A/N: Another long chapter! First of all, I feel like I need to apologize for the last chapter. I forgot to put in a few line breaks, which could've caused some confusion. I will go back and fix those. Which brings me to my next topic. As of now, I have gone back and looked through some of the chapter, editing them in the process. Nothing has been changed on this site, but will soon. Timing and wording problems have been fixed. Some of the biggest changes take place in Chapter 7, in Falcone's and Ames' convo. Also, Sarah Garland looks like Veronica Lake, not Jayne Mansfield. The incident with Ames' father actually took place five and a half years ago, but for some reason I keep rounding it up to six.

Hmm. Ames' future. I'll need to firmly tell you of a few things. Ames will change when she's older, but she will change because of men, not for them. She will NOT develop another personality, she will NOT be an intern at Arkham, and she will NOT become Scarecrow's henchgirl. While all are good plot points, I feel that they have been overused to the point of extinction.

My favorite movie series (apart from Batman) has to be the Transformers series. Pirates of the Caribbean and the Hannibal Lecter series are extremely close seconds. Lord of the Rings comes in third.

I now have the links to the photos of Ames' present and future selves up on my profile for comparison. Refer to the note in Chapter 9. These are simply to give you an idea of her appearance.

Thanks to My Purple Skies, anonymous reviewer, Personna Dilema, Silential, finishyourtea, DigThatManiac, LittleMissAngel, Arlena4815162342, SladeRavenFan, Starrycat05, Comidia Del Arte, and thexdarkestxnightsx for the reviews! You guys are simply FANTASTIC!

Also, thanks to thexdarkestxnightsx for introducing me to "The Bird and the Worm" by The Used. It's SCARY how well this describes Crane. CHECK IT OUT!

Disclaimer: I own nothing. So you just go on your merry way.

Chapter Ten: Men in Black

Maybe I'm the one, maybe I'm the one

Who is the schizophrenic psycho, yeah.

Maybe I'm the one, maybe I'm the one

Who is the paranoid Flake-oh.

~Puddle of Mudd, Psycho

"Mr. Burgess! I have a song!" I shout upon bursting into chorus class the next day. Our chorus teacher, a small mousy man with a big voice, looks up at me and smiles wearily while the rest of the class stares, scowls, or laughs. I need to quit making a spectacle of myself.

Wearing his customary gray suit, Mr. Burgess holds out his hand to me. "Well, let's see it." At my pause, he palms himself in the face and booms, "I need the sheet music."

I gawk at him like a stoned idiot. And swallow. I finally feel like I've been put on the spot. "Um…I—er—heard it on the radio," I mumble, eyes downcast. I had known I wasn't going to use piano accompaniment, but I feel oddly guilty about not wanting it. Mr. Burgess is such a…classical person. And he's looking at me with sad, disappointed eyes; I think he's going to cry. But I stay silent, unchanging. I will not switch for anyone. I will be doing Chris Issak's "Wicked Game."

I despise Wednesdays. So close to the end of the week, but yet so far.

Mr. Burgess gives up and slumps in his piano seat. "I know your taste in music, Ames. I'm disappointed." More shaking of his white-haired head. "But do what you will." His loud voice quiets, and he turns his attention to the rest of the class as I shamefully take my seat, grimacing. "Scales, please."

While we sing, I mouth the words, and instead reminisce. All I can think about is the growing distance between me and my mom…and then Jonathan. Unfortunately. I can't believe I'd actually spied on him. Spied on him! That should not have happened. But I'd had the strange compulsion to see his reaction to my responding note. Had it been worth lying in a ditch for fifteen minutes? Maybe; maybe not. A smirk. What does a smirk mean?

I had lain in the ditch for a while after Jonathan started to head back, wondering at what I'd seen and what it meant. I shouldn't care; I really shouldn't. But I'll be the first to admit that I do. But I don't want to. Happily, I am getting the vibe that by standing up for him (even if not publicly) and helping him out, I'm becoming a better person and making the world a better place. Tapping my fingers against my knee, I make a final decision. This thing, whatever it is, will not extend past high school. Maybe, just maybe, through the summer after graduation. I can't get attached or extremely close to Jonathan because when he goes off to college at Yale or Princeton or Harvard or wherever, I won't see him again for the rest of my life. He'd be my only friend throughout my last two years of high school. And then I'd lose him.

Now I'm depressed. There's a feeling of loss here, too. Jonathan will never experience any sort of friendship or companionship toward me. Cold, unfeeling bastard. Twerp. Queer. There. I'm done venting now. And I feel bad. Really, I have no control over my temper; so, I'm unfairly being a jerk. My self-righteous anger dissipates.

I really need to converse with Jonathan. Things need to be sorted out. We, no matter how awkward it may be, need to talk this over. Earlier this school year, if you would've told me this would happen, I would've laughed it off and continued following Summer around like a lost puppy. I guess I've changed a little. As uncomfortable as I am, we have a lot to discuss, us two. We've already been involved enough that neither of our reputations will go uphill from here. Why avoid it?

In Art, I scribble doodles and get nothing accomplished. In Spanish, I finish all our assigned work and sit there bored for what are only minutes, but what seem like hours. Surprisingly, only a day after the gossip about Jonathan and me got out, it's already starting to fade out of existence, replaced by someone else's traumatic experiences. Sure, I get giggled and glared at and whispered about, but it's nothing I can't handle.

The bell rings. Eager for lunch, I shoot out of my seat. But when I am just so close, when I'm about halfway out the door, Paul Rubin's greasy hand latches onto my forearm. Knowing who it is without even having to look back over my shoulder, I stumble farther out into the hallway so I can have more room to kick his scrawny, creeper ass, dragging him behind me. No one stops to help me out.

"Let me the hell go!" I hiss venomously through my teeth. I finally pry his filthy fingers away from my appendage with a surprisingly feminine grunt. That dark something inside of me, which I haven't felt for a while, is on edge, threatening to emerge.

"We'll go steady someday, Ames." His lisping voice floats behind me, guaranteeing a very thorough haunting of my nightmares. This is the first major confrontation I've had with Paul since last week. I say this with complete seriousness: he is one of the few human beings in this world I want to kill. Falcone and the Mob are at the top of my hit list, by the way. I swear Paul is next.

My sixth sense detects a pair of eyes on the back of my neck, so as I'm running away from Paul, I'm forced to turn back and look over my shoulder, back in Paul's direction. He shows his yellowing teeth to me, and I shudder. He probably thinks I'm looking back at him. But he wasn't the one I'd felt watching me.

Regardless of the fact that I can't see anyone, I break out into gooseflesh. "It's nothing. No one," I assure myself before heading into the lunchroom. But now that and Paul will haunt me.

I decide to chance the lunch today. Though it's a pile of gray mush, the tater tot casserole smells decent, even if it doesn't look appealing. When I order, Ursula glares at me. I hope she doesn't slip worms into my particular serving or anything. Nothing (that I'm aware of) has happened to the chefs because of my food poisoning incident, but there isn't a doubt in the world they've heard about it. I now have school lunchroom workers as my enemies.

Just like everyday now, I walk past the tables belonging to the jocks and popular girls without sparing them a glance. I am free of them, but they still take notice. I'm making myself more enemies. But hopefully, I have an ally.

Jonathan is sitting at the usual table placed by the front doors. But there is still no sunshine to bask in today. Stopping in place for a few, I allow a brief wave of relief to wash over me. He's okay. Even though I had gathered that information from "stalking" him yesterday, it's good to actually see it. And be able to interact with it.

When I get a little closer, I pause again and take time to observe him. The first thing I notice is that Jonathan has books piled around him, thick, complicated-looking, old tomes. He's studying. It's the first time I've ever seen him do it in public. Something big must be coming up. The second thing I notice, however, is a new bruise on his face. I sigh and scowl in disgust. Typical Geraldine.

Realizing that I'm staring at Jonathan like I'm his secret admirer, I snap myself out of it and continue toward him. He doesn't raise his head as I approach the table, so I stand there nervously for a bit, biting my lip. I finally decide to speak. "I won't even say what the tater tot casserole looks like," I comment, gagging at the twin pile of gray-brown mush on Jonathan's tray. I immediately wonder if I should've kept my mouth shut and let him continue studying.

Crane's head snaps up in irritation, mouth open to retort with something snarky and cool. To my surprise, when he sees that it's me and not some mindless bully, he closes it and his moody expression lightens. A little, but not much. He shuts his thicker-than-a-cement-block book and turns his bright gaze to the meal on his tray, pondering it with almost pursed lips.

"They have stripped it of its dignity," he replies, agreeing with me.

Is he…amused? And not turning me away? Holy cow. He seems almost…friendly. But I've interrupted his studying. Shouldn't I be dead by now?

As he notices me hovering over the table awkwardly, Jonathan pushes his huge glasses up his aquiline nose and nods at one of the chairs across from him. "Well, you're permitted to sit."

I do, careful to keep my lunch away from his books. We can both feel it; there is a mutual understanding between us now and a discussion that needs to take place. But I won't approach it quite yet. Instead, I daringly seize one of the giant books and drag it toward me. When Jonathan doesn't say anything or attempt to rescue it or even twitch in annoyance, I begin flipping through the thick pages, scanning words and not comprehending any information. I give up at page 742, closing it and reading the gold lettering on the red cover instead.

"Fear: A Study of the Phobias," I read aloud, completely baffled. "What are all these for? Are tests or exams coming up that I spaced off?"

"Just a little light reading," Jonathan replies, still absorbing one of the other books. But I see a temporary spasm in his upper lip. A twitch of annoyance? Or a twitch of amusement? He's inwardly laughing at me. Can he laugh?

I just stare dumbly at all the gargantuan books surrounding us in piles. He reads these for fun? Holy brains. "Light reading. Yeah," I mutter disbelievingly. Another mouth-twitch. No doubt Crane loves his superior intelligence over the rest of us lowly beings. Eh. I guess I would, too. But he's taking notes over the pages!

I crane my head to the side so I can see the title on the spine of the brown leather-bound book he's currently fixated on. The Complete Guide to Psychopharmacology. My brain explodes upon seeing the word. "Psycho…pharma—what?"

Crane looks up at me in an almost knowing way. "Perhaps you should read it," he suggests smoothly, logically. I blush and pick at my food with my fork.

What's wrong with him? No irritation at my questions and interruptions? No overly superior attitude? Does he finally understand that I won't turn against him and that I'm standing up for him because I want to? Helping him? Can returning someone's keys really have that big of an impact? Of course, I'm probably the only female who's ever treated him with respect. The teachers haven't, girls my age certainly don't, his grandmother abuses him, and his mother…possibly abandoned him, from what I've heard.

The only thing that's changed is that he's being slightly nicer to me. He's not turning into a sap or anything. I don't know if he's really warming up to me or not. It could all be another façade.

I push the huge book away from me. "No leo libros largos," I say to Jonathan, switching to Spanish.

Now, I have his attention. He shuts his book, raises an eyebrow, and leans his pale chin on his delicate, long-fingered hand, blue eyes flashing with interest and cold politeness. "Pardon me?"

I repeat it, and Jonathan, again, stares at me, acne-ridden brow furrowing in confusion and his overlong hair covering his eyes. I hold his bug-eyed gaze. Then it hits me. Jonathan doesn't speak Spanish. Oh, fun! I smile wickedly in spite of myself, shoving my casserole away from me.

"¿No hablas español? ¡Madre de Díos!" I laugh inwardly, noting Jonathan's continuingly darkening expression. He hates it when people know things he doesn't. I hate to say it, but he's fun to irritate. Another frown from him, this time accompanied with a tilt of his head. I push my luck and ask him another pointless question. "¿Por que? No comprendo."

"I suggest you stop while you're ahead." The new cold tone to his startlingly mature voice makes me shut up. I'd been speaking very simple Spanish, but it's clear he hadn't gotten any of it. Well, I'm definitely not winning any favors with him any time soon.

I've reverted back to being a bully of sorts, getting carried away with the knowledge of having learned something he hasn't. With Crane analyzing and observing, I wince and palm myself in the face, groaning. "I'm sorry; that was uncalled for," I apologize, unable to look at him and not expecting any brand of forgiveness. I peek through my fingers to see him anyway.

He thinks I'm not looking at him, and so I see his offended expression visibly soften, not quite forgiving. All he usually does is smirk and sneer but…he might possibly be trusting me? Is that possible? He knows I never stood up for him in middle school. Why change his opinion of me and try not to take offense?

His voice makes me uncover my face. "Ames, it's perfectly acceptable to have knowledge and to share it. But flaunting it is unnecessary." I pick at my food uncomfortably and grumpily. Hmph. He's one to talk. Well…he does hide his smarts most of the time, but he does show off when he's spoken to directly. He lets you know that he'll have a full-ride scholarship to a prestigious school someday.

It's that information alone that causes me to reply with, "I guess you're rubbing off on me." Not completely the truth (but mostly), but I had to say it.

His smug smirk is back, to my surprise. Crane ignores the double-meaning and doesn't draw wrong conclusions from the remark. He looks pleased.

Oh boy.

Preparing to ruin the light mood, I finally get the guts to tell him, "Speaking of which…" I trail off, unsure of how to proceed when he snaps his laser eyes to my face. Ok. I'll just come out with it. If there's one thing Crane would hate, I'm sure it'd be beating around the bush. I sigh, and the rest of the sentence comes out in a whoosh of breath. "We have something to talk about that I've been putting off so far." There.

Shocking me again, Jonathan nods in mutual agreement and folds his hands on top of one of the giant books, already settling into a comfortable, therapist-like position as if he knows this'll be a long discussion. After I freeze up again, he gestures at me with a small, scratched hand. "Well?"

Is he really willing to listen to me? This is the most unlikely thing that's ever happened to me. I never would've thought I'd be having this conversation with Jonathan Crane, but I guess stuff surprises us.

"Um…" I still struggle with where to begin this talk. I can't believe Crane hasn't up and left yet, with all my stuttering and bumbling. But he sits there calmly, with a cool exterior and waits with strained patience. There's a lot I'd like to start with: would he be my friend, where had he been yesterday, his keys, etc. We'll cover them all in due time, I suppose. Hopefully within the lunch period. Any other time, and I might forget all the preguntas rocketing and careening around inside my cranium.

Also, those electric eyes, magnified tenfold by those glasses, make thinking straight while under scrutiny very difficult.

At long last, I decide to open with the notes we've exchanged. "So, about your note—"

Crane cuts me off with a raised finger, and a quizzical expression crosses his sharp features. "What note?" His fluid voice is lightly confused.

Time stops for me as I look at Jonathan with wide eyes, heart sputtering to a stop. Wait. What? Wha—? No note? From him? Aw hell. Wha—?

Ohshit.

I begin to panic. Jonathan sees my stressed expression and smirks. "Joking," he all but sneers knowingly.

I blink. And shoot him a dirty look as it finally sets in. "Ha ha."

It's the first time I've ever seen him smile, even if it is a smug, triumphant one. It's not even that wide or big of a smile, but it's a smile. He fooled me, the trickster! I have to grudgingly admit to myself that he is a better actor than I thought. He successfully led me to believe I'd imagined the whole note exchange.

Damn. Now I look like an idiot. I turn crimson again. "Very funny," I tell him sarcastically. I guess I'd deserved it for flaunting my Spanish-speaking talents. They say revenge is sweet. Talk about a heart attack.

"We both understand what the purpose of those were," Jonathan finally tells me. He returns to his books, scribbling down a few more notes. "Though, I have to say my handwriting is much better than yours."

I ignore the jab, refusing to enter into an unwinnable argument. I let him win. The old, smug Jonathan isn't completely gone; he's just more open to conversation and occasionally lets his know-it-all, wry humor peep through. I can live with it.

"Ames, why are you being amiable to me?" Jonathan questions unemotionally, bored. Wow. He just comes right out with it, doesn't he? He closes his book again and pinches the bridge of his nose. Something is creeping past his cold armor; he's frustrated with me, perplexed.

I'm the only human being he can't figure out. And he hates it.

My head sags. "I'm not sure myself. Last week I had…an epiphany." It's the closest I've come to actually defining it. I wait for his reaction.

Jonathan purses his full lips and points a finger at me. "Explain." So authoritative.

The only way to solve this is to let most of my inner thoughts dribble out. It's nothing I really want to do, but Jonathan needs to know. If we're going to pursue this buddy system.

"Well, one day last week, it really hit me how sick I was of trying to be someone I'm not. A part of the popular crowd. I saw what I'd have to become to be one of them, and then I realized that they are headed for nothing in their futures. They'll be flipping burgers for the rest of their lives." I don't know if Crane's buying any of this, but I spot him trying to fight off another infuriating smile.

He puts me on the spot. "But why choose me to help?" he inquires. "Surely I'm not the only one in this school. I wasn't the only option." Jonathan leans forward. "Why me? You ignored me in middle school. Even joined in. Why now?"

Something I'd never though I'd have to tell him. I look away again, focusing on the cover of Hallucinogens and How They Affect Your Brain. I'm still not sure if Crane hates me or not. But this is almost embarrassing for me to admit, with so much guilt over my inaction. I nearly whisper, "I finally noticed you, a victim of torment. You were so mature, so unconcerned with silly things like popularity. You were unaffected, and you know what you want in life. You have direction and knowledge." I pause long enough to breathe, still not looking at him. Without a doubt, that single paragraph is the most I've ever spoken to him directly in my life so far. "I admired that. I do."

Crane looks at me with an unfathomable expression. He's so very good at throwing up a wall and showing nothing. He could've made a fantastic Vulcan. It's almost as if he doesn't seem quite ready to believe what I'm saying. And I can't find any reason to blame him. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. And you're my neighbor, so I know more about your, uh, problems, than anyone else. And I won't say a work about them, like you told me not to." I eventually get the courage to meet him full on in his blue eyes. Light reflects off the lenses of his thick glasses, still taped down the middle. The fresh bruise near his nose stands out on his pale skin, purple against white. I don't dare tell Crane that I feel sorry for him; that I feel sympathy and pity. "That's really all," I finish, lamely lying to his face.

God, I'm such a loser.

Jonathan unfolds his hands and drums his fingers against the book in front of him. He clears his throat and states pointedly, "You returned my keys to me. I'm still baffled at how you escaped my notice in doing so. Even more so over why you seem to care about my well-being as much as you do."

Ok, I either hate his intelligence, or I admire it. Right now I despise it, and I get increasingly exasperated, giving up and giving in. "Look, Jonathan, it's not anything that can be logically explained. Believe it or not, your intelligence level does have some cons. Not everything has to be solved or reasoned."

I've just told him off. I sure know how to score points with the right people, don't I? But I add, "I think you should leave it alone. I've done everything I can to help you understand how my brain works."

As he surprises me for the umpteenth time that day, Crane takes my suggestion into consideration, not dismissing it, certainly not something he would've ever done before. He lets it go and sighs softly, inhaling lightly after. "Very well. Let us leave it at that while I attempt to comprehend your jumbled thinking." Enough with the smirking already! How does he manage to turn every response into some sort of insult?

I try to set him straight again, with one of the most original and wise quotes I've ever dreamt up tumbling out of my mouth. "You understand the human mind, Jonathan. You don't understand the human heart."

Even Crane cannot concoct a response to that.

I become very daring, already past the point of no return. "None of this—high school—will matter when we go in for job interviews in five years." I cough uncomfortably, rambling. "What I really mean is…I'm willing to side with you against the bastards and bitches." Then I realize what I've just uttered as Crane's eyes widen in mild surprise.

Clapping a hand over my flapping and fricking stupid mouth, I blush harder and become very flustered. "I—er—sorry. Um…yeeaaah." Speaking my mind aloud to Crane does not include revealing my most innermost thoughts to him! Idiot, moron, imbecile…not to mention my choice of language had been extremely inappropriate. I'm permanently mortified.

Oh geez…oh man…

And there, emerging from Crane's slim throat, is the sound of an amused chuckle. My jaw hits the floor. Crane adjusts his glasses, still snickering. He sure does love to ridicule me. But it's the first laugh I've ever heard from him. I am making progress!

I didn't even know he could laugh.

"I admit that you are amusing." So I'm merely a form of entertainment? Figures, I guess. Pffft. He's still chuckling, not even trying to cover or hide it.

I need to distract him from this or I'll never hear the end of it. Justifying my crude terms for the bullies in our high school, I mumble, "Well, the keys and notes showed it."

"If you say so." His only humor comes out of making fun of me.

I fold my arms onto the cool lunch table and lean forward, noticing that Jonathan, too, has abandoned his food. I bite my lip, frowning. "Speaking of which…we should've been having this conversation yesterday." I cock my head to the side. "Why were you gone? Why was it so quiet last night?"

"Grandmother is ill," he simply states, sounding immensely unconcerned. "I left early to attend to her." How can he be fighting off happiness like I currently am?

I gawk at him disbelievingly. "Wait, you're taking care of her? After what she's done to you? The witch deserves to die." I can't believe I've said that out loud, either.

More suppressed amusement from Crane. "Well, if I didn't, she threatened to tell the authorities I'd poisoned her." He fingers the bruise on his face.

"Ah."

"I'll admit that the thought did cross my mind," Jonathan drawls, taking a darker turn and becoming guarded and withdrawn again. Um, which thought? The one about not taking care of old Geraldine or…

Oh, Jesus, no. Please no.

I'm becoming more aware of just how much Jonathan hates his grandmother. I didn't know he could feel emotion that deeply, and I have no idea what their past history is, but it can't be all butterflies and rainbows. One moment, Jonathan's joking with (or at) me and slowly letting me in, inch by inch. The next, he's throwing up shields, stuck in his own arrogance and sense of spoiled self-righteousness, and shutting the world out. Poor kid.

I weakly close my eyes and finally, at last, offer him, "I'm so sorry for whatever's happened and is happening to you." It's the best I can do. But at least I mean it. I hope I'm not being mistaken as a lovesick teenager.

Jonathan snorts. "I don't need your pity," he instructs me icily.

Now I'm making no process at all. I do have one thing left, though. One last hope. One more thing to try. This question…the predicted answer to it doesn't look to be the one I want, but there's no harm in trying.

As Jonathan stares moodily out the glass front doors and into the drab grayness, I chew on a fingernail nervously. Why am I being so nice? …Why do I keep asking myself that question? I already know.

"I need to ask you something," I manage to squeak out.

Jonathan focuses on me and mimics my position. Leaning forward, arms folded on the table in front of him. Waiting. He doesn't like being questioned.

I swallow. Here we go.

"Can we be friends?" I ask softly, stretching out my arm across the table for a handshake.

Jonathan goes into shock. He freezes and stares at my hand with a horrified expression. I force myself not to waver under his icy glaring and fix the look of utmost sincerity on my face. I will not back down, not now. Not even if someone cuts off my toes and feeds them to llamas.

This is one of the first times I've ever seen Jonathan's composure break. He has turned the most curious shade of red, from his hands to his face and neck peeping out of the sweater worn over the tie and collared shirt. A blush or stress? Stress, I decide. Jonathan is not the type to blush. The heavy silence still ensues.

He's been avoided and treated like shit for so long, the idea of another human being, a girl nonetheless, wanting to be more than an acquaintance is incomprehensible. He's not sure how to respond, folding his arms across his chest and pushing up his glasses. I'm starting to get a little unsure; seeing Jonathan so undecided makes me uncomfortable. But damn it, I stay put.

Five minutes I stay there. Five minutes. I even count it out to 300 seconds exactly, and my arm is slowly beginning to die; I'm not sure how much longer I can keep it there. A sledgehammer couldn't have shattered the tension between us. All we do is eyeball each other, with my arm sticking out awkwardly between us. Crane's in a dark mood at the moment, a very dark mood. Has he even touched another human before?

My stubbornness pays off. At the end of those five minutes, Jonathan begins to move, though this is the most hesitant, the most unsure I've ever seen him. He must've finally believed my sincerity. We lock gazes and stare each other down as Crane slowly extends his own arm toward me. Neither of us blinks or breathes as he finally grasps my hand.

VICTORY! TRIUMPH! Finally, a handshake! And after all the times he's turned one down. Twice, to be exact. And I have a new friend, as corny as it sounds. The sane part of my mind still wonders why I'm doing this.

Crane's hand is small and elegant, with long, tapered fingers that would be excellent for playing the piano. Surprisingly smooth, cold, and fragile, for a boy's hand. Exactly like it had looked. Comparing our two appendages gripping each other, I note that my meaty hand could definitely crush his fine-boned one.

We shake; once, twice. Not the wary handshake I'd been expecting, but a firm one, resounding with both caution and finality. When we let go, Jonathan is calm again. His clear eyes are now void of any earlier turmoil. Still, I can't resist breaking out into an idiotically wide smile. A friend. I have an official friend. Things will be so much easier between us now.

Openly, Jonathan rolls his eyes. "Do not count on it," he warns me. "This is temporary."

Yes, I know that. So I simply nod at him, still grinning and unable to speak for some reason. Just happy for now. On cue, the bell rings, ending our lunch period. Ending all eyes (that I've been feeling the WHOLE time) focusing on us. Everyone saw that. This'll do nothing to help the rumors, bound to start afresh tomorrow. Oh well, I think, suddenly finding myself unable to care. I'm above them.

Jonathan begins stacking his heavy, "light reading" books up in his arms, preparing to leave. All the red has faded from him, and he's composed again. I do feel a little better about that. Things are going to be so much easier. But I do have one last request.

I clear my throat. "Um, wait. Jonathan?"

"Yes?" he asks evenly, looking up from his organizing.

"If anything's ever wrong and you don't want to talk about it, leave a note in my mailbox."

The ghost of a smirk as he turns away. "Perhaps I will."

Again, I have a mood change that night. And again, I make another stupid move. I cut work, not able to tell Mr. Sorvino that I'm quitting. I'll do it on Friday. I just won't show up today or tomorrow, causing him to think I'm probably sick again.

That isn't my stupid move, however. After school, I'd run home and grabbed a dark, oversized hooded sweatshirt and a pair of baggy, nearly destroyed jeans. I'm now wearing them, my disguise. Mom hadn't been home to ask questions about what I'm going to do. I don't have any other reason for doing this, other than curiosity. Maybe it's the thrill of taking the risk. Maybe asking Jonathan to be my friend has given me a certain dumb, reckless boldness.

What's my stupid move? Well, I'm going to explore the Narrows. Me, a bad-tempered, scared, hurt seventeen-year-old girl, is going to start the hunt for Falcone. I need to start taking down the Mob.

Oh, I know I won't accomplish anything other than getting myself killed in some stupid way, but I find myself unable to summon up any concern over that fact. Honestly, I won't be able to do much other than that and gathering information. I know that deep down in my heart, I can never kill anybody. Not unless I'm given really good incentive. Which Falcone has, I suppose.

I pat the pocket of my sweatshirt, feeling the outline of the butcher's knife I'd snatched from our kitchen before taking off. If anyone tries to hurt me…

"…you're toast," I say aloud. Well, at least I'd handicap them enough for me to run away.

I park my pickup on the same street that Wonderland is on. The junction where Gotham either stays fancy or turns into trash. I don't park at Wonderland; I go a little farther down the street, to a casino/strip joint called Fever. This nightclub has been the entertainment boast of many of the boys in my class. It's active, now that it's 8 o'clock. I see multicolored, pulsing lights flying through the windows and new techno music pounding noisily through the streets. I roll my eyes, opening my driver's side door. Disappointing.

The gas-lit streetlamps give everything a ghostly orange glow. And the sky is black. I must be suicidal, walking through the Narrows at night, even if I'm just ambling around the outskirts. But if I'd ever felt creeped out by this place before, I feel a little more at home now. More comfortable. This is a fitting place for the black moods that seem to be popping up inside me more and more frequently. I feel…one with the night, with the crazies and criminals stalking the streets. I stalk along with them, pulling the hood over my head and sticking my hands in the sweatshirt's pocket, gently brushing the knife. The hood shadows my face. With the height I have and my broad shoulders, I can easily pass for a guy.

So, with increasing calmness, I stroll down cracked sidewalks, occasionally nodding to the odd, demented, shady-looking passerby. But generally, I just act very gruff and unfriendly. Thank whoever is up there for small talents. And because I'm bigger, no one approaches me.

As I walk, I kick beer cans and shattered bottles aside with my sneakers, keeping my hands in my pocket and on the handle of knife. I remember back to what Mr. Spade said during American History today. We aren't reading The Crucible until Friday. What crap! I've been looking forward to it so much…

I start feeling a little jumpy. Unavoidable. This place reeks, it's dark, and I'm getting sick of brushing aside ragged hobos who keep asking for money or drugs. "Got nuthin'," I respond roughly. This isn't even the worst of the Narrows; I dare not go any deeper in.

It's when I pass the old, destroyed grocery store, however, that I realize I've wandered to the same dank area of the Narrows as from a while back. I stop in the middle of the street. I'm not worried about cars hitting me. It's almost as if no one drives a car down here. No danger there. I think. Why do I take dumb actions? I haven't discovered anything useful tonight. Can I make it out alive?

I have a heart attack as two objects literally streak from an alley and stop in the middle of the road. They stare at me and my heart stops.

Holy shit. Was that a sword?

I've only got about three seconds to spare, but I see that they're smaller figures, dressed completely in tight black clothing. And they're fast little buggers, whoever or whatever they are.

Great. Gotham's being attacked by ninjas.

I frown. Something to investigate. And before I can blink, the figures take off.

"Hey!" I yell, and run after them. But they're gone. I wonder at my stupidity, trying to chase down things that are in possession of swords as long as my arm. I walk over to the alley they disappeared down and stare into the darkness. Nothing.

But a rat comes skittering out. A mutant one roughly the size of a tomcat. And it doesn't foam at the mouth and gnaw off my foot below the ankle like I'd expected it to. It simply darts between my feet and vanishes into some other garbage heap.

Once my heart stops galloping around in my chest like a racehorse gone wild, I scratch my head and briefly wonder what else this city's coming to.

A/N: Okay, first of all, who went to see In Time? Though not a great movie, it certainly was a fun ride and really gets you thinking. Of course, I only went to see it not because of Justin Timberlake, but because of Cillian Murphy. I and my friend, whom I led to become obsessed with Cillian through only Batman Begins and Red Eye, would literally "SQUEEEEEEEE!" whenever he came on screen. But it was okay, seeing that we were only two of four people in the movie theater. He did a fantastic job, and really was the only one who carried the movie. Mmmm, that black leather coat…

So who else heard the Cillian may be in The Dark Knight Rises? I'm going to assume so, being seen on set and all. Plus, there's a video up of him being coy about answering to that particular question. Totally avoids it. SO WHO'S EXCITED? Pray, people. PRAY!

Question of the Day: What word or phrase bugs the hell out of you?

More Crucible next chapter. Also, school gets boring to write about. HELP!

Let me know what you think!