Disclaimer: I don't own iCarly.

My thanks to those of you who reviewed, or made this a favorite or expressed interest in its evolution.

NOTE: if you have not checked out "iFML" by Charlie Merrit on this site, do yourselves a favor and do so. It's an alternate take on iWTF written from Sam's point of view (the harder of the two characters for my money) and it rocks the house, people.

iWTF

You are Fredward Richard Benson, and you are about to lose an arm wrestling match. Everyone in the room knows it, the outcome is expected. This is just like professional wrestling. The winner is known before either competitor steps in the ring. This is just a show.

What is not obvious and what you do not state is that you could beat your opponent. Her. Yes, you are about to throw a contest with a girl. Oh, not just any girl. Sam Puckett is known as a fierce competitor throughout the school, leaving a trail of broken thumbs, swollen, deep purple wounds and bruised egos. Physical violence is a hallmark of her treatment of others. She was the terror of the young beauty pageant circuit, suspended from competing on suspicion of shoving the ranking contestant down the stairs. When you were smaller Sam would routinely batter you into submission, and now at 16, even though you are taller, physically stronger from benches and preacher curls and shoulder presses, and can win a contest of brute strength, you will let her win, because that is the role you play in the game.

And it is a game. At least that is what it has become for you. No telling what it is to Sam or casual onlookers. Your relationship with Sam is unusual to say the least. Combative, contentious, loud, heated- highly dysfunctional by any psychological metric. She has tricked you, embarrassed you, having hit you in the face with fists, fruit and pudding. She made you endure a painful faux tattooing and even shoved you out of an airplane in flight. Before puberty and your growth spurt you rightfully feared the prospect of a beating from her. Tougher males than you have had to "tap out" when going face-to-face with her. For as long as you can remember the two of you have circled each other, opponents.

You enjoy it. Not the hitting so much. She recently invented a game called Boomba, which consisted entirely of hurling large oranges at your back, that was painful, but ultimately your own fault for agreeing to turn your back on her. The time she took you down with an electric novelty shock pen crossed an unspoken line in your opinion, but no one asked and it went on unspoken. But you do enjoy the give and take. She challenges you. Not in silly contests but in taking you outside the antiseptic, double underwear world your neurotically loving mother has built for you. In some way that you can't easily codify Sam Puckett is your friend. It is a one-sided friendship, however. She really seems to have no use for you beyond punching bag-object-of-ridicule. The friendliest thing she has ever done toward you is a single apology on the web for embarrassing you. You know how substantial that is in Sam's world view, but for you, well, it was owed to you. It was the right thing to do, and you were raised to do the right thing.

Yet, conversely, this deadly creature was also the first girl (not related) to kiss you. While the psychology of women is outside your academic scope you are coming to the conclusion that even the mentally healthiest specimens are complex. Sam Puckett is complicated by an order of magnitude. Over time, in spite of her lying, theft and complete disregard for you as a person, you have come to care about what happens to her. You cannot explain it, you rarely reflect on it. It is much like the air you breathe. It just is. Its greatest manifestation was when you gave up a cruise in order to remove the maleficent Missy when she was reclaiming her place as Carly Shay's best friend. You said you were protecting iCarly, but Carly said it aloud, "You care about Sam," and that was true. You could not bear to see Sam so upset, being stripped of the only relationship in her hard life that seemed to anchor her. It is doubtful Sam would do the same for you. She is venal and totally self-absorbed. Her affection seems to be reserved for meat products and Carly. In life you are finding that sometimes we care about people who don't have the same feelings.

That was certainly true for you and Carly Shay, for years you had a huge crush on her, you imagined her as your soul mate. You took every opportunity to hug her and prolong the hold too long. You watched for her through the peephole in your door. You were obsessed with her. If you hadn't been just a boy you might have needed an intervention. Then one day, like a wish being granted you saved her from a speeding taco truck (if your wish had been truly granted it wouldn't have been a taco truck, it would have been a hail of gangsta gunfire.) After that Carly was yours, what you thought you wanted for years was literally in your hands and it didn't work. She didn't love you. She loved what you did. It was Sam who pointed out that the relationship was not real, that you were in Sam's words, "exotic bacon." You represented something that Carly thought she should respond to. And so, in one of your first real acts of mature reflection, you stepped away from something you thought you always wanted. You and Carly agreed that you would visit the relationship later. But neither of you did. Both of you knew somehow that friendship was the best you could do. The final proof came only last month. For three months she dated Steven Carson and it honestly did not bother you to see her so happy with someone else. The only source of pain was how mad you felt when it was discovered that Steven was a cheating dirt-head and had hurt her—he made her cry. You imagined how a brother would make it right (well, a brother that wasn't a spaz artist type). You were going to beat Steven into rubble until it was pointed out that you probably couldn't. You need to think about getting better at physical things, like you have with arm wrestling.

The arm wrestling contest does not follow any protocol you have studied on the subject. To prepare, and Freddie Benson always prepares, you read Jackson Colt's essay on arm wrestling (ghosted by someone—literate and Jackson Colt don't seem to match-up well) and you are aware that for all her street smarts-and they vastly exceed yours-Sam's wrist could easily be rolled back by your larger, stronger hand. Van Williams, the original Green Hornet used to beat Bruce Lee at arm wrestling, and you really need to reign in your geek factor, because that tidbit is geek cubed.

Sam says she is "getting bored," which is in keeping with her usual annoyed response to your role in the game. You roll up your sleeves and flex. You are sending a message on some level that is outside your conscious mind.

As you take your seat you note that Sam's nails aren't chipped. For years they seemed to be painted with color but chipped up, you always presumed that was from eating fistfuls of whatever meat product was available and frequent punching, usually of you. Today her nails are sculpted, feminine, they gleam and hold your attention. This must be Carly's influence. Carly is part of the game, too. The three of you present a unique chemistry. You are the brain, Carly is the heart, and Sam is the fist. Like the best relationships the three of you challenge each other, each making the other grow and change.

The match is on. For an instant you consider simply levering her slim arm (how did she knock out a truck driver with that arm?) into the table top, but beating her would change the game. Mama wins, mama has to win. That is the only dynamic either of you know, so you continue your role of Fredweird with the usual reactions of outrage. You aren't sure what else you might have if you didn't play the game. Her arm surges, you resist, just enough to stretch the time out, she is very strong for a girl (she has fireman carried you more than once), and when you let her drive your hand to the wood you publicly exult in the extra second it took her to beat you. She mouths "congratulations" in her patented, Freddie-is-such-a-nub tone.

That is how the game is played. It is a good game and you know how to play it very well. But some part of you thinks it is getting old.