How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II

Chapter Eleven: Ode to Julian

"A lady should find it very shaming," Paul whispered to me as I smiled and curtsied the last visitor out, "that her maid owns more exquisite gowns than her."

"Oh, Paul," Christophe chastised from his armchair, "leave my sister alone. If this is how you treat women, it's no small wonder you're not yet married."

I smiled at this, smoothing down the teal skirt of the dress Flavio had reluctantly leant me; watching from a corner, the maid crossed his arms and scowled, turning away in a sulk. Earlier, Paul and Christophe had voiced their opinions about 'her insolence,' but I had calmly informed both men that, considering how the dress I wore was Flavio's, and it had been his favourite, and he had to adjust it to fit my larger bust, and a thousand other reasons that I was unable to voice, for at that moment, Paul had told me to shut up, and I had to straighten in my seat and smile benignly as the first of many visitors arrived.

Huh, 'many.' That word couldn't even begin to describe the unpredictable flood of callers, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups of two or three or more, that had preceded the bright sunshine—a phenomenon that had apparently not been witnessed for eight days. A morning which I would have much preferred to have spent outside, voluntarily soaking in potentially harmful UVA rays, but alas, it was not to be.

"They're here to see you, sister. Aren't they, Paul?"

"Yes, it's true. God knows why, though; I mean, you're not—"

"Paul…"

"What?"

And it was true; somehow, word of my arrival—that is to say, the arrival of the Governor's niece who just so happened to be a French countess—had spread like ironic wildfire during the week or so that Kingston was besieged by rain. I assumed my callers would have visited sooner, had the climate been more accommodating; but now that the sun had come out, so had the Caribbean's citizens. So far, I had been visited by a social-climbing mother and her chubby teenaged daughter; a bourgeois newly-wed with slightly protruding teeth who had clearly jumped at the chance to leave her husband's home; several happily married middle-aged women; a Puritan spinster, a handful of gentlemen, and two lieutenants who I could have sworn had been peacocks in another life. The current gentleman a nameless footman was ushering out had been a fop, and a fop who had been eager to unleash his truly dreadful French on my unsuspecting ears at that. His name was Bosworth, and horrendous French aside, I thought he was a rather sweet, intelligent fellow. He was the only individual I had personally invited to return for supper that evening, and I had earned a rather unpleasant look from Christophe because of it.

"You're engaged, Nicolette," he hissed into my ear as we made our way to the dining room, where lunch was to be served. "Or have you conveniently forgotten your betrothal to Sauveterre?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous!" I said, spinning on my heel to face him. "As if I could think of any man besides Sauveterre!" I paused to swallow, my eyes involuntarily darting down his shirt, catching a glimpse of light muscle sparsely sprinkled with fine hair, and then I shook my head, smiling nervously as I stepped back. "My fiancé, Sauveterre," I muttered under my breath as I clasped my skirts and followed Paul, muttering the name under my breath so as to embed it into my memory. "Sauveterre, Sauveterre, Sauveterre… Christophe?" I added as I passed through the doorway.

"Yes, Nicolette?"

I hesitated, both curious and uncertain. "Have I met… Sauveterre?" I began clumsily, waiting for one of the footmen to come to his senses and pull out my seat. "Do I love him, Christophe? Is it a love match? I… I don't recall. I'm sorry."

Christophe's blue eyes softened and he hesitated, suddenly tentative.

"He's a good match, Nicolette," he said at last. "Wealthy; immaculate breeding. A little older than you are perhaps, but… You'll grow to love him."

"Is he handsome?"

The corners of Christophe's mouth quirked. "No worse than cousin Paul."

"But worse than you?"

Christophe laughed, kissing my hand before moving to pull my seat out for me; I nearly jumped as he brushed his lips briefly against my cheek, hand gently massaging my covered shoulder as he did so. He must have sensed my repressed reaction, for I saw him frowning as he pulled away, lips pursed in bafflement.

"Are you quite all right, Nicolette?" he asked of me, not for the first time. "You seem… tense."

I am tense, I thought irritably as I looked up into his concerned blue eyes. I'm desperately suppressing the urge to drug your wine and drag you up to my bed! Instead, I said, "I've not been sleeping very well, Christophe. I haven't been sleeping well for many weeks now."

"How come?"

"Nightmares," I answered truthfully. "And I'm not used to… here."

He nodded in sympathy. "I understand completely," he whispered to me, taking the seat beside me and covering my hand with his own, fingers stroking mine in an attempt at silent comfort. He had beautiful hands; lightly tanned with long, elegant fingers, only slightly callused, due no doubt to fencing and other gentlemanly pastimes he pursued. An athlete, no doubt; and at a time when regular physical labour was reserved only to the lower classes. I tried not to think of the muscles that such sports he pursued would have cultivated, particularly the arms, as fencing was the only sport I could think of for him. And I tried not to think of Jack's arms, and how they had rippled black and gold in the candlelight.

And I tried not to think of Jack, because I was certain I would cry if I did.

"We'll remain in Kingston until our uncle returns," Christophe promised me. "And then, with his leave, I'll accompany you to Martinique, where Antoine de Sauveterre no doubt eagerly awaits your… hand."

His eyes had dropped to my dress, his expression unmistakably disapproving of his little sister's curves, and all thoughts of hypnotic eyes and golden grins vanished as I felt myself flush.

Thankfully Flavio, who had followed us into the dining room in that childish, sulky manner of his, chose that exact moment to knock over a vase; the combined shriek of fear and crash that followed distracted my newfound brother, and gave me a chance to school my features into an expression of aristocratic indifference. Turning in my seat, I watched as Flavio bent down to gather up the discarded flowers, whilst another maid appeared armed with a brush so as to sweep up the broken china.

"Wait for me in my room, Jeanne-Louise," I instructed haughtily, "We'll discuss this later."

Nodding, the blond dipped a quick curtsy and, still cradling the white flowers, scurried out of the room, disappearing around a corner.

"Honestly, I don't know why you keep her," Christophe remarked as a pair of footmen arrived with the meal. "She's insolent, childish, is completely unaware of her place—"

"I like her, Christophe," I interrupted firmly. "I consider her to be a great friend."

"Oh, God…" Paul muttered from opposite us, but we ignored him.

"You shouldn't befriend the help," Christophe continued to castigate me, and I rolled my eyes, picking up a fork. "It gives them ideas—"

"He's right, you know," Paul opined, quite uninvited. "Why, you should have had her thrashed for ruining Mother's vase alone; the lower orders aren't like us, you know."

I opened my mouth to disagree, but then snapped it shut again; Nicolette was, after all, a supposedly passive, submissive character. …Well, my Nicolette was, at any rate.

"Nicolette," Christophe began, lazily poking at his chicken, "Did you hear anything last night?"

"No, I did not," I answered truthfully, cutting up a potato and spearing it onto my fork. "I was… sound asleep. Why do you ask?"

I popped the potato into my mouth as Paul and Christophe exchanged knowing glances, chewing as a silent message seemed to pass between them. And then, as one, they both rushed to clumsily inform me of the previous night's events in a dialogue that was best described as confusing:

"Well, our cousin believes that we had a thief—"

"Your brother thinks a runaway slave—"

"—broke in and stole—"

"—who escaped only last night—"

"—some candlesticks—"

"—Mother's remaining jewels—"

"—silk drapes—"

"—Father's favourite stallion—"

"—our Aunt's emerald necklace—"

I put down my cutlery and motioned that the both of them stop, but they continued in their disjointed narration, eventually culminating in the harmonious chorus of, "And the chandelier!"

I could only blink and stare.

"…What?—No!" I added as both men opened their mouths. "One at a time please! Yes, Christophe?"

"Apparently," Christophe began after a somewhat victorious glance at his cousin, "we were visited by a thief only last night."

"…Oh?" I said at last. "And what makes you say that?"

"The servants have reported several objects as missing earlier this morning," Christophe informed me. "Paul believes that there was a thief, and yet one of the slaves—a footman, in fact—is said to be missing—"

"Well, I apologise," Paul interrupted sharply, "but I fail to see how a slave intelligent enough to plan an escape in the first place would waste time—" He was silenced by Christophe's cold glare, and instead turned his attention to his food, toying sulkily with his carrots whilst my brother proceeded to look incredibly handsome as he explained how someone had, in the dead of night, silently plundered the Hales' home with admirable sufficiency.

"…and if there was a thief," he was concluding as I placed a miscellany of vegetables into my mouth, "he must have had an accomplice—someone who knows the house well."

"Oh? And what makes you say that?" I asked mildly, taking a sip of my (at Christophe's request) watered-down wine.

"Because the bloody chandelier is missing!" Paul exploded.

There was a second crash as my glass slipped out of my hand with a clatter, and I reached up to cover my mouth with my fingers as I began to choke. Christophe played the part of protective sibling with flair, simultaneously patting my back and pulling me towards him so that when I had stopped coughing, I found myself happily tangled in an affectionate embrace. Smiling, I hesitantly pulled away from his arms and, with some effort, pushed the various emotions churning within me aside to ask disbelievingly,

"How does one steal a chandelier?"

"Not without prior knowledge of the building and its various light fixtures," Christophe replied, shooting a somewhat victorious glance at Paul. His blue eyes returned to me, softening as he looked down at his little sister with such fondness that a wave of guilt over my 'incestuous' inclinations rose within me.

"…Well," I said at last, returning to my meal, "slave or thief, I hope you find him." And I picked up my fork and continued to eat the rest of my lunch in silence.

When I entered my room, silent and contemplative, I was greeted by the sight of Flavio arranging a bouquet of white lilies on my desk, humming merrily as he worked.

"Flavio…" I said slowly as I closed the door behind me, watching him from under lowered lashes, "Last night… Did I leave my room?"

Flavio widened his violet eyes, blinked three times, and shook his head slowly. "No, I don't think so—But what do you think of my flowers?" he added excitedly, pointing at the lilies and beaming in pride.

"Very nice, Flavio," I complimented disinterestedly, and saw his face fall at my indifference. "No, no, really—they're beautiful. Were they the ones you knocked over in the dining room?"

Flavio nodded his blond head happily, beckoning that I come closer. When I had reached him, he reached over to pluck out one ivory blossom, wiping gently at the emerald stem before turning to me and holding the bloom out shyly. I smiled at this, and accepted the gift with a bright smile that made him bashfully duck his head and blush.

"What would I do without you?" I said fondly, my fingers gently caressing the snowy petals as I studied the lily. "I'm so lucky that I have someone as sweet and considerate as you are, Flavio."

Flavio's cheeks flushed with pleasure, and he giggled, clapping his hands in childlike delight. Setting the lily gently down on the desk, I reached out to cup his face in both hands, smiling as he closed his eyes in contentment.

"Promise me," I murmured seriously, "that no matter what happens with Paul or Christophe or anything else, that you'll stay with me."

"I promise!" Flavio assured me eagerly. "I absolutely, completely and utterly promise, Si-Si!"

I closed my eyes in pain as he unknowingly parroted Pearl's own affectionate term of endearment, but smiled regardless, allowing him to take my hands and lead me to my bed as he continued his incessant jabbering.

"I swear!" he was saying, bequeathing an affectionate hug after we had sat down and accidentally knocking me back onto the mattress. "I swear, Sierra, to never never never never never leave you! Throughout the ages to come, I will be by your side, life after life after life, throughout all of your incarnations, from this day forward! Stalking you, for the rest of eternity! Regardless of whether you want me to or not!"

I was about to open my mouth and interrupt him, but froze as his words registered. Slowly, I pulled back to look at him, mouth hanging open.

"What did you just say?"

Flavio was still beaming as he repeated, "I swear to stalk you for all eternity, regardless of whether you wish me to or no!"

My eyes widened, and I drew away, regarding him in a new light.

"…Flavio?" I asked quietly as he continued to grin madly at me, "Can you please fetch me some water? My throat feels a little dry."

"Of course!" he consented, bouncing happily off of the bed and skipping to the door. Sitting up, I watched as my maid retreated, and waited until the door had closed before leaning forwards to place my face in my hands, elbows resting on my knees.

"Oh my God," I murmured, horrified. "Julian!"

"You still haven't broken up with him?" a disbelieving Georgie exclaimed incredulously to a fourteen-year-old Sierra. The brunette averted her eyes and, in a desperately pathetic attempt at changing the topic, asked meekly, "Won't you sign my petition? That's what I'm here for, after all…"

Enraged, Georgiana grabbed a pillow from the bed and proceeded to attack Sierra with it; she showed no clemency.

"I cannot believe—that you—three months—Oh, poor Julian!"

"Ow! Georgie!"

"Cruel—uncaring—mean—"

"Georgie!"

"Poor poor Julian! He still thinks the two of you are going out, you know!"

"Well, Steve and I haven't really been—"

"Three months!" the redhead squawked, enraged. "Three months, Sierra! And Julian won't even look at me—because he still feels pledged to you—YOU!—When you've been seeing someone else for three whole months!"

"Julian's gay!" Sierra squeaked, terrified. This statement, whilst perhaps not entirely truthful, had the desired effect; Georgie's blows momentarily halted, thus giving Sierra enough time to duck and wriggle out of range, clutching the petition tightly to her chest.

"Georgie!" she tried. "Georgie, please… listen?"

"No!" she scowled, red hair falling into her flashing eyes, pale cheeks flushed a brilliant red, the pillow hanging dangerously at her side. "Alright, fine—talk."

Sierra was hesitant; carefully, she folded and tucked the paper into her blouse, fiddled with her skirt, and looked into Georgiana's eyes.

"Georgie," she began quietly, seriously, "Georgie, let me explain: Julian and I have been going out for just over a year. We're very very close, and when we first started going out… Oh, Georgie, it was so romantic…"

"Sierra, what's wrong?" Julian asked as he entered the room, green eyes wide in concern as he took in the skinny girl sulking on the furniture. "You've been quiet and sulky all week! Is it fixable?"

Sierra scowled, lips thrust out in a pout, eyes narrowed in girlish petulance.

"I'll be thirteen in two months," she wailed childishly, "and I've never had a boyfriend in my life; as a matter of fact, I haven't even been kissed yet! And I'll be thirteen!"

Julian blinked, pushing his auburn hair out of a confused pair of emerald eyes.

"Surely you're young enough to wait, aren't you?"

"No!" Sierra replied vehemently. "No, Julian—don't you understand? I'm the school slut!"

"…So?"

Sierra leapt off of her seat and stood facing him, chin jutted out as a badge of obstinacy.

"People at school," she said slowly, "think of me as this amazingly experienced cheap skanky whore—that's the only reason half of my friends like me, you know. And I've never even been kissed!"

"…Oh."

"Exactly!" she moaned, wringing her hands worriedly. "It's been like this for a year, and I'm worried that people will begin to suspect that I'm nothing more than a loud-mouthed virgin who repulses every single member of the opposite sex that she comes across!"

"But you are a loud-mouthed virgin," the boy pointed out, confused, and Sierra sighed.

"Julian…" she began, "you are a charmingly sweet and unnaturally honest individual; as such, you simply can't comprehend the rather straightforward idea of people lying their arses off for the sole purpose of cultivating a somewhat unoriginal and vaguely controversial image."

Julian simply blinked, both bewildered and hurt, and watched silently as his friend turned away to stare moodily out of the window, arms wrapped about herself.

"…Sierra?" he began timidly; when she nodded, he ploughed on, "I'll be your boyfriend… if you like."

There was a pause in which Sierra turned to stare at the teenager.

"Really?" she asked, a little eagerly.

"I-If-If you want me to…" he stammered.

The twelve-year-old leapt upon him with a delighted squeal, legs wrapping clumsily around his torso as she hugged him tightly.

"Oh Julian! You're the best! I love you!"

Julian simply smiled and patted her back awkwardly. After a time, Sierra pulled away, face alight with elation.

"Okay!" she crooned, clapping her hands together. "Now all we need to do is sort out the pesky little details of our relationship…"

"So let's run through this one more time…" Sierra was saying tiredly ninety minutes later, free hand reaching out to massage her forehead whilst her right clutched Julian's pen tightly. "We were childhood sweethearts, having undergone a 'marriage' ceremony when I was seven, only to have been cruelly torn apart when school started and the both of us were sent to different same-sex schools. However, the Fire of Our Love remained fiery and undiminished—until I was eleven, that is, when tragedy struck.

"Whilst holidaying in Venice, I was charmed off of my feet by the thirteen-year-old and roguishly handsome son of a working-class gondolier by the name of Andrea—that's the name of the gondolier's son, not the gondolier, by the way; Remember that.—Anyway, we, Andrea and I, spent a magical week roaming through the winding streets of Venice, leaping across canals the colour of liquid diamonds and dancing by moonlight to music that only we knew and shared, indeed, it was music that the moon composed in honour of our—mine and Andrea's—young and forbidden love. At the time of our parting, Andrea and I, amidst tearful farewells and the most pitiable heart-wrenching sobs, exchanged tokens of our love, cut our fingers, and made a blood oath to never forget one another. And then, when I had returned to London and saw your face, I was overcome with guilt and, in a gesture of desperate self-loathing, threw myself at your feet, and confessed to the entire incident without even the slightest prompt. Will you vouch for that, Julian?"

Julian had been watching his newly-acquired girlfriend in enraptured awe; he nodded his head eagerly, and asked her to continue. Smiling, Sierra placed a tiny, neat tick next to the long-winded paragraph on the sheet of paper, and read, "After my confession, we agreed to undergo a trial separation; three weeks after, our childhood marriage was annulled on the grounds that our union—"

"—had never been consummated," Julian completed happily. "Yes, yes, Sierra, I can remember that; I assure you I can remember that much about our relationship."

Sierra smiled, pleased, and continued, "Well, obviously, I was in despair at having lost the love of my life over a small meaningless fling with a brown-eyed peasant gondolier's son; I proceeded to throw myself into the arms of each and every boy who will have me—"

"—All the while stirring up the bitterest bile of jealousy within my breast," Julian recited, clapping his hands at having remembered their love story so well.

"Exactly! Well done, Julian, you're remembering! See? Told you all it took was a little practice… So, we continued to dance around one another like so—"

"—Until today," Julian finished, eyes glittering with well-earned pride, "when, consumed by the passionate Fire of Our Love, I—"

"—came 'round my house—"

"—burst into your room—"

"—threw me onto my bed—"

"—and claimed you as my own!" Julian squealed. "Oh Sierra! Sierra! I can remember it all! All of it!"

"Good for you, Julian!" Sierra applauded. "See? Practice, practice, practice!" Julian simply nodded his fair head in agreement, cheeks flushed red with excitement.

"So you'll vouch for that?" Sierra said eagerly. "Our back story, our love story—if any of my friends ask, you'll tell them that it's all true, that it did happen?"

"Of course!" Julian swore. "So long as you swear to tell my friends that I'm heterosexual."

"Oh Julian, of course I will!" Sierra vowed. "And even if you weren't my boyfriend, I'd still tell them you were straight, simply because you are straight. I've told you once, and I'll tell you again; you are, without a shadow of a doubt, the most red-blooded, masculine, heterosexual man to have ever taken me shoe shopping."

"Aw, you're sweet," Julian stated, patting her nose affectionately before turning to regard the pact before them. "Well, may as well make it official; where do I sign my name again?"

"Here," Sierra replied, pointing at a carefully-pencilled dotted line. "And here, and here, and here…"

Once all signatures and dates were done, Julian reached out to shake her hand, as though to seal the deal once and for all. Sierra, however, hesitated, holding back.

"You do realise," she said slowly, "that this contract is not in any way authorised or legally binding unless it is officiated by a solicitor, don't you?"

"…Yeah…"

"And the way—I think, but I'm not sure—that contracts become official is to have some… some sort of… certified stamp, of a kind, I think… by a clerk… I don't actually know how these things work…"

"Oh," was all Julian would say, and proceeded to look rather disheartened as a result. Then suddenly, he brightened.

"I have a stamp, though!"

Sierra's head snapped up, wide-eyed.

"Really?"

"Yeah!" Julian nodded eagerly. "Wait, let me go and get it…" And he toddled over to his desk, rummaging through one of the top drawers whilst Sierra sat cross-legged on his bed and waited.

"Got it!" he crooned, returning with a small plastic box held triumphantly up before her. "Will these work?" And he set the amateur stationary down for inspection.

Raising an eyebrow at the container, Sierra cautiously flipped back the lid, pulling out the rubber stamp and corresponding spongy inkpad.

"Well?" her boyfriend asked eagerly. "Will it work?"

"…Julian…"

"Yes…?"

"It's Barbie."

Julian simply blinked. "I don't follow…"

"It's pink," Sierra began slowly, "and the actual stamp is a butterfly-like B. For Barbie."

"No," Julian said smoothly, reaching out to pull the stamp from her grasp; standing, he placed one hand over his heart, like the Americans did when listening to their national anthem. "It's a B, yes… for Britannia."

A pause pregnant with disbelief and meaning; and then,

"Yeah, I think it'll suffice." And she dipped the stamp into the fuchsia inkpad and stamped it at the very bottom of the contract. For a moment, the teenager and almost-teenager both stared in awe at the glistening pink ink.

"Well…" Sierra said at last, disbelieving, "That's it."

"It's done."

Our relationship is now… official." And she raised her eyes to look at her new boyfriend in awe, the solemnity of the situation swiftly evanescing.

"Julian!" she squealed suddenly, leaping forward to tightly hug her boyfriend. "Oh Julian!" She kissed his cheek once, twice, three times, and pulled back to look into his eyes, her face brimming with happiness.

"This is going to be the bestest relationship EVER!"

There was a silence as Georgiana minced over Sierra's words, pillow now seated carelessly beside her.

"Oh. My. God."

"I know," Sierra said sadly. "And because our, mine and Julian's, relationship was born of such deep love, such uncontrollable passion, I honestly can't bring myself to end it. He's my first boyfriend, Georgie; my very very first."

"Boyfriend? Boyfriend? He's not your boyfriend, you deluded tart!"

"And what makes you say that?"

"Well—Your relationship with Julian is so weird, so abnormal—there's no way in hell it can be described as romantic!"

Sierra pouted and widened her blue eyes in a way that a boy would have found irresistible.

"Give me one good reason why our relationship could be classed as 'weird,' Georgiana."

"Well!—Normal people don't usually require—They tend not to be overcome with the urge to write up a contract stating that they love and belong only to the other!"

"Of course they do," Sierra contradicted pedantically. "It's more commonly known as marriage, that's all."

Georgiana rolled her eyes and threw the pillow at her friend's head; then she reached over to her bedside cabinet, where a phone waited, and beckoned Sierra closer.

"Call him," she instructed firmly. "Call Julian, Sierra, and tell him that it's over between the two of you, that you've moved onto another boy, and that he should do the same—And, if you can work it subtly in, tell him I'm interested."

Sierra could only stare at her best friend in disbelief. "Georgie…" she whined.

"Tell him," the slightly younger girl pressed firmly. "Tell him now, Sierra—or I will."

Sierra looked nothing short of terrified; groping desperately for something that would stall the inevitable, she reached into her blouse and pulled out the slightly crumpled pages.

"But I thought we were here to—"

"I'll sign your blasted lesbian petition in a minute!" Georgie snapped, pulling the phone out of its black cradle and waving it threateningly. "Just as soon as you tell Julian the truth."

Time slowed; Sierra hesitated. Irritated, the redhead rolled her eyes, turned slightly on the mattress, and proceeded to dial Julian's number, which she did in fact happen to know by heart.

"No!" Sierra shrieked, the paper fluttering to the floor as she dived onto the mattress. "Georgiana, please—"

Smirking, the best friend and occasional blackmailer slammed the handset back into its cradle, and shifted to the right, thereby allowing her friend to crawl up and operate the telecommunications device unaided.

"You know, he might actually be out—"

"Sierra…"

The fourteen-year-old scowled and, cradling the handset between ear and shoulder, sulkily reached out to dial the number. "Yes!" she yelped suddenly, overjoyed. "Oh thank God! Yes, yes, yes!"

"What?" Georgie asked, taken aback. "What, what, what?"

"Answer phone!"

The girl rolled her green-tinged eyes, sighed, and sat back, watching as Sierra curled up on the mattress, face alight with impatience and anticipation.

"Hi Julian!" she chirruped. "This is Sierra here! How are you, sweetie?—Um—" upon catching Georgie's furious glare "—Look, honey-bunny—"

"Honey-bunny?" Georgiana repeated, incredulous. "You call him 'honey-bunny?'"

Sierra flapped her hand in a silencing gesture, laughing nervously into the mouthpiece.

"Listen, turtledove," she giggled, but it was a false giggle, high and restrained, "you—you may not have noticed, but… the past three months… and Valentine's Day, I'm so sorry we didn't spend the whole day together… I told you that Olivia wanted me to revise, remember? …Well, that was a slight lie… I… I was actually… not feeling very well—And I think that you and I should break up!" she added in a high-pitched rush, a hand reaching up to cover her mouth in horror at her tactless and slightly unintelligible words.

"Wait!" she squeaked as though he were about to hang up, and her friend merely rolled her eyes at the pathetic tableau presented before her. "Julian! I… I didn't mean that—I… Oh…"

"You did mean that," Georgie hissed firmly, but Sierra ignored her.

"Julian," she tried again, "I hate to use a cliché, really I do, but… It's not me, it's you—No! No, it's me, it's me, it's me!—I'm the problem, I'm the problem! I'm the one with the problem, and… you… don't deserve me. Yeah. Okay, that's it now—Bye! Oh!—and, er, I hope we can remain friends." And she dropped the handset down as though it had burned her, and proceeded to stare at the phone for an obscene amount of time.

"…Well," she said at last. "That's it then. …It's over. Oh God, it's over…" She sniffled slightly, a hand reaching up to rub at her eye, whilst Georgie could only stare at her in disbelief.

"That was pathetic; you do know that was completely and utterly pathetic, don't you?"

"It was a little awkward and disjointed, I'll admit," Sierra confessed, rubbing her nose and pushing back her hair. "But there. It's done now; Julian is yours for the taking."

Moving as though dazed, Sierra leant back on the mattress, head falling into the soft folds of a white pillow. Clearly, she was in some form of mild shock.

"Georgie…" she began tentatively. "Julian is… He's the sweetest, most thoughtful, most considerate…" she trailed off, unsure of herself. "Promise me you'll treat him well, won't you?"

Georgiana's eyes softened slightly; overcome with a feeling that could best be described as tenderness, she reached out to pat Sierra's hand before sliding off of the bed and picking up what was known at their school as the 'Lesbian Petition.'

"This is for Steve, right?" she frowned, eyes scanning over the two-hundred-or-thereabouts signatures as she clambered onto her mattress to curl beside Sierra.

"Yeah; yeah… Three months of subtle and not-so-subtle insinuations that all Catholic schoolgirls are gay… I don't know, I just cracked." She gave a slight smile, pulling at her dark skirt and adjusting her flesh-coloured tights. "I may have lost my temper a week ago; and I may have enquired if there was anything that I personally could do to convince him that Catholic schoolgirls are prone to the same sexual feelings, desires, and orientations as any other normal schoolgirl…"

"And he said only a petition would convince him otherwise," Georgie completed, and Sierra nodded.

"He said it with the utmost sarcasm, of course; but I decided to hold him to his word. And now," she gestured, "here we are."

Georgie cracked a grin at this and, shaking her head in amusement, reached into her jacket pocket in search of a pen.

"You are so, so weird," she chuckled throatily. "But very, very sweet; I can see why Steve likes you."

And she signed the name Georgiana Leigh with a flourish, silently noting that hers was signature 234.

-x!x-

AN: So… I've asked you before what you think of Steve; now it's Julian's turn…