Disclaimer: She grumbled and muttered under her breath, "You heard me. They're not mine."
The man in the black trench rolled his eyes. "Yes, we've heard this all before, Ms. Red. Now, would you like to explain what these are?"
She swallowed, trying not to show her growing panic. He held her fan fics. "Those? Those are, uh...nothing. Nothing at all."
"I see," the man mused, handing the papers to a nearby cronie. "Ms. Red, we do have ways of making you talk..."
Out a back room, two thugs wheeled out a television. She knew what was coming. She braced herself.
"Let's see how tough you are after a few hours of this..." The man slid the tape into the VCR.
"Welcome to Richard Simmon's Sweatin' to the Oldies! Ready everyone? And one, and two..."
"Nooooo!" she writhed in pain at the torture as the man in the black trench coat smiled and slid the plugs into his ears...

Bottom line: Don't pretend to own superheroes.



Space and Privacy


Space and a little privacy, that's all I ask for.

Well, maybe the list doesn't end there, but those two (teeny, tiny, hardly a lot) requests are always up near the top. Always the ones that I scream and moan about to whoever will listen (which is hardly anyone, trust me). Is a little peace and quiet occasionally too much to ask for? I mean, come on! Will I never be able to feel completely confident my things and possessions can be left unattended?

Apparently, yes and no.

For the fourth time in my memory, I had lost something else to the clutches of one Robert Drake: this time, my car keys (don't ask me what it had been last time; you'll only open old wounds). At dinner, I thought to myself: I'll drive into town, pick up a few necessities, and be back in time for last call or so (see, I was in a good mood, then). But the spot where the keys hung on the rack was...empty.

I knew who had done it, even before I let out the traditional (mandatory, constant, necessary, whatever) shriek of anger. "DRAKE!"

Bobby, by this time, was of course long gone.

I grumbled, realizing yelling would do no good, and only get me a headache and a reprimand from Ol' One-Eye. Thoroughly pissed off, I walked the halls to catch the first sucker who would lend me their car for a couple hours.

It was just like that stupid icecube wannabe to do something mean and nasty like this (without asking, as usual). Ever since I had actually got the stupid license, I'd been competing endlessly with Kitty, or Bobby, or some other random person for the right to drive my own car (well, ah, it wasn't actually mine; to put it correctly, it was a generous loan from the Professor). Having a driver's license was supposed to be great; no more relying on other people to cart my hide around...right? Wrong! In fact, I practically have to wrestle for my own keys.

And it would figure that on this lovely evening that everyone was missing. Well, not missing, but out. In their cars. Probably having a good time.

I drifted along the halls, peeking in open doors and knocking on the closed ones. No Storm. No Bobby (although that one was a given, but I slipped his Pearl Jam CD into my pocket anyway. All's fair...). No sign of Logan anywhere. Not that that was a surprise.

My ears heard soft music from somewhere down the hall. Oh, great. Figures that Jean was the only one home. It just made sense that SOMEONE UP THERE was out to make my bad day even worse.

I tapped lightly on the doorframe, hoping there was actually no one inside. "Hello? Anybody home?"

But nooo, Jean emerged from the bathroom, hair wrapped up in dozens of neatly pinned rollers. "Oh, hey," she greeted softly, a smile on her face. "Come in, if you like."

I entered, against my better judgement. I had to, she was being so damn nice...

"What can I do for you?" Jean asked, as she disappeared back into the bathroom.

"Well," I started, dawdling near the doorway. Had to made sure a quick getaway was possible..."I was just wondering if you were going out tonight."

The redhead appeared yet again at the bathroom's door. "Well, yes. Scott's taking me out to..." she stopped herself, adjusting a curler on her head that threatened to tumble. "Why?"

I sighed. "No, forget it. I just wanted to go to town and..."

"You can have my keys, Jubes. We're taking his car." My eyes brightened considerably.

"Great. I mean, Popsicle stole mine on me again. That twerp's got no manners."

Jean smiled as she pulled out a random pin. "Maybe if you stopped hanging your keys where he could always find them the problem would stop."

"Oh. Uh, maybe," I forced. I hadn't thought of that, but I'd be damned if I let Jean know that. "That wouldn't stop him."

Jean turned back to me. "You'll have to wait a few minutes, or go find Scott. He has my keys." Figures. Laser Boy was whipped softer than a bag of marshmallows.

"Oh, no problem." I headed for the door. "Any idea where he is?"

The answer from the bathroom sealed her fate. "No, sorry. Why don't you just wait here? He'll probably be by soon."

I sighed and returned to the room. "Why not?" I replied in a tone I hoped sounded as sarcastic as I meant it. May as well hammer that last nail in the coffin.

I flopped myself down on the bed, my fingers finding their idle way to a book sitting on top of the silky sheets. I flipped through its pages, more for the sake of something to do than to actually skim the contents. I traced over the words of its raised title. Body & Soul...right. Whatever that meant. This thing was pretty thick...

Jean sat down at her nearby vanity, preparing to take down her hair. "So, anything special you need the car for?"

I reminded myself not to roll my eyes. "Oh, no, not really. Just going...out." She decided to leave it safely at that.

She nodded, preoccupied with managing her newly curled hair.

I placed the paperback back on the soft cover of the bed and lay down. Nice view, I thought to myself as my eyes caught the window. It had been a lovely day, and was turning into an equally perfect evening. Perfect days often annoy me. Perfect things annoy me...

"Hey, Jean?" I sat upright again. "What's this about?" I felt around for the book again, and held it up when my hand found it.

Jean glanced over. She had been running a comb through her newly perfect waves, that fell together in perfect unison (remember, how I said before how perfect things annoyed me? Behold the most annoying thing in the world...). "Oh that? Just a book I picked up a little while ago."

"Oh," I replied, biting my lip. Oh, the many things I could toss her way that would make her perfect hair stand on end...but no. Yeah, yeah, I let myself think, play it off like you don't go out looking for things that make you look all intellectual and wonderful. And perfect.

Play it cool, Jubes, something said inside my head. Remember, she reads minds.

"What's it about?" I hate silence. Especially awkward silence.

"A piano player." She pinned back a lock with a diamond clip that disappeared within the mass of her hair. "And his life."

Snore. "Is it good?"

She paused for a moment, a bobby pin pinched between her teeth. "Yes, mostly. I don't like the ending, though."

"You're reading it again?" I noticed the bookmark placed in the middle of the thick pages.

"Uh-huh." She excused herself and vanished into her enormous cavern of her closet (filled with perfect outfits, I guarantee you). More like a department store.

I took the (obvious) opportunity to sort through the room. Hey, look, I didn't know when I'd ever get the chance again, okay? It's not like I was gonna take anything. I scanned the few framed pictures next to the bed: one of Jean when she was a kid with another blond girl. More than a few of her and Scott (could his smile get any bigger? Geez...). Anyway, that got boring quick.

I made my way over to the little vanity. It was nice. Very classy (like I'd expect anything else from Miss Priss...). I actually felt my eyes widening as I took in the dozens of jars, bottles and tubes of every cream, powder or paste that a woman could possibly justify owning. And my bet was she didn't use half of this junk.

I sat myself down on the cushioned seat (very comfy) and gazed into the dimly lit mirror. For a moment, it was kinda surreal (thank you, Dawson's Creek). Like, this was where Jean sat every morning to look at herself. Weird...

I opened a random jar and dabbed a little of the white gunk on my chin. Then, my forehead. The jar slipped from my hand.

It knocked into the jewellery box (velvet, of course), and I hurried to put it all back. And I saw the paper. I knew right off, I was not supposed to see it, and guessed from where it had been (past tense) hidden, no one else was supposed to either.

But, to me, that was like, an invitation.

I carefully slid it from its spot under the box (I think it had been taped to the bottom, actually) and realized it was an envelope. Oh, God, it was just getting better.

Inside was a letter (folded carefully, and obviously pretty old) and a picture, bent in half. I examined the picture first.

It was a shot of Jean, leaning against a big rock overlooking a cliff. There was a fence, way in the background. And a couple of trees. It didn't look like any place around here. I flipped it over to read the faded scribble on the back. I could barely make it out:

Jean, thought you'd want this. Logan.

I was tempted. To open the letter. And read it. And make photocopies. And distribute it nationally. But I didn't. God knows why. Don't worry, I kicked myself later. I could only imagine what was on that letter! Why, oh, why did I have to grow a conscience?

I replaced it where it had been, wishing I had a stapler handy so it would never fall down again. I had to do it really quickly, otherwise I know I'd have second thoughts. I practically jumped out of the chair and onto the bed, sticking my nose into that stupid book still lying on the sheets. Jean walked out.

"Okay then," she began, grabbing a leather purse sitting near the door. "Ready?"

I looked up to her. She was standing at the door, expecting me to be itching to leave. I got up slowly. "Yeah, I'm ready."

Jean frowned, brow furrowed. "What? What is it?"

I tried to smile. "You look perfect."



Later that night, after I had gotten the keys (which Scott turned over reluctantly, only after Jean persuaded him to) and done my thing, and gotten home (on time, for once in my life), I sat in my room. Well, in front of my computer, trying to cough up a report due on Monday. But, of course, how could I think about that? I had that...thing on my mind.
I passed Logan when I was coming up to my room. Said hi...got a grunt in response. I wanted to ask...I wanted to so badly. But what could I say? So, I was poking in Jean's room, okay? And I found this old picture...you got something you wanna tell me, Wolvie?

I could never bring it up with Jean...for one thing, I didn't like her much (for my own reasons!) and for another thing I wasn't supposed to have been searching her room in the first place. The only option, it seemed, was to choke it out on my deathbed...actually, that might even work. I gave up on the quest to finish that damned report.

I could have stayed on the bed with the friggin' book and none of this would be bothering me right now. If only I didn't listen to that stupid evil voice inside my head (Go ahead, Jubes, you might find something interesting...besides, she'll never know) and let it be. Hey, that was a Beatles song...oh, man! I wasn't even good at distracting myself!

I remembered at breakfast that morning, when I was busy scarfing scrambled eggs. I had glanced over at Logan (I tend to do that a lot; I have to look out for him, after all) and he was staring in Jean's direction...not that that was bizarre or anything. Now that I thought about it, it was a wonder they could be in the same room without causing an explosion. I'd heard plenty of their convos I wasn't s'pose to. What was it Logan saw in her...precisely, I mean? Sure, she was beautiful (you didn't hear it from me), but big deal. A lot of chicks were pretty. What was so fantastic about this one?

Maybe there was something else...who knew? Logan was weird like that. He had tried to explain it one night, I think; one late, late night I had stumbled upon him in the kitchen. I don't think he meant to. He didn't use her name, not once, but I could tell he was talking about Jean.

'So?" I had asked after his words had stalled a bit.

"Bottom line is, kid," he chased a puff from his cigar (which he was not supposed to have in the house, but it's not like I was gonna tell or anything) with a deep gulp from his beer. "Love hurts."

"You don't recommend it, then?" I remarked dryly. I felt he spoke from experience; I knew actually. But there was something about the situation that kept me dawdling at the surface. I didn't ask who, partly because I didn't wanna know.

Logan, sure enough, disliked my tone. "No hurt in the world like what comes from having someone to love..." He threw his half-empty can into the garbage. "'Night. Don't stay up late."

At the time, I didn't know what shocked me more; the fact that he had just admitted something he never would have in daylight, or that he had just sounded like Cyke. Don't stay up too late? What the hell was that?

Er, anyway, like I was saying. I'd have to pay more attention to those two...as much as I didn't want to (I did not need to witness how very perfect Miss Priss was, anyway). And I figured I'd work up the courage to ask about the picture and stuff. But for now, it's under my hat...even though I don't own any hats. Do you have to have a hat, or is that just an expression? And so what, ooh, you'll keep it under your hat, big deal. It's not like locking it in a safe or something.

I got off track again, sorry. I do that a lot.


THE END