Notes: You guys are, most seriously, absolutely lovely people. Thank you for the reviews! Feedback makes ze vurld go vound . . . especially when I'm fairly confident that you're all going to hate me by the end of this chapter.

CHAPTER TEN – In which girl (Jenny) does something stupid

Saturday, September 18th, 11:12 am

My only excuse is that it's his fault for laying siege to the women's bathroom down the hall from Kinthus's office.

(OhgodwhatdidIjustdo)

(I'manidiot)

I just finished writing that last sentence ("Obviously I was wrong.") – and was debating whether or not to sic Olivia's Rottweiler back home on Warren – when I heard a knock on the outside door. I maneuvered a little bit inside my stall, and it was enough to hear a muffled, "Monroe, stop sulking and get out of the damn bathroom."

Warren, of course. And I was not sulking.

"I'm not sulking!" I yelled. "Kindly go away."

Then there was a slam, a crash, and the feeling of claustrophobia swept over me – but ten times worse – and I almost fell into the toilet. I couldn't breath. The women's bathroom in the Biology building is actually a stall and a sink, and it was probably just a little bit smaller than the glass observation booth down in the lab.

But with no windows, one door, and a ventilation system that was probably updated when Nixon was president. Thank god Warren was making all that noise stepping inside, because I definitely didn't want to hear him remark on my breathlessness.

"Last time I checked, this was a women's bathroom," I tried to say, and failed to get out anything other than a shuddered wheeze. Even with the damn (locked) stall door between us, I knew exactly where he was, how his body was moving through the room.

"You've had an hour," he said, "to do whatever it is that you're doing in there, so get your ass out and back into Kinthus's office. The scientists want to tell us something."

"Go away," I said, fisting my hands and pushing my fingernails into my palms. Sitting as I was, there was absolutely nothing keeping me from unlocking the door and sliding next to him and putting my hand

"What did he say to you?" he asked abruptly, and there was a thump, like he dropped his head against the stall door. The little paltry plastic walls shook and reminded me that they were easy to get through, easy to get around.

"Nothing important," I said in a half-whisper, more because I couldn't get enough breath to speak than because I didn't want to say it. A paltry half-truth, true, but I considered it necessary for David's continual health. Why did he care, besides? David was free from my nefarious clutches, wasn't he? Wasn't that the important bit?

There was a second thump, and the rickety stall set-up trembled.

"Stop lying," he said. I could see the tips of his feet from where I was sitting. Black Converse, but dirty and old. Very Warren-like shoes, actually. They were peeking out from behind the slightly ratty hem of his dark jeans (and suddenly I could remember with remarkable clarity the image of him pulling his shirt over his head, jeans low on narrow hips). "It upset you," he said, and it took me a second to clear my mind enough to understand him.

"He just, ah," I said, paused and cleared my throat, "wanted to know why you were so concerned." It was the truth, but not really, and the silence stretched on and on and on and on and wait, he shuffled his Converse a little.

"What did you tell him?" he asked, and his voice was hoarser than usual. I had stood up and was pressing my palms against the door before I realized what I was doing. I stopped myself there.

"Ah," I said, stalling for time. "Ah, he, um, left before I could answer."

Leave, I was prodding him mentally, leave before I do something really, really stupid.

"Oh," said Warren, and I fell forward, letting my body push against the stall door.

"Why were you so concerned?" I asked.

The silence went on, but he never answered.

Then, finally, all he said was, "The scientists need to see us."

"Why were you so concerned?" I asked, fingertips on the little silver-colored knob that I could flick in a second and be out there, next to him, pressed to him.

"Get out of the stall, Jenny," he said, and even though a little bit of my brain was telling me that that was a very, very bad idea, the rest of it was all too happy to oblige, and in a half-second my fingers had flicked the latch and opened the door and he hadn't moved from where he was standing, with a hand on either side of the door, leaning forward with his head drooped down.

"Why?" I asked, and he was so very close that his head almost fell on my shoulder, and I reached out and very lightly touched the cartoon blimp on his t-shirt, and he didn't say anything except to lift his head up, and the muscles in his neck bunched and stretched very tightly, as if he was making a great effort to do something – or, I suppose, not to do something – and my other hand, fascinated by that, was tracing the line of his throat in a millisecond.

"Why?" I asked, and electricity was flooding through my fingertips.

"Why?" I asked, and his breathing, unsteady and loud, was right next to my ear.

"Why?" I asked, and I leaned forward just enough that I could put my lips on the jumping pulse under his ear.

It felt wonderful – his racing blood under my lips, the skin soft and smooth, the catch when my chapped lips found a dip – the sort of wonderful you never want to end. One touch, lips to neck, and I could see every step we would take after this, clearly written out on a path in front of me, delineated and marked and labeled and I wanted it just as much as I didn't.

"You have to stop because I can't," I think I might have said, I wanted to say, anyway, because this didn't seem entirely right, and I must've said it, because he stepped back, my lips kissed air, and I opened my eyes.

A foot away – though it felt father – he was looking at me with dark, angry, hooded eyes, and they definitely flickered from my lips back to the rest of my face, and he hesitated, inching forward, before he turned away and left the bathroom.

And here I sit, on the tile floor, knowing that I just did something so incredibly stupid, I doubt even Rolph can fix it. The look on his face when he left – a combination of anger and loathing and lust, yes, but mostly loathing, it seemed – and he must really, truly, honestly hate me for what I just did, especially considering how Missy put his heart through the ringer yesterday.

I am a bitch of the first order.

6:07 pm

The first thing I said when I walked into Magenta's dorm room was, "Kill me. Please."

Looking up from Great Expectations, she frowned. "Why?"

"I just did something greatly, incredibly stupid to Warren."

Layla, cross-legged on top of Magenta's desk, raised an eyebrow. "So it's Warren, now?" she asked, and I tried to ignore her, but I couldn't. I flopped onto Audrey's bed and burst into tears.

Three times. Three times he has made me cry.

I hate him.

"What's wrong?" cried Layla, throwing herself at me and giving me sympathetic hugs and pats on the head. "Are you all right? What happened with Warren? Did he try to roast you? It's a sign of affection, I swear!"

"Layla," said Magenta, "shut up."

Layla, looking moderately offended but still understanding, pulled back and flapped her hands. "I'll just – that is, I'll go get something?" She grinned somewhat maniacally. "Chocolate?"

I mumbled something that I hoped she took to be assent. She left.

"Thank god," said Magenta. "She doesn't shut up." She put down Dickens, shuddering minutely, and crossed tentatively to where I sat on Audrey's bed. "Er." She patted me on the shoulder before settling down and folding her legs under her. "Do you want to be alone?"

"N-n-no," I warbled.

We sat in silence.

"What happened?" she finally asked, after I'd calmed down and cleaned my nose and tried not to think about it.

"I sort of molested Warren Peace," I said, and the look she gave me was frank enough that I had to start over – from the very beginning, starting with the nosebleed and the awkward kiss I'd pressed on my best friend Jimmy in the middle of ninth grade English, and ending with the muscles bunched in his shoulder as he propped himself against the stall doorway. What is it with Magenta and me spilling my guts?

"Oh," she finally said.

"Yeah," I said, torn between blushing with embarrassment and self-flagellation for my mistake. "Have I mentioned lately that I'm an idiot?"

"Well," said Magenta, "a bit. But not much." She pulled her legs out from under her, folded them again, and crossed them at the ankle. "Have you heard about Will and Layla? Been in love since she made her lima beans grow in first grade, and they hooked up freshman year because they almost died. That doesn't really sound like a great relationship start, right? But they're all lovey-dovey all over the place now. It'd be sickening if it wasn't so cute." She wiggled. "And Zach's a total moron, but I love him anyway."

I tried to mask my disbelief. "Yes, but don't tell me your relationship started this screwed up." I paused. "Not that Warren and I, you know—"

Magenta's snort cut me off. "Please. You didn't know him two weeks ago, and you hated him one week ago. Now it's 'Warren' instead of 'Peace,' and you're jumping him in bathrooms." She raised an eyebrow. "David stopped seeing you because Warren's warm for your form enough to be threatening people."

I buried my head in my hands. "Don't remind me about David."

"Sorry," she said unsympathetically. "Frankly, I've known Peace for years, and even if he's not in love with you, he's definitely way interested. I was at the Madison, you know. Peace was glaring at Beanpole like he'd insulted his mother."

Rolph was another person I didn't really want to think about. "So you agree with David?"

"Peace left after the first set along with a bottle," continued Magenta. "They went without piano for the second." She grimaced. "It blew, of course," she said.

"Er," I said, frowning. "All right . . ."

"Point is," said Magenta, doing something with her leg that I didn't even know was possible, from a standpoint of flexibility of the human joints, "Warren likes you."

"If that was true," I said miserably, "he definitely doesn't any more."

7:11 pm

The woman at the cash register gave me the eyeball when I swiped my student ID for dinner. Three be-spectacled nerd types (not that I should be talking) were whispering about me behind my back when I went to grab a table in the back corner, with twenty pages of Econ text for company. My beef stroganoff is definitely staring at me.

How do they all know?!?

Because they do. All of them. I swear I've heard David's name at least ten times since I sat down at this damn table five minutes ago. We went out for coffee and a concert at the Madison. How do they all know? Why do they even care? I'm a puny freshman and he's a nerdy Econ graduate student!

That's it.

Screw the stroganoff (it's horrendous anyway, Jane's was so good it beat this one into the ground and flaunted its authority). Screw the nerd types. Screw the cash lady.

GAH.

7:23 pm

The trees outside are – surprisingly – empty. I suppose that could have something to do with it being late evening in the middle of September, and I just killed a mosquito the size of a bluebird. Ah, well, the trials and tribulations of being the newest campus gossip.

I thought that Hollywood made that crap up. I mean, Missy was usually the subject of nefarious rumors, but she's also one of the most powerful heroes this side of Gotham and looks like she should be on a Vogue centerfold. I thought this sort of stuff died out in high school.

Apparently not.

It's just – how could he have told them? I mean, did he also mention the little shocker he sprung on me afterwards? Are the nerd types eagerly exchanging hypotheses on the multiple meanings of the phrase "in love with you" over their burritos?

I may have zero to no experience when it comes to relationships of . . . well, just about any kind . . . but even I know that telling OBJECTIVE, OUTSIDE OBSERVERS about the inner workings of the Gory Break-Up is not nice. At all.

Could I have been completely wrong about David? Is he actually an unmitigated ass?

7:38 pm

He got the Julianne Kinthus Seal of Approval! The woman is a freaking human polygraph!

7:40 pm

OH MY GOD WHAT IF PEACE HEARS THIS?? What if he finds out that David thinks he's in love with me?

He's going to fucking roast me alive, that's what – especially combined with what happened in the bathroom earlier today. I'm surprised that Missy isn't already picking out my epitaph.

Speaking of which – why didn't he roast me earlier? I freaking sexually harassed him! If I were Warren Peace – and I thank every deity, living, dead, or undead, that I'm not – I would've slaughtered my ass. The janitors and Kinthus's unlucky graduate students would still be peeling bits of my blackened flesh off the ceiling of the women's bathroom, frankly.

Conclusion? I don't get men.

Sunday, September 19th, 2:11 am

Missy just called. She's under the apparent impression that Warren Peace and I are going out. She called to perform her duty as Jenny Monroe's More Responsible Younger Sibling, and basically tell me to scram out of her territory. Despite the fact that it's two in the morning and my sensory input is probably not the greatest, I'm about 98% sure she growled at me at one point.

Me: (groggy) Missy?

Missy: What the hell happened yesterday, Jenny?

Me: Wha? Missy, what time is it?

Missy: (voice low and angry) Tell me what the hell is going on!

Me: Er. What?

Missy: Stop trying to be witty, Jenny. Tell me the truth. You and Warren are going out, aren't you? That David guy was just a pretend thing.

Me: (choking on stray bits of oxygen) Sorry – what? Me? (squeaking pathetically) Warren Peace and I are not dating. Or having torrid affairs of any sort whatsoever.

Missy: Oh, really? Then what was the deal with Kinthus's lair?

Me: (realizing that it's two in the morning) You called me at two in the morning to have a heart-to-heart about Kinthus's testing procedure? Missy!

Olivia: (lump under covers) Monroe, if you do not take the family drama into the hall, I will cut you.

Me: Sorry, Liv. (Promptly moves outside. Hall is freaking freezing) I am not dating Warren Peace.

Missy: Then what was with the tearjerking? Are you trying to tell me that you didn't warn me off of him because you were upset?

Me: Of course I was upset. His heart was playing a Bach concerto.

Missy: I thought you hated him.

Me: He's been reasonable.

Missy: Warren Peace is never reasonable.

Me: I know that.

Missy: Are you sleeping with him?

Me: !!!!!

Missy: Well? Kinthus told me that you weren't reacting to other men anymore. We always thought that sex would straighten you out.

Me: (heroically smothering a screech of frustration) 'We?'

Missy: Mom and Dad.

Me: Missy, I can't believe you talked about me having sex. With our parents.

Missy: It's a bit hard to talk about you and not mention sex, Jennifer.

Me: Thanks, Melissa. Really.

Missy: Don't try to use sarcasm to worm your way out of this. You haven't given me an answer yet. You know, it isn't responsible of you to use him to take the edge off of the hypersensitivity, you know.

Me: I'm not!

Missy: How much time have you spent with him lately? Are you going through Kinthus's useless tests so that you can be cured – which is never going to happen, by the way – or because you want to spend time with him?

Me: (hangs up)

I am still in the hallway. I forgot my key and Olivia isn't answering the knock. No doubt she is punishing me for having a screaming match with my twin sister in the middle of the night.

I doubt she realizes that my sister just accused me of emotionally prostituting myself. I should probably be crying, considering how often the waterworks have been flowing lately, but I'm not feeling much of anything right now.

Except anger.

Yep. I am pretty freaking pissed off right now.

My twin sister just accused me of sleeping with Warren Peace. Missy, who spent most of elementary and middle school teaching me how to spell properly; she brought me back Crab Rangoon every time she went out to the Paper Lantern with friends; she leant me her Sky High textbooks so I'd know at least something about the society my parents had banned me from (god, am I melodramatic or am I melodramatic?).

For a long time, Missy was my only connection to the outside world.

I can't believe she'd accuse me of something like this. Doesn't she know me at all? Doesn't she know that I'll probably die a virgin and alone and tired and lost and AARGH I JUST WISH THAT SOMEONE WOULD UNDERSTAND and the nerd types in the cafeteria would stop speculating about my dating prospects and that David didn't hate me and that Warren doesn't want to kill me and that I actually finished my Calculus problems for class on Friday, rather than being chewed out by the professor, who hates me and (bizarrely) adores the ground that Magenta walks on.

Not that Magenta isn't nice. She's just anti-social.

Fuck. Now I'm crying.

5:34 am

Rolph is amazing. She doesn't deserve to have a son as bipolar and awkward as Warren Peace. I am more than half in love with her right now.

(And she makes the most amazing hot chocolate in the world. For real.)

When I showed up at her door, I expected a polite pat on the head and maybe the chance to crash on her couch. I did not expect hot chocolate and cookies and her to sit with me and talk about my problems . . . WHY COULDN'T ROLPH HAVE BEEN MY MOTHER??

8:02 am

I just . . .

WHAT???

8:04 am

Okay. Okay. I'm fine. I'm cool. I'm . . .

FUCKING FREAKING OUT, THAT'S WHAT!!!!

(!!!!)

So that's why he's been doing all of this, letting me kiss his neck and threatening David and being a total bastard and thinking that I was a dream yesterday when I went to his room and the weird arm slung out across his bed like it was waiting for someone and the muttered comments and why everyone thinks he's in love with me and why his heart was like the third track off a Green Day album when I was crying.

It all makes sense now.

Of a sort.

I've been affecting him with my hypersensitivity. He's attracted to me too.

He doesn't love me. I doubt he even really likes me. He just wants to fuck me.

There is ZERO AFFECTION WHATSOEVER between us. He doesn't really care about me at all. It's all because of my fucking genes.

I hate him. I hate myself.

And as the melodramatic theme music swells . . .

Right, so you all probably hate me and/or are very confused right now. Believe it or not, there is a method to my madness. Of course, that doesn't make reading any of your theories any less interesting--what are your thoughts on the current Jenny/Peace dynamic? Is it forever ruined?