Epilogue

Ten Years Later...

"Mom!" I shouted. "MOM!"

There was a dim reply that came from the basement.

I took that was a response and continued, "I'm going across the street to hang out with PB. Don't worry—I'll be back for lunch!" Without waiting for my mom to approve, I called goodbye and walked out the front door. If mom needed me she'd call or come and get me; that was one of the perks of having your son's best friend live across the street.

I looked both ways, more out of habit than of obedience to my parents, and sprinted across the street. My neighborhood was quiet, most of the time. The houses were big and I guess pretty. Mom liked them. Dad loved the spacious yard; he spent a lot of time outside in it, sometimes making me join him. I hated yard work. It was almost as bad as schoolwork.

I paused in front of my best friend's house, staring. It was a big house with a huge yard, like all the other s in my neighborhood, but it had a huge white picket fence surrounding it. There weren't that many flowers, but it still looked good. There were toys strewn all about the front yard, reminding me of my house. With me and my three other brothers, we made a giant mess everywhere we went.

I pushed open the gate and ran forward, letting the gate slam shut behind me. I jumped over a fallen bike and narrowly missed slipping on an old rollerblade with ratty laces. There was a pile of hockey sticks and baseball bats I had to sidestep. For one kid, my best friend, PB, had a whole lot of stuff. She had a younger brother who was only six, but he spent most of his time playing video games. He was also insane about sharing, so all of his stuff and toys were neatly tucked away in the garage.

I guessed her little baby brother counted too. But he was one year old and he didn't know how to use all of the toys yet, let alone what they were. PB broke most of them after a while, so I didn't think there would be any left for the baby when he got older.

The front door was painted orange; mom insisted it was a "burnt red" but to me it just looked orange. I thought it looked nice. There weren't any other orange doors in my neighborhood. Since the houses were all vaguely the same, it helped me make sure that it was PB's house I was at. The orange door was a clear indicator. I knocked on it loudly in the tune of "Yankee Doodle" and then rang the doorbell twice for good measure.

I was impatient, something mom always scolded me for. But I was used to doing things suddenly and fast. I was best friends with PB for goodness sake! She was way more impatient and had a super short attention span. Before me, she'd grown through at least four other best friends. I was the only one she had kept around. I liked to think it was because she liked me best, but it was really because I was the only one who would put up with her.

PB meant well, but she got a little different at times—like intense, and someone people didn't know how to deal with it. PB's dad told me that how PB's mom was when she was younger. I hoped PB turned out like her mom. PB's mom was pretty; I know I was supposed to be terrified of cooties and stuff, but I was best friends with a girl; that defeated the whole purpose of avoiding girls because of cooties. I knew there wasn't such a thing. I wasn't stupid (even though PB told me I was all the time, but she didn't mean it; most of the time, anyway).

The door opened, revealing a tall—I was only nine, gimme a break, I hadn't hit my growth spurt yet—lady. Her hair was piled on top of her head, held back by what looked like pink chopsticks that had been mercilessly bedazzled (my old sneakers had also suffered during PB's bedazzle-obsession-phase). The lady was wearing a loose t-shirt with some heavy metal band logo on it, and red jeans.

However, it was the jerky in her hand that really caught my attention. It looked like a ham jerky, PB's favorite. PB had inherited a lot of things from her mom; I hadn't believed that PB's mom stole food from PB's dad's plate until I ate dinner with them a few times. PB's mom was slick about it, and sometime PB's dad didn't even notice. PB stole my food practically every lunch at school. She'd always snag my dessert or chips, and if mom made me a ham sandwich, it was as good as gone.

"Hey, Jimmy," PB's mom greeted me, her mouth full of ham jerky. She was smiling, her blue eyes exactly like PB's. "You looking for PB?"

"Yeah," I replied, and then remembered the manners mom had drilled into me for talking with adults. I reluctantly added, "Yes, Mrs. Puckett-Benson."

It was hard to remember to address PB's mom as 'Mrs. Puckett-Benson'. PB's mom was cool, for a mom. She watched recent movies and listened to recent music and knew how to operate all of the 'gadgets' we kids played with (mom called them 'gadgets', mostly because she had no clue how to make them work). PB's mom also called me Jimmy, my nickname. Most parents referred to me as James, which I thought was a stuffy, boring name. It was better than Marvin, which was what dad had wanted to name me.

"Okay," Mrs. Puckett-Benson leaned in the doorway and shouted, "PB! Get your butt down here, you gotta visitor!"

I nonchalantly rubbed my ear; PB's mom yelled loud; really, really loud. Loud enough that PB heard and a second later rushed down the stairs, coming to a stop in front of her mom and narrowly avoiding colliding with me. PB was taller than me by a few inches and beat me in our races, but I was catching up. PB's hair was a mix between her mom and dad, brown, curly, and long. She kept it in a ponytail most of the time. Her eyes were blue, just like her mom's, and she was bossy. But PB was the best and most fun friend I'd ever had, and her redeeming qualities made up for any snarky comments or mood swings.

I grinned at PB, glad to have another kid near me. Being alone with an adult was unsettling, and I always felt like they were going to scold me for something. PB's mom was way better than any another adult though. I felt like she would join in on a prank rather than send us to time-out.

"Hi," I said to PB, nodding my head and shoving my hands in my pockets. It was summer and hot, so I'd worn my khaki shorts. They were a little too short on me, falling a little bit above my knees, but it was so hot I'd risked PB making fun of me for comfort. I'd also gone with a summer camp T-shirt from last year. It was safe because there was nothing on it PB could joke about. I had learned the hard way with most of my wardrobe that PB could tease about almost anything.

"Hey," she responded easily, smirking at me. She was wearing basketball shorts with her standard scuffed chucks. Her shirt was some baseball team—playing clothes. It meant PB intended to spend the whole day outside and/or running around. I inwardly groan, glad I had come wearing clothes I could run around in. Keeping up with PB was exhausting.

PB stopped the ham jerky in her mom's hand. "Mom, you're eating my jerky!" she whined, tugging on her mom's shirt. With anyone else, PB would have just grabbed the jerky. But PB had learned all of her moves from Mrs. Puckett-Benson.

"My house, my jerky," Mrs. Puckett-Benson said simply, chomping on more jerky.

"Sam, the baby's sleeping but I can't find—" a man came around the corner and paused, stopping as he saw all three of us standing in the doorway. His glasses were sliding down the bridge of his nose, something new. I'd never seen PB's dad with glasses on before. He smiled at me as he walked over. "James, nice to see you," he said.

I inwardly winced at my 'proper' name. But I liked Mr. Puckett-Benson. He was pretty cool, although a little dorky. He was a really good fencing player and PB bragged about him all the time. She did fencing and made me do it too. It was a hard sport, and my respect for PB's dad had gone way up after the first class. "Hi, Mr. Puckett-Benson," I replied, grinning up at him.

"How are your parents?" Mr. Puckett-Benson asked, standing beside his wife. She was still eating the jerky, and didn't acknowledge his presence besides snagging his glasses and perching them on her own nose.

"They're good," I shrugged, wondering why adults always asked the most pointless questions. If PB's dad really wanted to know how my mom was, he could pick up a phone or just go across the street. And if she was sick, I would've told them first thing; but, then again—adults.

"You here to play with Charlie?" Mr. Puckett-Benson had barely finished his sentence before PB interrupted.

"Dad," she said in a supremely exasperated voice. "My name is PB, not Charlie." She scowled angrily up at her much taller dad, who held up his hands in a placating fashion.

"Don't blame me," he stated, nodding his head at Mrs. Puckett-Benson. "I'm not the one who named you after the creator of Fatty Cakes."

PB's mom rolled her eyes and swatted him with her half-eaten stick of jerky. "It was either that or let you name her Elizabeth," she said with disgust, taking another big bite of jerky.

"And what's so bad about Elizabeth? It's a traditional, strong name—"

"It's a pilgrim name, that's what it is. You know; the people who ate turkey and wore bonnets?"

"Like Charlie's any better. At least Elizabeth is a girl name."

"Charlie is a perfectly normal girl name."

"Oh yeah, just like Sam," Mr. Puckett-Benson said, and there was heavy sarcasm in his voice. PB and I had been watching her parents go back and forth. PB and I were used to it. Mr. and Mrs. Puckett-Benson were like this all of the time. My parents just smiled sickeningly sweet at each other and called each other embarrassing pet names. PB's 'bantered'; I didn't know what that meant. It was the word my mom used, and it fit since PB's parents didn't really argue. There was no real anger behind their fights.

"You think Sam is a boy's name?" Mrs. Puckett-Benson asked in a dangerous voice, her eyes narrowed. The jerky in her hand suddenly became threatening as she held it up like a ready-for-use weapon.

Mr. Puckett-Benson desperately tried to backtrack but it was too late.

PB and I sped away over her lawn as her mom began to repetitively smack her dad with ham jerky. I had grown used to Mr. and Mrs. Puckett-Benson. Observing them, I had discovered that while PB tried to act like her mom, her dad inevitably shone through. PB did incredibly well in school and was a genius with computers. She pretended not to care in class, but whenever she got in trouble it was out of class. I know PB paid attention in class; I also know she loved tech stuff.

PB had shown me this web show her parents had done when they were younger. Her dad had done all of the technical things, and PB had been talking lately of starting up a show of our own. I wasn't so sure; I liked making jokes and I was good with talking to people—my teacher called me a 'natural leader and smooth talker', but I thought she meant it in a bad-ish way; since I mostly used my talking skills to get PB and I out of trouble—but if it was just PB and me, it wouldn't be the same.

I thought we needed one more person, and PB reluctantly agreed because I wasn't doing the show without a third person. I was thinking about asking a girl named Gabby in our class to join us. She was nice and loved to dance. I also thought she was kind of pretty, but I wasn't going to tell PB that. PB hated talking girly stuff, and 'crushing' on someone apparently counted. I thought I might be crushing on PB, but since I couldn't talk about it, I decided I wasn't. She was my best friend. We would just see where we went once we got into middle school.

PB suddenly stopped, turning around and looking at me. She pulled a camera out of her pocket and I groaned. I hated posing for pictures. PB was set on getting the perfect one of us together, one that represented "our generation and the past one, united in two legacies". I thought it was just an excuse to torture me, but I went with it. PB pinched hard after all.

I smiled at the camera, pressing my head next to PB's as she held out the camera with her left arm. I knew without looking she was smirking. I rolled my eyes and the flash went off, blinding me momentarily. When I regained my sight, PB was staring at the back of the camera in fascination.

I walked up next to her, curious. "What's it look like?" I inquired, peering down at the tiny screen.

PB handed the camera to me. "It looks perfect," she announced, spinning around as I stared at the picture. "I cover both my mom and dad, while you cover your mom, but we're still both ourselves."

"What about my dad?" I muttered, but didn't bring it up. The picture was perfect, I admitted silently. PB was smirking, like her mom, but her eyes had a smile in them, like her dad's got when he was happy or looking at PB's mom. I was smiling, my eyebrows raised in that slightly sarcastic-challenging way I'd seen my mom do so many times. I blinked; unaware I looked so much like my mom. There was some of my dad in there, speckles of green in my hazel eyes and freckles dusting my nose, but I was mostly my mom's kid.

PB stopped in front of me. "What's up?" she asked, tilting her head to the side. "Your brain finally lost that last brain cell?"

I ignored her comment, instead saying, "I look exactly like my mom." I glanced up at PB, not sure what I was looking for in a reaction.

Sighing gustily, PB rolled her eyes at me and said like she was speaking to someone especially slow: "That's a good thing." She smirked smugly at me. "When we start our web show, everyone will know you're the son of Carly from iCarly! And then they'll see Sam and Freddie's kid, me, it'll be how we initially get attention," she said confidently.

I laughed, shaking my head at her. PB had a head full of big ideas.

"Now we have to go back to your tree house," PB ordered, hands on her hips and nose in the air, "because I left something there."

It was my turn to smirk. "You mean your stuffed animal?" I teased, because PB loathed everything girly, and yet treasured the worn orange octopus toy her parents had given her as a baby.

She slapped my shoulder, scowling angrily. "It is not!" She sputtered, looking for an excuse before blurting out, "It's a symbol of my parent's marriage and I'm just guarding it for them."

I might have fallen for that, had I not known PB any better. I grinned smugly at her and said, "Sure, Charlie." I then took off running, because if I didn't like to be called by my first name, PB hated it. I heard her yelling and following me, and ran faster. PB went psycho if any of the kids at school called her Charlie. PB had been kind of a bully, but since I'd become friends with her she hadn't done any bully things unless it was a defensive thing. No one liked to mess with PB. My mom told me that PB's mom used to do similar things when they were younger.

I still found it hard to imagine my mom and PB's parents as kids. Whenever I watched their web show, which it still up and running and very popular, it was stunning to see how little my mom was. It was also really funny to watch PB's parents, because even if they were older than me during the show, it was obvious they were crazy about each other.

PB suddenly caught up and grabbed my hand. I flinched, waiting for some punishment for calling her Charlie, but she simply used our joined hands to tug me forward, increasing our speed. The tree house was in sight as we ducked around my house. I briefly looked through the window and saw my mom in the kitchen, making her delicious brownies. Then PB tugged hard on my hand and we sprinted. We threw ourselves up the ladder, and I listened to PB as she described a tree house some guy named Fred had had once. I said it would take a lot of extension cord-things and she admitted it would.

She was saying we could outfit my tree house and make it our studio. She suggested my Uncle Spencer help us decorate and I disagreed. If Uncle Spencer decorated, it'd be one big explosion of colors and themes. We talked and talked about it. I reclined in a bean bag, while PB claimed the comfy couch, a ratty old octopus toy sitting next to her. I mentally made a note to win another one for her at the next fair, because the orange one looked like it had seen better days. I would have to be smooth about it, because PB loved that thing. Maybe if I said it was the octopus toy for the next generation…I mused and PB talked and life went on.

In my house, my mom was making brownies with music playing, while in a house across the street her best friends fought over a pair of glasses, swatting each other with ham jerky.

The End

Author's Note: I want to thank everyone for reading and sticking with this story; a special shout-out goes out to all reviewers, especially those who were there each chapter. This story wouldn't have been written so fast without all of the wonderful support from you guys. I hope you enjoyed this story—I enjoyed writing it—and that it lived up to Seddie in your eyes.

As for the epilogue, it's told by Carly's son. It might not be what some of you were expecting, but I thought it worked nicely. It was meant to show that Sam and Freddie matured and went on to get married and have children, all while keeping the things that make them themselves (like Sam's love of ham, for example). I also couldn't resist adding in a Seddie kid.

Thank you guys again for reading! :)