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You have to be odd to be number one

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"How's you speech comin' along?" Harley asks, carding her fingers through Pammy's insanely smooth ginger hair.

"Fine," Pammy says, attention divided between the paper in her lap and the salad resting next to it on the bleachers, with none to spare for Harley.

"You're gonna own Harv, I just know it." Picking out individual strands, she weaves them into thin braids, like Pammy's done with Harley's hair during lunch break. It's one of the few things Harley can sit still for even when Pammy's going over her arguments for healthier meals – including vegan options, naturally – for the third time this week.

"Of course I am. His positions are contradictory and confusing."

Harley adores Pammy's dedication to Gotham High's improvement, believes in it, too – she's her most vocal advocate – but occasionally, you see, she feels a teensy bit neglected.

"History class was fun today. I managed to sidetrack Ms. Prince with a discussion about Tartarus. Her detailed knowledge about Greek mythology is crazy, I tell you." Twisting the plait around her finger, Harley follows the alluring floral scent to the root. It's the best thing about playing with Pammy's hair. She loves burying her nose in it. "She's rather fit for an old lady, too, you know."

Ivy stops chewing and turns to arch an eyebrow at Harley, spoiled in its confusion only by the piece of carrot in her mouth. Harley can't help herself and snaps her teeth around it. The vegetable gives with a satisfying crunch.

"Made ya look."