Two.

I groaned. "Is that Kirova?" I hissed to Eddie. He glanced behind him, and turned back to me.

"Yep."

"Shit," I said.

"What did you do?" Asked Mason, stifling a laugh.

"Nothing!" I said in my defense, then amended: "well, I've been ditching a lot lately..."

"Shit, Rose," said Eddie.

"Yeah, well, it's not exactly a peachy situation, now is it?" I snapped.

"Rosemarie!" I heard Kirova's retarded, sensible heels clicking across the floor.

"Yes?" I turned around, displaying my best what-the-Hell-are-you-talking-about-I-would-never-do-that face.

"Come with me."

"Um, what for?" I didn't get an answer, just semi-sympathetic looks from Mason and Eddie. Dimitri, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

Help! I thought to Dimitri. I'm being held hostage...in Kirova's office! By Strigoi!

I laughed. This would be interesting.

"Sit." Headmistress Bitch commanded. I did, and she folded her hands on her desk, preparing to give one of her momentous speeches -

Bang.

"Rose!" I heard from the doorway. Which, by the way, had been busted down.

That's my badass.

"Guardian Belikov!" Kirova shrieked. She stood up angrily. "What is the meaning of this?"

"I...um..." he glared at me. "Sorry. I just...um...thought that Rose was in danger."

"Why ever would you think that?" She countered.

"I thought I heard... screaming... from this room, and I thought I saw a...a Strigoi, but it was just a student with...colored contacts. Sorry. Really." He stepped outside of the splintered door frame, carefully leaning the two busted pieces of wood against each other while I suppressed giggles. He left, and Kirova faced me. Joy.

"Anyway," she said. "You have been late or missing from nearly all of your classes this past month."

"I know," I said.

"Do you have some sort of explanation?" She snapped.

"I'm just...a little torn-up over what happened to my family," I said.

"Dear, I understand, but you cannot keep up this excuse. I expect to see you present and on time for all of your classes, starting tomorrow."

"Yes ma'am," I said.

"You may leave," she said, shuffling some papers on her desk.

I bolted out the door, thinking I was oh-so-smart for...well, outsmarting her. I wouldn't even be here tomorrow. That cranky old hag could suck -

"Rose!" Dimitri yelled from across the quad.

"Oh, er...Hi, Dimitri," I said.

"Yeah. Hi." He folded his arms and glared at me.

"Um...so, yeah. I'm just going to go to class now..."

"You have cooking, Rose. That isn't exactly a class." Oh, man. He was pissed. I had chosen culinary arts because you didn't do anything. Yet the man treated it like it was...I don't know. Something important.

"Sorry," I said. "I was bored, okay?"

"You were bored?" he said quietly. "Bored?" He said, louder.

"Well..."

"Rose, please. Don't..." he sighed. "I'm not angry, and I know that's what you're thinking. I'm sorry. I'm just a bit...frustrated," he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "Please don't give me a false alarm like that. You really, really worried me." He placed a hand on my cheek, looking at me with his big brown eyes.

"I'm sorry," I wrapped my arms around him, and let out a sob I didn't even know was there.

"Shh," he said. "It's okay."

"No, it's not, Dimitri." I said, my voice muffled by his shirt. Which I was ruining. With tears.

"Why not, Rose?" he asked, tilting my head up to look at me. "We'll be gone by tomorrow, just like I promised. All I need you to do is pack one, small bag and..." his brow furrowed.

"And what?"

"Well, Rose, I hate to ask you to do this, but...I need you to get some of your inheritance." He looked pained.

"No big deal," I shrugged. It really wasn't. I had loads of money. Oodles of it. I wasn't trying to brag, either. I was just stating a fact.

"Okay." He sighed, visibly relaxing. "Now, go to class."

"But you said cooking wasn't a class!"

"I was a bit angry then, in case you didn't notice," he glared mockingly, and towed me toward the cooking rooms. I slipped in without being noticed, and plopped down next to Christian Ozera, who was making some...thing.

"What is that?" I asked, poking the random hunk of who-knows-what.

"Food," he replied, smirking.

"Really." I said, equally sarcastic. "Isn't food supposed to be edible?"

"Why don't you test it and find out?" He smiled evilly, holding a spoonful of mush out to me.

"Um." I said. I normally wasn't one to back out of a dare...but this? This could endanger my life.

"Well?" he wiggled it in my face. And boy, did it wiggle. It was like a little Jell-o-stripper.

"What is it supposed to be?" I asked.

"Jell-o."

"From scratch?" I guessed.

"Yup." He smiled. "C'mon, Rose. It actually isn't as bad as it looks." To prove his point, he slurped the green gunk off of the spoon. "Mm." He said.

"Fine," I grabbed a fresh spoon, and, before I could talk myself out of it, crammed it in my mouth.

And, surprisingly, it wasn't half-bad. "Wow," I said.

"See?" He smiled sincerely at me. "I can totally cook."

"You might want to work on appearance," I said.

"Whatever." He flicked a glob of cake batter at me.

And, well, being me, I sort of cracked an egg on his head. Or threw it at him. Same thing.

"Shit!" He said, taking the full impact of the egg with his forehead. I laughed.

"It's on, Ivashkov!" he yelled, smearing some of the wannabe Jell-o on my shirt.

"This. Is. War." I said, glaring and dumping an entire - yes, an entire - bag of flour on his head.

It was actually pretty cool to watch. Christian's black hair was shot through with white, and his face was...well, hilarious looking. He looked like an albino freak.

"Ms. Ivashkov! Mr. Ozera!" Ms. Delaney, the teacher, yelled at us. "Clean. Now." She snapped, pointing to the closet where brooms and other such items I had no idea how to use were kept. We trudged over, Christian leaving a poof of flour wherever he walked.

"Damn you, Rose," he said. I laughed. I knew he was kidding, and he knew I was kidding. I was sort of friends with the kid.

"Save it, Fire Boy. You ruined my cashmere shirt." I glared. "And you know what?" I asked. "That picture will look great on the internet."

"What picture?" he spluttered.

"Kidding," I snickered.

"Truce?" he sighed, holding out his hand, which I hesitantly shook.

"Truce. Now, will you help me cook something so I can pass at least one class this year?"

"Sure, Rose. Let's make some cake." he rolled his eyes like I was some idiot.

"Can I eat it?"

"That would be like eating your grade, Rose. So no."

"Damn." I said.

And the cake-baking commenced.