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Chapter Text

March 2005

Monday morning. Not quite cold, but not necessarily warm either. It's that deceptive kind of temperature where the chill seeps through the opaque tights, numbs the toes beneath the Mary Janes and bites away at the exposed skin. And yet somehow, beneath it all, there's an ember—a dull, indifferent sun casting its light over the schoolyard.

And under that light, she sits. Alone. Watching. Waiting. For this day that has only just begun to end.

Every second of it - is torture. Waking up, enduring this crushing cycle, dragging herself through the hours like a ghost haunting her own life. The others—her classmates—mostly leave her alone.

Was it because she was strange? Excitable? Loud? Obnoxious?

Or was it because of Vicky?

Did she scare them all away? Were they too afraid of her sister to even try approaching her? Or was it something even simpler—something far more painful?

She catches her reflection in a window. It stares back at her, uninvited, unkind. A heavy sigh escapes her lips.

Sometimes, it's better to be a hearer of the word than a doer. Better to forget what you look like. Pretend you have no face, no body, nothing that can be judged or ridiculed. If she doesn't see herself, maybe she can forget what the world sees too. And that makes the day go by just a little faster.

On most days, she would be fine with being invisible.

Most days, she prefers it.

But not when it comes to him.

There is one person whose gaze she longs for. One who steals glances only in cringes and sneers. One who avoids her despite her best efforts otherwise.

He does not see her.

Not really.

Not in the way she wants to be seen. The object of her affection moves through the world unbothered, unknowing. He only sees Trixie.

Trixie Tang

Most popular(most unkind), most pretty, most wonderful – "A Mayden Queene, with golden crown ywrought"

Tootie rolls her eyes. No one's life is that simple—not even Trixie's. There has to be something beneath the perfection, something human, something flawed. It's all a façade, one that is meticulously maintained. And, more importantly—one that works.

That's what matters. The illusion. The seamless execution of effortless perfection.

And then there's her. The opposite of such. The opposite of perfect.

"Why?" she used to wonder. "Why won't you look at me the way you look at her?"

Another heavy sigh.

Was the truth too painful to acknowledge? Maybe the answer was staring at her all along? Maybe she was… or maybe she was not…

The school bell rang, and the day would go by as it always did—some loud foreign noises, odd commotions, Timmy Turner moving through life like a sociopath, always in conflict with something or someone in a way that felt urgent and in the moment, but would be forgotten by the next day, as if everyone had shared a collective daydream.

And she? Forever in the background. Not Always, but mostly.

She had almost given up at this point.

He would always seek the next adventure, pine after Trixie. He and so many others. It was all so pointless. So pointless to even…

BUMP.

A slight collision snaps her out of her thoughts.

Standing before her is a peculiar figure—blonde hair, blue eyes, an eerie sense of familiarity despite being a complete stranger. There's something about her, something off in a way Tootie can't quite place. She has the same cartoony, often sociopathic energy as the object of her affection.

Had she seen this girl before? Was she new?

Before she can even ask, the girl interrupts.

"Chloe."

The name is spoken like an answer to an unasked question, like she already knows what Tootie is thinking.

"The name is Chloe Carmichael."

She extends a hand, all smiles and unsettling confidence.

"You're that girl who's always obsessing over Timmy."

Tootie recoils.

"Yeah…" Of course.

Her own impulsive nature, has ensured that everybody knows.

Another consequence of her actions.

Tootie doesn't respond. She just stares at Chloe's outstretched hand, half expecting it to disappear in a puff of smoke—like some cruel hallucination sent by the universe to mock her.

But Chloe doesn't waver. She just stands there, perfectly poised, the kind of person who could walk into a room full of strangers and somehow walk out with everyone's phone number.

Tootie feels herself shrinking.

"Right," Chloe says, retracting her hand, unfazed. "You know, I've always wondered…" She tilts her head slightly, analysing Tootie like "Why Timmy?"

A lump lodges itself in Tootie's throat.

"I—I don't know," she lies.

Chloe raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Oh, come on… You've spent years orbiting the guy like a deranged little moon, a lunartic…" she laughed and then paused. "sorry."

"It's…fine." Tootie said, although with slight annoyance

"There's gotta be a reason."

Tootie bristles. "I…I really don't know…"

Chloe hums, unconvinced.

Tootie avoids her gaze, suddenly feeling very seen in a way she does not like. "Why do you care anyways?"

Chloe's face turns into a grin. The kind that suggests she's three steps ahead in a game Tootie didn't even know they were playing.

"I love - love," Chloe says, placing a hand on her chest like she's just declared something profound. "It's fascinating! Especially the hopelessly doomed kind. I mean, your whole thing with Timmy? Classic tragedy. Like Romeo and Juliet, except he doesn't know you exist, and there's significantly less poison, and et cetera - you get me."

Tootie glares. "Wow. Thanks."

Chloe waves a hand dismissively. "Hey, don't take it personally. I think unrequited love is beautiful. All that suffering? The pining? The longing?" She exhales dreamily, like she's swooning over the concept itself.

Whereas Tootie doesn't know what to make of this girl.

For years, she has been the butt of the joke. The crazy stalker. The obsessed fangirl. She's used to the sneers, the rolled eyes, the whispered mockery. But Chloe—Chloe is genuinely interested.

And that?

That might be terrifying.

Because people don't ask questions for no reason.

People like Chloe Carmichael don't just probe you without a purpose. What ulterior motive could she have?

"It doesn't matter..." she mutters, shifting her backpack higher onto her shoulders. Her voice is quieter now, like she's trying to convince herself more than Chloe.

She turns to leave.

"He'll never be with me anyway."

There. She said it out loud. The thing she never allows herself to fully think. Because if she does—if she acknowledges it as truth—what is she left with?

But Chloe doesn't let her leave.

"Oh my god."

Tootie pauses. The tone is off.

Not pity. Not mockery.

Something else…

Chloe rushes in front of her, blocking her path. Hands clasped together, practically vibrating with excitement.

"That's perfect!"

Tootie squints. "…What?"

"That's tragic!" Chloe breathes, eyes wide with a kind of unhinged glee. "You're saying you're doomed. You're saying this love is impossible. That's so compelling. That's the good stuff!"

"…Are you messing with me?"

"NO!" Chloe grabs her shoulders, shaking her lightly. "I'm serious! You're sitting on a goldmine of raw emotional turmoil, and I—" She lets go, pressing her fingertips together, composing herself. "—I need to see where this goes."

Tootie just stares.

The day had already been cruel enough, but now? Now she had attracted a lunatic.

One who's currently exhibiting behaviours she's all too familiar with.

Chloe beams. "You and me, Tootie. We're gonna make Timmy fall in love with you."

Tootie blinks.

Chloe just grins wider.

But—

"No."

Tootie steps back, gently brushing her off.

"Yes." Chloe responds, unfazed.

"No!" Tootie exclaims, sharper this time.

"Why not!?" Chloe protests, frustration creeping into her voice.

Tootie exhales hard through her nose. Why not? "Because I'm tired. Because I've spent the few valuable years of my youth chasing something that was never meant to be caught. Because I've already played this game, and the only prize at the end is humiliation. I'm done doing that to myself," she says. "All that embarrassment… for what? A guy who doesn't even see—let alone like me?"

Chloe opens her mouth, but Tootie cuts her off.

"You don't understand, okay?" Her voice wavers, betraying just how much this hurts. How much it's always hurt.

"I… I'm done with all the romance bs. I just wanna get through school and move on with my life….I'm done…."

The weight of those words settles between them, heavy and exhausted. The kind of tired that sits in your bones.

Chloe is slightly taken aback. But not quite ready to give up.

"…Okay."

A pause.

The gears in Chloe Carmichael's head still turning.

She doesn't press further—not immediately. She just watches Tootie, tilting her head ever so slightly, like a scientist observing a rare and fascinating specimen.

Tootie shifts uncomfortably.

She's not used to people listening to her. Not really.

Not even in the Sugar Cream Puffs—that sisterhood of fake smiles and performative giggles, where friendship was more of a transaction than a bond. Even there, she was an outsider looking in, never quite getting it right. She was used to being brushed off, laughed at, or outright ignored.

But Chloe… Chloe was listening.

Not just waiting for her turn to speak. Not humouring her out of pity. She was actually giving an ear to her.

And that, somehow, brought about feelings Tootie wasn't sure she could trust.

She must have a hidden agenda, right? Why would anyone ever listen to someone like me?

A trap. Some kind of cruel joke waiting to be sprung. That's how these things go. She'd let herself believe she was worth someone's time, again, and the universe would remind her why she shouldn't. Just like always.

"Okay," Chloe says again, this time more measured. Then, after another beat—

"…what if we just made him jealous?"

Tootie groans, dragging a hand down her face.

"Chloe."

"Hear me out!" Chloe clasps her hands together, eyes gleaming with manic energy. "You don't chase him. You don't do anything embarrassing. You just… move on."

Tootie raises an eyebrow. "That's what I'm trying to do."

"Yeah, but not in a fun way."

"…What."

Chloe steps closer, lowering her voice like she's about to reveal some great cosmic truth. "Boys are dumb, Tootie. You know what happens when you stop giving them attention? They notice."

Tootie frowns. "Timmy doesn't notice anything."

"That's why we're gonna make it easy for him." Chloe's grin returns, curling like a conspiratorial whisper. "You move on. Visibly. We make you interesting. Mysterious. Unattainable."

Tootie squints. "What are you talking about?"

"You need a new crush."

"…What?"

The gears in Chloe's head turn—brake pedal, gear two, indicate left—then: sharp turn.

"Actually, scratch that." Her grin widens. "We're gonna get you a boyfriend."

Tootie's eye twitches.

"What!?—?"

"You need to get a boyfriend." Chloe repeats, calm, deadpan, as if announcing the weather.

Tootie stares, waiting for some sign that this is a joke. The punchline never comes.

"So… your great plan… is just my original plan?" she deadpans. More questioning Chloe's sanity than anything else.

Chloe shakes her head. "No, see, this is different."

"How?"

"Because it's not Timmy Turner."

Tootie crosses her arms. "And who exactly is supposed to fill that role?"

Chloe's eyes glint. "Someone cool. Someone with status." She leans in, dramatic. "The male Trixie Tang."

Tootie raises an eyebrow. "…And who would that be?"

Chloe doesn't hesitate.

"Tad and Chad."

Silence.

"…What?"

"What?!"

"Huh?"

"I—Are you high?"

"Not in this state."

"Tad and Chad?" Tootie repeats, like she's trying to make sense of the words. "As in—Tad and Chad Tad and Chad?"

"The very same."

"The most popular, rich, egotistical guys in school?"

"Mmhmm."

"The living embodiments of 'my dad's a lawyer'?"

Chloe tilts her head. "Not mutually exclusive with being good boyfriend material."

Tootie looks at her, utterly dumbfounded. "What part of anything about me makes you think those guys would ever even consider dating me? Have you seen me?"

Chloe frowns. "What's wrong with you?" The question isn't mocking. It's genuine. Like she truly doesn't understand the issue.

Tootie scoffs. "Everything. I'm weird, I'm skinny and bony, my braces are too big, and these stupid glasses are—"

She gestures wildly to her face and body, spiralling into a full-blown self-deprecating rant. But Chloe just watches, shaking her head.

And after she was finished.

"Oh, my dear girl…" Chloe murmurs, almost mournfully. "You have self-esteem issues. Very deep-seated self-esteem issues."

Tootie glares. "Yeah, no kidding."

"You would too if you looked like me," she adds bitterly, crossing her arms.

Chloe sighs. "There is nothing wrong with you, or how you look."

Tootie rolls her eyes. "Easy for you to say."

Chloe waves a hand. "Look, if you want to 'look prettier,' then learn how to use makeup and change your clothing. Some perfume and hairspray wouldn't hurt either - Otherwise?" She shrugs. "You're fine, girl."

Tootie blinks.

That's it? That's the solution?

She doesn't know what's more shocking—that Chloe genuinely believes this, or that she's saying it without an ounce of hesitation.

"Listen if you win over Tad and Chad, or at least one of them, the whole school will be sure to notice." She said, "especially Timothy."

"…But how am I gonna get either Tad or Chad to date me?"

"Easy. You become popular and what do popular kids like to do in our modern year of 2005?"

Tootie shrugs. "I don't know."

"The mall," Chloe declares. "They like to hang out at the mall, waste their parents' money at Abercrombie & Fitch, and watch trashy reality shows on MTV. Laguna Beach, Room Raiders and My Super Sweet 16 are their gospel."

"Oh…ookkaayyy…" Tootie replied

"Also, keep up with the media." Chloe said, "Watch Celebrity E-News and stuff like that, Million Dollar Baby won Best Picture, which is fine, but let's be real—Ray should've taken it. Jamie Foxx did get Best Actor, but still, like come on."

Tootie again frowns. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing. Just an injustice I needed to vocalize." Chloe shrugs. "Anyway. The plan."

"Plan?"

"Yes plan." Chloe claps her hands together. "Step one: we go to the mall. Step two: you become more interesting and popular."

"Interesting how?"

Chloe tilts her head. "No offense, but your main personality trait is pining. We gotta give the people something more."

Tootie glares. "like what?"

Chloe grins.

"Cosmo! Wanda! I wish Tootie were more interesting."

Just then, a pair of 2H pencils—one pink, the other green—seemed to twitch from Chloe's pocket. As if some unseen force had just startled them awake. Their erasers wobbled. Their tendons, which looked suspiciously like arms, raised into the air in silent protest.

A beat.

Then—

FWOMP.

A massive, leather-bound book materialized out of thin air, slamming onto the floor with enough force to mysteriously rattle Tootie's glasses down her nose. Gold lettering glistened on the front:

DA RULES

The book creaked open on its own, pages flipping at an unnatural speed before halting on a very specific section.

"AHEM!" came a nasally, know-it-all voice.

Chloe barely had time to blink before the pink 2H pencil—Wanda, in all her exhausted, overworked glory—snapped upright and gasped.

"Chloe! You can't wish for someone to be more interesting!"

"Why not?" Chloe frowned. "That's, like, the least destructive thing I could've asked for."

The green pencil—Cosmo, of course—perked up. "Oh! Oh! I know this one!" He cleared his throat dramatically and read a very small fine print from Da Rules:

"Article 47, Subsection 12B: Fairy Godparents cannot alter the fundamental personality, thoughts, or essence of a human being, as this may result in an existential crisis, a paradoxical identity shift, or a borderline case."

Chloe blinked. "Huh."

"Long story short: You can't just wish for her to be cool. That's, like, mind control!" Wanda explained

"And one of the biggest rules is you can't wish for mind control. " Cosmo said

"that would also contribute to harming her, at least mentally." Wanda finished. "violating essentially two rules."

She turned to Tootie, studying her like she was a particularly interesting science experiment.

"Would you have minded?"

Tootie narrowed her eyes. "What?"

Something about Chloe's entire presence felt off. The way she talked. The way she acted. The way she spoke to the empty air like it was holding a conversation back.

Her glasses had slid down but she pushed them up with her pinky. Her mind flickered through possibilities—sleep deprivation, a stress-induced psychotic break, maybe she was finally losing it—

Or.

Maybe Chloe was just insane.

Only someone crazy would willingly entertain the pathetic Tootie for this long.

Or worse—she was messing with her.

Tootie tensed. "Are you…messing with me?"

Chloe frowned. "No? Why?"

Then—her eyes widened.

"Oh—right. I made them…" Chloe muttered, rubbing the back of her head, as if she'd just remembered she had God on speed dial. "Yeah okay…"

Tootie stared, unblinking. "what do you mean yeah okay…"

It wasn't even the words, necessarily. It was the tone. Like she'd just forgotten to take the chicken out of the freezer, not that she was apparently breaking the very fabric of reality.

Chloe, to her credit, at least tried to look innocent. "Nothing!"

Tootie crossed her arms. "That wasn't nothing. You're talking to the air."

Chloe huffed. "I am not talking to the air."

"Oh, my mistake. You're talking to your imaginary friends."

"I mean… technically, yeah."

Tootie opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Nothing came out.

A slow, creeping realization slithered up her spine.

Oh my God, this girl might actually be crazy.

Her first real conversation in weeks—possibly months—and it was with someone who heard voices.

Chloe, meanwhile, seemed blissfully unbothered. "Anyway!" she chirped, shaking off the awkwardness like a dog shedding water. "Back to the plan."

Tootie blinked. "You seriously expect me to just ignore whatever that was?"

Chloe clapped her hands together. "Yes."

A pause.

A long pause.

"We're going to the mall after school," Chloe said, as if it were a divine decree.

"I can't," Tootie replied, voice flat. "I have a curfew."

"No, you don't," Chloe countered.

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't," Chloe repeated, with the patience of a saint explaining basic arithmetic to a particularly slow child. "You're gonna be cool and you gotta act like it, Cool kids don't have curfews."

Tootie deadpanned. "Vicky is going to kill me if I don't get home in time."

Chloe's eyes glimmered with something unholy. "I'll let you in on a little secret."

Tootie stared.

"She won't have time to kill you," Chloe continued, a conspiratorial whisper curling in her voice, "because she'll also be at the mall—scaring all the dudes away, probably."

Tootie felt her soul detach from her body.

"…Excuse me?"

Chloe shrugged. "Vicky's always went to the mall after school."

"but she's in college now." Tootie said

"I don't know what she's studying but she still has time to go to the mall." Chloe replied, "didn't you know?"

No. she didn't know. And now she was trying very hard not to think about all the ways this could go wrong, horribly wrong.

"But Why?" Tootie asked, dreading the answer.

Chloe grinned. "Why do you think? Chilling with her friends, scaring Scaring teenage boys. General villainy. She's like a cryptid. You already know how many urban legends people have about her?"

Tootie sighed. "I don't need urban legends, I live with her."

"Good that means you know her weaknesses."

"Vicky has no weaknesses." Tootie squinted. "I'm gonna be hunted through the mall by my nightmare of an older sister?"

"No," Chloe said, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. "you're gonna be cool in front of everyone at the mall, and show up your older sister."

Another pause.

A long pause.

"but-"

"Do you want Timmy to notice you or not?" Chloe interrupted, "cause this is the only way?"

That stings.

Because yes. Yes, she does.

More than anything.

But…

"Even if this somehow worked, even if one of them agreed," Tootie starts, "wouldn't that just be lying?"

Chloe shrugs. "Welcome to high school."

Tootie exhales through her nose. Looks away. The rational part of her brain is screaming to walk away, to not get involved, to avoid whatever insanity Chloe is brewing.

But the other part? The part that's spent years being invisible? Being unnoticed?

That part is tired.

"…Fine," she mutters, like someone signing a deal with the devil. "I'll see you at the mall."

"Excellent," Chloe purrs, like an evil scientist about to unveil her greatest, most ethically dubious creation.

"I'll see you at 4:00 p.m."

Chapter Text

The Mall

That confounded quintessence of consumerism and capital(ism).

The teenage hangout spot of our time. Sometimes packed, sometimes empty—but right now, full.

Students from all walks of life, crisscrossing like aimless worker ants, pretending they had somewhere to be.

A dream and a trap—an idealized marketplace, a strange, artificial social ecosystem where the currency wasn't just money, but reputation.

Loitering coupled with hanging around Hot Topic and taking blurry, overexposed pictures for MySpace in dressing rooms.

Chilling in food courts without buying anything—nursing a single soda for two hours while talking about things that mattered. Who liked who. Who kissed who. Who was getting cancelled on AIM chatrooms tonight.

Flirting. People-watching. Pretending not to care while caring so much.

Browsing CDs, playing games at GameStop without buying any of them – But most likely? You'd get kicked out.

And here she was, right in the thick of it.

Tootie adjusted her glasses, scanning the shifting crowds, waiting. Chloe Carmichael was late. Fashionably so…probably, because of course she was the type to be fashionably late to her own schemes.

Tootie sighed. She didn't know why she was here. No—she did. But she wished she didn't.

There were so many other things she could be doing right now. Like—like—

Okay, maybe she didn't have anything better to do. But still.

The weight of being seen pressed down on her like an unfamiliar coat. She wasn't used to it. What do people do with their hands when they're just standing there?

And then—

A blur of blonde, moving fast, like a shooting star of chaos.

Chloe.

With the self-assurance of someone who had never once questioned her presence in a room, she strutted up, like a mastermind seeing her plan click into place.

"Alright." Chloe declared, grabbing Tootie's shoulders. "Time to make you undeniable."

"I don't wanna change myself too much." Tootie gently pried Chloe's hands off her shoulders.

"And you won't have to," Chloe reassured her, waving a dismissive hand. "Like I said, you mostly look fine."

Mostly. That word stung, but Tootie let it slide.

"Maybe we ditch the glasses—get you some contacts. And this…" Chloe gestured vaguely to all of her. "uniform…"

"It's not a uniform," Tootie said, arms crossing over her chest. "These are my clothes."

"And that's fine!" Chloe chirped. "But if we want Tad and-or Chad to notice you, we're gonna have to up your dressing game just a little. Not your personality, just your looks."

Tootie frowned. "And what do you suggest, then?"

Chloe grinned like a woman about to commit a war crime. "Give me a sec."

Then, bizarrely, she turned to her wrist—leaned in close—and whispered something.

Tootie stared. "What are you doing?"

"Shh." Chloe didn't look up, still talking softly into her wrist.

Tootie blinked.

What is this girl?

She squinted. Was there—was there something there? A shimmer? A flicker of light? Or was she seeing things?

"Hey, guys," Chloe murmured conspiratorially, still speaking to her wrist. "I know I can't wish for money and stuff, but like—we need new clothes, accessories, and a way to get around the mall without looking like losers. Any workarounds?"

Silence.

Then—two tiny, exasperated sighs.

"we might have something for ya…"

Once again a pair of tendons, that seem to be miniature arms rose up, a gleaming light, beam and then – WISH GRANTED

"CONGRATULATIONS, YOUNG LADY!"

A booming voice rang out over the mall intercom, shaking the very foundation of consumer capitalism.

Tootie turned—along with everyone else in the immediate vicinity—as a man in a green gaudy, Price Is Right-esque suit burst out of a nearby clothes store, holding an oversized novelty check.

"YOU'RE THE LUCKY WINNER OF THE SPREE FOR FREE!"

Tootie's eyes darted to Chloe, seeking an anchor in this sea of absurdity. Chloe, for her part, was grinning like the Cheshire Cat after a particularly satisfying joke.

"What's happening?" Tootie asked, her voice a cocktail of confusion and suspicion.

"You've won our mall competition," the man declared, his smile a fixed rictus of corporate enthusiasm. "You are Tootie, correct?"

The weight of a hundred gazes pressed down on her. She felt like a specimen under a microscope, every flaw magnified.

"Yes..." she managed, her voice barely above a murmur.

"Fantastic! As our 'Spree for Free' winner, you've been awarded an exclusive $15,000 voucher for any clothing and accessories throughout the mall."

The number hung in the air, absurd and intangible. Fifteen thousand dollars? It was the kind of sum that existed in fantasies, not in the hands of girls like her.

"What?!" The exclamation burst forth, shattering her (now) usual reticence.

"That's right—$15,000 for your shopping pleasure." The man's smile widened, if that was even possible. "Remember, this voucher is strictly for clothing and accessories."

A flicker of pragmatism cut through the haze of disbelief. "Are minors even allowed to handle that much money?"

The man chuckled, a rehearsed sound meant to disarm. "Actually, according to federal law, gift cards and vouchers must be valid for at least five years from the date of activation, and there are limitations on fees. As for age restrictions, while minors can possess and use gift cards, certain transactions may require parental consent or involvement, depending on state regulations."

The information washed over Tootie, only half-absorbed. The surreal nature of the situation made legal nuances feel distant and unimportant.

Chloe leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Looks like we have our budget now?"

"but I don't remember-"

"That'll be all for now." The man in the green suit said, "Remember you could be the lucky winner next time, so make sure to spend, spend, spend!" The man finished with a flourish, tipping his sequined top hat (where did that come from?) before retreating into the depths of the mall like a cryptid who only manifested under the right combination of consumer desperation and corporate machination.

Tootie stared down at the oversized check in her hands, the absurdity of it pulsing like a neon sign in her brain. Fifteen thousand dollars. For clothes. Clothes.

Not rent, not food, not an escape plan from her personal tormentor, but a wardrobe budget designed by capitalism itself.

"…I don't remember entering any contest." Tootie finally muttered, still stuck somewhere between skepticism and a mild case of existential nausea.

Chloe patted her shoulder, her touch light but her intent unshakable. "Well, you did. And you won. So let's not question a good thing and instead focus on the part where you become irresistible to the general public. Hmm?"

"But—"

"Come on." Chloe didn't wait for further protest, seizing Tootie by the wrist and dragging her toward the store, as if momentum itself could override existential dread.

"We are what we repeatedly wear. Style, then, is not a phase, but a habit in motion."

Chloe gazed at their reflections in the mirror, arms crossed, expression pensive. Tootie did the same, though with significantly more despair.

The latest trending clothes. The pinnacle of 2005 fashion. And yet…

She looked like a background dancer in an R music video. One of the forgotten ones. The ones blurred out when the camera focused on the lead singer.

"You botched the quote, that's not what he said." Tootie muttered.

"No." Chloe's eyes narrowed. "It's not the clothes. It's the essence. Something's missing."

Tootie slumped. "What, my dignity?"

"Maybe we need to find something that fits you personally," Chloe continued, undeterred. "Something chic but nerdy. Simple but complex. Expensive but…"

"But what?" Tootie asked, dreading the answer.

Chloe pursed her lips, the gears in her head audibly turning. "Hmm. I'm not sure yet…"

A pause. Then,

"Let's change again."

Tootie groaned, slumping her shoulders. "We've been at this for an hour…It's like 5am"

"And we'll stay here for three if that's what it takes," Chloe declared, hands on her hips, the fire of a woman on a mission burning in her eyes. "Do you want to walk out of this mall looking like some forgotten extra, or do you want to be the protagonist?"

Tootie frowned. "I like shopping as much as the next person but-"

Chloe grabbed her by the shoulders, silencing her. "Go back and change….now!"

Tootie sighed but let herself be led back into the changing room. The next outfit was—. Horrific. A sequined crop top with low-rise jeans so offensively low they threatened to reveal state secrets.

"Absolutely not," Tootie deadpanned.

Chloe hummed. "Yeah, that's a lawsuit waiting to happen."

Next: a bubblegum pink mini-dress. Tootie stared at herself in the mirror, then at Chloe.

"I look like I'm about to lose American Idol."

Chloe nodded solemnly. "Back to the drawing board."

More outfits. More rejects. A preppy look that made her look like she'd just transferred from a private school for the terminally rich. A punk rock ensemble that screamed, "I shoplift CDs from FYE." A boho-chic disaster that suggested she had an Etsy shop selling homemade candles scented like heartbreak.

Then—finally.

Black boots. A dark skirt, pleated but not too cutesy. A fitted top, elegant but effortless. A jacket, slightly oversized, slightly dishevelled—like she wasn't trying too hard but still had a presence.

Tootie turned in the mirror.

Chloe clasped her hands together. And then there was a sigh "It'll have to do…I actually wanna go home now."

"Oh, now you wanna go." Tootie rolled her eyes but barely paid attention—her gaze was drawn back to the mirror.

The girl staring back wasn't the same one who had walked into this fitting room, desperate, anxious, wearing that nervous energy like an ill-fitted cardigan. No—this one had sharper edges. A presence.

She tilted her head, examined herself from a different angle. "…I actually look kinda cool." She turned slightly, checking the back. "Huh."

"Good…" Chloe said, exhausted. Dead-eyed. Hollow. A soldier after battle. "That's good… I'm glad you found something you're comfortable with."

Comfort. Was that the word? No—this was something better.

"It kinda suits me." A small, almost foreign smile tugged at the corner of Tootie's lips.

"I'm glad you like it." Chloe swayed slightly, as if the effort of constructing a new human being out of sweat and stubbornness had taken years off her life. "But now we need to stockpile—find more stuff that fits the style."

"To have some verisimilitude…" she paused dramatically, as if the word alone carried an otherworldly weight.

Tootie squinted. "…I don't think you used that word right."

Chloe blinked. "Huh?"

"I think you mean variety. Big words don't always make you sound smart."

Chloe's eye twitched. "Shut up." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Let's just buy some more clothes and go home before I start wishing for an early grave."

"Okay, okay." Tootie chuckled—a little. Just a little.

She might actually be having fun.

By the end of it they must've bought a whole month's worth. Enough to fill two wardrobes, maybe two if she folded everything just right. Enough to suggest a long, well-documented history of dressing like this—like the past never happened.

"Are we… are we trying to trick people into thinking I've always dressed like this?" Tootie asked, voice quieter now.

Chloe didn't hesitate. "No. We're trying to make you think you've always dressed like this."

A pause. The weight of the statement settled in. A slow, creeping realization. Was this what reinvention felt like? A series of purchases, a handful of receipts, an armful of plastic bags cutting into her wrists? It felt so calculated. Like buying a personality off the rack. No, not even that—buying a memory, something that had never happened but might as well have.

She thought back to her old clothes. The real ones. Uniform, semi-formal. Always neat, always deliberate. Clothes that said, Look at me. Notice me. Please, I am right here.

Timmy had never noticed.

She straightened her jacket, felt the fabric settle around her. It was heavier than she expected.

"Okay… yeah…"

A pause. The new her and the old her, staring each other down in the cramped space of her mind, deciding which one would flinch first.

Then—

"Wait… where am I gonna put all these?" Tootie asked, the logistics finally catching up with her.

"In your closet." Chloe's answer was immediate, like she had already accounted for this potential weak point in the operation.

Tootie blinked. "Vicky is gonna ask questions. My mom's gonna ask questions."

"It's fine, I'm coming with you," Chloe said, already pre-empting every excuse. "We'll tell them about the competition and mention how you got these clothes."

"But—"

"Stop panicking." Chloe turned to her, sharp but not unkind. "Everything is gonna be fine."

She said it like a command. Like it wasn't even up for debate.

Tootie wanted to believe her. But "fine" had never come easy in that house.

And now, she was walking toward it with an entire wardrobe's worth of fine slung over her shoulder.

Each of them wheeled a suitcase behind them, the plastic wheels rattling over the polished tile of the mall floor. Designer handbags dangled from their arms, real ones mixed in with knockoffs so masterfully chosen even the trained eye might second-guess. They looked like heiresses fresh off a shopping spree—or teenage runaways with very expensive taste.

A few people noticed. Just enough. Strangers in the late-evening hustle, their glances lingering for a beat longer than necessary. A couple of them, gossipers, raised their flip phones, the tiny camera shutters snapping shut with a tinny, artificial click.

Exactly what Chloe wanted.

Tootie could already see it spreading. Like a whisper through the halls of Dimmsdale.

"Did you see her?"
"No way, that wasn't Tootie."
"Since when does she dress like that?"
"She was with Chloe."
"Wait— Chloe Carmichael?"

The shift had begun. Slowly, but inevitably.

Chloe, standing beside her, flipped open her pink Razr with mechanical efficiency, pressed a button, and held it to her ear. A well-practiced movement. Casual. Unbothered. Performed a thousand times before.

"My dad's picking us up," she said, barely looking up. "He'll drop you off at your house."

The deal was sealed. There was no going back now.

The drive wasn't long. Barely enough time for the streetlights to flicker by like lazy fireflies, or for Chloe to yawn mid-sentence before Tootie was unceremoniously dropped off in front of her house.

Chloe had wanted to go inside with her—strength in numbers, maybe—but her parents had summoned her elsewhere. And so, Tootie was left to face the night alone.

But she did not fret.

No, she strode toward the house like she had just walked off the pages of a glossy teen magazine. This was her moment. The newfound confidence that came with this new suit of armour held her together, braced her spine, lifted her chin. Stomach in. Chest out.

Fiducia

That is until she opened the door and saw her. That great lanky beast towering above her, it stood tall, standing there like some ancient, malevolent force. Arms crossed, expression unreadable—but undeniably dangerous.

Vicky.

Tootie's body betrayed her instantly. She could feel herself shrinking, confidence peeling away like cheap nail polish. Her smile evaporated. Palms slick. Heart a caged animal. 100 beats per—

Vicky arched a single, perfectly sculpted brow.

"New look, huh?" she said, slow and measured. The kind of tone that stripped meat from bones.

She scanned Tootie up and down—designer handbags, luxury watch, the crispness of newly purchased fabric.

"Where'd you get the money for all this stuff?"

Tootie's throat tightened.

"I—I… I won a… a… a comp-petition," she stammered, voice barely above a whisper.

Vicky's eyes narrowed.

The air in the room shifted.

This was not good.

Tootie felt her body lock up, the survival instinct kicking in—fight, flight, or fold like a cheap lawn chair.

She chose the latter.

"A competition?" Vicky echoed, and somehow, somehow, she made the word sound like an accusation.

Tootie nodded too quickly. "Y-yeah, the mall was having this, um… this giveaway thing? A raffle? And I—I won! Fifteen thousand dollars in, uh… fashion- I mean clothing vouchers."

A lie, but technically true.

Vicky took a slow, deliberate step forward.

"So what you bought all these clothes, you? Alone?" she said, voice drenched in skepticism.

"Yes." Tootie swallowed. The room felt smaller now. "I must've entered without realizing—"

"That so?" she said. "It's Funny. Because I don't remember hearing about any big mall competitions or giveaways. And I know everything that happens in this town."

Tootie swallowed. Her palms felt sweaty against the faux leather of her new bag strap.

"Not everything..." she mumbled, barely a whisper.

But Vicky heard it.

Her head tilted, like a predator catching the scent of something interesting. "What did you just say?"

Tootie stiffened.

"Nothing, I…"

A pause.

A long, excruciating, world-ending pause.

It stretched out between them, heavy, thick, unbearable. A silent war of nerves.

And then—

Vicky smirked.

Dangerous. Knowing.

Vicky took a step closer, closing the distance just enough to loom.

"You're acting real strange, squirt." She tapped a finger against Tootie glasses, mock-theatrical. "New look. New attitude. New money outta nowhere." A slow grin spread across her face, sharp as a knife. "Almost like you're hiding something."

Tootie felt her nails dig into her palm. She had to keep it together.

"I'm not hiding anything." She tried to keep her voice even, but there was a quiver at the edge of it.

Vicky leaned in, just enough to let the scent of strawberry bubblegum and vague malice settle in the air.

"Sure you aren't." she said. Then, without another word, she turned and walked away, humming something tuneless under her breath.

Tootie exhaled, long and slow, realizing she'd been holding it.

She barely noticed her hands were shaking.

She ascended the stairs alone, lugging the suitcase behind her like a chest of stolen gold. It rattled against each step, the weight of it dragging, pulling—proof that transformation was not without its burdens.

Once inside her room, she exhaled. Deeply. As if shaking off the last traces of someone else's skin. Then, she got to work.

The ritual began.

New clothes, carefully removed from the suitcase, were placed into the closet with reverence—fresh, unfamiliar fabrics with sharper silhouettes, richer colors. Clothes that spoke of a girl who belonged. Who was seen.

The old ones?

Those were to be concealed

The jacket, stretched thin from years of wear. The cartoon-print T-shirt, once beloved, now a liability. The flannel skirt that sagged in the wrong places, whispering of a time when blending into the walls was safer than being noticed.

These were folded, not with tenderness, but with finality.

Then, stuffed into the suitcase.

Sealed.

She wasn't going back to that Tootie.

The desperate, invisible girl. The girl who had spent years waiting for a moment that never came.

No.

That girl was being packed away.

Hidden.

Oubliée.

And then—something caught her eye.

A small, folded note, sitting at the edge of her desk like a message from the beyond. Something secret. Something meant only for her.

She picked it up, unfolding it with careful fingers.

These are contacts.
They're made for you. Trust!
Don't worry about where I got them.
—Chloe

Tootie blinked.

She glanced around, suddenly alert, scanning the room for any sign of how—when—this had gotten here. She didn't even remember seeing it when she walked in. And yet, next to the note, as if conjured by Chloe's cryptic handwriting, sat a small, sleek case.

She picked it up, turning it over in her hands.

Weightless. But somehow heavy.

She exhaled through her nose.

She'd try them on tomorrow.

For now, she just wanted to sleep

Chapter Text

March 2005

Tuesday

It was warm today.

Or maybe that was just the boots. Or the skirt. Or the jacket—one of the many layers of transformation, wrapping her up in something new. Something bold. Something almost suffocating.

Tootie stood beneath the morning sun, waiting for the day to begin.

And indeed, she'd gotten what she wanted. (Or rather, Chloe's plan was working.)

Attention.

The eyes of the school—not everyone, of course, but the ones who mattered—lingered on her. Glances stolen between yawns and half-eaten breakfast burritos. A ripple in the monotony. A momentary distraction from the slow decay of their GPAs and the assignments already overdue.

For a moment, Tootie was the most interesting thing in their world.

Objectification.
Obfuscation.
And then—idolization.

Side-eyes from the usual crowd, slack-jawed double takes from people who had ignored her existence yesterday. A whisper. A pointed finger. The heat of being perceived, spreading across her skin like a fever.

The great social machine of Dimmsdale High was grinding its gears, recalibrating. There had been an anomaly.

Tootie was no longer background noise.

Her fingers toyed with the strap of her bag, her heart drumming too fast, too loud.

She could hear them.

"Is that—?"
"No way."
"Since when does she dress like that?"
"Wasn't she obsessed with Turner like, yesterday?"
"Wait—Chloe Carmichael was with her, right?"

That last one sent a strange, electric thrill through her. Chloe. Yeah. The girl who set all of this in motion.

And speaking of…

"Oh my god."

The voice was familiar—blonde, but not the one she was expecting.

Tootie turned and found herself face to face with Veronica.

Dressed effortlessly, like she hadn't been dethroned from popularity but had instead decided to take a vacation from it.

"Tootie…is that you?" Veronica approached like a storm—heels clicking, presence looming.

"Ditched the glasses, huh?"

"Yeah…" Tootie said, feeling the weight of those sharp, blue eyes dissecting her.

"And looks like that's not the only thing you got rid of… What, no more hearts and sparkles?" Veronica tilted her head, feigning curiosity. "No more 'please love me, Timmy' energy? How are you even seeing without those goggles of yours? How many fingers am I holding up?"

Something flared in Tootie's chest. Shame? Defiance? Some horrible cocktail of both?

"What do you want, Veronica?" she asked, voice steadier than she expected.

Veronica's smirk widened, amused, hilariously entertained. "What do I want?" She let the words roll over her tongue like she was tasting them. "More like… what do you want? Dressed up like that?"

"Nothing." Tootie answered too fast. Too defensive.

Veronica's smirk deepened—slow, knowing. Like she'd heard it before. Like she'd said it before.

"Yeah," she mused, "sure."

She took a step back, giving Tootie a once-over, a silent assessment. Her expression was unreadable. Not mocking, not exactly. More like… recognition. Like she understood the mechanics of this process. The reinvention game. The power in playing pretend. And maybe—just maybe—she was impressed that Tootie had found her way to the table.

"I mean, the look's solid," Veronica admitted, circling her like a shark with nowhere better to be. "Little serious, but I guess that's your thing now, huh?"

Tootie felt her jaw tighten. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Veronica shrugged, casual, indifferent, all the things that made her untouchable. "Just saying. It's a statement."

She nodded toward a group of girls nearby—whispering, watching.

"And people are definitely reading it."

"Or maybe…" Veronica continued, tilting her head, "you ought to stop pretending to be something you're not."

Tootie scoffed. "Like you know anything about me."

"No, but—" Veronica smirked. "I know a mask when I see one."

She gestured toward Tootie's face, fingertips hovering near the edge of her cheek. "And this pretty porcelain one?" A pause. A slow, deliberate once-over. "It looks pretty fragile too me."

Tootie wanted to step back. Wanted to. But…

"You're one to talk, aren't you?" she shot back.

Veronica's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

Tootie folded her arms. "If anyone knew a thing or two about pretending to be something or someone… I'd guess it'd be you."

Veronica blinked. Then let out a low, mock laugh. "Cheeky." She nodded, amused. "You get some of that attitude from Vicky? She finally rubbed off on you?"

"At least I'm not a psychopath pretending to be Trix—"

BANG.

Veronica's fist slammed into the locker beside Tootie's head, cutting her off mid-sentence.

The hallway shuddered with the impact.

She's serious now.

The air shifted.

The whispers around them stopped.

Tootie's breath hitched.

Veronica leaned in, her expression no longer teasing, no longer amused. Serious now.

"You were saying?" she asked, voice dangerously low.

Tootie swallowed.

A flicker of regret twisted in her stomach, but she forced herself to hold her ground. No backing down now.

"I—"

"No, go on." Veronica's smirk was gone, replaced by something colder. "Say it. Finish your little sentence."

Silence.

Tootie clenched her jaw.

"At least I'm not a psychopath pretending to be Trixie," she said, quieter this time, but firm.

Veronica's gaze darkened.

Then—

She laughed.

Low, breathy, almost impressed.

"Wow." She stepped back, shaking her head. "you've got that one on real tight."

She turned on her heel, hands slipping into her pockets like nothing had happened.

"Just be careful." She glanced over her shoulder, her voice coated in something unreadable. "The thing about masks? If you wear them too long…"

A smirk.

"They stop coming off."

And with that, she walked away, leaving Tootie standing there, pulse roaring in her ears, the dented locker still trembling beside her.

"Sheesh, she's crazy, am I right?"

The voice came out of nowhere.

Tootie jumped, twice.

"Jesus, what the fu—" A pause. A breath. She turned. "Where were you?"

Chloe stood there, looking obnoxiously casual.

"I was just around the corner," she said plainly. Innocent. Simple.

Tootie's eye twitched. "And you didn't decide to step in and help me?"

Chloe shrugged.

"Also, where are your clothes from yesterday?" Tootie gestured vaguely at Chloe—who, unlike her, had shed all signs of reinvention, back to her usual wardrobe.

"Oh, I don't need them." Chloe waved a hand dismissively. "We're trying to get you a seat at the big boys and girls table, not me."

Tootie frowned. "But then why did you—"

"Uh-uh! Pup!" Chloe cut her off, raising a single, silencing finger. "Trust in the process."

Then she grinned, sharp and knowing.

"I see those contacts are treating you well."

Forget about the contact lenses

"Trust in the process?" she echoed, her voice flat. "I almost got curb-stomped against the ninth-grade math syllabus and that's your takeaway?"

Chloe only hummed, Interesting.

"She wasn't actually going to hit you," she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Veronica's too… performative for that. Plus people are watching - She only wanted to see if you'd flinch."

"And if I had?"

"Then we'd be having a very different conversation." Chloe leaned in, voice soft, amused. "But you didn't, did you?"

Tootie frowned. No, she hadn't. Even when her body screamed at her to step back, to shrink, to fold into the old version of herself and just survive—she didn't.

Maybe that was the real anomaly.

She exhaled, adjusting the strap of her bag. "Still, a little backup wouldn't have hurt."

Chloe smirked. "You think I'm just going to hold your hand through this whole thing?"

"Yes," Tootie deadpanned.

"Please…" Chloe rolled her eyes, then nudged her forward. "C'mon. Let's get to class before you have to win another duel of wits against an unhinged socialite."

Tootie sighed, falling in step beside her.

She could still feel the eyes on her. The weight of whispers, the calculations being made behind manicured nails and cheap lip gloss. She wasn't invisible anymore that's for sure.

Good grades and good looks—a timeless, unbeatable combination. And now, she believed possessed both.

An A sat crisp and proud at the top of her paper as the teacher passed back their assignments. Thank god it wasn't Crocker. It was a miracle they even survived fifth grade with him, a man who handed out F's like party favors to everyone except AJ.

For the most part, the class was doing well. Everyone… except Timothy.

B's and C's.

Tootie noticed. She had always noticed. But now—now was her chance. Maybe if she approached him, he'd take notice of her. Maybe he'd even accept her help, and they could—

"Hey."

A voice cut through her thoughts, smooth as silk, familiar yet unexpected.

She had braced herself for Chloe—but Chloe wasn't in this class.

This was someone else.

Town-dubbed Elizabeth herself.

"In simple robes, yet royal all in sight, / And seeming such, as nothing ever seems."

Trixie Tang.

Her voice lilted through the air, effortless, carrying that innate aristocratic poise—like she had been born in a place of soft golden light and imported fabrics. Those vixen-like eyes, enhanced by the delicate shadow of precision, stared plainly. Simply. And yet, they allured just the same.

Her outfit? A contradiction. The contradiction. Because she hadn't changed. Not in the way Chloe claimed reinvention was necessary.

Had Chloe been here, she'd probably counter with some Whitman, something long-winded and poetic, something about multitudes and contradictions and the great democratic self.

But she wasn't here.

It was just Tootie and Trixie.

"Tootie... you've changed," she said. Sweetly. Kindly. A voice so soft, it could lull an empire into surrender.

Tootie, to her own surprise, did not waver.

"I see you haven't much," she replied, sharp but measured. "At least, physically."

Trixie's lips curled into a knowing smile. Gentle. Pleased.

"I haven't, have I?" she mused, touching her own wrist, as if pondering it. Then, with a light shrug, "Guess I don't see the need to."

Of course she'd say that. The most obvious thing to say when the world already revolved around you.

Tootie fought back the urge to roll her eyes.

"Not much has changed in Dimmsdale, tbh," Trixie continued, almost lazily. "Kinda boring."

"And I interest you how?" Tootie asked, tilting her head.

"Cause of the get-up," Trixie replied, gesturing vaguely at Tootie's clothes. "Don't tell me you're doing this to get Turner to notice you? Cause That…" she frowned "That would be boring."

"No," Tootie snapped back, too quickly. Too defensive. "This is… this is for me. I'm tired of being… of being invisible."

Trixie hummed, considering. "Then maybe try doing something else besides ballet."

Tootie frowned. "Ballet is a sport." A brutal one. One that shatters kneecaps and turns toes into mangled ruins. But she bit back the argument, unwilling to spiral into a debate she didn't care to win. Instead, she redirected.

"I really don't care about Timmy." She said it as evenly as she could. "He never cared about me."

Trixie's eyes widened, just a little. A flicker of something—surprise? Amusement?

"Oh, really? 'Cause the way you were looking at him just now—"

"I didn't know you were in the habit of staring at losers like me," Tootie cut her off.

Trixie didn't miss a beat. "Hold on now," she said, just as quickly. "You're not a loser. You're climbing your way out, aren't you?"

"I… I am…"

"Cool." Trixie leaned back into her seat, voice smooth, detached. "But that Turner is such a loser though. Always wearing that same pink shirt with those horrible blue jeans… ugh, and that horrible pink cap."

Tootie exhaled. "It's really—"

"And he moves around like he's in some whacky cartoon or something. Jesus, he's so hyper. Of all the boys pining after me, he's gotta be the strangest."

A casual evisceration, delivered so lightly. So kindly. That's what made it worse. Everything Trixie said sounded kind. Sincere.

What kind of psychopathy was this? Was she pretending? Or did she genuinely mean it?

"Glad you don't care though, right?" Trixie continued, all sugar and silk. "Finally come to your senses."

"Yeah…" Tootie muttered, swallowing back the urge to defend him. To list his good qualities.

Then—an unexpected offer.

"Say, how about you join us at the mall?" Trixie leaned in, tilting her head. "Me, Veronica, a few others. Maybe Tad and Chad."

A test. A trap.

"And what will we be doing?" Tootie asked.

"Just chilling." Trixie shrugged. "Relaxing. Talking shit, y'know."

Oh.

So it was that kind of invite.

The we're-not-friends-but-for-the-sake-of-high-school-social-hierarchy-we-have-to-pretend-to-like-each-other group.

But wasn't this the plan? The whole game Chloe had set in motion?

Surely she'd approve… right?

Tootie hesitated. A beat too long. Long enough for Trixie's expression to sharpen—just slightly.

"You do want to come, right?" she asked, voice light, effortless, yet somehow pressing down on Tootie like a weight.

A yes would be submission. A no? Alienation.

Checkmate.

"I… sure," Tootie answered, keeping her tone even. "Why not?"

Trixie smiled. The kind of smile that meant nothing—or everything, depending on the angle you saw it from.

"Great," she said. "We'll be at the food court after school."

And just like that, she turned back in her seat, losing interest, like this had only been a minor detour in the grand course of her day.

Tootie exhaled slowly, staring at the back of Trixie's head.

What just happened?

The conversation replayed in her mind, the way Trixie's words had slid past her defences so easily. The way she'd led her into that answer. It was a manoeuvre. A dance.

Was this was why Trixie Tang was untouchable.

And now Tootie was in her orbit.

Wasn't that the point?

Wasn't this exactly what she wanted?

Then why did it feel like she'd just signed something without reading the fine print?

Lunch came faster than expected.

Faster than she was ready for.

But Chloe was waiting for her at a rather usual spot(no eyes and ears here like it had magically appeared out of nowhere), stabbing aggressively at her salad like it had personally wronged her.

"So?" Chloe said, barely looking up. "How'd it go?"

Tootie sighed, dropping her tray onto the table. "I got invited to the mall... by Trixie."

Chloe's eyes flicked up, sharp with interest. "To where?"

"The mall," Tootie muttered.

Chloe grinned. "Holy shit."

"It's not that big of a deal," Tootie muttered, but her fingers were already twisting around the hem of her skirt.

"No, no, this is huge," Chloe said, sitting up straighter. "You're in. You're actually going to get in."

Tootie chewed her lip. It didn't feel like she was in. It felt like she was being studied. Examined under some cruel microscope, waiting for a misstep.

And if what she indeed misstep?

She dared not to think about that.

Chloe must've noticed her hesitation because she set down her fork and leaned in. "Okay. You're freaking out. Don't freak out."

"I'm not freaking out," Tootie lied.

Chloe narrowed her eyes. "You're spiralling. I can see the spiral."

Tootie groaned, pressing her hands against her face. "I just—why did she invite me? In the span of a day?"

Chloe shrugged, all too casual, like this was the most natural thing in the world. "Because people are beginning to take notice of you. Trixie needs to keep potential threats close—so she can get rid of them more easily."

"The Commander stands for the virtues of wisdom, sincerity, benevolence, courage, and strictness." (The Art of War, Chapter 1)

Tootie squinted at her. "We're in high school, not the Eastern Zhou period…and I'm not even sure that quote applies."

"Tomato, tomahto." Chloe waved a dismissive hand.

Tootie let out a long breath. "I don't want to be Trixie's new chew toy."

"Or a her new recruit." Chloe smirked.

Tootie lowered her hands.

That…

That was a possibility, wasn't it?

Was this a test? A trial run? A chance to prove herself?

Did she want to prove herself?

She thought of Trixie's words, the subtle, razor-thin edge beneath them. The way Veronica had circled her like a predator earlier that morning.

What the hell was she getting into?

"Either way, you're going to the mall, and you're gonna need to use that voucher again," Chloe said, her tone casual, as if the weight of the world didn't rest on Tootie's shoulders.

"There's, like, $9,000 left," Tootie said, a bit of disbelief creeping into her voice.

"That should be enough to entertain a bunch of rich kids," Chloe replied.

"It's for clothing and accessories only, remember?" Tootie pointed out, trying to hold on to whatever semblance of control she had left.

"Oh yeah…" Chloe muttered, then paused. "Give me a sec…"

Chloe turned her wrist away, out of Tootie's sight. And then—boom.

Thunder. The air roared, whipped into a frenzy. Trees bent and howled as though they were about to uproot themselves and run away. Was that… a helicopter?

A woman in a pink business suit descended from the rotorcraft, the propellers' noise fading into the background as if it were merely the ringing of an ancient bell in a haunted cathedral.

"Congratulations, young lady," the woman said, her voice dripping with something like corporate cheer. Tootie barely had the breath to react.

"Your funds are now unrestricted for all purchases, Miss Tootie. But be sure to stay on budget. Now On behalf of the Dimmsdale Bank of the Super Wealthy, we thank you for your patronage."

And with that, she turned on her stiletto heel and marched right back to the helicopter.

Tootie watched, still stunned, as the rotor blades whirred to life again. Within moments, the machine lifted off, soaring back into the sky like some sort of divine financial emissary.

She turned to Chloe, who merely dusted off her hands, as if she had just completed a particularly delicate but ultimately trivial task.

"Problem solved."

Tootie blinked. Then blinked again.

"How did—wha—when…Huh?" she muttered, rubbing her temples, trying to make sense of a situation that had seemingly resolved itself without her involvement.

Chloe sighed, placing a hand over her heart as if about to impart great wisdom. "Once, in Hawaii, I was taken to see a Buddhist temple…" she began, voice solemn, ethereal.

Tootie squinted. "What are you talking about?"

But Chloe only smiled.

Later, as the school day came to an end, Tootie packed the last of her things and prepared to go to the mall. As usual—no. This was not usual.

This was her new reality.

A carefully woven, rapidly solidifying reality. One that would soon come under threat.

Because as she was leaving, the object of her affection—the one who had occupied her mind, her notebooks, her very being—suddenly and abruptly collided into her.

A light collision. Barely a nudge. But it sent her to the floor nonetheless.

Tootie looked up.

There.

Finally.

Perhaps fate had brought this about. Perhaps the gods had seen fit to reward her patience.

Timothy Tiberius Turner stood above her, looking down.

His eyes met hers, and—

"Sorry," he said, reaching out to help her up.

And that's when it began.

Deep in the recesses of her mind—no, her soul—a force awakened. A sudden, overwhelming inclination to act.

A wave of excitation, transmitted through tissues, nerve fibers, muscles—

Tootie's lips parted.

She was about to say his name, the way she always had. With all the sweetness, all the devotion, all the lovesick reverence she had nurtured—

But then.

Eyes.

She could feel them.

Even this late in the day, people were still watching.

Not far off, Chloe—silent, but deliberate—drew a cross in the air with her fingers.

And nearby, Trixie. Calm. Gentle. Not mocking. Not judging. But… expectant.

Tootie froze.

Cut the signal. Stop the transmission. Halt the impulse.

Her face, once prone to flickers of emotion, went blank.

A switch had been flipped.

Timmy, oblivious to the tectonic shift happening in real time, grinned. "Tootie, man, I'm glad to see you." He spoke fast, words tumbling out. "Nice outfit, by the way. Trying out a new style? Okay, look, I'm kinda in a bind right now and—"

"Stop."

The word came out crisp. Sharp.

Tootie had never cut him off before.

Timmy faltered, caught mid-sentence. His mouth hung slightly open like a cassette tape jammed in a player, the words stuck, unable to rewind or fast-forward.

"Uh… what?"

Tootie adjusted the strap of her bag, smoothing her skirt with slow, deliberate motions. Controlled. Measured. She could still feel Chloe's presence nearby, could still sense Trixie's gaze—not pressing, not forceful, just… waiting.

She exhaled through her nose.

"What do you want, Turner?" she asked, mimicking Vicky's sharp edge with just a hint of Francis. (What did happen to Francis, anyway?)

Timmy blinked. "I just need you to hold this wand thingy—it's not really a wand, it's—"

"I don't care." She sighed, cutting him off.

"I know, but I could really use—"

"I don't care what you need, twerp."

The last word fell out awkwardly. Forced. She was trying too hard to be cool. And in her mind, being cool usually meant being mean.

Timmy frowned. "Twerp?"

"Okayyy… uh, I don't know what's going on, but—"

"Of course you don't know." Tootie's voice sharpened, but her breathing stayed measured. Controlled. "You never know. Or care. You just show up—flustered, needing something—and you assume…" She paused, pressing her nails into her palm. "You assume I'll drop everything. Just for you."

Timmy squinted, his confusion unshaken. "Well… yeah. I mean, you're—"

"I'm what, Timmy?"

She could hear her own heartbeat now—drumming in her ears, hammering behind her ribs.

"You're kinda the only person I can count on in situations like this," he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Really?" The act almost slipped.

"Yeah…"

"Oh, Timmy, that's—"

"There's the Tootie I know and love."

Her breath caught.

"You l-l-lov—?"

The old lovesick girl started clawing her way to the surface.

No. Control yourself. Don't fall for his lies.

Invisible girl. That's what you were. That's what you are to him

That's who he really counted on. The girl who waited in the wings. The girl who was always there.

Timmy hesitated. His expression softened, his usual reckless confidence tapering into something almost uncertain. "Look, if this is about how I—"

"It's not."

It was.

But it wasn't.

Tootie's fingers curled at her sides.

She clenched her jaw. Shut her eyes for half a second—just long enough to strangle the instinct, to press it down like a spring coiling tighter, tighter.

Not this time.

Tootie exhaled through her nose again. Slowly, deliberately. When she opened her eyes, the lovesick haze was gone.

She tilted her head, studying him, watching the way he fidgeted—the slight furrow of his brow, the way he shifted from foot to foot.

He really didn't get it.

He never had.

Her fingers twitched at her sides. The weight of his words still sat in her chest, you're kinda the only person I can count on, twisting, pressing, morphing into something bitter.

And yet…

Didn't you want this?

The attention. The trust. The way he looked at you, like you were important?

But that was the trick, wasn't it?

To Timmy Turner, Tootie was never a person. Not really. Just a convenience. A reliable one. Like a vending machine that always had the right snack, or a shortcut on the way home. Something he could always count on being there.

Her fingers now curled into fists.

No. Not anymore.

"Too bad," she said flatly, adjusting the strap of her bag. "I'm busy."

There. That was better. The right kind of confidence. The kind that made people listen.

Timmy blinked, caught off guard. "Wha—busy with what?"

"Doesn't matter." She turned on her heel. "Figure it out yourself, Turner."

She left him standing there, stunned, holding that stupid wand thingy like an idiot.

Timmy finally sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright. I get it. You're busy. It's cool." His voice was light, casual. Like none of this mattered. Like it was all just another fleeting interaction in the endless sitcom of his life.

He gave a little wave. "See you later, I guess."

And then—he also turned, to walk away.

Just like that.

Tootie swallowed. The impulse to call after him, to chase, to fix things—it was still there, coiled inside her. A well-worn instinct.

But she didn't move.

She let him go.

Not far off, Trixie's gentle smile warped—just a little. She nodded her head, turned, and walked away.

A beat passed before Chloe materialized at her side, her grin smug enough to be a felony. "You did good."

Tootie exhaled. "That was awful."

Chloe patted her shoulder. "It should be. That's how you know it worked."

Tootie glanced toward where Timmy had disappeared. The absence of him felt strange. Wrong.

Chloe followed her gaze, then nudged her forward. "Come on. Let's get you out of here before you start second guessing yourself."

Tootie nodded slowly, letting herself be led away.

She was still getting used to this. To not being this.

She just walked.

Away from Timmy.

Away from herself.

Chapter Text

"We are not rich by what we possess, but by what we can do without."

And yet nowadays, apparently, one cannot do without status. (Immanuel Kant would probably tell her to shut up for that counterpoint.)

Status had young Tootie seated with a peer she'd never dream of being alone with.

Here she was, in a restaurant—inside a gym, which was inside the mall, which itself was—

Hold on. A thought crossed her mind.

There weren't that many people actually working out. Most of them were on their phones, pressing away at buttons with their thumbs, checking their inboxes and texting in T9 shorthand. Above them, mounted TVs played a mix of ads, unknown cable soap operas, and whatever was climbing the Billboard Top 100.

(Mariah Carey, probably.)

Why were they even in the gym?

Trixie had said the food court—and yet, Tootie had found her waiting here. For whom? For me? Unlikely. Was she bothering her? It didn't seem like it. Trixie still wore that same relaxed, ever-so-slight smile on her face. The kind that never revealed too much, a mask of practiced ease.

Tootie must've been staring too long. Trixie looked up from her phone. Tootie snapped her gaze away like a guilty child.

"The smoothies here are amazing, aren't they?" Trixie asked, swirling hers with casual grace, the straw making lazy circles in the slush.

"Uhm… yeah. They are."

Tootie blinked.

"Really?" Trixie raised an eyebrow. "'Cause you haven't even touched yours."

"Oh…" Tootie looked down at the drink in her hand, still full, the condensation beading against her fingers—cold, slick.

"I just, uhmm…" A slight pause. "Weren't we supposed to meet everyone else by the food court?"

"And we will," Trixie said, breezily. "But first, I just wanna chill here for a while."

"With me?" Tootie asked, skeptical.

"Yes, with you." Trixie replied, as if the answer was obvious. "I did invite you out in the first place, didn't I?"

"Yeah… you did."

Hand still stiff, still wrapped around the untouched smoothie.

Relax.

This is what Trixie wanted… right?

That's what this was.

Relax.

But how could she, when every part of her screamed that this was a trap?

It had to be.

The gym-restaurant hybrid—who thought of this?—buzzed faintly with the hum of treadmills, the distant clang of weights, and the murmur of people watching but not really watching the TVs.

Trixie, meanwhile, was perfectly at ease, sipping her drink, absentmindedly scrolling through her phone. It was expensive, obviously—something sleek and metallic, no stickers, no scratches, like it had never known the inside of a cheap department store. A phone that had never been dropped on linoleum, never been lost under a couch cushion for days, never been used as a bargaining chip between siblings. A phone that belonged to someone else entirely.

"You sure put Turner in his place earlier," Trixie said, still typing, eyes on her phone, tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather.

Tootie blinked. "You saw that?"

"Everyone did."

Trixie turned her phone towards her. On the screen was an image—Tootie, standing in front of Timmy, looking like the anger had been sewn into her clothes. Stiff posture, wrath, and an expression so tight you'd think it was more restraint than rage.

Tootie swallowed. She hadn't realized how different she looked.

The glasses—gone. The twin tails—gone. Instead, her hair was loose, natural, held back just enough to frame her face.

A soft, layered cut, simple, clean—dark jeans that actually fit, along with a fitted zip-up hoodie over a sleeveless top, a hint of silver at her wrist. A look that wasn't trying too hard but was effortlessly… favourable. Pretty, even.

All that remained of the past were the braces. A last remnant of a girl she barely recognized.

Trixie laughed, pulling her phone back. "What a loser. I bet he couldn't believe it. Old Tootie—Timmy's lovesick puppy—gone."

Something about the way she said that rubbed her the wrong way. Was she insulting him or her?

"Yeah…" Tootie muttered, playing along. "The… the loser."

The word felt foreign. Wrong. Like taking a swing at a version of herself that still lingered in the air, watching, waiting, wondering—are you really saying that?

Trixie smirked and went back to scrolling. "Pining is not a good look on anyone anyway."

Tootie gripped her smoothie, fingers pressing into the condensation.

Yeah… good for me.

Trixie flicked through her phone, the blue light reflecting in her eyes as she idly sipped her smoothie. She looked so comfortable here, like this was just another Tuesday, like she hadn't just detonated a social bomb in Tootie's life and walked away without so much as a scratch.

Tootie, meanwhile, was still adjusting to the fallout.

She tried taking a sip of her smoothie—half-melted, lukewarm now—but it just felt like swallowing something artificial, syrupy, wrong. She set it back down.

"You ever wonder why people do that?" Trixie asked, not looking up.

Tootie furrowed her brow. "Do what?"

"Stick to the same routine. The same roles. The same… patterns."

Trixie just glanced up, giving Tootie a look that was hard to decipher. Not mocking. Not pitying. Just… knowing.

"You don't seem like the kind of person who wants to do that anymore."

Tootie hesitated. She wanted to argue. To insist that nothing had really changed, that she was still the same person at her core. But wasn't all true, not anymore at least.

Hadn't she just spat in the face of everything she used to be?

Trixie smiled, like she could see the wheels turning in her head.

"Don't overthink it," she said, "People like you more when you don't."

That irked her.

"So is that what you do?"

Trixie just smirked, stirring the last of her smoothie with her straw. "I don't know. What do you think?"

"I think…" Tootie paused to look at her—really look at her. Was there something more beneath the surface of Trixie Tang?

A conniving vixen who played the social game like a chess master—always three steps ahead, always knowing exactly when to smile, when to strike, when to retreat.

Or was she just another victim of circumstance (in her own way)? A pretty face, lifted and elevated by that old human need for idolatry (especially in a town this small and this suffocating).

Or maybe—anticlimactically—she really was just a spoiled rich girl. No secret depths, no master plan. No tragic backstory waiting to be unearthed.

Tootie had built her up in her mind as a villain once. A queen of ice and cruelty. But the longer she sat here, the more uncertain that role became.

Trixie met her gaze, unbothered. Almost mockingly so. She held herself like a model, a goddess—effortless and untouchable. Her posture, perfect. Her expression, unreadable. It was as if she were saying: I know you're looking. So enjoy the show. Because you'll never figure me out.

For at the end of the day, Tootie wasn't Trixie Tang. She was Tootie—or at least, whatever this new version of Tootie was supposed to be.

And the longer she sat in this moment, the more she wondered—

Was Trixie ever the same?

"I think that—"

But before Tootie could finish—

"Boo!"

She jumped, letting out an undignified, "Eek!" as Veronica materialized beside her, grinning like the devil himself.

Trixie chuckled, sipping her smoothie once more. Veronica outright laughed. "You sound like a mouse."

"Veronica." Trixie acknowledged her with the mild disinterest of a queen granting an audience.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I interrupting your date?" Veronica teased, her grin widening.

"Yes, actually," Trixie said flatly. "We were talking about how some people change… and how some don't."

Veronica arched a brow. "And you really believe Urkel over here has changed?"

"Urkel!?" Tootie bristled.

"If the shoe fits." Veronica sang, grinning.

"You'd know, considering you change personas like a broken traffic light."

Veronica gasped, placing a dramatic hand over her heart. "So cheeky. You're like a mini Vicky."

"Mini Vicky? Wow." Tootie crossed her arms. "And what does that make you? Dollar-store Trixie?"

"You little—"

"Girls, stop it, you're both pretty," Trixie groaned, rolling her eyes.

Veronica scoffed but smirked all the same. Tootie felt her heartbeat slow just a little—she wasn't completely out of her depth yet.

"Anyway," Trixie continued, "we were supposed to meet at the food court. Why are you here?"

Veronica waved a hand dismissively. "Change of plans. Chad's out. It's just Tad now, and he'd rather we hang at his place."

Trixie grimaced.

"Not feeling it?" Veronica asked.

Trixie shook her head, grimace melting into quiet disapproval.

Veronica sighed and whipped out her phone—pretty, pink, and flipping horizontally because why not? "I'll text him so."

"I guess that's that," Tootie muttered.

But wait.

This was her chance. Any other opportunity would come after days of labor and toil—climbing the social ladder, carefully curating her every move, waiting, waiting, waiting.

But here? Now? She could meet with him, get to know him—really know him, in his own space.

If Chloe were here, she'd probably quote Alexis Carrel or some other philosopher no one actually reads.

"Why don't we go?" Tootie asked.

Trixie looked at her, unimpressed. "Why do you wanna go?"

"We're just gonna sit there and watch him play video games…" Veronica groaned,"Ew. Lame."

"Yeah, lame…" Trixie echoed, but there was something off about the way she said it. Not complete disinterest, not exactly. Something quieter. A dismissiveness with melancholy clinging to its edges. Tootie couldn't quite name it, but she felt it.

"I'd much rather window shop." Veronica flicked her hair back, already mentally moving on.

Damn.

How was she supposed to convince these two that going to Tad's was important? The prospect of just sitting there while a guy played video games on his own wasn't fun for anyone, not even her.

This would need incentive. More than just maybe we'll get a turn too.

"Well—"

Tootie stalled. She needed something good. Something that would make them actually want to go. But what? Tad wasn't exactly prime entertainment. Unless he were paying for something.

"Ugh, please tell me you're not into him," Veronica said, looking at her like she just confessed to licking subway poles. "but then again, pining is your main thing, from Timmy to Tad, how obvious."

"No," Tootie shot back, too fast. Too defensive. Veronica smirked.

"Oh my God, she is into him," Veronica teased, elbowing Trixie. "Little Miss Urkel's got another crush."

Trixie, for her part, just sipped her smoothie. "Tad's a bore," she said, unconcerned. "And he smells like overpriced cologne."

"I don't like him," Tootie insisted. "I just…" She searched for a reason—something compelling, something tactical. "I just think… he might have something to drink... if you catch my drift."

That got their attention.

Veronica raised an eyebrow. "You mean booze?"

Tootie shrugged, leaning into the mystery. Let them think what they wanted—suspicion was a better look than desperation.

Veronica paused, considering. Trixie, meanwhile, didn't look entirely convinced.

"Hm." Trixie tapped a manicured nail against her cup, expression unreadable. "You don't look like you drink, Tootie… hell, I don't even drink."

Uh-oh.

"Well, I do," Tootie said, injecting as much bravado into her voice as she could muster. A slight shrug, a casual sip of her smoothie—savior faire, the kind that made you seem just damaged enough to be interesting.

"Really?" Veronica mused, skeptical amusement playing at the corners of her lips. "What then?"

Shit. Shit.

She didn't drink. Not even a sip. But there was no backing out now. She had to come up with something believable—something pitiful enough to pass off.

"I take some of Vicky's red wine," she said, voice hushed like a confession. "To help me deal with… stuff."

Trixie arched an eyebrow. "Stuff?"

"Like?" Veronica pressed.

Was there no end to their interrogation? Opening up to these two felt like laying your hand down in a pit of poisonous snakes. The end result would be slow, tragic, and inevitable.

At what point would this lie catch up with her? She did not know.

But she needed to make something up—now.

Her eyes darting between Trixie's skeptical gaze and Veronica's barely contained amusement.

"Like… life," Tootie finally said, throwing in a dramatic sigh for effect.

Veronica snorted. "Life?"

"Yes, life," Tootie doubled down, narrowing her eyes like some tragic poet. "You know… stress, expectations, the grind, all that stuff."

She omitted the bullying from you

Trixie blinked, clearly not buying it. Veronica, on the other hand, seemed intrigued.

"Damn," Veronica said, crossing her arms. "how very deep."

"It's not deep," Tootie huffed, "it's just… look, sometimes you just need something to take the edge off, okay?"

Trixie tilted her head. "So you steal from Vicky?"

Yes.

"Yeah," Tootie said, trying to sound nonchalant, like that was totally a thing she did on the regular. "I mean, it's not like she notices. She keeps, like, a whole stash."

"Oh?" Veronica perked up. "So if Tad's dry, you can hook us up?"

Crap.

"Well, you know, maybe—"

"Perfect," Veronica grinned, slinging an arm around her. "I think I misjudged you. You might actually be fun."

Tootie swallowed.

She had not thought this through.

Trixie exhaled through her nose. "Fine. Whatever. But If it sucks, I'm leaving."

Tootie nodded. She had won.

For now.

Tad's house was less of a house and more of a statement. Gated driveway. Marble pillars. A fountain in the front yard that probably cost more than her entire home.

The kind of place that screamed, We have money and we want you to know it.

Tootie had never been here before, but she had imagined it often enough. Back in elementary school, when she daydreamed about what it must be like to be in their world, part of their elite little club.

Now she was stepping through the doors, and—

Yeah. It was ridiculous.

A chandelier the size of a small car. A living room with a TV so big it could probably be classified as a wall. The kind of wealth that didn't even feel real.

"You guys actually pulled through?" Tad drawled, leading them in with the ease of someone who'd never had to lead anything in his life.

"Tootie convinced us," Veronica said, kicking off her shoes like she already owned the place. "Said she needed something to take the edge off."

"You guys don't drink," Tad pointed out, half-bored, half-curious.

"She does," Trixie replied, ever the enigma.

Tad's gaze flicked over to Tootie. "Really?"

"Yeah." Tootie replied, so casually it almost convinced her.

"Well then…" Tad grinned, actually amused. "Make yourselves at home."

He lazily sprawled across a massive sectional couch, limbs flung out like a bored king surveying his domain. The art of not giving a shit—practiced, perfected.

Veronica flopped down beside him, already making herself comfortable, like a cat in the sun.

Tootie, meanwhile, stood stiffly by the couch, unsure of where to sit—let alone how to sit. She wasn't part of the furniture yet. Was she supposed to drape herself across the cushions like she belonged? Lean in like this was a usual hangout?

Trixie, sensing this, patted the spot next to her. "Sit."

And so she did. Tootie sat.

"Good doggy," Veronica teased, smirking.

Tootie's jaw tightened. She almost stood up again. Their eyes met in a silent battle—hers sharp, Veronica's smug.

Not funny.

Veronica's expression responded telepathically: Yes it was.

But nonetheless, she had made it. She was here. Sitting among them.

So why did she still feel like an intruder?

"I'm gonna boot up my PS2 if you don't mind," Tad announced, stretching.

"See?" Veronica gestured, smug. "So obvious."

"You're the ones who came over," Tad shot back, utterly unbothered.

"Well, I'm not gonna sit here and watch you play Devil's Cry or whatever—" Veronica began but was immediately cut off.

"It's Devil May Cry 3," Tad corrected, his tone dripping with the exhausted patience of a man who had suffered so much ignorance in his life. "And I'm not playing that today. I'm feeling like Resident Evil 4."

"Why not Burnout? "Tootie suggested. "That way, we can take turns playing,"

Tad almost scowled. Almost. Instead, he gave her a look so flat, so utterly devoid of faith, it could have been framed as modern art.

'Really? Seriously' his expression said before his mouth followed up with, "You guys wouldn't really know how to play."

It wasn't even an insult. It was a fact, in his mind. Immutable. Eternal. A fundamental truth of the universe, like gravity or the eventual heat death of the sun.

"Plus," he continued, in that slow, patronizing way people talk to children or particularly dense golden retrievers, "You'd ask questions. I'd have to explain everything to you. And—"

"Even if we don't play often, we can still kick your ass," Trixie interjected.

Tad gave her a look that screamed DOUBT. but Tootie lingered on a word she'd heard from Trixie– often - Could it have been a mistake?

"Yes," she reaffirmed, unshaken.

"Let's make it interesting…" Veronica leaned in, the embodiment of chaos itself. "If we lose a round, a lap or whatever… Tootie here takes a drink."

"What?" Tootie balked, eyes wide.

"You heard me," Veronica said, eyes glinting.

"And if I lose, I must also take a drink, I guess," Tad added, as if only just realizing the stakes of Veronica's game.

"Correct." Veronica grinned, enjoying this far too much.

Tad shrugged. "Fine."

He stood up, sauntering over to the bar—because of course, there was a bar. In his house. A personal altar to excess, lined with bottles that cost more than some people's rent. He barely glanced as he reached for it, the casual ease of someone who had never had to ask permission for anything in his life.

As he passed Tootie, he tapped her lightly on the shoulder, a touch so dismissive it might as well have been a formality.

"So, what do you drink?"

Tootie froze.

Her throat dried up like someone had stuffed it with cotton. Her carefully constructed lie—so flimsy, so pitiful in hindsight—suddenly felt less like a clever escape and more like a noose, tightening around her neck.

"R-Re-Red wine?" she stammered, barely managing to get the words out.

Tad stopped, turned to look at her, and let out a sharp, amused snort.

"Red wine? What are you, my grandma?"

He said it with the incredulous disdain of a man who had just been served prune juice at a rave.

Veronica and Trixie both smirked. Tad just raised an eyebrow at them.

Tootie's face burned. "It's refined."

"It's lame."

"You're lame."

"That's not a comeback," Tad deadpanned, already going through his dad's bar with sleek and ease. Clearly this wasn't his first time. He emerged victorious with a bottle of something dark and glassy.

"Well, this is what we've got," he said, inspecting the label. "Dad's stash. Some fancy shit." He popped the cork with casual expertise, which was honestly a little concerning. "And since I am a generous host, Tootie, you get the first pour."

Tootie stared at the glass as he poured—deep, velvety red, looking far too ominous under the living room lights. It smelled like old wood and regret.

She swallowed hard. The game hadn't even started, and she was already spiralling toward disaster.

"You nervous?" Veronica taunted.

"No," she lied.

"Good. Then let's get started." Tad smirked and turned on the PS2. The familiar chime of the system booting up filled the air, nostalgic and almost holy in its own way.

Tootie clenched her hands into fists.

This was fine. This was totally fine.

How bad could it be?

Chapter Text

"First game… is Trixie's," Tad announced, leaning back against the couch like a king on his throne. "Then Veronica, and then finally you, Toots..." He paused for a spell, as if deliberating, before adding with a smirk, "Tootsie." He chuckled to himself, clearly pleased with his own joke.

Tootie's expression deadened. "That's not funny."

Tad shrugged, entirely unbothered. "Suit yourself."

The controller was already in Trixie's hands. She turned it over, inspecting it like a foreign object, something she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to hold. Still, her nails clicked against the plastic as she settled into her grip, the blue glow of the TV screen casting a sharp contrast against her immaculate skin.

"Okay, so what do I do?" she asked, as if the entire concept of video games was beneath her but she'd humour it for now.

Tad rolled his eyes. "Try not to crash."

"Gee, thanks," Trixie muttered, gripping the controller with casual disinterest.

Veronica leaned back, already half-distracted, her gaze flitting between her phone and the screen. "Just lose so Tootsie here can get drunk."

"Hey!" Tootie snapped, but was ignored.

"I don't lose at anything," Trixie said, completely sure of herself.

"We'll see," Tad replied, smirking.

The game booted up with a calm jingle—a flash of logos, a sterile prompt. Tad navigated to the multiplayer mode, the controller clicks sharp in the hush of the room.

Trixie squinted at the screen, her expression unreadable. Trying to process the controls, the mechanics, the logic of the game. Then the race began—

Her car shot forward—immediately veering into a wall.

"Wow," Tad deadpanned. "Elite gameplay."

"Shut up," Trixie grumbled, wrestling the car back onto the track.

Meanwhile, Veronica was barely watching, thumb idly scrolling her phone, clearly already bored. Tootie, on the other hand, was panicking. If Trixie lost this early, she might actually have to drink—she had no idea what her alcohol tolerance was. Could she actually fake drinking? What if they caught her? What if she got sloppy? What if—

"You better not ask me for help," Tad said, watching her struggle.

"I won't," Trixie replied, and just as they hit the second lap—she swerved. Not her own car. Tad's. She crashed into him. Deliberately.

"Okay." His tone was neutral, but he sat up a little straighter.

And then, just like that—she was catching up. No, more than catching up. She was winning. With ease. As if she'd done this before.

"Woah, woah, okay." Tad leaned forward, suddenly serious.

But it was no use. No matter how hard he mashed the buttons—no matter how violently he twisted the controller in his hands like a steering wheel, as if sheer physical force could will his car into going faster—Trixie was still ahead. Smooth. Effortless. A predator in the shape of a debutante.

And then, in the blink of an eye—

Game Over.

Trixie won.

"What?" he said, blinking at the screen. "How?"

Trixie just smiled, setting the controller down like it had never even been a challenge. "Told you… I don't lose at anything."

"But you don't even play video games," Tad accused.

Trixie shrugged.

Tad stared at her like a man who just realized he'd been hustled.

"No way. I call bullshit," he said, still processing the humiliation. "You had to have played before. Somewhere somehow I don't know."

Trixie barely spared him a glance. "Maybe." She took a leisurely sip of her drink, exuding the air of someone who had already forgotten his existence.

"Or maybe," Veronica interjected, her voice thick with faux sympathy, "she's just better than you at, like... everything."

Tad scoffed, but the flicker of irritation in his eyes betrayed him. He wasn't laughing.

"Alright then, smart-ass," he snapped, turning his attention away from Trixie and onto his next victim. "It's your turn."

Veronica yawned. "I forfeit."

Tootie's head snapped toward her. "What?"

Veronica stretched her arms above her head, bored already. "Not in the mood. So... Tootsie drinks."

"Tootie," Tootie corrected through gritted teeth. "And that's not fair."

"Don't care." Veronica was already scrolling through her phone again, unbothered, detached. "Drink."

"But—"

"No," Tad cut in, already irritated. He grabbed the controller and chucked it onto Veronica's lap.

She yelped, shielding her phone like it was an infant. "You could've hit me, jerk!"

"Either we all play, or no one does," Tad said, crossing his arms. "Your turn. Pick your car and play."

"Ugh…" Veronica rolled her eyes, tossing her phone onto the couch beside her. "Fine. But if I do play and I do lose, Tootie drinks twice over."

"WHAT?" Tootie exhaled, and they all turned to look at her – as if they were saying: shouldn't you be excited to take a hit of your favourite coping mechanism?

"I'm just a stickler for the rules." She said, sitting down.

"Sure…" Tad said.

Tootie's stomach dropped. This was a set-up.

Veronica smiled. She was going to throw this game.

And throw it she did—spectacularly, almost theatrically. Her car inched forward at the pace of a snail on sedatives, barely responding to the controller in her hands. She made no attempt to dodge obstacles, took turns like a toddler discovering steering for the first time, and even reversed at one point for absolutely no reason.

Tad didn't even have to try. It was a shallow, meaningless victory, and he knew it. But his focus wasn't on Veronica—no, he was still gunning for Trixie.

"Oh well, I lost," Veronica said, stretching like a cat. "Now. drink."

Tootie gulped. The wine glass might as well have contained blood. What the hell had she gotten herself into?

Trixie was watching her, examining her. Veronica was waiting to pounce. Tad… Tad didn't seem to care. He was probably wanted to continue with the game.

This was it. No hesitation. She had to drink.

So she picked up the glass with as much effortless grace as she could manage, owning it. Like the women in those old noir films. Be Tootsie!, she thought. Just do it like the ladies in those smoky lounges, one hand on the glass, the other on some guy's secrets.

Veronica lifted her phone, ready to capture the moment—

"Not cool." Tad said, voice sharp. "That could get her in trouble,"

Veronica scoffed. "Since when do you care?"

"Since now." Tad didn't even look at her. "Put it down, V."

She groaned dramatically but lowered her phone anyway, muttering something about buzzkills and no fun.

Tootie exhaled. Just as she brought the glass to her lips, her phone chimed.

A text.

She glanced at the screen. Chloe.

"One should always be drunk. That's all that matters... But on what? Wine, poetry, or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk." — Charles Baudelaire

Tootie nearly choked.

What!?

What was Chloe on about now?

Wouldn't William Blake have been the better choice for this situation? Or maybe Marcus Aurelius?

More importantly—how did she even know? How did she know that Tootie had gone from the mall to Tad's residence? Was she watching this somehow? Is she always watching?

Her phone chimed again.

"Just drink, girl. Trust…"

Tootie stared at the screen, then at the wine. Then back at the screen.

"…Okay," she murmured, and lifted the glass.

It felt heavier than it should. The deep red liquid swirled slightly as she lifted it, catching the dim, golden glow of Tad's chandelier. It smelled… strong. Not like the sweet, fruity kind she imagined people drank at fancy parties. No, this was something sharp, dry—something that sat in the back of your throat and lingered.

Trixie watched her like a scientist observing a lab rat. Veronica leaned forward, grinning, her phone still tucked away but her attention razor-sharp. Tad… well, he'd already lost interest, fiddling with the game controller, waiting for the next round.

You can do this, you can do this…

She tilted the glass and took a sip.

Burning.

Oh god!

She forced herself to swallow, resisting the urge to cough. It was bitter. Dry. Not at all how she imagined wine tasting. This was nothing like sneaking a sip of soda or juice—this bit back.

She set the glass down carefully, trying not to make a face.

OR

That's what should have happened.

Somewhere in Dimmsdale a blonde haired girl spoke and in doing so, doomed the moment to an ancient nefarious force – MAGIC!

Cosmo and Wanda exchanged a glance—an unspoken understanding between two beings who had shaped the whims of countless children across countless realities. With a chilling synchronization, they raised their wands.

The air hummed. No—not hummed. It recoiled. The wands, though appearing as innocent star-tipped playthings, shifted—their geometry writhing as if resisting observation. One moment they were rods of grey and gold, the next, they were not rods at all, but lengths of pure, undulating possibility.

Chloe's stomach lurched. Her eyes refused to focus on the wands, for every time she did, they seemed longer than the universe, yet small enough to fit in her fishbowl at the same time. The tips glowed—not light, not color, but something deeper, something primal.

Then, they spoke.

Not words. But a sound. A noise that did not belong in this reality—an incantation older than Dimmsdale, older than language, older than the concept of cause and effect itself. It scraped against the walls of Chloe's brain like a cosmic fingernail on the chalkboard of her soul.

And then—

POOF.

The world inverted, blinked, and snapped back into place as if nothing had happened.

"There ya go!" Cosmo said.

"Wish granted." Wanda added

Chloe panted, clutching his chest. "W-what the heck was that?!"

Wanda dusted off her hands – or rather fins? "That's just how magic works, sweetie."

"I felt my own birth happening backwards."

Cosmo nodded enthusiastically. "Yup! Happens sometimes!"

Behind them, Chloe's shadow—longer than it should have been, moved a little when she did not—let out a quiet, muffled giggle.

POOF!

The glass felt heavier than it should. The deep red liquid swirled slightly as she lifted it, catching the dim, golden glow of Tad's—

"Woah…" Tootie murmured, pausing mid-motion.

"What?" Tad asked, frowning. "Something wrong with it?"

"No, it's just…" She stared at her reflection in the red (wine?). A sense of familiarity, wrongness, clung to the moment like a damp cloth. "Déjà vu."

"Tais-toi et bois," Veronica commanded, with the air of someone who had spent too much time doing French lessons.

Tootie rolled her eyes.

She tilted the glass and took a sip.

…Sweet. Unexpectedly so. A little bitter, sure, but—mostly sweet.

She stared at the glass, swirled it lightly, watching how the liquid moved. Another sip. And another. And then an—

"Okay, calm down." Tad's voice cut in. "Those were your two sips."

"Oh wow, you really are an alcoholic," Veronica said, sounding genuinely shocked.

Even Trixie looked at her strangely, somewhere between impressed and concerned.

Tad shoved a controller into her hands. "Alright, your turn, Tootsie."

"Tootie," she corrected again, tightening her grip on the controller. Her fingers rested on the buttons like a pianist about to perform.

"Don't throw the match just so you can drink," Tad warned. There might have been concern in his voice—just a flicker—but Tootie couldn't be sure. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was nothing.

"I won't…" she murmured. And then—

The game began.

Tad hit the gas hard—too hard. The plastic DualShock controller practically screaming.

His car lurched forward like a startled deer, swerving wildly before he got it under control. Meanwhile, Tootie—calm, collected—glided off the starting line with the effortless grace of someone who had nothing to prove.

Tad gritted his teeth. Alright. Focus.

Video game city streets blurred past in streaks of yellow and red, neon signs reflecting off rain-slick asphalt. Cars clogged the lanes ahead. Traffic. A problem for the weak. Tad swerved, weaving between vehicles with reckless confidence, his car barely squeezing past a delivery truck.

Tootie, on the other hand? She didn't swerve. She threaded through, timing her movements with surgical precision. No panic. No hesitation. It was like she could see the future.

"What the heck!"

Tad cursed under his breath. He could hear the hum of her engine getting further away.

She was pulling ahead.

He mashed the accelerator harder—too hard. A turn came up, sharp and deadly. He tried to drift. He did not drift. Instead, his car slammed into the guardrail at full force.

CRASH!

The impact sent his car into a violent spin before flipping onto its roof. Slow-motion, rubbing salt into the wound as the word WRECKED flashed in big, bold letters.

Tad let out a strangled noise. "COME ON!"

Meanwhile, Tootie sailed through the turn like she was born on these roads. Clean drift. No hesitation. She didn't even gloat.

She didn't have to.

Tad respawned, now miles behind. No problem. He could still make a comeback. He just needed a miracle.

But the game didn't deal in miracles.

It dealt in punishment.

He went for a Boost Chain—dangerous, but necessary. He pushed his car beyond its limits, threading the needle between two incoming trucks. His speedometer screamed. This is it. This is how legends are made.

Then he clipped the edge of a taxi.

WRECKED.

His controller creaked under his grip. "That's bs!"

Meanwhile, Tootie was already on the final lap.

Tad respawned again. No problem. He could still—

CRASH.

WRECKED.

He barely touched that car! This game was rigged!

Tootie, unbothered, crossed the finish line with a clean 1st Place.

Tad?

Dead last.

The screen lit up. GAME OVER.

Tootie set her controller down, stretching.

Tad stared at the screen, slack-jawed, as if it had personally insulted his ancestors. He turned to her. "What the hell was that?"

Tootie smirked. "Skill."

Veronica rolled her eyes, She exhaled sharply, the universal sign of ugh, effort.

"Nerd." The word fell from her lips like an afterthought, a reflex, as if acknowledging competence in any form was against her personal philosophy.

Tootie only shrugged. She didn't need Veronica's validation. Victory was validation enough.

"Skill!" he bellowed, the primal wail of a man who had never lost before. Or rather—had never been allowed to lose.

The silence stretched. Trixie yawned and Veronica's eyes darted between him and Tootie like she was watching some kind of live experiment in class struggle.

Tootie, meanwhile, just… shrugged again. "It's just a game dude, It's not that deep."

Not that deep?

Not. That. Deep?

Tad's entire worldview cracked at the edges. His hands twitched around his controller, gripping it like a lifeline. "You—you hustled me," he finally stammered.

Tootie gave him a look. "How do you hustle someone in Burnout?"

"By pretending to be bad! And then—then you strike!" Tad jabbed an accusatory finger at her and Trixie. "You sandbagged me! Both of you!"

"Trixie was bad at first," Tootie said, stirring her supposed 'wine' glass lazily. "Remember? She drove straight into a wall for like, ten seconds."

"It was strategy!" Tad cried, looking around the room for support. He found none. Veronica…veronica didn't care, she was still on her phone.

Tad slumped back against the couch, staring at the ceiling like some tragic war hero. "I've never lost before," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "Not once."

"Damn," Tootie said. "Sounds lonely."

The room shifted at that. The golden glow of the chandelier cast long, stretching shadows, distorting reflections in her wine glass. Sounds lonely.

"You can say that again," Trixie whispered.

A silence settled, not quite awkward, but heavy in a way none of them wanted to acknowledge. The only sound was the faint hum of the TV, the game idling on the menu screen.

Tootie, ever the disruptor, broke it. "I don't wanna be that person, but… aren't you supposed to drink? Since you uhhh, lost to me and Trixie?" She swirled the liquid in her glass, watching the way it clung to the sides. "I mean, I drank…"

"No way! My parents would kill me," Tad said, recoiling like she'd suggested he commit tax fraud. "I didn't think you'd actually do it."

"Me neither to be honest," Trixie admitted, her eyes narrowing in an almost clinical fashion.

"Really?" Tootie asked, eyebrow raised.

"Yes," Veronica cut in, utterly deadpan. "We're not all messed up like you."

Tootie didn't bite. Didn't even look at her. Just took another slow sip, letting the comment sit there, ignored and meaningless.

Honestly, it tasted more like a weird blend of tea and grape juice than anything. The whole thing felt like one elaborate joke she hadn't fully grasped yet.

"Actually, I'm putting all this stuff back," Tad announced, standing up and grabbing the wine bottle, along with her glass.

Tootie lingered after it, eyes trailing the deep red liquid as it left her sight. "Just one more sip," she murmured.

Tad gave her a look. Not just any look—thé look. The one rich kids learn by the age of twelve, and perfect by the age of sixteen.

A mix of Are you serious? and I don't know what's wrong with you, but it's not my problem.

"No," he said, already walking away.

Tootie let out a small huff, leaning back against the couch. "Fine. Whatever."

Veronica stretched, making an exaggerated sound of boredom. "Well, You got your fix, are we done now?"

"You didn't even try to play," Tootie retorted.

"Does it matter? We came here to watch you get drunk anyway?" Veronica drawled, boredom practically oozing from her posture. "That was a bust."

Tootie, ever the picture of maturity, stuck her tongue out at her. Veronica, without missing a beat, flashed her a middle finger—smiling as she did, like it was a casual greeting.

Tad returned with a groan, dragging a hand down his face. He was used to winning. He was used to having control. The fact that Tootie, of all people, had been the one to disrupt that? Unacceptable.

"I think we should play another round," he said, crossing his arms. "Rematch. No sandbagging."

"Don't feel like it." Trixie said, lazily inspecting her nails. "Plus insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results."

Tad scowled.

Veronica, meanwhile, wasn't even listening.

Tootie's phone had chimed up again.

Chloe.

"The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom." — William Blake

Tootie blinked, What does that even mean

Almost instantly, another message appeared.

"It means what you think it means."

Tootie nearly jumped. This was reaching Lovecraftian levels of bullshittery. Was this girl reading her mind? How? Was she even real?

Tootie locked her phone and shoved it deep into her pocket. Nope. Not dealing with that right now.

"Hey, what happened to Chad?" Trixie asked, breaking the moment.

Tad hesitated. A rare sight. He scratched at the back of his neck. "He's… serious stuff. Can't talk about it right now."

Trixie nodded, seemingly accepting that as a final answer.

"What about Remy?" Tootie asked.

Tad exhaled, leaning back against the couch. "He's in his own clique, Doesn't need the rest of us."

Veronica stretched her arms above her head. "Well, I'm calling it a day."

No one answered right away.

Tad looked like he wanted to reclaim some lost dignity. Veronica was already halfway checked out. And Tootie… she just stared at the empty space where the wine glass had been, feeling an odd sense of loss.

"Same as usual tomorrow then?" Trixie asked.

Tad exhaled through his nose, rubbing at his temple like all of this—all of this—had given him a migraine. "Yeah. Sure. Whatever."

Veronica was already heading towards the door, moving with the efficiency of someone who had spent way too much time in other people's houses. "Cool. I'll text you."

Trixie stretched, popping her neck. "And by same as usual, I mean different location tomorrow. We can't hang out at your place again."

Tad scoffed, but didn't argue.

Tootie, meanwhile pushed herself up off the couch. "I also should probably go."

No one stopped her. No one even questioned it. It was that kind of evening.

They filtered out, one by one.

The heavy doors of Tad's mansion clicked shut behind them.

Outside, the evening sun slumped lazily against the horizon, sinking into a haze of deep orange and violet. The streetlights flickered to life, their glow subdued, casting long, slanted shadows across the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a car rumbled past, its headlights briefly illuminating the empty street before disappearing into the night.

The world felt bigger than it should. Too big.

Tootie exhaled, slow.

Her breath curled in the cooling air, dissipating into nothing. It wasn't just the 'wine' sitting heavy in her stomach—it was the whole evening, pressing down on her like a weighted blanket she hadn't asked for.

The mansion, the game, Chloe's texts, the way the glass had felt in her hand, heavier than it should've been. The way Tad had looked when he lost, like something fundamental inside him had been disturbed. The way Trixie had spoken—You can say that again—like she understood something unspoken, something Tootie hadn't even meant to say.

The street stretched ahead of her, quiet, almost unfamiliar despite having walked it a thousand times before.

Tomorrow.

She'd figure this out tomorrow.

Tonight, she just had to make it home.

Chapter Text

What do the cool kids do in the morning?

Step out of a sleek, black sedan—mom or dad's, obviously—while wearing oversized sunglasses, bearing an aura of detached superiority?

Maybe toss a glance over their shoulder, just in case someone, anyone, is watching.

Well, dear old Tootie had none of those things. But what she did have was an effortlessly stylish - cool, yet understated attire—something that says "I woke up like this" but actually took an hour of meticulous planning.

She stepped – no strut - onto the pavement in a cropped, slightly distressed graphic tee, emblazoned with some edgy, faux-vintage logo—maybe a skull, maybe an ironic slogan.

Over it, a fitted black hoodie, unzipped just enough to show off the layered silver chain resting on her collarbone. Her black cargo pants hung loose on her hips, held up by a studded belt, slightly tilted—because symmetry was for try-hards. The pockets jingled with unnecessary but essential keychains.

On her feet? Chunky black-and-white DC skate shoes, their laces barely tied, as if she might hop on a skateboard at any moment (she wouldn't, but the illusion mattered). Her wrists stacked with black jelly bracelets and one thick sweatband, because nothing said angst like unnecessary wrist accessories.

She adjusted the side-swept bangs covering one eye, clicked her phone open dramatically—no texts, but that wasn't the point—and walked toward the school doors with the silent conviction of someone who refused to be defined.

Even though, deep down, she really hoped someone was watching.

And she could wait by the entrance - coolly—whatever that meant. Posing without posing.

Was she doing it right? She wasn't sure. Observing herself in the reflection of the school doors, shifting slightly, tilting her head, adjusting her stance. One foot forward? No, too model-y. Arms crossed? Too aggressive. Hands in pockets? Maybe—Until—

"What are you doing?"

A voice cut through her thoughts, sharp with amusement. Almost a laugh.

Tootie nearly jumped, whirling around like she'd been caught stealing from the cool kid handbook.

"Tad?" she blinked, eyes wide. "You're talking to—" she hesitated. Oh, wait. I'm cool now. Right. Time to act like it.

She straightened, feigned detachment. Smirked, maybe. "You talking to me?"

"Who else?" Tad was eyeing her outfit now, scanning it like he was assessing an abstract painting. "Are you Avril Lavigne or Ciara?"

"Huh?" she frowned.

"Your clothes," he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You look like you're in a music video."

Tootie exhaled sharply. "But, but… but this is cool."

Tad gave her an exaggerated once-over, hand on his chin like a judge on American Idol. "Maybe… if you're about to compete on So You Think You Can Dance?"

The laughter came easy to him, a deep, amused chuckle.

Tootie's shoulders slumped. "Really?"

"Yes, really." More laughter.

She pouted. "What the heck?"

Crossing her arms, shifting her weight onto one hip. A move she hoped exuded effortless confidence but probably just made her look lopsided. "Well, whatever. I like it."

Tad, still grinning, shrugged. "Hey, no judgment. Just saying, if you break into a choreographed dance routine right now, I won't be surprised."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah well, you wouldn't know cool if it smacked you in the face."

She said to the coolest kid in school

"Oh, is that what this is?" He gestured vaguely at her—at the cargo pants, the studded belt, the layered chains clinking together as she shifted.

"Okay, rude."

Tad chuckled again, rocking back on his heels. He wasn't being mean, not really(not this time anyway). Just casual, effortless kind of teasing that came so naturally to people who never had to try to be cool. The kind of people who didn't spend an hour agonizing over an outfit just to be told they looked like background dancers in a Missy Elliott video.

Tootie huffed. "You're a guy you just don't get it."

Tad lifted a brow. "Oh? Enlighten me, then. What is cool?"

She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. "It's…" she trailed off, words failing her. "It's a vibe."

"A vibe." Tad repeated, nodding like she had just bestowed some ancient wisdom upon him. "Got it. And that vibe is… mall rat meets rebellious pop star?"

"It's called style." She scowled. "Not that you'd know anything about that."

"Excuse me?" Tad gasped in mock offense, dramatically gesturing to his outfit—the purple jacket, the white shirt, black jeans, the sunglasses perched just low enough on his nose to make him look effortlessly cool. Not try-hard, not overdone. Just sleek. Easy. "This? This is Timeless."

"Boring." Tootie yawned, covering her mouth for extra effect.

"Classic."

She smirked. "You look like you take Corey Hart's Sunglasses at Night way too seriously."

Tad scoffed. "You trying to be cool? You look like a fool to me…" He sang, pointing at her with exaggerated flair.

Tootie's expression morphed into something between annoyed, amused, and dangerously close to murder.

"Don't you da—"

"Why do you have to go and make things so complicated?" Tad continued, grinning, voice just slightly off-key, but not enough to ruin the performance.

"Shut up!" She smacked his arm—lightly, but enough to make her point.

Tad just laughed, pushing his sunglasses up like he was too cool to care, even though they both knew he lived for this.

Tootie made a face. "Whatever. You're just mad because I have a look."

"Oh, you have a look, alright." Tad smirked. "It's just a very specific look. Like you're about to challenge me to a dance battle." He threw in a mock pop-and-lock for good measure.

Tootie groaned, burying her face in her hands. "I hate you."

"No, you don't." Tad grinned. "But I do hope you have your routine ready."

"Routine?" she echoed, brow furrowing.

"Yeah. We're gonna walk down the aisle." He smirked.

"What?"

"We're going in," he explained, nodding toward the school doors. "And you're gonna walk with me."

Tootie blinked. "Me?"

"Yes, you." Tad said it like it was obvious, like it wasn't some weird, unspoken rule being shattered.

She hesitated. "Where's Chad?"

"Called in sick. He won't be here today." Tad's voice dipped slightly—not sadness, but a flicker of something resembling it. A break in the usual teasing.

"Oh…" she echoed.

And then—awkward silence. The kind that made her stomach twist. The kind she wasn't sure how to navigate.

But Tad? He didn't care.

"So… wanna head in?" he asked, like it was nothing.

"Yeah…" she hesitated, shifting on her feet.

"What, are you slow?" Tad teased, giving her a playful nudge. "You can't have beaten me at Burnout if you're this slow in real life."

Tootie rolled her eyes. "It's literally just a game, dude. Calm down." She scoffed, but there was hesitation. A flicker of uncertainty before she spoke again.

"Aren't you worried about what people might think? Like—status and all?"

Tad barely blinked.

"...No. Not really. I mean, they've been looking at us since you started modelling at the window."

"Huh?"

And only now did she notice—the plethora of eyes staring at them from behind the glass.

Tootie stiffened. Oh no. No, no, no.

She turned, locking eyes with the gawking students behind the glass. Some whispered, some snickered, some just stared.

"Oh my God." She muttered, dragging a hand down her face.

Tad, of course, was completely unbothered. Whilst Tootie remained frozen in place, her mind a blur of social hierarchies, unspoken rules, and the irreversible consequences of being seen with someone like Tad in a non-hostile context.

Was this social?
Was this friendly?
Was this… a statement?

Tad turned back, tilting his head. "You coming or what?"

Tootie inhaled sharply. This was fine. Totally fine.

She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and took a step forward—

—and immediately felt every single pair of eyes lock onto her like she was a glitch in the matrix.

A few whispers reached her ears:
"Wait… are they like… together now?"
"What happened to Chad?"
"No way—does she actually like Tad?"
"Bro, her outfit…"

"Ignore them," Tad said lazily, as if that was the easiest thing in the world.

Tootie clenched her jaw. She could do this. She could be cool. She could—

"Ooooh, okay! Power couple moment!" Someone hollered from the crowd.

Oh. No.

Her entire body seized up. "What?! No—"

Tad just laughed, pushing open the door. "Let's go, fashion icon."

And, with no other choice, Tootie walked in.

She followed him like a twin, walking just beside him, their strides unconsciously matching. Tad wore the look, as always—classically relaxed, like the entire world was some minor inconvenience, but one he could tolerate.

Tootie… wasn't quite sure how she looked.

But people were looking. And naturally, they were also… thinking.

"Are they actually—?"
"No way… no way—"
"They might be—"
"Is that why she's changed all of a sudden?"
"what's with that new outfit?"

Somewhere in the background, a trio of familiar eyes watched the scene unfold.

The old guard - Timmy, Chester, and AJ.

All three stood there, watching Tootie and Tad walk down the hallway. They say "walk," but really, it was something else. A strut? A declaration? An act of war? Hard to say.

Chester, ever the blunt one, sighed. "Well. That explains the sudden change."

"Is she… with Tad now?" AJ asked, brows furrowed.

Timmy, who looked like he'd just witnessed a fundamental law of the universe shatter before his very eyes, slowly shook his head.

"I… I guess so."

"Wow… Tootie's really upped her game, huh?" Chester mused, watching her and Tad disappear down the hallway.

Timmy frowned. "What are you trying to say?"

Chester gave him a look. "You already know we're at the bottom of the food chain."

"We've been at the bottom," AJ added. "And I'm smart."

"So?" Timmy scoffed. "None of this will matter when we graduate anyway."

Chester and AJ turned to him with an expression so deeply, profoundly concerned that it crossed into comedy.

"With your scores?" AJ said, "I'm not so sure you're gonna make it out of here, buddy."

Timmy scowled. "Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence."

Chester shrugged. "Hey, real friends don't lie to each other."

"We're just worried for you man," AJ added, arms crossed, wearing that deeply concerned yet deeply amused expression that only he could pull off.

Timmy sighed, rubbing the back of his head.

"Tootie was your best shot," AJ pressed, "Why didn't you just take her up on it? She was offering to tutor you for like, a week."

Timmy made a face. He couldn't exactly say fairy world mumbo jumbo without sounding like a lunatic.

So instead, he sighed, crossed his arms, and said, "Would you believe me if I told you I had to save the world and all of space-time?"

Chester and AJ exchanged a look.

"…So you were playing video games," Chester deadpanned.

"Not exactly!" Timmy protested, but the defence was weak.

Chester squinted. "So, just to clarify—not video games, but something equally useless?"

Timmy groaned. "Why can't you tutor me?" he threw at AJ instead, because deflection was a powerful tool.

AJ barely hesitated. "Because you're my friend, and I love ya, man," he said, so sincerely it almost felt like a compliment—before he finished with, "but you're also a pain in the ass to mentor and guide. Like, objectively. Tootie REALLY was your best shot."

Timmy groaned louder.

As always the universe hated him.

"Well good luck talking to her now…she's outta your league," Chester said, the words feeling oddly wrong in his mouth. Like they didn't quite fit. They were misfiled in the great cosmic paperwork of social hierarchy. Just the other day, Tootie was beneath even them.

Timmy scowled. "Wow. Thanks."

"So, uh yeah… good luck, really," AJ said, clapping him on the back with just a bit too much force. "We'll be your last resort."

The bell rang. Time to face another day of barely scraping by.

And as they shuffled off toward class, Timmy found himself in an unexpected collision course—Chloe.

She was heading in the opposite direction, moving with purpose, that usual Chloe Carmichael intensity burning in her eyes.

"Hey," she said, stopping just short of running into him. "I kinda need to borrow Cosmo and Wanda for today."

Timmy blinked. "You just had them, for like the whole of last week. And yesterday."

"I know but-"

"We had an agreement," he reminded her, crossing his arms.

"True," Chloe said, undeterred. "But still… I need them again."

Timmy frowned. "Can't you just wait?"

"No," Chloe said, her voice firm. "I can't."

And just like that, whatever this was, it had suddenly become serious.

Timmy hesitated. Chloe needing his fairies was one thing—Chloe demanding them?

He narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

Chloe glanced over her shoulder, then back at him, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Because something's happening."

Timmy raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Oh yeah? What? Another one of your save-the-world charity projects?"

Chloe didn't even flinch. "No." She took a step closer, eyes sharp. "This isn't about that. I can't tell you right now, just know that I need Cosmo and Wanda."

Timmy's gut did a thing. That bad feeling thing. Like the moment before a pop quiz or when Vicky smiled at him in that way.

He folded his arms. "Uh-huh…Sure…And what do I get out of it?"

Chloe looked at him, dead serious. "You get to not be involved."

A pause. A long one. The kind that made the air feel heavier, like the weight of an unspoken deal settling between them.

"...What's going on?" His voice was slower now, cautious.

Chloe sighed, rubbing her temples. "Look, do you trust me?"

"Maybe?" he shrugged, infuriatingly casual.

She exhaled sharply. "Just give me the fairies." It wasn't a request. It was surrender.

Timmy considered it. He really, really considered it.

On one hand, Chloe was Chloe—relentless, optimistic, overly enthusiastic about things that didn't concern her. The kind of person who would volunteer to fight a bear if she thought it would help the environment.

But the road to hell? Yeah. Paved exactly with this kind of energy.

He folded his arms. "Tell me what's up first."

Chloe's lips pressed together. "You really wanna know?"

Her expression said, No, you don't. You think you do, but you don't.

Timmy, ever the masochist, nodded. "Tell me."

She exhaled, slow and steady. "Fine. I'm using magic to make Tootie cooler."

Timmy blinked. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Why?"

Chloe tilted her head, incredulous. "Why do you think, Timmy?"

He could see where this was going. It was a train speeding toward him, its horn blaring, its wheels grinding against the tracks in a deafening screech. He wanted to jump out of the way. He wanted to not be on this particular set of tracks.

"Please don't say it's all because of—"

"It's all because of you."

Impact

Timmy opened his mouth. Closed it. Then Opened it again. "Tootie can be such a—" Wait, no. Don't say something you'll regret. He recalibrated. "Okay, fine… it's your business. But we had an agreement, and I need Cosmo and Wanda more right now."

Chloe crossed her arms. "For what?"

Timmy hesitated. "Fairy World business."

Her eyes narrowed. "The Pixies?"

"No," he said quickly. Too quickly. "Just… I just need them more."

Chloe sighed. "And what about Tootie?"

"That's your problem, man," Timmy said, waving a hand. "She's your project."

Chloe scoffed, glaring. "Don't be such an ass, dude. She's doing this for you."

Timmy recoiled, frowning. "For me?" His voice dripped with skepticism. "I never asked her to."

Chloe's eyes bored into him, full of something halfway between frustration and pity. "Oh, come on, Timmy. You really think she did all this for herself?"

Timmy blinked. "I mean… maybe?"

Chloe just looked at him. That look. The you know exactly what I'm talking about, don't play dumb look.

And yeah, maybe he did know. Maybe, deep down, he had always known. But that was Tootie's problem, right?

He exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his head. "Look, whatever Tootie's doing, it's got nothing to do with me. If she wants to change, that's on her."

Chloe shook her head. "Timmy."

"No, seriously," He insisted, "She didn't ask me. She didn't talk to me. She just—she just did it. That's not my fault."

"How is she supposed to when you barely give her the time of day?" Chloe scoffed, "You think she'd do this for fun? She doing this because she got tired of waiting for you."

Timmy opened his mouth. Closed it. Then Opened it again.

"…Huh?"

"Oh my god," Chloe muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You are so dense."

Timmy frowned. "Hey, that's uncalled for—"

"It's completely called for!" Chloe shot back. "She's had a thing for you for years, Timmy. Years. But you wouldn't even give her the slightest acknowledgement And now, you're watching her change and acting all shocked like you didn't push her towards this."

Push her towards- what was she on about?

"First of all, I'm not shocked." Although Timmy felt something unpleasant twist in his gut. "Okay, I'm a little shocked. Plus I didn't Push her to do anything? You did! I didn't do anything!"

"Exactly!" Chloe snapped. "You didn't do anything. And now she's figuring out who she is without you."

Timmy stared at her, brain buffering. "What!?"

"You know what!"

"No, I don't!" he said, "help me understand." But Chloe said nothing, then after a long beat, he scoffed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Whatever, man. It's not like it matters."

Chloe's eyes softened just slightly. "You sure about that?"

Now Timmy said nothing.

The school bell rang again, its sharp chime slicing through the tension like a knife. The hallways were emptying fast.

Chloe sighed. "Look, just… fine. Keep Cosmo and Wanda. But don't get in her way, okay? Let her be happy."

She turned to leave.

Timmy hesitated, then called after her. "You know it's not fair, right? If I did the same thing—to get Trixie—you'd call me shallow."

Chloe didn't even look back. "Maybe… but you're a dude, so suck it up."

"That's sexist!" Timmy shouted, scandalized.

"Stop yelling in the hallway and get to class," came the monotone voice of the hall monitor.

"But—"

And just like that, Chloe was gone, swept away by the tide of the school day.

Leaving Timmy to deal with the actual consequences.

(The hall monitor. Ugh.)

Today was an oddly quiet day. No ruckus, no commotion, no Timmy Turner running around like a Saturday morning cartoon character. Just an eerie, almost uncomfortable normalcy.

That is—until Tootie's phone suddenly chimed. In class.

Her new conscience—the one that spoke in cooler, more detached tones—assured her: It's fine. Cool kids don't get caught on their phones in class. And you? You're cool now.

She nodded haughtily (because that's what cool people did) and casually opened her phone under the desk.

A message from Chloe.

"Every new beginning, comes from some other beginning's end." — Seneca

…Okay?

Once again, what was that even supposed to mean? Was Chloe just permanently trapped in the back pages of a philosophy textbook?

Thankfully, there was no supernatural instant-response this time. Just another, slightly more grounded message beneath it:

"So I won't be able to help you out as much today. You might not even see me today. So be extra careful and watch your six."

Tootie blinked.

What?

What did she mean by that? Watch your six? Like—was she supposed to be on guard? Were there other forces at play now? Had she unknowingly entered some kind of shadow war between high school social cliques? Did Tad have a girlfriend? And was their morning interaction enough to piss her off?

Jesus Christ, Chloe.

Tootie exhaled, shutting her phone. No time to spiral. Just act natural.

She glanced around the classroom. No one was paying attention. Good.

The teacher droned on about something—history, maybe? Nothing important, because surely such a thing never tends to repeat itself. The words were coming in like static, just background noise to the real thing happening in her head:

Chloe was gone today.

For some reason, Tootie needed to be careful.

Also, Seneca?

Wait was the mystery girlfriends name supposed to be Seneca? There are no Seneca's in Dimmsdale high, not that she knew of anyway.

She frowned slightly, twirling a pen between her fingers. There was an itch at the back of her mind. Something wasn't right.

Nothing in Dimmsdale just happened. If something changed, it was because something—or someone—had made it change. And now, here she was, on the other side of that equation.

Changing. Getting noticed. Becoming part of the game.

Was that what Chloe meant? That now that she was somebody, she had to watch out? That things were going to get messy?

The bell rang, snapping her out of her thoughts.

Lunch.

Alright. Cool. Just another normal day.

Right?

Wrong.

The plan was simple: meet up with Tad, Trixie, and Veronica—enjoy the spoils of newfound social status, bask in the golden glow of high school's ruling class. But the universe had other plans.

Tad had left early.
Trixie was sick.
And Veronica? Well…Veronica was probably busy psychologically dismantling some poor girl for sport. Tootie hadn't investigated her case much.

So here she was. The new cream of the crop. Mrs. (soon-to be) Popular. Standing in the cafeteria like a queen without a court.

Was this what Chloe meant?

What do cool kids do when they're alone?

Melancholy.

Accept all things as they are. For that often serves power rather than truth or progress. And those in power here, are the popular.

"Amor Fati."

If Chloe were here, she'd probably quote Epictetus, or maybe Marcus Aurelius. Or would she go full Panglossian optimist? "All is for the best, in the best of all possible worlds."

No. More likely, she'd be pragmatic. "A state without the means of some change, is without the means of its conservation."

Not rejecting change outright, but fearing radical upheaval. Gradualism. Stability above all. Centrism—not as a pursuit of progress, but as a way to control it.

That's what was in the minds of people like Tad. Like Trixie. Like Remy Buxaplenty. Especially Remy. Not revolution, not innovation, but maintaining control over how change happens. Keeping the levers of power in the same hands, even as the world around them shifted.

Tootie drummed her fingers on the cafeteria table.

So…what did that mean for her?

She was still trying to answer that when—

"Hey, uh… Tootie?"

She blinked, snapped out of her thoughts. Sanjay stood there, shifting awkwardly like he expected to be backhanded at any second.

"Oh. Hey," she said, pulling herself out of her philosophical spiral, smoothing her voice into something effortless, something cool.

"I know you're, like… cool and all now, so please don't beat me up," Sanjay began, forcing a laugh that only made him look more cringe. "But we have an assignment together. You…uh, didn't forget, right?"

And for the first time in a while, Tootie almost laughed.

She'd totally forgotten.

Not completely—somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, the knowledge that she was partnered with Sanjay for an assignment still existed. But that part had been buried under more 'important' things. Like social manoeuvring, and figuring out what it meant to be cool and—

Oh, whatever.

"Yeah, yeah, I remember," she lied smoothly.

Sanjay didn't look convinced. He squinted at her, pushing up his glasses like a detective putting the pieces together. This was not the Tootie he knew.

"You sure?" he pressed. "Because last time I saw you, you weren't busy with…"He gestured vaguely at her outfit, her posture, the invisible aura of social capital that now surrounded her like a force field. "—this."

Tootie raised an eyebrow, cause she wasn't about to defend herself to Sanjay of all people. Instead, she exhaled through her nose and leaned forward.

"Listen," she said, voice low, conspiratorial. "I've just… had a lot on my plate, okay? But don't worry. I've got it handled."

Sanjay frowned. "Handled like you actually did the assignment, or handled like you're gonna make me do all the work and then take credit for it?"

Tootie grinned. "Which answer gets you to drop it?"

"Neither."

Damn.

Tootie sighed and waved a hand. "Just Chill. We'll work on it."

"When?" Sanjay asked.

"Soon…" she said, vaguely. "When I'm not busy."

"It's due next week."

"And?" she asked "We still have time."

"If we start now, we can—"

"We can't start now," she interrupted. "I'm busy."

"With what?"

"Stuff."

"Like…?"

It was at this point that she noticed the eyes again. A lot of them. Watching. This was bad.

She could not be seen casually conversing with someone of his social status—not after she walked in with Tad. It would undo everything.

"None of your business, loser," Tootie said, rather coldly.

Sanjay blinked. "Loser?"

"Yes. You heard me." She repeated it, doubling down before she could think better of it. "Loser. Now—" she paused for effect, "go away."

"I'll go when you tell me when we can start."

"Tomorrow or whatever. I don't know, just leave me alone, nerd."

Nerd? Nerd?

Sanjay frowned, genuinely taken aback. "The other day, you were just like me. In fact, you still are. The only difference is this fancy getup you're wea—"

"Shut up," she said, sharp and defensive, but he could already see it. The crack in the act.

"What happened to you, man?" Sanjay asked, tilting his head like he was studying an animal that had evolved too fast. He thought back to the girl with glasses and a black jacket, the one who used to squeal Timmy's name, the innocent and cute one. She was gone. Buried. Dead.

Now she was— this.

"You're acting like V—"

Tootie's body moved before her brain did.

She grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, dragging him forward with a force that neither of them expected. The cafeteria, already half-watching, fell into complete silence.

This wasn't funny anymore.

She snapped.

"Don't you dare say her name."

That caught everyone's attention. A threat.

Sanjay blinked. "I was gonna say Veronica," he finished, slow, cautious. "But now I'm seeing Vicky."

"Listen to me, tw-…nerd," Tootie hissed, voice low, controlled, the kind of controlled that meant she wasn't controlling anything at all. "You don't get to say that name. Not here. Not now. Not ever."

Sanjay looked at her—not with fear, but disappointment. Like she was a math problem he thought he'd solved, but somehow got impossibly wrong. He simply raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, Chill. No need for the mob boss act, I get it."

And just like that—Tootie realized what she was doing.

She was grabbing him. In public. Using force. Commanding respect with intimidation.

Her grip loosened. A creeping, horrible realization slithered into her gut. She'd been acting like—

"Vicky," Sanjay repeated, quiet but firm.

Tootie stiffened.

"I'm not Vicky." She responded, letting him go, smoothing out the collar of his shirt in a way that was almost apologetic—but not quite. She still had a reputation to maintain Afterall.

"Just… watch your mouth, alright?" she muttered.

Sanjay exhaled, touching his neck as if checking for bruises. "Sure…I'll see you tomorrow."

And with that, the moment passed. The cafeteria, sensing the show was over, returned to its usual chatter, though the whispers about Tootie—former nobody, current enigma—grew louder.

From across the room, Veronica watched with interest.

Took you long enough.

Well, the latter part of this day had been… trying.

Going back home wasn't an option. Not yet. She wasn't in the mood to be terrorized by Vicky.

So once again, Tootie found herself asking:

What do cool kids do?

When they don't feel like going home? When they need to let off some steam?

Easy.

The mall.

But with whom?

Chloe wasn't here. And she definitely wasn't about to ask Veronica to tag along—The same Veronica, who would probably spend most of the time shopping for things Tootie couldn't afford, laughing at people she didn't know, and making fun of store clerks for sport.

Fine, then.

By herself.

She was used to it anyway.

At the mall, she bought herself a Cinnabon— it was that, or a frozen yogurt from TCBY, but today felt like a Cinnabon kind of day. Sticky, warm, and a little too sweet. Just like everything else lately.

She took her time, walking around, aimlessly staring into shop windows. Shoes she'd never buy. Dresses she'd never wear. Jewellery that Veronica would probably shove in her face just to rub it in.

It was fine. The usual.

That is, until she passed by the arcade.

Cool kids go to the arcade too, right?

She questioned herself, hesitating at the entrance. Tad had a PlayStation—so he must've run in here at some point. Maybe even rented out the whole place just because he could.

Whatever. Same difference.

Tootie stepped inside, thinking she'd kill an hour or two. Just a way to end a normal, trying day.

Until—

A familiar face. Blonde hair. That unmistakable posture, like she was in the middle of one of her Chloe things.

And she wasn't alone.

She was arguing with another girl—someone Tootie didn't recognize.

Tootie hesitated. Should I interject?

No. None of her business.

So she stuck to her machine, kept her hands busy, eyes forward. But the argument sat just at the corner of her vision.

And they were getting louder.

Tootie kept to herself. Pretended she didn't see them. That is, until Chloe recognized her—her face lighting up with mischief, while the other girl looked absolutely distraught.

"Oh no," the girl muttered under her breath.

"Oh yes," Chloe shot back, grinning like she'd just won the lottery.

Then, before Tootie could make a clean getaway—

"Oh Tootles!" Chloe called out, waving enthusiastically.

Tootie ignored it. Who the heck was Tootles?

"Tootie!" Chloe was at her arcade machine now, rapping her knuckles against the side.

With a sigh, Tootie turned as casually as humanly possible. "Yes?"

"Hey." Chloe grinned.

"Hi."

"Wanna meet my new friend?" Chloe sing-songed.

Tootie squinted. She smelled a setup. But whatever. "Sure, I guess."

And just like that, she was dragged over to meet the mysterious brunette, who—upon closer inspection—looked… familiar.

Suspiciously familiar.

"I'll let her introduce herself," Chloe said, her smile a touch too mischievous. "Go on, what's your name again?"

The girl hesitated. Face red with embarrassment.

"…Tim. Timantha," she finally mumbled.

Chloe barely held back a laugh.

Tootie blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Timantha," the girl repeated, somehow even redder.

"…Like Samantha, but with a Tim?"

"Yeah…"

"That's… a unique name," Tootie said carefully. "what's your full name…Timm…Tammy?"

"Yeah?"

"Unique?" Chloe interjected, incredulous. "Unique… it's rid—"

"Can I go now?" Timantha groaned, looking like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole.

"No," Chloe declared, arms crossed. "You don't get to go until you explain what you were doing here, Timantha…"

"Chloe…" Timantha groaned, rubbing her temples like this was physically painful.

"Looks like you two are dealing with… something," Tootie said, inching backward. "I'll just give you some—"

"No, Tootie." Chloe cut her off. "I need you here for this."

"But why?" Tootie and Timantha asked at the same time.

"Because I—"

"Are you just about done with her?" Another voice interrupted.

It was a familiar voice. Warped slightly, like the imitation of a deep voice.

Tootie turned toward the sound, only to see a strange boy—cap pulled low over his face—peering out from behind an arcade machine.

"I'd really like to give our match a second try," he continued. "Win some tickets, maybe—"

Then he lifted his head fully.

His eyes met hers.

And Tootie froze.

There was something… off about him.

Familiar in a way that didn't make sense. Like a song she'd heard in a dream.

The boy stiffened. "…Oh no."

"Oh no?" Tootie echoed, her brows knitting together.

"Oh no," Chloe said again, but different. Like a mother catching her child red-handed with a stolen cookie. She turned to Timantha, eyes twinkling with sadistic glee. "Reeeeally, Timmyy—anntha?"

Oh.

Oh.

Tootie felt her stomach drop.

"Timmy?" she repeated, slowly turning to Timantha.

She really looked at her this time.

Same messy hair. Same nervous energy. Same guilty look.

"…You look like—"

"Timmy Turner," Timantha blurted out. "I'm his cousin."

Silence.

Tootie squinted. "…No, that's Vivian."

Timantha blinked. "Huh?"

"Timmy's cousin. Vivian. And isn't she, like… a baby?"

There was a long pause.

Timantha's face twitched. "…Wait."

She hesitated.

Her brain stuttered.

"I nev—I mean, he never told you that! How do you know that?"

Oh no.

Now Tootie was in the red.

She floundered for an answer. Anything to get the attention off her—

Chloe leaned in close, whispering like the devil on her shoulder.

"…Stalker."

"I—What?!"