A/N: A MERRY LATE CHRISTMAS TO ALL!

I LOVE TOM HIDDLESTON! Gah, just thought I'd gush about him quick. What a beautiful, intelligent, kind man... Can you believe he put on 20 or more pounds of muscle for Thor? Suits him well, dontcha think? But they made him lose it all. He tried out for that part first, and did a screen test. But then was cast as Loki. I'm glad ;) SO perfect. Can't wait to see The Deep, Blue Sea!

I've been feeling incredibly lazy lately. What the heck is Christmas vacation doing to me?

So as you can all see, this chapter is quite a bit shorter than the others. I thought I'd give you a break. Because the next few, I can feel, are going to be LONG. This is really more of a FILLER chapter, I'll just say that right now.

Secondly, my reaction to The Dark Knight Rises theatrical trailer. Let's just say, when it came on in theaters (the LAST one shown; I was getting all jumpy for a while), I started shaking. Then I put both hands over my mouth and bawled like a baby. And it continued for about three minutes afterward.

My favorite TV series have got to be Walking Dead, Heroes, Batman: The Animated Series, LOST, American Horror Story, and Teen Titans. Plus a dozen other I can't think of at the moment.

Thanks to gunBunny, Poekie, thexdarkestxnightsx, NikonFit, AylaAbbs, vampheart410, itspeanutbutterjellytimex3, pourquoibella, SheWhoDreamsByDarkness-x, Silential, Arlena4815162342, LittleMissAngel, Comidia Del Arte, and Wafia Primo for the reviews! THANKS FOR ADDING TO FAVES/ALERTS! :D

Okay, on to the story.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything. Goddamnit! Give me a break and go take a nap. Maybe I should take one so I own things in my dreams.

Chapter Fourteen: Sour Grapes

Come senators, congressmen, please heed the call.

Don't stand in the doorway, don't block up the hall.

For he that gets hurt will be he who has stalled.

There's a battle outside ragin'.

It'll soon shake your windows and rattle your walls.

For the times, they are a-changin'.

~Bob Dylan, The Times They Are A-Changin'

A dream for the third night in a row. But unlike the two before it, this is a bad one.

I wake up shrieking and batting at the air to fend off my invisible assailants. I try to collect my breathing, to regulate it. Like all dreams do, this one fades fast, and I can only remember bits and pieces. Just one bit, really. Crows. My main concern. Attacking me, pecking at my…scratching at my…

I shiver, sweating, and sit up in bed as I try to settle down. No birds, I assure myself. No nightmarish beasties intent on haunting my dreamworld. Nothing. Okay. I believe it now.

But I'm unable to go back to sleep. My alarm clock tells me that it's four in the morning. Groaning, I heave my carcass out of bed and wobble over to the desk in the corner of the bedroom. I don't even know what I'm doing yet; I'm not planning on sketching to calm myself. But I flip on the lamp with the easily-flammable shade. The shade is a dusty crème color with two large brown burns forming from the inside out, consequences of leaving the lamp on all night a couple times. Years ago.

I sit down and rip a sheet of paper out of nearby notebook, grabbing a pencil after that. I'm not drawing, but this has been nagging at my mind for weeks. I had used to do it so often.

Even though I'm pretty sure he doesn't receive them, I'm going to write a letter to my father. Who I haven't seen in six—no, five and a half—years. I'd been putting this off for weeks. Falcone has been affecting me, even though I'm not entirely aware of it.

Damn, I suck.

I can't think of anything to put down as I rap the yellow pencil against the desk. Nothing other than what's been going on. Everyone knows my dad's in Arkham, but they don't know how or for what reason. They just think he's some crazy fruit-loop, a murderous nut. And I'm shocked people don't think I'm one, too. Genetics, baby.

My dear father…

He won't be getting this, so I use it as a vent and put down everything. Falcone, Geraldine, Jonathan, rumors, my job, crows, even The Crucible, my confused feelings, and getting ready for the summer. The spring concert… Anything I can think of. It passes time, and I eventually sit back in the creaky folding chair. I've filled up two pages of notebook paper with my letter, front and back.

I fold the sheets neatly together with care, in half, and set them aside. I'll get an envelope later and mail it off today. Today… I frown and walk back over to my bed. Today… Today is Saturday.

May 9th.

Jonathan's birthday. He's eighteen. And I've just given myself an activity to accomplish later. I'm going to buy him a birthday present. It's bizarre.

I smile dumbly and lie back down. Now I can put myself to sleep thinking of a potential gift. I suppose a book would be my safest bet. A psychology book. Looks like I'll be making a trip to the city. The bookstore, Books & Beans. It also contains a small coffee shop of sorts.

Renewing our semi-friendship on Thursday had led to a better Friday. Especially over lunch, when we'd been able to speak more freely. In addition to the gift floating around in my head, I recall one of the conversations held at our table.

"Why were you so off-put by me?"

"I suppose I could ask the same."

I'd brought up the topic of his intelligence level, which he hadn't been all that uncomfortable with talking about. Rather prideful of it, really. I'd tried not to let it bug me. I'd explained to Jonathan why we'd avoided him and teased him as a child. He'd tensed noticeably when that had been brought up. But we'd bypassed it. I couldn't have helped but notice that he'd never answered my part to the question. We'd evened things out at one point; I'd called him an Einstein with worse hair, he'd called me a starstruck little girl...but it had been in jest, easy banter. Also known as progress.

I fall into sleep after my mind is positively overwhelmed by all the notions running circles around my brain. Too many concepts to grasp, so little time.

Mom wakes me up five hours later with a whole lot of difficulty and persuading. I nearly nail her in the face as I blindly lash out with a kicking leg. All I want to do is groan and ram a pillow down over my head. I'm sleep-deprived, with an awful habit of waking up in the middle of the night. It's too early.

I reclaim my sense enough to remember that Mom has chosen to help a client this Saturday of all Saturdays. I would hate to have a job as a wedding planner, just to put it out there. I shouldn't say anything, though, because I'm obviously out of work. And short of money. Well, shit. I'm a genius for remembering this. Mom leaves the room.

Throwing off my tangled covers, I spring from the bed and chase Mom down on the stairs. I clear my throat, trying to ignore my current head rush, and timidly ask, "Can I have a twenty?" I can't look her in the face.

Mom sighs, and I hear the tell-tale snick! as she undoes the clasp on her fancy purse. Why do we always get this strong feeling of guilt when asking parents for cash? I'd like to know. "Here." She offers it to me coldly and doesn't even ask what it's being used for.

I mumble my thanks and snatch the crisp twenty-dollar-bill from her manicured hand and disappear back into my hidey-hole. And there I stay to avoid awkward confrontations until I hear her Buick pull out of the driveway. Finally, I decided that it's safe to come back downstairs.

Now what I'm hoping for is no surprise visits.

I decide that noon would a fantastic time to head into town. Of course, lunch hour, so everyone will be rushing to eat and the streets will be loaded with expensive cars, bad-tempered drivers, and innocent pedestrians getting smeared across the road. Charming. Not really my cup of tea.

"I have no life," I announce after deciding to lounge around in front of the television for the next few hours to pass time. As much as I hate the stuff, I miss homework because it actually gave me something to do.

Hitting the weather channels is my first brain-draining activity. I watch the weatherman in horror as he announces that the weather will be going downhill fast. We are in the goddamn month of May, and it's going to be cloudy and 30 degrees this upcoming week? What the heck's wrong with our atmosphere?

I'm discontented as the overly handsome man in the navy suit in front of me parades around and spouts off about weather patterns and how in Gotham, sometimes spring is colder and sometimes it's hotter. Blah-blah-blah. Yadda-yadda-yadda. This is doing nothing for my mood.

I find some cheesy, corny old horror movie instead, on a random channel. I grimace at the sappy dialogue, the abundant peep show, the obvious dangers. It's these kinds of movies that make me want to scream, "Run, BITCH!" at the main heroine when she has the monster/ghost/thing floating over her head without realizing it.

Why do the dumb blondes (who can't act and have larger-than-life breasts) always run upstairs and into a secluded room? You are supposed to run outside! For help. And when you hear a frightening noise, do not go investigate it. Run the opposite way. Yeesh, this is insulting to the female race!

I watch another victim run away at a dead sprint from her attacker and then observe how the creature simply walks after her and catches up a minute later. I snort with laughter at the girl's demise.

And they call this the climax of the movie.

"You've got to be kidding me," I remark loudly as someone falls from a window and supposedly goes splat. Heh. No blood. These things aren't even scary; it's why I watch and laugh at them. The entire awfulness keeps the movie from being frightening. Monsters that look like puppets with bad makeup jobs and prosthetics. Atrocious acting. I hope I'm never stuck there someday.

"No, Billy! Don't die!" a girl tearfully wails helplessly over the boyfriend cradled in her lap. I missed it, but I'm betting he sacrificed himself to save her. Which would NEVER happen in real life. Men are selfish bastards.

I can already see how this ends. She'll find some ingenious way to stop the villain and save the world. Give me a break, I think, crossing my legs. Logically, if you've got brains as small as hers, there's no way she can be a hero and save the day. The blonde bombshell onscreen wipes her tears away (her makeup remains flawless) and stands up in her kitten heels and jean miniskirt bravely.

I gag, sick. Deciding I've had enough, I go upstairs to change my clothes for the day, and I leave for the bookstore a half hour earlier than anticipated.

Traffic isn't horrible for it being lunch hour in the city. Maybe because Black Jack is so huge and scrappy and tough-looking that people stay out of his way. I can crush them like pop cans in their tiny sleek cars. Air courses through the truck. It's not cold enough for a heater, but it's not warm enough to roll down a window or flip on the air conditioning. So I make due with the window being open. My own breath chills me, but I can still sweat. I hate uncertain temperatures in general.

I pull onto the street Wonderland is on and keep my eyes trained on the road as I drive by the location of my previous employment. My main focus is the bookstore here. It's on the same street, but I need to go through a few more stoplights to get there. I do, avoiding the worst traffic problems, and find the store snuggled between a thrift shop and a record joint. Books & Beans.

"Here we go," I say loudly, and cut the engine. I stuff the keys into the pocket of my heavier coat and exit the truck. I'm in a better part of Gotham here. There's even a change in air quality. Same dirty smokiness, but cleaner, somehow. There's also the tang of some perfumy scents and the sweet aroma of baking bread coming from a bakery nearby. Not bad. Maybe I'll check it out later.

Entering the bookstore actually reminds me of how comfy the place is. Just from memory. The wonderful smell of coffee on one side of the store, rich wooden shelves loaded with tomes of all kinds of books on the other. They're actually divided into sections. I spot something new; a reading area has been added, warmly lit and containing two old leather armchairs. It's not much, but it's something.

I walk past the counter, noting a woman with white-blonde hair standing at it. Her curvaceous body is bent toward the cashier, who doesn't tear his eyes away from her to greet his brand new customer. I scowl at the twenty-something-year-old man who appears fifteen.

"Of course, but I don't need help finding anything," I gripe as I head off to the books. Screw you, man.

Each shelf is about six feet tall, an inch taller than me, so I obviously don't need assistance in retrieving anything. But the tops of them are decorated with porcelain figurines and other antiques, so I gaze at them all instead of picking out a book.

I spend about fifteen minutes of my time completely off-track. Reminding myself of my mission, I tear my eyes away from a decorative doo-dad and continue my hunt for the perfect psychology book. Preferably on a topic he doesn't have. No one assists me as I walk through the unorganized sections. At least I'm in the right genre, I think as I browse up and down the shelves.

I find the book completely by chance. Plain, with a bronze script on the spine. But it stands out. The Psychology of Fear by Carl G. Jung. It's perfect. I smile and hug the book to my chest after joyfully pulling it off the shelf. $13.96. Not a bad price for a birthday present. As a plus, I think it's something Jonathan could get into. I flip it open to a random page. Holy cow, this thing is thick. The text is smaller than that of a Bible, and it fills the entire (large) expanse of the page to boot. So as I am, I make no blessed attempt to read any further than the title page.

The blonde woman is still at the counter when I get there, chatting, so I wait for exactly five minutes. The cashier stares at her in the manner of an entranced zombie. The position of the woman's body suggest why. Cleavage…

I clear my throat nervously with the twenty clenched in my tight fist. My patience is at its end. I hate to do this. "Excuse me, but I need to check out. Could you—?"

The rest of my sentence dies as the woman (who's around my height) turns around. I almost drop to the floor.

The face of Veronica Lake. Red lips. Eyes the color of ashy smoke. That fluffy, white-blonde hair.

Grand. I've just interrupted the conversation of Sarah Garland. And she hasn't changed a bit since I saw her last.

My first thought: Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Ames, you moron!

My second thought: Wait, Sarah Garland…in a bookstore? Oh, wait. She was flirting with the cashier guy. Gotcha.

And the worst part of it all? She recognizes me.

"Well, well. Ames Manson," she croons delicately, looking at me in the manner of someone watching a particularly loathsome creature as it crawls out from under a rock. From her pissed off casualness, she may as well be holding a long cigarette.

I find myself unable to respond, still reeling from the shock of seeing her somewhere that wasn't on a stage. And from the fact that I haven't heard her actually speak before; just sing, and that had sounded sultry. Her speaking voice was the opposite. One of those girly voices, too perfect. It sounds like gumdrops. I don't even know what gumdrops sound like. But it gives me the oddest sensation of wanting to puke. For someone who's nearly thirty, she sounds like a sexy teenage cheerleader. Hell, she probably was one. And Homecoming Queen.

We don't speak anymore. More like I decide it's a good time to shut off all conversation with her, because I'm incredibly intimidated. Her long, red coat swishes gracefully with her steps as she moves aside and allows me to check out. But I feel her scrutinizing me the whole time. Sizing me up. No taunts for me, no nothing. However, Sarah manages to maintain her air of superiority as I hand over the book to the irritated cashier.

Sorry I interrupted your happy time, I silently mock as I pass over the cash and get my change.

The man dismisses me with a tight-lipped smile. "Have a nice day," he tells me. I believe he really means, "Eat shit and die." From his scathing tone, he wants me to jump in front of a bus.

I grab the small plastic bag and leave him to his flirting. So sad, I think when I exit the store. Sarah watches me go before returning to her previous task.

The comforting smell of coffee evaporates as I enter back into the heavy, muggy air. It's suffocating; I can literally feel it pooling up in my lungs. Breathing here is no different than smoking. But I'm not quite ready to go back to my truck yet, so I walk up the sidewalk a ways.

The wind has icy teeth. It bites.

"What the heck?" I sulk angrily. "It's freaking May! Why the hell is it so cold?" I continue to grouse as I pass a few alleyways. I'm not in the Narrows, thank goodness. The most I'd have to worry about are stray dogs.

Even so, I get that terrible, awful feeling of being watched. Just like that, up ahead, I spot a shady-looking man in a fedora leaning against a building. And, like the smart girl I am, my steps slow, and I turn and head back the way I came. Falcone has eyes everywhere. My heart thuds.

I'm glad to find solace and warmth in my truck's interior. I sit there and breathe onto my hands for a few minutes before starting it up. The smell of my peach air freshener is so familiar as I throw Black Jack into reverse and pull out. I spare the package in the passenger's seat a quick glance. When I think about it, I get the nice feeling of…rightness.

"You're perfect," I tell the gift as I drive up the street.

And now I'm talking to packages… I privately mourn my sanity.

I pass by Wonderland, and something I had completely forgotten about pushes its eager way back into my head. The concert. Wicked Game. My song. I've done nothing about it. Crap. I'm officially a forgetful douche.

I slam on the brakes and my truck comes to a screeching halt, and I throw it in reverse so I can pull into a parking space. It's the afternoon…on a Saturday…the band should be here practicing before they start tonight. I can only just see the faint lights of the stage through the door's glass.

The bell above the door tinkles merrily as I enter into the crimson warmth. I hate to admit it, but I do miss this place. A little. Nothing has changed much, except for a few more pictures of white rabbits on the walls. Why does Mr. Sorvino have a fascination with rabbits all of the sudden? Speaking of which, I don't think he's here today.

I guess I would've been tackled already.

For a false sense of security, I pull my coat more tightly against myself. I weave through the tables and spot the band taking a break by the stage. A few of the members are chugging water; others are chatting and some have looked up at the sound of the bell. The jazz instruments are set up on the stage.

As I wince in discomfort and stride up to them, I identify one familiar-looking guy as the lead guitarist. "Hey, you!" I call out nervously.

"Don Convoy," the blonde man answers with a faint scowl. "So, Ames. How've you been?" Huh. He actually remembers me. His eyes stray to the hand-shaped bruise on my cheek, and I absently cover it with my fingers. Yes, I've been doing very well.

I get down to business. "Don. Right. Well, I have a favor to ask." I take a breath. "I've got a school concert coming up, and I need you guys to back me." I try not to sound too insistent. He suddenly seems friendlier.

"We liked you when you were here, Ames. That's why I'm considering it." He has a pleasant voice. I scuff my sneaker along the smooth gold carpet. "What's the song?" Don asks after a lengthy pause.

I look up at his rugged face with an expression of doubtful hope. Some of the other guys are now paying attention. I blink sheepishly, surprised. "Oh! Um, Chris Issack's 'Wicked Game.'"

Don nods his shaggy-haired head in approval. "Good song. When's the concert?"

I suppose he would need all this information. "A week from this upcoming Wednesday. Last day of school. It's the 20th, I think." I'm not too familiar with this fellow, but I've been onstage with him plenty of times. "Sorry, it feels kinda awkward asking you to do this."

Don holds up a hand. "We'll do it. It shouldn't feel strange, Manson. You wouldn't quit for no good reason. No one but Mr. Sorvino was offended when you walked out." Okay, bringing back unpleasant memories…

I fight the odd urge to hug this Don and jump around for joy. To top it all off, it feels as if the rabbits on the walls are watching me. I'm so grateful it hurts, but I try to maintain an even tone. "Thanks a bunch. You all rock." I smile and bob my head.

"Any plans? Specifications? We know the tune," another member adds and asks.

I reach across my body and grab my arm. This still feels weird. "Well, you know me. The song's too lazy, too relaxing. It's nice, but it needs to be more upbeat. The times for practice that could work would be…"

I eventually sit down at one of the tables (avoiding dangling lamps) as we all discuss this further. They've got the unruly look of excitement in their eyes, as if I've just rekindled a life of sorts. Maybe they actually missed this with me. I'm even offered a bottle of water, which I turn down.

We make practice plans and throw around dates until about twenty minutes later, when Don finally looks at his watch and interrupts. "Hey. Sorry to do this, but we need to get back to practice, guys."

I stand up. "I'll leave you be. Next Tuesday at five?" Hey, I can talk to people when the occasion calls for it.

Don nods as the members begin to assemble themselves onstage. "Yep. See ya then."

"Mm-hmm. Thanks again." I offer one last stilted smile before heading back to the door. It may have seemed comfy-cozy, but this whole thing is unbelievably strange. I'll actually be glad when it's over. Lot of work ahead. My footsteps still seem to echo oddly around the carpeted floor.

Behind me, from the stage, I hear one of the guys comment, "I don't care if she's seven years younger than me. She's cute."

"Shut up, Ronald," Don mutters.

I leave the building and squash my stupid grin with self-esteem issues.

On the drive home, I keep tossing my gaze to the passenger's seat, almost obsessively, like I'm trying to reassure myself that the gift is still there. I'm feeling an unnatural sense of excitement tingling on all my nerve endings. Buying a birthday present for Jonathan Crane…I never would've thought.

With the knowledge that I have some plans and organization scheduled for next week, I'm able to put worrisome things aside to try to find a box and wrapping for Crane's gift once I get home. I tear the house to shreds in my desperate search. After a half hour, I manage to come up with a rather large shoebox from Mom's room and settle for a few newspapers I'd found hiding in the corner of the living room.

I gingerly unfold one and stare at the black-and-white photograph on the front page. The humorless face of Commissioner Loeb stares back at me. I hurriedly fold it the other way with a twitch of annoyance.

Makes me sick. Corrupt…all of them. Contrary to popular belief, Loeb's not doing much to help. Maybe Gotham's crime rates would be lower if he'd hire a few more "honest cops." Maybe he could just become honest himself. He's not as bad as some, but still…as the man in charge…

I'll be sure to cut through his picture.

I return to the kitchen and spend another ten minutes hunting for a pair of scissors and Scotch tape. After I locate them, I turn on a light and settle down in the middle of our kitchen floor. I give The Psychology of Fear a fond look before placing it in the shoebox. The lid goes on—Lord, this is heavy—and I freeze my progress, surveying the newspapers spread out around me as I drum my fingers against my kneecap. Yipes, I know what the next step is, but…

It feels like ages—has been ages, actually—since I've last wrapped a present for anyone, even Mom. For her, I normally just make a bad dinner that she pretends to like or I take her out somewhere. Whatever I could afford. When I still had a job. Which is still a problem that needs fixing.

I manage to slop my way through the ordeal and finish. It's kind of a bad-looking job, but what does it matter? Jonathan won't go nuts over a pathetic wrapping attempt; he's not expecting any gifts from anyone. It's sad. I'll even bet he won't get one from his sweet old grandma.

My thoughts come to a screeching halt, and I slowly set the gift on the floor.

My vision darkens at the edges as I think about her. My hands start to shake. How could I have left him there? How could I have left him there? I had tried to shove this disgust with myself and self-hate back down my throat, but try as I might, it's always going to be there. Because of one error. I'd been doing such a good job of forgetting it, too…

Cold, arrogant Jonathan. Too clever for his own good. Born under unfortunate circumstances, teased and tormented all his life. Any form of abuse taken with a superior air and cold silence. Except for that night. He had nearly been in tears, looking so lost, so defeated, so…hopeless. And helpless. Not like him at all. I'll bet something inside of Jonathan breaks every time Geraldine does this to him. The experiences have ingrained the sensation of fear in him. Fear. Such a powerful thing. One he'll want to overcome. And now he knows he can feel it just like the rest of us. He always has.

How much will this change him?

"You're not making anything better. Quit fooling yourself," I sulk, and at the same time, eyeball the sharp pair of scissors resting innocently on the floor. Really, I should just kill myself and make it all go away. So I can't do any more damage, and then there would be one less thing for Jonathan to worry about.

Don't be silly; don't even joke about it. You're stronger than that. Believe it or not, he needs you. Welcome home, Voice of Reason.

Since I can't push all the bad experiences away, I roll my eyes and decide that the best I can do is simply distract myself. I'm going to walk up to the mailboxes at around 4:20. I know that I can very well drive instead of walk, but Crane, without a doubt, would be able to hear the truck and keep track of what was happening. And then the surprise would be ruined. Anyway, I need the exercise, and what's the point of wasting gas?

Nope. I'll walk. Then watch. Like a creeper.

Still fuming at my subconscious, I plop down in front of the TV and stare at the screen for an hour. The "idiot box," Mom calls it. It's sure turning me into one; I'm not taking in anything, not even the fact that we're now getting cold rain this upcoming week.

I sigh and stretch out on the carpet as I wait for 4:20 to roll around. Eventually it does, and I pop out our front door with the package under my arm and a strange bounce in my step. I had remembered, completely last second and on a whim, to grab my father's letter from the desk upstairs. It's now tucked under my arm along with the parcel.

The trek up the road doesn't give me as much hell as it did last time. I'm not out of breath from walking and there's no stitch in my side when I arrive. I throw the letter for Dad in our box and next debate where to set his present. I settle, while scratching my chin in a thoughtful fashion, for simply placing it on the ground beneath the Cranes' battered mailbox. Good enough; it won't fit inside anything.

With a exhalation of hot air, I start back to our house as planned, and once I get there, sit down on our cold, stone steps. I have an open view of the stretch of road. Jonathan will walk straight past my house. Sure enough, ten minutes later and right on schedule, he goes by. I sit up, my spine rigid.

He also doesn't acknowledge me sitting there, if he's seen me at all. He's wearing an ugly, mustard-colored sweater that makes me want to slap myself in the face and is walking like someone has shoved a pine cone up his ass. I watch his short, slim figure disappear into the distance and get the feeling he's running away from me. He always seems to be. The waiting game has begun. What's he still doing at his house, anyway? At eighteen, shouldn't he be gone by now?

I get eager when I spot Jonathan nearing our driveway on the way back His walk has slowed as he stares down at the package between his hands with something just short of wonder. I hadn't left my name or address—I'd just scrawled his own name out across the newspaper in black marker—but I'm sure he knows. He would recognize my cursive. Other envelopes are tucked under his left arm.

Jonathan stops directly and intentionally in front of our house and looks up to see me perched on the front steps. He's taken aback by my "sudden" appearance. I grin and lift my hand for a small wave.

Barely visible, Crane pushes his glasses up his nose and glances down at the unopened package and back up at me. Down at the package and back to me once more. And knows. Hardly detectable to my eye, he holds the gift a bit tighter and gives me a searching look. Hesitantly and reluctantly, and perhaps only out of fair politeness, he returns the gesture.

He acknowledges my existence! I reprimand myself for acting like a schoolgirl who's just been winked at by her crush.

My smile grows and remains even as he vanishes after a five-minute staredown. This is awkward and stiff for him, and I understand that. I hope Jonathan knows that I understand. But I'll do my best to make it normal. It's cold outside, but I stay warm and content. How unlike me. I'm such an irrational creature.

A/N: Okay, I watched the new Jane Eyre for the first time last night. And loved it! (No matter what, the ending still pisses me off.) They certainly had Mr. Rochester at his sexy best ) As a result of all my drooling, in addition to Cillian Murphy, Tom Hiddleston, and Tom Hardy, I've officially declared Michael Fassbender as a total babe. I wanted to see him lose control so badly in that movie…(that sounds so awkward -_-) Can you tell me if you've seen A Dangerous Method?

Anyway, I've got some plans for the next two chapters. In the next one, we'll be finishing up The Crucible. So if you don't like that for some reason, feel free to skip it. The one after that deals with watching The Silence of the Lambs, teasing, and the spring concert. And then BAM! Summer vacation. Which won't be as long as you're thinking.

Jumping around here, I got my first iPod for Christmas. Yeah, you'd think for all my love of music that I'd have one by now. Let's face it; I'm broke. A graphite 6th generation Nano, 16GB. So happy! Off ebay for $130.

Question of the Day: Partly inspired by this chapter, what's the worst, most terrible horror movie you've ever seen? I'm saying...just plain bad.

Funny lines? Good stuff? I WANNA KNOW! PLEASE REVIEW. I'm not a huge fan of the fave n' run thing. It's in your best interest to leave an opinion. I try to get back to everybody.