Sorry it took so long for us to update, but someone (cough, Jessie, cough) wasn't cooperating. Also, Jessie's computer died, so we had to retype it (retyping also involved deciphering what the mass of scrawlings on binder paper meant…Jessie didn't print a typed copy, so we only had the original). We wrote this chapter at Borders (which we are currently boycotting).


Chapter two

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(Suze POV)

It was at the end of math when Mr. Ambrose finally handed back our tests.

The very end, meaning, like, two minutes into passing period.

Now, I'm not the type of student who is usually late to French class (I had assures Miss Minai at the beginning of this year that that little "incident" with the coffee machine would never happen again) so I had already packed up my stuff, gotten out my "Bienvenue" text and slipped the straps of my Kate Spade tote over my shoulders.

The plan was to pick up my test paper while I was exiting the room—that way it would be easier to avoid Paul and Kelly, who were currently "expressing themselves" next to the whiteboard.

Only flaw in my scheme: I wasn't expecting them to move.

Apparently Paul and Kelly were following my strategy as well, since they stepped behind me just as I was leaving, still managing—in an astonishing feat that would amaze just about any circus crowd—to maintain lip-lock.

"If you intend to pass this class, Miss Simon, I suggest you get yourself a tutor." I glanced down at the test that Mr. Ambrose had just dropped into my arms.

D. Minus.

Okay, I know that this test wasn't my greatest (I mean, sequences and series? Who gives a shit?) but a D? I know I didn't deserve that.

"Nice, Suze," Paul smirked, glancing over my shoulder with (as always) no respect for my privacy whatsoever.

I made a face at him, carefully averting my eyes from Kelly's scintillating gaze. "Oh yeah?" I muttered while slipping my paper behind the cover of my textbook—if anyone were to see all those red marks, they'd think I was a crossing guard—and high-tailing it out of there.

It's not like it was my fault for getting such a crap grade. I tried to study, but with the ghost of a twenty-five-year-old welfare recipient and a hot Latino ex-cowboy arguing, it was kind of hard to concentrate.

I mean, what with the cussing (especially in Spanish), not to mention the hurling of a variety of inanimate objects, it was louder than the uproar at the Super Bowl when Janet Jackson had her "wardrobe malfunction".

42-

So, after Jesse drags the woman up the stairs and into my bedroom, shouting to Andy, who had just returned with a power drill (his reasons for such an expedition still completely unbeknownst to the rest of us) that he would be down soon to finish basting the…whatever that needed basting.

He sat her down firmly on the window seat and began a reenactment of the Spanish inquisition. Unfortunately for me, his questions actually were in Spanish, so I had no idea what he was saying. It sounded vaguely like a Ricky Martin song, minus the tight leather pants (to my chagrin). Even more irksome, the woman answered in Spanish, so you can just imagine my very valuable contributions to this conversation.

Me: Jesse, what the hell are you saying to her?

Jesse: In a minute, querida. (Mumbles something in Spanish)

Woman: (Something in Spanish)

Jesse: (Something in Spanish back)

Me: Jesse!

Woman: (Something in Spanish, surprisingly louder this time. Windows start to rattle.)

Jesse: (Something in Mandarin. Not. Hurls a pillow on the ground.)

Me: Hey! That was twenty bucks at Pier 1!

Jesse: (Something in Spanish again, tone has changed to slight sarcasm.)

Woman: (Mumbles something incoherent. My princess phone is disconnected and hurled in the direction of Jesse's head.)

Mom: Suze! Jesse! What's going on in there? Andy says it's time for dinner.

Needless to say, I didn't have a very good night. Jesse left in a very bad mood, probably because he never got to finish basting…whatever it was that he was basting. Then my mother kept trying to "chat" with me, since "all that racket" simply must have been a fight between us. Nice to know that my mother thinks so highly of my love life.

(This is wherea space would be, if thisdamn thingwould allow them.)

Unable to think of a scintillating reply to Paul and Kelly's taunts, I fled down the hall, murmuring that I was going to be late for French. I then dashed into the nearest bathroom (luckily it was a girls' room) and started to shred the note. If there's one thing I learned from all of my New York…er…escapades, it's that you always destroy incriminating evidence. So, I proceeded to shred the letter and then flush it down the toilet. I mean, if I didn't shred it, the toilet might overflow, and if I didn't flush it, someone might find the pieces and tape them back together (although I'm not sure what kind of a creepy stalker would actually go through all the effort just to find out how badly I'm failing math).

Once I had finished, I ran to class, very aware that the halls were now deserted. As soon as I opened the door, my French teacher, Miss Minai, looked at me and said "Well, well, well. It seems that Miss Simon here has decided to grace us with her presence." She went on into a boring lecture about the importance of getting to class on time. The long and short of it was that I was landed with a detention. And, my feet hurt because she wouldn't let me sit down until she had finished her speech. With that, and the prospect of having to look for a math tutor (the basic rule about college is that you need to graduate high school first, so I had better get working if I wanted NYU) you can see just what a lovely day I was having.


Okay. I want the record set straight that it wasn't that I refused to cooperate. I was simply busy, with the sort of thing that Lowell nerd is usually busy with (tests, homework, outlines, outlines, outlines), and I had another ballet competition. So really, you can't blame me for this type of thing. I mean, I have a life, after all. No one expects me to be sitting down in my free time (however rare that is) writing fanfiction.

I love love love Jesse and Suze, but it really isn't my kind of thing to sit around imagining their love life (anymore). And Borders sucks butt, peoples. Really, they don't let you eating anything in there (besides their stale, extravagantly-priced food. I mean, like Becky said. If they were selling french fries, don't you think we'd buy them there? But no! They're selling coffee!).

Dude, you spilled frikking lemonade on one of the books. Honestly.

Shut up Marieke. They're all Nazis. Loads and loads of Borders Nazis.

The point is that we updated, and that we love you.

So review.

Ciao!