Note: Thanks everyone for the wonderful comments and awesome reviews! It's really pushed us to write and edit, and we're having such a great time constructing Sarah (as well as our OCs).

P.S. Honoria Granger, we are actually very envious of the fact you met Bowie. Seriously, that's really cool!

Chapter 7: Heart's a Mess

Pick apart the pieces of your heart,

Let me peer inside…

Let me in to where your thoughts have been,

Let me occupy your mind…

As you do mine…


That afternoon, I listen to the hallway's avid thrum. I pick up bits and pieces of student's conversations as they stroll past my locker, fervent instructions of their weekend's schedule; it's Friday, after all, the time to unravel from the week's hassles and accept the two days of liberty. I feel myself smile; I'm Jareth-free. For the duration of the weekend, I'm disengaged from Jareth's claws.

As I stuff a couple textbooks into my bag, my lucky pencil slips from my grasp and clatters to the floor. I hear it roll a little, so I swing my bag over my shoulder and kneel down to retrieve it. However, once I scan the floor, I realize it's nowhere to be seen. It's disappeared.

Confused, I check my bag and perform a full-circle scan around me. It's still missing. Just like that, my lucky pencil's vanished into thin air.

I sigh and close my locker door. Whatever, it's just a pencil. These sort of things disappear then reappear all the time, anyways. But just as I latch the lock on, I'm encountered with a set of mismatched eyes.

"You dropped something."

Jareth leans against my neighbour's locker, a sly grin displayed across his face. He rests the side of his head against the locker and his hair's vivid against the gloomy metal. His fingers twirl my pencil—the one I dropped just moments before—in an intricate pattern.

"Yeah, and then you stole it." I snatch the pencil back and fiddle with my shoulder bag, my awkwardness blaring in every which way possible; I've never spoken to him in the hallways before. Out here, where we're exposed to judgements and unreasonable verdicts, I suddenly feel uncomfortably watched. Like there's a cluster of sneering girls on the other side of the hall, pointing at how their teacher, Mr. Jones, looks at me and the way I, his student, dodge his gaze.

Of course, however, there's no cluster of girls across the hallway. Hardly an eye bats our direction. I'm so paranoid.

"I had to obtain your attention somehow, Love. Bearing in mind you've been eluding me all day, I had no other option." His eyebrows raise. "Did I?"

"Here's a good one," I mutter, "you take the hint and back off."

And with that, I twirl away from him and strut down the hallway. As usual, though, Jareth acts on his feet and pursuits close behind.

"You're grumpy today," I hear him tease.

"Yeah, I get a little bitchy when my stalker steals my pencil."

"Well, on the contrary, your stalker's a gentlemen for serving you the favor." His strides are lengthier than mine and, consequently, I feel his warm breath in my ear. "A kiss in return, perhaps?"

"In your dreams," I scoff, pulling my face away and swerving from a crowd of theatre geeks. He trails my heels.

"I'd rather be in yours, actually. Not that I haven't already been."

I fight the urge to pound my fist into his mouth. Peaches should be illegal.

"Who is she?"

"Huh?"

"The synthetic doll—Icky? Or is it Vicky?"

I sigh. "Forget about her. I don't care, so you shouldn't either."

I can practically feel his eyes puncturing into my legs, as though he can scare off the pasta stain from the force of his sullen glare. Something tells me he didn't enjoy watching how it got there.

"Meringue Head." he moves on, "He connects with other crowds. Different crowds, I should say, from you and the satanic one."

"Jamie?"

"Yes, that."

I snort and nudge through a horde of towering twelfth graders. "He's sociable, Jareth, who cares?"

"You care," he counteracts, "And so does Jamie."

My voice hardens. "Drop it. My friends are none of your business."

"When it's clearly been bothering you for quite some time, Sarah, I'm afraid that it is my business. And you lost a perfectly ethical pair of jeans because of it. Have you thought of doing something about it? Sacrifice, perhaps?"

Fed up, I spin on my heel to face him. He screeches to a halt, nearly slamming into me in the process.

"Stop it."

"I'm joking." He adjusts his glasses.

"You can't do that."

"Do what?"

"Say things, follow me like this and suggest your grand master plan. My life is just fine without your help." I muster a foreboding glare. "Well, it was, anyways."

When he only blinks at me, I turn away once more and continue down the hallway. But, this time, he reaches my side and keeps up next to me. In front of other people, he's basically breathing down my neck. Embarrassed, I pretend to look fascinated in the passing billboards and glass displays, like I'm not actually interacting with the weirdo teacher. Students and teachers aren't supposed to stand this close, better yet indulge in conversation, right?

"Still in denial, I see. You lie to yourself far too often, Love. Self-denial isn't healthy for the heart."

"Girls hate smartasses."

He leans in to my ear and whispers, "You're not like other girls."

I snort. "That's what you think."

"In point of fact, actually, that's what I know; you conquered the mystical labyrinth, remember?"

Once more, I turn on him and smack a finger to my lips. "Sshh!"

"You're more uptight than I remember."

Overcome with nerves, I glance around us and scan for any curious glimpses. So far, nobody's noticed.

"Can you not?" I hiss, daring a step towards him and glowering up into his eyes. "No wonder everyone around here thinks you're a schizophrenic. You talk like the labyrinth's nothing to hide, like you're proud and you'd boast it if you could."

"Last time I boasted my kingdom, the girl of my dreams took her brother and left me. My scheme was an utter humiliation."

"Schizophrenic," I repeat, "They think you're a schizophrenic."

Suddenly all proud and macho, Jareth adjusts his shirt and wiggles his shoulders. "Yes, I'm well aware of my new nickname, Sarah. They call me the Schizophrenic. Inexplicably appealing, isn't it? The Schizophrenic." His beams in wondrous curiosity. "Tell me, what does it mean?"

I nearly slam my palm against my face. But rather than enduring the pain, I press the pointy end of my pencil into Jareth's chest, threatening to impel him. His eyes widen excitedly, not that enthusiasm was what I was going for.

"Look, Jareth. Our past is behind us now, got it? To this day, you are my English teacher, nothing more. And the English teacher is in no position to speak to his student about her personal life, better yet contribute anything more than homework assignments."

"But—"

"No." I apply more pressure to my weapon, watching his shirt wrinkle around the lead. "You may have showed up from some fantasy land and caused a minor interlude, but that's done. It's over, and I've moved on. You can watch my life from the sidelines, whatever, but you can't change anything. You can't alter my life anymore, understand? You're not allowed to contribute anything more than what an ordinary teacher should."

He chuckles. "Since when was I an ordinary teacher?"

"I'll stab you."

"Was the slap not enough? Or the tea attack, for that matter?"

I exert a little more pressure. "That depends."

Instead of wincing in pain or instructing me to cut it out, Jareth's face glows in a luminous thrill.

"Now this is the Sarah my memory evokes—extraordinarily dangerous. I've missed you."

"Hey," I demand, applying more pressure, "I mean it. No more change. You've done enough damage to my life."

"And you've done enough damage to my heart. It's a mess, Love, a sheer disaster. You've mangled the pieces and deserted me to bleed, as though to neglect my affection is an unobtrusive habit."

I snort and roll my eyes. "Yeah, whatever—"

"Let me back in," he interrupts me. "Remind me how it felt to peer into your mind and investigate your thoughts. To unravel each thread, piece by piece, and explore the woven array of—of—" Jareth pauses, "You." He then cocks his head, gazing down at me with a sort of perplexed look. "Do you think of me often, Sarah? Does the image of me flicker through your mind, or does it stray?" He leans in, my pencil still digging into his chest. "Tell me, what will it take to occupy your mind?"

"If I'm thinking of you, then you're pissing me off and I'm planning how to cause you pain."

"Well then, that's a good start." His eyes could've sparkled, but I'm not sure. "Sounds dirty."

"No, it's doesn't."

He pretends to pout and playfully stomps his foot. "You're no fun anymore."

"I grew up—something you should consider for yourself, Mr. Jones."

His confusion swivels. "Call me Jareth."

"No," I sternly instruct, "It's Mr. Jones now."

He stares at me.

"You can't call me that. Not you."

I shrug, like I'm not threatening his life with a pencil. "You're the one who strode in the classroom and introduced yourself as Mr. Jones. To me, you're nothing but the English teacher." I watch the dismay flicker in his eyes. "Not my problem."

Just as I turn to continue down the hall, his hands fly up and fasten around the pencil, less than a centimeter from my own. His grip tightens. "Take that back."

"No."

"Ms. Williams," he warns, "As your teacher, I hold superiority."

"So?"

"I insist you call me Jareth."

I'm compelled to release my hold; the approximately of our fingers is unsettling. But I'll lose the pencil if I pull away, and heaven knows what Jareth would do with it.

"Shut up, Mr. Jones. We both know the Labyrinth's long gone. You're in reality, now."

He dives in a step closer. "What did I say about self-denial?"

I feel myself smile up at him, enjoying the chagrin exposed from his eyes. There's also a smidge of delight, but I pretend it's not there. "I can't remember, Mr. Jones."

"Well then, I advise you take notes next time. To you," he murmurs, "I'll always be Jar—"

"Um, are we interrupting something?"

We whip our faces to the sound of the intruding voice.

Jamie and Ceylon stand beside us, experiencing a front row seat of our disdainful mocking. They don't agree on much, those two, but both their faces have settled on one thing: frazzled confusion. Their eyes flicker from Jareth to me, then back to Jareth and me again. Ceylon's mouth droops open a little.

"Uh, hey!" I chirp, wrenching my hands free and faltering backwards. Panicked, I give my pencil a last farewell look before flinging it over my shoulders. Everyone watches as it collides with the far wall. I hear the impact's smack and I jolt; goodbye, my dearest lucky pencil.

I watch Ceylon slam his mouth shut and Jamie furtively examine the lead mark on Jareth's shirt. Neither one of them has anything to say, and the tension looms above us like a heavy raincloud. Jareth, on the other hand, appears as though he's about to erupt into a roaring spasm of laughter. He crosses his arms, like the gesture will somehow conceal his amusement. It doesn't work—fails miserably, actually.

"I was just, uh, you know—"

"Assaulting Mr. Jones?"

Jamie's suggestion is direct and a little terrifying. My cheeks sear into singed coals. I rack my brain for words, any excuse that'll remotely bring logic to the situation.

"Um—"

Jareth interferes. "Correct, Jamie, your observation is impeccable."

A muteness hustles to follow and it's excruciating; Jamie won't stop penetrating her chilling stare into my face, and I'm thinking I'll crumple to the floor if I don't escape.

Jareth clears his throat, still wrestling to hide his laughter. "Quite frankly, I was just leaving. Pardon me while I—um—" he suffers a pause. "—teach English."

Our teacher slithers between Jamie and Ceylon, now bestowing a full smirk, and escapes up the stairwell. We watch as he promptly jogs up to the third floor, his chuckles muffled but still detectable.

"School ended ten minutes ago," Jamie points out.

Ceylon adds, "His classroom's on the first floor."

They turn to me slowly. I pretend to look riveted in my pair of shabby sneakers.

Finally, Ceylon disrupts the silence.

"He's so fucking weird."

Oh, I exhale, if only you knew.