to explain it to you."

I took a deep breath.

It wasn't fine.

"It's fine, Mom." I said, my words falling heavily onto the kitchen counter island. "I—I guess I can make it."

"Good," she said, smiling through her tears.

Only for a year, I thought about mumbling, but I felt guilty enough already lying to her. She'd just be disappointed if I tried to weasel my way out of it by finding the loopholes in her logic.

Only for a year resonated throughout my mind as I arrived at the airport with Mum.

"Promise me you'll be good and you'll not get into trouble," Mum lectured, all sounds of "sad-mum" gone. Now it was just "strict-mum-because-I-care-for-you" type.

"Yes, Mum," I groaned obediently. "I promise."

"Promise me you'll not drink underage no matter how much your peers pressure you," she confided.

"Yes, Mum," I repeated, rolling my eyes.

"Promise me that you'll make straight straight A pluses," she continued.

"All right, Mum!"

Not catching the hint, she soldiered on. "Promise me you'll make school friends!"

"Fine, Mum, fine!"

She seemed about to launch into another four lines of "promise-me" when we arrived at the gate, and the overhead voice began to say, "Flight #43928 boarding will commence in thirty seconds."

"Bye, Ali-baby," she said, back to "sad-mum."

I didn't care she called me her baby. I just wanted to go back home and stay there and text Beib and be with the rest of my friends—all the friends I had left behind. Would they forget me?

"I love you, Mum," I said, trying not to choke up.

"Flight #43928 boarding will commence in fifteen seconds."

I got in line, clutching the ticket.

Mum stood there, waving slowly, and I lifted my hand and waved.

"Flight #43928 boarding will commence in ten seconds."

More people jostled for their places in line, and Mum lowered her hand and began to walk away, almost trudging like her feet were stuck in quicksand.

She didn't look back until she reached the point near the restrooms.

"Flight #43928 boarding will commence in five seconds."

I waved again, wildly.

She broken into a grin and waved back, and then walked out of sight.

I love you, Ali-baby.

I would miss her so much.

But maybe, just maybe, it was worth getting on the blasted American-Irish plane and flying to the States and getting to meet new people, even if it was disloyal to Beibhinn.

"Flight #43928 boarding has begun."

So! How did you like it? Anyways, yet another one of my Minor-Character One-Shot "series" that I have going, with Cheerleader, Hamster Heaven, Little Artist, Paranormal Beasts, and this done, and one more to come focusing on Grandma Rose. So, please review and tell me what you thought of it, because reviews are always much appreciated! Did you like the aspect of it? Review to let me know! I'll go back under the radar after this now, so . . . please review!

Footnote No 1: Beibhinn is the Gaelic/Irish term for "woman" or "fair lady." You should know me by now - any OC will have a name that matches their character!

(I apologize for any spelling/grammatical errors and/or forgotten footnotes.)