How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

Chapter Seven: Rebel Without a Coat

"That's sort of dangerous, don't you think?" Georgie was saying later that evening as the sky turned a darker shade of grey.

"I know."

"I mean, you don't know anything about him—"

"I know."

"And you're just gonna go and meet him this weekend without knowing where he'll be taking you—"

"I know."

"And he's a thief, at least, probably more—"

"I know! Georgiana, I know, alright?" Sierra finally interrupted, twirling the cord distractedly about her fingers. "That's why I'm calling you, so that if I do get kidnapped and molested and ransomed, or—or taken to an isolated hotel and knifed by a deluded transvestite in the shower, at least someone will know who's responsible."

"Saw Psycho last night as well?" Georgie guessed.

"What's your point?" Sierra snapped.

"No point, just—Hey, exactly what were you and Steve doing in the shower anyway?"

"Nothing—Well, something, obviously. I don't know; possibly thrown in there to clean myself up after performing whatever perverted deviant sexual acts he forced me to do at gunpoint."

"Yeah, like he needs a gun to get you to do any of that."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, I'm just saying that if you do end up stealing money from an employer you are not yet working for and checking into a desolate American motel one night, you probably won't be knifed in the shower 'cause you'll be too busy having underage but consensual sex with Stephen Verne, that's all—considering how you do, after all, like him," Georgie explained flippantly, obviously unable to see Sierra's slack jaw and fiery eyes. "Nah, you'll probably have your throat slit during an orgasm or something. Doesn't sound like such a bad way to die, to tell you the truth."

"Yeah, if one of your greatest sexual fantasies is to be asphyxiated whilst in the midst of a violent rape," Sierra shot back sullenly. "Or maybe regular, run-of-the-mill bad sex."

"Huh?"

"Well… Steve doesn't really give the impression of being a particularly sensitive or caring lover—I mean sensitive as in in touch with his partner's needs, not sensitive as in gentle and considerate… Although come to think of it, I don't think he's that, either."

"What are you talking about?" Georgie demanded.

"I'm just saying that I think Steve will be really bad in bed: That's all."

"Why?"

"He gives off that impression; as if he's a really selfish lover. Didn't you get that sense?"

"Honey, you've only met him once."

"And that's the impression that I got. First impressions count, don't they?"

"Well, yes, but I can't help but wonder exactly what got you into that train of thought in the first place: you have no business to analyse his bedroom skills, unless, of course, you want to—"

"No."

"No?"

"I don't," Sierra assured her sullenly, scowling as she heard her friend sigh.

"So why are you meeting him, then? Really."

"You know very well why—"

"Sierra, please don't make excuses; it's patronising and insulting to the extreme."

"Alright," she allowed, "so he may be attractive—so I may find him very attractive, I told you all that the first night I met him, do you remember?—But he's absolutely vile, and not the sort of person I would choose to spend my time with."

"Yes, but to be fair, he does… have that sort of… appeal, doesn't he?"

Sierra bit her lip to keep from blurting out You think so too?

"Appeal?"

"Well, you know… You're not meant to like him. You're not meant to fraternize with him. You're meant to stay as far away from him as possible: it's the very essence of attracting opposites."

"Yes, he does have that sort of appeal—but do you know what sort of girl finds that attractive?"

"Anyone under the age of thirty who's not zealously religious or boring?"

"Girls who want to rebel: to rebel against anything; their parents, their friends, their social class, their culture… And why would I want to do that?" she asked lazily, stretching out on her carpet once more. "I have this fantastic, steady, secure perfect life; if I let Steve in, he'll only fuck it up."

"Well, that's the thing, isn't it?" Georgie pressed. "You—well, technically, we both do, but yours is more traditional—I mean, you have this great house—"

"I have four great houses, thank you very much, not to mention what my uncle owns."

"See what I mean?—Alright, so you have several great houses—and wealthy parents with a killer DNA combination that leads to a small brood of picture-perfect children—Rich people are meant to be ugly, you know, particularly if they're from aristocratic families, like you are—"

"Technically—"

"I know, I know, your mother's bourgeois and your uncle was the one who inherited everything, now will you stop interrupting? …Where was I? Oh right—basically, your life is boring as hell. You know it, I know it, and Steve probably knows it too. So of course you're wanting to rebel on some level."

"That may be, but it's not on a level that I'm aware of; I use my head for thinking, my gut for digestion, and my heart for pumping oxygenated blood throughout my body."

"Sorry?"

"I don't follow my 'gut instincts,' and I most certainly do not listen to my heart," she simplified.

"See? Boring."

"Look, I know how lucky I am, alright? And I'm not going to risk any of that." She didn't add that she was scared of what her father would do to her if she stepped out of line; not only was it a sign of weakness, it was also highly melodramatic.

"Boring," Georgie crooned.

"Stop calling me boring; it's childish and irritating."

"You're not boring—we wouldn't bitch about you behind your back half as much as we do if you were—but your life most certainly is."

"And I like it like that: you have to stop reading those historical romance novels about the bored wealthy aristocratic girl who spends her idle, leisured days yearning for more and suddenly finds herself swept off of her feet by a dashing highwayman—"

"No, no, this one, Corsets and Cutlasses, is about pirates," Georgie corrected, and Sierra made a noise of distaste.

"Oh God, those are even worse," she muttered; at least with highwaymen, there was some basis in reality—or rather, history. Swift Nick, the inspiration for Harrison Ainsworth's portrayal of Dick Turpin in Rookwood, for example.

"Why, Sierra? Do you not desire to be seduced by a dashing, golden-grinned, swashbuckling buccaneer? Miss Alyssa Harwood of Brighton most certainly would," and there was a slight crackling of pages from over the phone.

"Hmm; would I pass up the opportunity to go to bed with a scurvy-ridden, rotten-toothed, syphilitic felon who's allergic to soap and has very probably buggered a dog, cat, or indeed any other domesticated animal when whores, unconscious crewmen, and potential rape victims were scarce? I think I would."

"…Alright; would you sleep with a regular, run-of-the-mill sailor?"

"In this day and age…?"

And so they continued to talk about nothing in particular (a discussion which has decidedly been omitted in light of the fact that there shall be no further dramatic irony contained therein) which itself ended when Sierra realised she had an essay to complete (or rather, begin) for English Lit. It was on Shakespeare; the task was an ambiguous piece designed to set the students on a whirlwind of questions focusing mainly on the contrasting and complementing portrayal of women in Macbeth, Hamlet, Othello and another play of the pupil's choosing (since subtly instilling into their students the elusive virtue of second-nature research was the primary aim of the task, as Sierra had already figured out, with the outcome of the actual essay mattering very little) alongside with any other major theme the girl in question was able to pick up that effectively linked the four plays together.

Well, bollocks to that, she thought, setting her pen down with a sigh. It was almost insultingly easy; she'll begin on Sunday. That being said, she did jot down a few notes, vengeance, insanity, power, love(?) and after a moment's silent debate, crossed out her words to write Stephen Verne is a prick. She paused, leaning back to admire her handiwork before scribbling it out, slamming her pen violently down and burying her face in her hands.

I'm obsessed with him, she thought wildly. Good God, I've only really met him once, and I'm completely obsessed with him; this doesn't bode well for my exams…

Perhaps she should get started on Shakespeare, after all. So she got up, retrieved her pen, and went over to her bookshelf, where she pulled out a Complete Works of Shakespeare (a beautifully bound volume that her late grandfather had left to her in his will, God rest his soul), set it steadily down on her desk, nestled comfortably into her chair, and proceeded to flip carelessly through its contents, looking for a title that would catch her eye.

Henry VIII: Of course, it's perfect: women, power, love…

And she stopped her lazy page-turning, leaning greedily forward to read,

So much the more
Must pity drop upon her. Verily,
I swear, 'tis better to be lowly born,
And range with humble livers in content,
Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief,
And wear a golden sorrow.

Sierra's face contorted in displeasure, and she promptly slammed the book shut, as though the Bard had personally offended her, and then wondering absently why she had reacted so violently, because there was absolutely no parallel in that short passage to her current state.

Was there?

I am going to kill Georgie for this, she promised herself. Tomorrow—no, not tomorrow, I need her alive for Saturday… Sunday then; but there's a Physics test on Tuesday… And her thoughts continued in this vein for quite some time until she was forced to grudgingly conclude that, until the end of her compulsory academic career, it would serve to be in her best interests if Georgie remained alive and in good health, by the end of which she would have most certainly forgiven and probably forgotten why she wished to prematurely end her best friend's life in the first place, not least because she didn't know now. Somewhat hesitantly, she opened the book back to that offensive passage, and read the few lines above it;

O, God's will! much better
She ne'er had known pomp: though't be temporal,
Yet, if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce
It from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance panging
As soul and body's severing.

She had read enough—well, enough to calm her nerves for the time being, at any rate; divorce had reinforced the true subject of the play in her mind, that of Henry VIII's self-declared dissolution of his marriage to Catherine of Aragon, who had been stripped of her title, her daughter, and her throne, so that the 'lowly born' Anne Boleyn might take her place: There was absolutely no trace of idle adolescence or sexual awakening or a love that transcended social boundaries in that tale.

(Alright, perhaps there was, a little; but it would have been very arrogant, not to mention somewhat ridiculous, to compare herself to Henry VIII, and Steve to Anne Boleyn, and Julian to Catherine of Aragon, not to mention that it also smacked of slight transvestism, which she was completely against, but never mind that.)

Catherine understandably portrayed sympathetically, she scrawled down, as is Anne Boleyn—to certain extent; may have been portrayed less favourably if not mother of Elizabeth I. And before she knew it, she was listing the outcomes of Henry's divorce, and how his daughter, Mary, had been declared a bastard, as her half-sister would later be.

…And speaking of bastards, royal or no…

Sierra clutched her pen so tightly she wouldn't have been surprised if it had snapped in half; her white teeth gritted in annoyance as she looked down at the page, cheeks blushing furiously: She had been losing herself in the world of royal love affairs, and the stigma of bastardy, its legal and social implications, and had been most distracted when her subconscious had thought it would be decidedly amusing to manipulate her fingers into scrawling a certain name on the page.

"I'm having a bath," she declared aloud to no one in particular, and after a long therapeutic soak re-entered the room in a dressing gown, towelling her hair, serenity shining through every carefully exfoliated pore.

The tranquillity was quickly shattered when, upon innocently passing her desk, her blue eyes happened to chance upon the name, causing her to drop her towel in shock.

Sierra Verne was engraved on the crisp white paper for all the world to see.

"I don't know why you hate him so much," Angie was frowning on Saturday morning; despite her better judgement, and completely against everything Georgie had advised, Sierra had invited the lower-middleclass cousin to her home—and into her room, much to Georgiana's horror—to help her pick out a conservative, unattractive, Steve-repellent ensemble, and if Sierra had ever cursed her impeccable sense of style, it was then.

"Well, he—he stole from me," she sputtered in reply, pulling out a pink turtleneck and holding it up for Angie's inspection. "What do you think; too innocent, too girly, too cute?" she asked hopefully.

"He likes innocent and girly and cute," Angie noted. "It calls to the corruptor within him; the combined promise of the potential loss of innocence and defloration of virginity would be irresistible; trust me on that one."

"But it's a turtleneck!" she argued.

"It's a nice turtleneck."

"It's Hello Kitty!"

"Exactly: any female adolescent sporting a Hello Kitty good is subliminally saying, 'Here I am boys, come and shag me.'"

Sierra looked vaguely disturbed at this revelation, and so would you; like many, she had always assumed that sporting such an uncompromisingly sweet, childish brand would be the surest way to repel earnest suitors. Apparently not.

"But-But-But—But I've had it since I was twelve," she insisted, aghast at the vaguely paedophiliac undertones that made up the adolescent male's sexual psyche.

"Oh sweetheart, you're just asking for it now," Angie sighed sagely, and Sierra scowled before tossing the top onto the pile of other rejected clothing, looking at her watch. "Half nine," she said aloud before wincing in embarrassment.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry, where are my manners? Have you eaten yet? I know it's quite a long way—"

"It's alright, I'm an early riser; I was up at six this morning, looking over some coursework," she waved away.

"Are you sure? Look, it really is no trouble for Liv; she lives for impressing our guests with culinary delights."

"Sierra, really, I'm fine, thank you," Angie smiled, brushing back her dark hair. "It's nice enough that you invited me round; I don't want to intrude…"

"Come down with me anyway," she insisted, pulling at the older girl's arm.

It was only within the semi-privacy of the kitchen, in which Liv had gathered together a miscellany of fresh fruits for the girls' consumption (Sierra was nibbling delicately at a slice of melon) did the topic of conversation actually return to Steve.

"If he hadn't had stolen from you," Angie asked curiously, "would you still hate him?"

Sierra hesitated for a second. "I don't really socialise with… people like him," she carefully glossed over, knowing full well that the two were friends. Or you, for that matter. "Truth be told, I don't know whether I would or not. I certainly hope I do, though."

"Why?" Angie questioned, plucking at a few grapes before popping one into her mouth. "Hatred is such an ugly emotion."

"Well, yes, but…" Sierra struggled; how could she explain it to Angie? How could she say that, with the exception of height and probably body weight (she'd caught a glimpse of a toned abdomen during Angie's party when she was looking at a place where she most certainly wasn't supposed to be looking), Steve—and Angie, for that matter—were inferior to her in every way?

"I don't think I'd like to trust him," she began carefully. "As a matter of fact, I'm certain I won't be able to."

"But you do find him attractive."

"Well…"

"Oh, don't lie to me," Angie scoffed, moving onto a banana. "I'm a lesbian, and I'd do him in a heartbeat. So would my girlfriend, actually; he appeals to lesbians, for some reason…"

Sierra lowered her eyes and busied herself with the melon, scraping diligently away with a spoon.

"I suppose," she began cautiously, hoping not to sound too clichéd, "I suppose, really, that he has that sort of… bad boy appeal."

"Oh, most definitely," Angie agreed, nodding fervently, her fingers tracing the banana in an absentminded way that made Sierra's cheeks burn. "You feel like you're a part of Rebel Without a Coat or something with him."

The younger girl blinked. "Beg pardon?" and Angie grinned, unpeeling the yellow fruit.

"It's this thing that he does, if he has a date and wakes to find it cold or windy—or, preferably, raining," she explained, taking a bite of the banana. "If you're meeting outside, or he's picking you up, he'll show up, sans manteau, and you either end up sharing yours and snuggling comfortably under a bus shelter, or—and this is the killer—you invite him into your house."

"Ah."

"And it always works; in the bus shelter scenario, he'll whisper into your ear and breathe against your skin and a thousand other tiny little things that convinces you that exchanging body heat would be a very good idea—only to protect yourselves from the weather and the consequential cold, of course—"

"Of course."

"And if he's in your house—Well, it's pretty obvious; if it's raining he'll change, have a warm shower, and somehow or other you end up in there with him. If the weather's decidedly kinder—well, he'll find an excuse to take his clothes off and have a shower anyway. His standard of hygiene is so acceptable that if it wasn't for all of these girls, you'll suspect he was gay."

"And if there are people in the house?" the blue-eyed girl challenged. "I mean, like parents?"

Angie merely shrugged.

"The man's a miracle worker," she said, returning to devouring the banana. "And do you know what? This coat thing actually works—which was why I brought this," and she held out the black material, patting it fondly. "Oh, don't look so shocked; he gave me his key—he'd copied some notes for this Chemistry lesson I'd missed, and told me I could pick them up this morning; and whilst there I found his coat as well," And she smiled knowingly at the girl, tapping the material fondly.

For a moment, the younger girl simply stared in disbelief at the garment before turning her gaze to the sky outside, her face turning from incredulous and disbelieving to outraged and discomfited.

"…You've tried it?" she asked at last, and Angie nodded, a devilish smirk on her face that made Sierra pull her dressing gown tightly over her chest. "This—This whole coat thing… He told you about it?"

"Yeah; when I first came out; whilst everybody were nodding and smiling and either pretending to accept it or bemoaning the loss of potential grandchildren, Steve, who was my boyfriend, and who should've understandably been the most hurt and offended… Well, he just sort of… took me aside, looked into my eyes, and taught me a trick or two—Basically, he taught me how to pick up lesbians, which he's had an almost embarrassing amount of experience with," she finished flippantly. "He's great like that—which is why I honestly can't understand why you don't like him."

"He seems like a good friend," Sierra allowed. "But I think that, as a boyfriend—"

"I've known him as a boyfriend," Angie reminded her. "And he was a pretty decent one—not that great in bed, but that could just be me being averse to penises…"

Sierra's spoon clattered to the floor, and she ducked down under the table to fetch it, her cheeks glowing with embarrassment; it was alright to talk to Georgie or Frankie or Harry or indeed, any other of the wide-eyed, asinine girls who she considered friends or acquaintances about sex and anatomy, simply because Sierra had a habit of getting a little too scientific (it was no coincidence that biology was her best science by far) and repulsing or disgusting the girls as a result, because these girls were, after all, at that age where they were becoming aware of sex, but where the word penis still had the power to reduce them to a giggling caricature of their former selves for hours on end, and Sierra, despite her best efforts and falsified maturity, was still one of those girls, much as it pained her to admit it.

"Sorry," she apologised several minutes later, popping back up, hair in disarray. "Good boyfriend, you say?"

"Yeah," Angie confirmed. "But never mind, let's get back upstairs, shall we? We've a whole wardrobe of your clothes to sort through."

They left for Soho about twenty minutes to twelve, ensuring good time, and arrived at the Intrepid Fox at about ten past. At first, Sierra absolutely refused to enter, insisting that she wait the twenty remaining minutes outside; the exterior promised a cheap, dirty, dim interior of low standards of hygiene, not to mention low standards in general, and when she was finally pulled in, her judgement was proven correct, for it was dark, and pretentious, and rather disgusting; the smell of fresh urine overwhelmed her olfactory senses, making her face wrinkle as she repressed a gag.

"I'm not impressed," she said to her companion, looking in distrust at the few patrons scattered throughout, taking in their… alternative appearance. Angie simply ignored her, marching right up to the bartender and speaking to him in low tones. The man, a pale, thin individual with a pierced septum, turned his gaze to the girl hovering tellingly close to the entrance, dark gaze sweeping critically over her body, upper lip curling in a sneer of blatant disapproval, much to Sierra's silent outrage, and after this silent inspection, he turned back to Angie to say, not troubling to keep his voice low,

"What a shame, that is; she doesn't seem like much to fuss over, does she? But I'll go get him anyway," and he turned his back at that very moment, thus unable to witness the look of offended outrage that stole across her face. Unable to lash out at anything or anyone, she crossed her arms and turned away, back to the slightly open door, a scowl on her face, starting slightly as she felt a hand on her shoulder, and that now-familiar drawl of, "To be perfectly honest, I didn't actually expect you to show up, much less twenty minutes early."

She gritted her teeth, shrugged his hand off, and spun to face him, unintentionally taking in his light jacket and faded jeans before raising her eyes to his smirking face.

"I've been informed that you asked for additional help in dressing yourself this morning," he told her lazily, not bothering to hide his sweeping gaze. She bit the inside of her cheek before thrusting his coat into his chest, using the action to disguise the fact that she was actually pushing him away.

"And I've been informed that you've forgotten this."

For a moment, Steve merely glanced down at his coat, lips pursing in confused thought before a sort of realisation dawned; he then raised his gaze to the promisingly grey sky, before turning to glare at Angie, who was standing some distance behind him.

"Thanks, darling," he stated somewhat bitingly. "How considerate of you."

Angie shrugged, her face innocent.

"Hey, what are friends for?" she replied brightly, but then her expression sobered slightly as she asked, "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Steve turned back to look at Sierra, shrugged, and acquiesced, leaving the brunette to stand uncomfortably alone for several minutes more; when he did eventually return, there was a hint of a limp in his step, and, if she looked closely, a slightly reddened ear; Angie, in stark contrast, was as friendly and unruffled as ever, and after a brief walk followed by a teasing farewell, left the couple, claiming that she was off to see her girlfriend. Sierra smiled and gave her a brief hug, but the moment her eyes turned on Steve, her face became a mask of resentment, and she turned and marched steadily on, refusing to talk to him.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asked as he jogged alongside her.

"My purse, my necklace," she stated flatly.

"What about them?"

"I want them back."

"I'll give you the necklace now," he agreed, fishing into the pocket of his jeans, "But I—oh no…"

"What?"

"It appears I've forgotten to bring it," he told her contentedly, opening his hand to reveal an empty palm.

This didn't go down too well with Sierra, who immediately halted in her footsteps, glaring at him.

"You 'forgot?'"

"Well it was either that, or perhaps I just didn't want to rob myself of the guarantee of seeing you again," he admitted, backtracking a few paces to take her arm in his; she denied him the pleasure of contact, moving the limb out of his reach and quickening her pace ever so slightly so that she remained that way.

"Well, if you're going to continue playing such childish games, I may very well lose the incentive to continue seeing you."

"Are you saying you're not completely averse to the idea of spending time with me, even if money wasn't involved?" he asked casually, and Sierra's eyes narrowed at the badly-hidden meaning of his words, which were either chosen with great care or greater carelessness; she halted altogether, and spun to face him.

"Firstly, I don't appreciate comparisons—subtle and unfounded though they may be—to prostitution; secondly, yes, you're right, if you hadn't had taken my belongings, I would not be with you right now; but that still does not give you the right—"

"Are you sure about that?" he interjected, and she blinked, confused. "That you wouldn't be with me, right now or, indeed, at any other time?"

"Well—I—Yes, of course I'm sure!" she snapped defensively, flushing under his intense gaze.

"I don't believe you."

"What?"

"I think you would be with me," he told her confidently, sidling ever closer, impervious to the stares of passers-by, "even if there wasn't actually anything… material… in it for you."

Sierra merely held his gaze for several moments longer before hurriedly looking away.

"You… are… very attractive," she confessed haltingly, staring at her feet. "And by God, do you know it. But you're also rather arrogant as well, and… that's traditionally a… a dislikeable quality—"

"Do you find it dislikeable?" he murmured to her, and she became aware of the proximity of his presence at the same moment she felt his breath on her lips.

"…No…"

"Well there you are then," and he stepped away, and she found herself breathing normally again.

Bloody hormones, she thought to herself, recalling that first night, and shook her head. He offered her his arm, and she unquestioningly accepted, and for several minutes, they walked on in silence.

"Why me?" she asked him suddenly.

"Sorry?"

"Well… All of this trouble you must have gone through, just to arrange this… date… Why? I mean, how did you know I'll be worth it?"

Steve lowered his head and laughed.

"I didn't know you'll be worth it—And to be fair, I still don't, but I'll tell you this, it is beginning to appear that you most certainly were—"

"You took my purse from me; that was where it all started, wasn't it?"

Steve merely raised his eyebrows.

"You… don't actually… go around robbing every girl you see, do you?" she said slowly in realisation, and they halted in their footsteps, waiting patiently for the traffic to freeze so that they might cross the road.

"Honestly? No, not really."

"I didn't think so. So why did you do it? It's not the most conventional way of asking a girl out."

"I'm a rather unconventional person, as I think you'll find. But to get back on topic: To be honest, I—Well, I just saw you, walking along that day, and you just—you just seemed so interesting—" She bit back a smile as she watched the usually silver-tongued Steve struggle with words before eventually giving up, laughing softly at his newfound ineptitude.

"I honestly don't know why, but I was overcome with the urge to get to know you better; perhaps we were lovers in a past life or something equally preposterous, I don't know. Or perhaps it's because you're so gorgeous that you actually stop traffic—" And he gestured theatrically at the recently halted vehicles, causing her to smile and laugh as they crossed the street, "But I saw you, and—"

"Decided to take my purse?" she filled in casually. "Why did you do that?"

Steve hesitated, and for the first time since she'd known him (brief though that may be), saw him as uncertain.

"…Well, I was hoping it'll contain contact details."

"Contact details?"

"Along the lines of a name and phone number."

"Oh; and then what?"

"Well, I'll call you and, posing as an almost-innocent bystander, calmly explain that I found this purse of yours after being knocked down by some inconsiderate git; we'd arrange a meeting, I'll flatter and charm you, we'll have sex, and happily part ways."

"You seem rather certain about the last three," she tenderly castigated.

"Of course I'm certain; with a slight variation of circumstances, it's practically what I do with every other lesbian I go out with."

"What?"

"Oh, what's wrong now?"

She stopped, staring at him, although she knew that the offence that she felt at his words… wasn't actually offence. It was odd; she felt the emotion, the righteous anger, and at the same time, she knew it wasn't real.

"I'm not a lesbian."

"Of course you are."

"I'm not."

"Are too."

"I do have a boyfriend, you know—"

"Ah, yes; the infamous but as of yet nameless boyfriend, the regular and consistent mention of which greatly implies that you are a lesbian."

Sierra stared at him for a moment longer before turning and going off in a huff.

"But you must be a lesbian!" he insisted, quickening his pace to match her own affronted march.

"Give me three reasons that fully justifies your belief that I am indeed a lesbian," she challenged.

They came a little too easily to him for her liking.

"Firstly," he began, grabbing at her arm and missing, "you're on a date with me; secondly, you find me attractive—you do find me attractive, right? Thought so—and finally—most significantly—" and his fingers wrapped around her elbow, rooting her to the spot, forcing her to look sullenly up at him.

"You're a Catholic schoolgirl."

For a moment, Sierra stood still, staring up at him incredulously.

"…Steve… Steve… Stephen," she began in a quiet voice, "I think you're old enough to realise that there is a slight but significant difference between real life and badly-made lesbian porn, don't you?"

The boy merely blinked in bewilderment.

"What d'you mean?"

"…Not all Catholic schoolgirls are gay," she said slowly, as though this would help the boy absorb the fact better.

"…What?" he said at last, brown eyes widened in a mixture of childish confusion and horror.

"Quite a few Catholic schoolgirls are, I think you'd find, in fact heterosexual."

"Sierra, what the hell are you talking about? You're making absolutely no sense, you know," and the girl closed her eyes in exasperation.

"Alright," she began slowly, taking his arm in her own and forcing him to walk along with her. "Let's take this slowly, shall we? I'll ease you in gently—No, don't giggle, it wasn't meant like that and you know it—oh, honestly…

"First of all, not all of us where plaid skirts—as a matter of fact, ours—the upper school's, anyway—is just plain black; secondly, we do not have a wide-ranging collection of bondage gear stashed under our desks—God is, after all, watching—thirdly, our teachers are not all beautiful, buxom, bespectacled blondes who strip and spank us whenever we get an answer wrong—that practice has, after all, been outlawed—"

"What about cheerleaders?" he interrupted suddenly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Cheerleaders," he repeated, although his face seemed anxious. "Do they not spend all their free time lathering themselves and each other up in the shower?"

"…I don't know, I've never met a cheerleader before… But somehow I doubt it."

"And nurses," he continued, speaking as though every word cost him a great pain. "Do they really not spend all their days lounging around hospital beds attempting to discover every possible use for a miscellany of phallic—"

"Alright, that's enough," she snapped, pulling away from him. "This is just—I've had—Nothing is worth—" She stopped at the look on his face, and sighed. "Not all Catholic schoolgirls are lesbians; therefore, that doesn't necessarily mean that I'm a lesbian—which I'm not," she stated firmly, and he scowled.

"Alright, so you can have that Catholic schoolgirls one," he grudgingly conceded, "but that still leaves the other two reasons unaccounted for."

"Oh?"

"Well," he began smugly, "you're here on a date with me, and you find me attractive: so what, exactly, does that make you?"

"Straight," she deadpanned, although she couldn't help the smile that had broken across her face.

"Ah, so that's why you dislike me so much then," Steve finally accepted, slipping carefully out of her loose grip to take her hand in his own. "Heterosexual girls never really liked me, not in terms of romance, anyway."

"But how is that? Moreover, why is that? You appear to get on very well with lesbians."

"Oh, I can charm lesbians alright; it's the straight ones that elude me."

Sierra shook her head, laughing quietly, and Steve grinned.

"Here we are; I take it you haven't had lunch yet?"

No, of course she hadn't; and even if she had, her answer would still have been much the same.

It was a lovely little café that he had led her to, comfortable and relaxing; she became most intrigued at his command to order something fast or pre-cooked, his reasoning being that he didn't want them to be late, but was unwilling to divulge any further information other than, "It starts at two-thirty."

"Tease," she threw at him, and he smiled, reaching over to pat her knee, his hand lingering for a moment before drawing back. Sierra looked around at the other clientele, then back at Steve, who was consulting his menu, before coming to a decision and moving her chair so that she sat beside him as opposed to opposite. Steve pretended not to notice this change, although he did smirk as she casually placed her hand on his thigh with the pretense of leaning over to glance at the appetisers, which for her was a very big step as it marked the first time she had ever really flirted in her short life.

And she had proceeded to flirt outrageously (by her standards, or more specifically, the standards she had possessed at the time; in her adult life, 'outrageous' flirting had ceased to exist for her) although really, her flirting didn't go any further than lingering physical contact and a habit of leaning closer to him. Steve was obviously receptive, returning her light gestures with stronger, more certain touches; he had a habit of adjusting her hair, even when it was obvious to both that it didn't really need such amendments, and his fingers used this opportunity to gently trace (almost unintentionally, though they both knew this was untrue) her cheeks and lips.

All in all, she found herself enjoying… it, and enjoying his presence, and as time wore on, the idea of seeing him again, perhaps even on a regular basis, became more and more appealing.

When they left the café, he had his arm slung casually about her waist; but more significantly, she hadn't protested in the slightest, and besides this contact, the two had unconsciously agreed to alter the course of conversation and in doing so discover if they were compatible, not as lovers, but as friends.

"You're taking me to a theatre?" she later exclaimed, surprised as he steered them towards a building.

"Well, yeah; why, are you disappointed?"

"N-No… Just surprised, that's all."

"I appreciate theatre," he said defensively.

"I didn't say you didn't," she soothed, although she suspected he was only trying to impress her, which he had been doing both effortlessly and effectively so far. "What is it, anyway?"

The performance in question was a small, little-known comedy entitled What Would Your Mother Say? that dealt with the everyday issues of love, sex, marriage, death, inheritance, matricide, patricide, fratricide, 'legalised incest,' foreigners, distant cousins, taxes, the civil servants forced to collect them, and a family of rather annoying badgers who had accidentally burrowed into the secret vault and had scattered the family treasure throughout the borough—and what was even more surprising was that it actually worked. Sierra had never known a time when she had laughed so hard—and it was as much due to Steve's witticisms as it was to the story acted out before them.

But the play had to end, and the afternoon's conclusion likewise was inevitable; all too soon, she found herself standing on the station, bidding him goodbye: Sierra was returning home; Steve was going to meet up with a few friends for a game of rugby, which, she was told, was a weekly ritual.

"It'll be dark soon," she told him whiningly, leaning into his shoulder, "Why don't you just call them and say you can't make it? We can get some coffee and curl up in a corner somewhere." She had almost invited him to her house, but stopped herself just in time.

"Tempting and more appealing as that undoubtedly is," he agreed, chin resting on her head, "it's what we do on a regular basis; if I don't turn up the teams will be uneven; I will then proceed to be ostracized, penalized, and generally disfavoured as a whole."

"…I'll have sex with you?" she tried as a final attempt.

"Liar," he laughed, placing a kiss atop her head, inhaling deeply.

"When can I next see you? Monday?" she pleaded, and he frowned.

"Can't; football practice, work; how 'bout Tuesday?"

"No, I have ballet then…" she began apologetically, and cursed as she heard the train pulling up.

"Time for you to go," he said regretfully, stroking her hair as he pulled back, only to lean forward once more—

She turned her head, and his kiss missed its mark.

"Sorry," she began, almost casually, "but I don't kiss on first dates; it's always fun to leave you males wanting more."

"Tease," he threw back at her, but accepted her decision almost unquestioningly (the fact that she did, in fact, reach up to give him a quick peck on the cheek may have also contributed to his complacency).

The moment Steve was out of sight, everything became a sort of blur; looking back, she was amazed that she had been able to remember to get off at the right station, and recall the correct route to her home, and was able to find her keys, and successfully throw off Olivia's prying clucking, and climb up the stairs to her room, and remember where her room was, for that matter, and a thousand other insignificant things which, in her contented, dreamlike state, seemed all the more difficult to perform.

Removing her coat reminded her of Angie's blasé but completely justified warning; pulling back her hair reminded her of Steve's touch, and the way he looked into her eyes, and his voice, and hundreds of other things that effectively drowned out her own inner logic as well as Angie's subtle counsel. Dazed, she walked to her desk, and began to sort through the various papers there, smiling as she came across Steve's three-line note—

Kim's giggle sounded suddenly in her ears; the accompanying image flashed before her eyes, and her bubble was effectively punctured.

Good God… she thought to herself, both horrified and awed. And then:

I have to be careful; Steve can charm any girl he comes across…

But I do so want to see him again; I know the risk, and yet it's not enough to stop me.

Damned hormones.

The phone rang suddenly, and she started before leaning over to answer it.

"Well?" Georgie demanded, her voice betraying her impatience. "How did it go? Are you pregnant with his lovechild? Did he give you your stuff back?"

"Delightfully, certainly not, and no," she answered systematically, sitting down in her chair, her hand reaching up to finger with the chain of her necklace, as was her wont.

Wait a minute…

"Details, details, details," Georgie's voice echoed, oblivious to Sierra's frozen self. "What did you do? How did it begin? Did my cousin behave this morning? What did you wear? Was he—"

"Georgie, could you hang on for a moment? I need to check on something."

"Of course, go ahead."

Sierra put the phone carefully down on the desk and walked slowly towards her mirror, studying her reflected face intently before lowering her gaze to inspect the necklace. Sure enough, it was the same simple pendant that Steve had taken, when he had been pretending to be drunk…

Feeling hesitant yet oddly hopeful and apprehensive, she moved to where her coat lay, going through her pockets; the first revealed a handful of coins and some five-pound notes, change from her numerous transactions during the day; the second, on the other hand contained…

Oh, Steve… she thought affectionately, opening her purse and checking that her debit card was in there and intact.

It was, but that didn't stop the piece of paper from fluttering to the ground.

Really had fun today; call me, won't you?

"Aw, that's so sweet," Janelle was saying, and Sierra wondered whether she was referring to her story, or the sight of Johnnie playing with his new pet. She decided it was the latter, and turned just in time to see the terrier leap up to lick his new owner's face, yapping happily.

"Told you the puppy would make a worthy Christmas gift," she said smugly, taking a sip of her coffee; and indeed, the boy and dog had formed a remarkably close bond within the last three days.

"Yes, but you won't have to clean up after it."

"He's housetrained!"

Janelle shot her friend a doubtful look, returning her gaze to the puppy doubtfully. Deciding to give the Briton the benefit of the doubt, she glanced up at Sierra from out of the corner of her eye, taking in her friend's fresh, wide-eyed expression, and the slight yawn. That grin hadn't had left the woman's lips all morning, and frankly, it was beginning to irk her.

"Who were you talking to last night?"

"No one."

"Steve?"

"A little bit. Why?"

"No reason," Janelle backed off, turning away and watching Johnnie to cover up the fact that she was smirking; Just friends, indeed. That being said, it was nice to have Sierra smile, truly smile, instead of that false upturning of the lips and lingering sadness in her eyes that had for the past four years passed as smiles. Jack Sparrow's fault, of course; before she met him, Sierra had been carefree, if not exactly happy.

But he did have a positive effect on her, though, she thought to herself, laughing as Johnnie was bowled over by the as of yet nameless puppy. The way the redhead saw it, there had only really been two men in Sierra's life; one had caused her great pain (or so she assumed), but was now steadily making amends; the other had hurt her, but he had also brought her great happiness, and if she had cried because of him, it was only because he had been torn away from her.

Not to mention he helped her to become a far better woman than the spoilt, vain, selfish girl Janelle had met and promptly hated six years ago; the first Sierra Janelle had known would never have even remembered a passing comment Johnnie had made seven months ago, about how his friend had just been given a puppy and how he had gone around and played with it and now wanted one too, much less act upon it. The first Sierra would have gone after Janelle's boyfriend regardless of her friend's feelings instead of denying her lust and restraining herself to friendly, decidedly platonic conversation. The first Sierra wouldn't have needed alcohol to sneer at and insult Janelle's various guests on Christmas Eve.

T o be frank, the first Sierra was a bitch, and Jack Sparrow had changed that, for which the modern world was grateful; and although she had never met him, Janelle had felt a sort of profound respect for him, which would explain why she turned to her friend and said…

"Are you going to pick up on your writing again?"

"What?"

"You know," Janelle persisted, "about Jack. I know that originally, you were only writing about him as some sort of therapy, to help you get over him, and now that you've gotten back with Steve—"

"We're—"

"—just friends, yes, I know; anyway, it seems as if you're starting to get over him—congratulations, it only took you four years—but—Do you think you could continue anyway?"

Sierra merely blinked. "Why should I? I'm not planning on publishing it; I've got other work coming in now."

"Because—" Janelle began, and then stopped. She didn't want to say Because you owe it to him. "Because I'm dying to find out what—"

"You already know what happens."

"Dear Sierra, you didn't let me finish; I was going to say that I was dying to find out what sort of spin you'd put on it."

Sierra stiffened, and turned to glare at her, setting her coffee down carefully.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, you know," Janelle shrugged. "I mean, I can't vouch for what happened for the majority of the story, but I know the beginning wasn't quite like that."

"…Sorry?"

"Oh, don't get me wrong," Janelle hurried to assure her. "I'm just saying that the beginning, when you were describing your family, yourself, whilst as shallow, two-dimensional, and melodramatic as it was written…"

"…Yes?"

"Well, you weren't that much of a victim. That scene where your father disowned you, for example; you actually said a lot worse to him, didn't you?"

Sierra wriggled and reached for her cup. "I'm trying to keep it somewhat clean," she said softly. "you can't blame me for that… Perhaps you noticed that I didn't include… with Pearl's rape… the medical attention that I…" Her hand was shaking, and she set the cup back down, curling up on the sofa with her arms wrapped tightly about herself, breathing deeply. When she spoke, her voice was a cracked whisper.

"There are some things which are best omitted, Janelle. For my sake, if nothing else. Things may be inconsistent, sometimes people aren't portrayed as they should be… But Janelle, when I was with Jack, I honestly didn't know what was going on. Nobody enlightened me; half of the things that Jack did… The places we visited… I never asked for an explanation; was never offered an explanation… And as such, I can't give an explanation for everything that happened."

"But it doesn't mean you have to lie about the things you do know about," Janelle gently chided.

"I don't lie, Janelle, at least, not deliberately. But I am biased; of course I am. If that means I lie, then so be it. And why do you care so much, anyway?" she asked suddenly, and the woman shrugged.

"It brings the quality down a bit, that's all; sometimes it's as if you're not writing your best."

"Well, does it really matter? It's only for 'fun' anyway; and besides," she added, her voice suddenly playful, "it's not as if you take the emails I send you, edit them a little, and upload them to one of those story archiving websites, is it?"

Janelle smiled, said, "Of course not," and proceeded to avert her gaze and wriggle uncomfortably for quite some time; Sierra, miraculously, didn't notice, her eyes following Johnnie intently.

"That puppy positively adores him, doesn't he? Looks like Johnnie will be preoccupied for quite some time; tell you what," she said suddenly, straightening and looking earnestly into her friend's eyes, "I brought a notepad with me; why don't I go upstairs and write for a bit? Will that satisfy you?"

Only if you type it up, she thought darkly. "Go on; I'll send Johnnie up when it's lunch."

"Thanks," she acknowledged, and stood, pausing and turning back to look at her curiously.

"Janelle… I meant to ask you; a few days ago, Johnnie and the twins went in search of Christmas presents in your room; Adam went into your closet, and found… A very interesting mirror."

The American raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Yes; an explanation, please?"

"It's a family heirloom," the redhead shrugged. "A sort of reflective Ouija board; apparently, you're able to summon up, talk to, and see the dead with it. It's also supposed to reveal a person for what they really are, as well. A load of bull, basically; I mean, you just have to look at the ritual…" She stood, walked over to a cupboard, and rummaged through a drawer, pulling out some faded, yellowing, delicate paper encased in transparent plastic and handed it to Sierra, who had followed her. "See what I mean?"

Curious, Sierra took it, and read aloud, "'First, thou must prove thyself worthy of the most sacred gift of necromancy by—Not now, Jack, I'm writing a spell—stripping naked and walking through fire clad in nothing but the pure milk of the dancing coconuts, and—no, really, Jack, I'm busy—No, I won't strip naked right now—stop distracting me… You are distracting me; to such an extent that I'm writing what I say to you as I say it… It is not funny! Stop laughing!' …Oh my God," she breathed, looking at the page in something akin to shock before running her gaze over Janelle.

"…This is Teresa," she said weakly, holding up the page. "This is definitely Teresa."

Janelle nodded, returning her gaze evenly.

"There was a reason that I believed your story, Sierra."

"Because Teresa was your ancestor?"

"Yes."

"But you're white," she blurted out tactlessly, and Janelle shrugged.

"It's not unheard of for a white person to have black ancestors; it is scientifically possible, you know. Look it up if you're interested."

"…I'll take your word for it," she said, still staring at Janelle's creamy skin in shock. The 'instructions' still dangling in her hand, she turned and moved to the hall as though in a daze.

"Oh, and Sierra?" Janelle called. "Tell the truth this time, will you?"

She smiled a little, although it didn't quite reach her eyes. "To the best of my ability," she promised, and exited, climbing up the stairs and into her room. Once there, she gently closed the door and leant back, standing very still, her heart beating frantically.

If any of this actually works… she thought wildly, her pulse thundering in her ears. Unable to complete the sentence, she glanced at the desk, where her notebook sat innocently, plain pages begging to be filled.

My novel, she thought slowly, is all I have of Jack; writing and reliving those memories is the closest I can get to being with him again: But if this actually works…

With a final glance at the yellowed page in its glistening casing, she straightened and marched to the desk, dropping it beside the notepad as she sat.

Foolish, she thought angrily, You've travelled back in time once, and where has it gotten you? What have you become? What do you believe in?

Anything. Anything that will give me hope.

No, no, no, she cursed herself, turning the aged paper over and opening the pad to a clean page. It was stupid, it was foolish, irrational, impossible: People can't talk to the dead, certainly not through a looking glass.

So she picked up her pen, pushed back her hair, and glanced disdainfully at the large mirror presiding over her dresser—

And stopped.

The pen dropped, clattering to the floor, and her jaw fell as she stared. Then she closed her eyes, shook her head, and opened them again, smiling shakily at her own reflection.

It was just the trick of the light, or wishful thinking, or perhaps there was something in that coffee Janelle had neglected to mention, but there was no way in hell that she had seen Jack's warm brown eyes and curiously tilted head. Her mind was playing games with her; she was only seeing what she wanted to see, that was it.

Janelle was so wrong; I'm not over Jack. Not in the slightest. Even if I do have Steve again.

I need to get back to writing, she thought to herself, and closed her eyes, smiling gently as she remembered one of Jack's affectionate embraces; the ones he always bestowed just before he was about to inform or ask her of something she might have disagreed with.

And as she did so, she could have sworn that, if only for a moment, he was there in the room with her, his breath whispering gently against her cheek.

-x!x-

AN: Hmm, the plot thickens… Reviews are, as always, appreciated.