Edited: August 25, 2013. Oma = Grandma & Opa = Grandpa in German. Just fyi.

Hi! Just real quick: Jen hates homework, so whenever she gets writing assignment she tends to just rant in a humorous way. (She finds it funny. Her teachers usually don't). So remember, essay below = Jen's humor... sort of.

... I'm blabbing again... sorry ^^; Oh, and apparently there's a lot more cussing in this one... w/e.

Start Chapter Three: Homework. Babysitting. Burglar.

First thing's first when I get home: out of the uniform. I'm not a fan of skirts begin with, and short, itchy ones were surely invented just to piss me off. After putting on something more reasonable, like jeans or a pair of shorts, I always go back downstairs for a snack or two. Then, and only then, will I start my homework.

Today, I have been graced by the Gods of Homework. Personally, I think they feel sorry for me after what happened at lunch. Who knew Homework Gods could be so understanding? Only 12 math problems, my worst subject, and a writing assignment for German, my best.

My mother was from Germany and spoke her native tongue any chance she got. Even if it was just sounding off the grocery list or mumbling to herself over people's shoddy driving skills. My Opa speaks a little English, and my Oma can read and write it. She refuses to speak it, though, saying the language isn't as pretty when spoken. Since I had to know the basics growing up just to speak with them, it's been fairly easy to learn the language as a whole. But despite my roots, I'm still shit with the grammar.

Tonight's assignment is as follows: Write to a new pen-pal in Germany. Tell him/her a few things about yourself and explain in detail. Don't forget to write questions for your pen-pal. Four to five paragraphs, 6+ sentences per paragraph. Have fun!

I'm assuming that the 'fun' part is sarcastic and in no way manditory. Regardless, here's what I've written so far:

Dear new pen-pal,

You want to know about me? Okay. I'm a hateful person and gladly admit it. I hate Schools, I hate Mondays, I hate homework. I hate that I moved to Scotland (on a Monday). I hate math and math homework. I hate preppy kids, I hate annoying kids, I hate annoying people. I hate most people because they're annoying assholes.

Would you like to know more? I'm a fighter, not a lover. I admit that I can be nice. I can be very nice. I can be the nicest person in the world. I could be so nice that if a friend of mine called me at three o' clock in the morning on a Saturday just to 'talk', I wouldn't try to kill them. You're laughing aren't you? You should be. Do you want to know what happened to my alarm clock? It woke me up at seven, and look what happened to it. No one is going to to call me at three in the morning. Because we all know that if someone calls me at three in the morning, regardless of the day, I am going to yell. I am going to scream and curse and try to kill that person next time I see them. You know this, I know this, my friends know this, which is why no one does this.

Do you want me to continue? Because now I want to talk about boys. I've had three boyfriends, only one long term. My first smothered me to death and likes to say I never showed him enough affection. I can admit now that I did not like him as much as he liked me. I'm still good friends with Chase, my second, whom I was with the longest. My third, after maybe a month after dating, gave me a purity ring. Saying that I needed to give guys a warning and that no one wanted to date a prude. As you can imagine, it did not end well for him.

Why am I telling you all of this? I'm not sure. Maybe it's to pass the time as I ignore my math homework, a task I've already told you I hate. Maybe it's because I want to get on a friendlier level with you. I feel we're too distant, you and I. Why, I'm writing my life's story on a piece of paper, and in some far away land you're reading it. (Why on earth am I writing this in pen?) Yes, we're far too distant. Let's become friends. Close friends. Not too close, though. I might bite.

What are you like?

There's a knock at my door. "Yeah?" Aunt Dot opens it, wearing a beautiful dress. Already knowing what she wants, I pick up my phone and say in a pompous tone: "Thompson's Babysitting Institute. This is Ms. Thompson speaking, how may I assist you?"

My aunt smiles and creates a 'phone' with her hand. "Hello, this is Mrs. Thompson, I'm calling for a babysitter for this evening."

"Ah, Mrs. Thompson. So good to hear from you again. How long will you be in need of our services?"

"From about six to... well... late."

"May I ask the wages you're willing to give?"

"How does the usual twenty sound?"

Making a few pondering sounds, I pick up my math book, flip to a random page, and run my finger down it. "Very well. We'll send someone right over."

"The usual, please. My son likes her the best."

"Will do. Ta-ta!"

"Goodbye." We both 'hang up'. "Thanks, Jen. You're a lifesaver."

"You know it," I say in my normal voice as she walks out.

Looking back down at my math book, I flip to the page assigned by Mr. Clark. My math homework, in all its glory, stares up at me. I glare back. Kudos to those who like it, lucky bastards, but for me: math equals headaches multiplied by frustration. Lindsay used to tutor me, but it's harder for her to help in a different time zone.

By the way, why, in America, do we insist on using Feet and Fahrenheit while the rest of the world uses Centimeters and Celsius? Why do we have such a big problem with the letter 'C'? And why do we favor the letter 'F' as it's replacement? And why, when we don't like the 'C's and prefer the 'F's, do we use the metric system in our science classes? I know our scientists and scientists from everywhere else need to have the same means of measurement and crap, but just... why? Do people even trust our scientists anymore? I usually tend not to. But, then again, I don't trust a lot of people.

I'm stalling. I don't like math. But I need to buckle down and just do it. Nikes. Ok, seriously now. Wait, what time is it? 5:37. Okay, I can do my math now. Wait, am I cooking dinner? Yeah, Aunt Dot was already in her spiffy dress, she's not cooking in that. I'll kick her out of the kitchen myself if I have to. Alright, now I can do my math. Wait, what will I make? Do we have anything eatable in the house? What if Uncle Bob and Aunt Dot are secretly running off and leaving Tony and I for death? No, no, no. They wouldn't do that to him. I think I saw some Macaroni and Cheese in the cupboard yesterday. I can make that. Okay. Now I can really do my math homework.

There's another knock. "Doing math," I shout to the person on the other side.

"Can I come in?" Tony asks through the wood.

"Sure, kiddo." He opens the door. "What's up?" I move my math book aside.

"Are you sneaking out tonight?"

"Wasn't gonna. Why? Scared to be alone in this big, empty castle in the middle of the night?" I tease.

"No." Liar. "I wanted to know if I could go to Rudolph's house tonight."

"I'd prefer if you didn't." His face drops. "But hey, if it's alright with his parents, he can come over later."

"Really!?" He screams, nearly jumping off the walls.

"Yes, but after dinner. We're having Mac and Cheese, okay?"

"Okay!" He shouts, running out of my room. I shake my head at his silliness.

It's 8:59. My math homework still isn't finished. I've done everything else: shower, fed the child, fed myself, checked emails, thought about doing math homework, got a soda from downstairs instead, read a few chapters in a book, watched The Daily Show and The Colbert Report over the internet. But I'm doing it now, with my headphones blaring.

There aren't that many questions, but they've all got at least three parts to them, multiplying the amount of time and work I have to put in. I hate not being done with my homework after nine o' clock. Because after nine o' clock 'I don't give a crap' becomes my main thought process. I don't get a problem after nine? I don't give a crap. I can't remember how to do a problem after nine? I don't give a crap. If there is a God, let him damn this last word problem. You know what? I don't give a crap. Know what else? It's 9:01.

Closing my book, I chuck it across the room. It lands in my closet with a loud THUMP! and something else in there smacks to the floor. It didn't sound like glass, so I leave whatever it is alone and go to check on Tony instead. I knock on his door, wait eight seconds before assuming he's responded, and stroll in. Tony's standing there, in the middle of his room, looking dumbfounded in the dark. With his nightlight, which he never admits is a nightlight, on. I stare at him, and him at me.

"Sup?" I ask. Stupid, since I can't hear much over Bjork screaming at me about rescue squads. I think he says "Nothing" but he also could've said "Muffling". Pulling off my headphones, a blast of heavy music fills the room. "What?"

"I said nothing," he says a little too calm.

"Hiding something?"

"No! I mean, no."

I prop myself against the doorframe, amused. "No? Really? My, my, my. What a good boy you are, Tony. Not to mention, one of the worst liars I've ever known. Spill."

"Really, it's nothing. I'm fine."

The song 'Liar' by Emilie Autumn starts to play. It's so fitting, I have to chuckle. Tony gulps. The intro is about a minute long, and even after the singing starts, there is no progress between our conversation. I don't like the way Tony's looking at me. Not only is he obviously hiding something, but he's scared now, too. Scared of me.

We—me and his parents—had to tell him about my condition when I first moved here, because, having just been taken off my meds, I was acting a little crazier than usual. We had to tell him I'm a Paranoid Schizophrenic, what that means, what caused it, and how to handle me during a bad fit, or 'attack', when his parents aren't around. He's looked at me differently ever since, and I hate it. I shouldn't have written that down in my assignment. I hate that my younger cousin is afraid of me. Sometimes, I'm afraid of me, too.

"I'll be down in the dungeon if you need me," I say, ending the stare down. He nods quickly and I turn down the hall, putting my headphones back on and turning the volume down a bit.

Heading downstairs, something doesn't feel right. Like I'm being followed. I know it can't be Tony because he would have done something to get my attention by now. He's no stealth master so, even though my music's loud, I would have noticed his heavy footsteps. But Tony's the only one in the house. So who else could be following me? It could just be me, the Paranoia, but that doesn't feel right, either. I'm watched and judged by Paranoia. Not followed and studied. Well, not usually, anyway.

My imagination—imagination, not Paranoia—jumps to several conclusions at once; a burglar, a murderer, or a monster. Hell, it could be all three. My imagination is not as detailed as Paranoia, nor so believable. Imagination doesn't twist my reality, but like everyone else it can make me nervous and uncomfortable over nothing. Reaching the kitchen, I quickly note that a castle can feel mighty eerie went it's dark out. Especially when being hunted down by people who aren't there.

I open the door to go down to the cellar/dungeon. Which begs the question, why in their right minds would someone build the entrance to a cellar, which very well could have been a torture chamber back in the day, right next to the damn kitchen? Did people like hearing screams of agony as they prepared supper? I certainly wouldn't, but hey, people in the olden days needed some entertainment, too.

Okay, I swear I just heard something. I think... Maybe... Pulling out my ipod, I turn it down a little more to be safe. After quietly waiting a moment, and hearing nothing, I decide that everything's fine and that whatever it was was just a part of the song.

Letting the music relax and wash over me, I reach the bottom of the cellar. Digging through this place sends me on roller coaster. There are boxes, chests, tall bookcases, scattered trinkets, strange objects, and a few huge wardrobes that look anywhere from the 15th century and beyond. All treasures and doorways in their own right.

I rummage through a trunk, filled with clothes from the 60's or 70's. Pulling out a few shirts, I notice an old, full-body mirror and a matching wardrobe that could easily be a few centuries old further in the room. Both covered in generous amounts of dust. I grab a spare thing of fabric, clamber over to the mirror, and wipe it down. Pulling off my shirt, I try one of the other ones on. Though it desperately needs to be washed, it's pretty cute and fits comfortably. This shirt has now been claimed in the name of Jennive. After trying on the rest, I put my original shirt back on and climb over a few piles of the unknown to get back to the open area.

Tossing my new shirts on a small, black table, I rest the headphones around my neck. Giving my eardrums a well deserved break, but still insisting on the music. If it was absolutely silent, it'd be creepy enough down here to give me at least a mild attack. Feeling studied doesn't help either. Continuing to ignore it, I head over to one of the many bookcases and pull a random book from its shelves. Like most of the things down here it's absolutely caked in cobwebs and dust. I blow it all off as best I can before opening it. The book is in German. I pull another off the same shelf and it too is filled with German. I take out one more, and it's the same.

"Now this is cool." I put the latter two away smiling. I've never had much chance to read actual German books. All of Mom's went into storage, along with most of her things. Sticking me with mere children's books. I go back to the table, which looks like in belongs in a rose garden, and sit down. A few matching chairs are scattered around, including the one housing my buttocks.

Linkin Park starts playing, but doesn't get much of my attention. The book is old with rough, yellowed pages and frayed ends. A musty smell hits me as I crack the spine. It's filled words that look familiar but leave me puzzled and words that don't look familiar at all. Some are too smudged or faded to tell. I can barely understand half of it. The cover, too, is too dirty and faded to read. I give up for the moment and grab my new shirts before heading back upstairs. The book comes with me.

Groaning, I realize I'm being followed again. Whoever they are, I'm going to shoot them. Fictional or not.

End Chapter Three

Anyone got a gun she can borrow? She'll give it back... Maybe.