June 25, 1926

So generally I'm not a big fan of mirrors, make-up, formalwear, that kind of fun stuff. Apparently and fortunately, my mother didn't feel the same way, so when Abner abruptly "reminded" Indy and I (truth was, he'd never actually told us in the first place) about a University of Chicago banquet in the honor of a close friend, Dr. Oxley, there was an 18th century standing mirror, a surprisingly intact cosmetics collection from some time in the early 1910s, and a beaded yellow dress I'd never seen before in my life all waiting for me to take reluctant advantage of.

Of course, he suggested Indy take me as a date—"don't want to be feeling left out of all the grown-ups," he teased, utterly oblivious to the uncomfortable shifting and grimaces on both sides. I can tell you one thing, of all the dates I've ever been on, it has never taken me as long to get ready as it did tonight. Christ, I don't know what happened in the two hours Indy insists I was preparing in my room. So all right, maybe I put a little extra and much needed effort into taming my hair into some semblance of curliness, and maybe there was a little more stuff around my eyes than usual, but I refuse to believe it took two hours to get ready. There's just no way.

Dad had to leave early for the banquet in order to set up or suck up or do something professor-like to impress the early birds, leaving Indy alone with a borrowed tuxedo and me feeling both awkward and determined to impress. It was about 5 o'clock, and we were becoming pressed for time, since the walk to the Field Museum, whose banquet room was being rented out for the night, was about half an hour, and we were supposed to be there in twenty minutes, more or less.

"Marion!" came a muffled voice from downstairs. I rolled my eyes, adding the finishing touches to my lipstick (never again, I tell you) and fastening a set of my mother's pearls, which I was wearing at Dad's suggestion. Normally I'd let go of or even openly scoff at one of his fashion ideas, but I know the sentimental value those pearls hold for both of us, and it wasn't such a big request after all. Grabbing a bag, any bag, and slipping on a pair of random black heels, I rushed out of the room and muttered under my breath, something about men and getting dressed. Maybe how they should put a little more effort into it, make looking at them easier on the rest of us? I don't even remember. What I do remember was the look on Indy's face when I practically fell out of my bedroom door and onto the upper staircase landing. At first, I could've sworn he was mocking me—his eyebrows shot up and he looked like he was about to gag. In retrospect, he'd probably just lost his breath (if I may say so myself, haha). I regained some composure and began walking down the stairs as gracefully as is possible in heels on hardwood – not gonna lie, I definitely almost fell down the fourth to bottom step. Ladies and gentlemen, crisis averted. Making my way down to the foyer, I made sure never to take my eyes of Indy; not sure why, maybe it was just to take sure he did me the same courtesy, and he definitely did. Whatever girly time consumption-related insult he'd been about to throw died before he even got the first syllable out, and all he could come up with was, "Christ, Marion. You look… ready to go." He shook his head slightly, and I guess that probably wasn't what he'd been planning to say.

(Does this make me sound arrogant? Or vain? I don't want to sound arrogant or vain, but this is my diary, so I suppose I have a right… oh, but still! This isn't easy, folks. Try writing about yourself every day and not being either super self-deprecating or super-narcissistic. Struggle!)

"Nice save, Jones," I smirked. "And uh… nice tux. No hat tonight?"

He smiled slightly, recovering from previous flusterationedness (new word, add it to the dictionary) and holding out his arm. "Shall we, Miss Ravenwood?" Indy asked, feigning a pretentious British accent.

"Mr. Jones, I'd be nothing short of delighted," I replied in kind, looping my arm through his and grinning what I now realize must've been idiotically.

The walk there was, how you say, pleasant enough. Our arms remained looped for the whole half an hour (turns out we were a little late after all, but there is no way that's my fault), but chances are it was because no one wanted to deal with the awkwardness of trying to justify unlinking them. Does that make sense? Because it only vaguely makes sense in my head, so I pray dearly for your poor logic-maker. Dinner in and of itself was also, I suppose, pleasant enough, at least as pleasant as these high-brow intellectual functions can be for a detached teenager and her wannabe-intellectual date. I'm joking about that part, I guess—he really is intellectual, but fortunately he's not quite experienced or intelligent enough to spend a whole night subtly bragging about medals and honors, criticizing and debunking each theory put forth at the table, or acting too old for his age in general. The age that I continue to remind myself is still ten years greater than my own. Ten years, Marion. For the love of vodka and humanity! My father stood up about half way through the meal, obviously tipsy, and fervently insisted on toasting Indy's arrival; a "future face of archaeology," he said. A "prodigy who doesn't know he's a prodigy." If Indy didn't know that before tonight, I'm pretty sure he does now.

I noticed something about him over the course of dinner and conversation, something that I'm surprised never really hit me before, and that's how genuinely curious Indiana is. Over the course of one meal, he must've asked each of the scholars present at least nine or ten or eleven questions apiece in their different fields, and each one was more interesting and insightful than the last. And then, when he'd get a satisfactory answer, he'd just smile so genuinely that he looked like a six-year-old. His happiness was just that pure, it amazed me, and now I get exactly why he's going to make such an awesome archaeologist.

After four of red wine, more or less, I told him, "You're a very good person, Indjana Jhones…" (indication of slight slurring going on here) "I'm proud've you and look up t'you." At hearing this, an equally intoxicated Indy replied,

"Marion! Oh, Marion, thank you! That is… that is just so nice of you to say! Really! Wow…" He grinned, and it was adorable. I grinned, and it was embarrassing.

By midnight, I can say with confidence that the entire table was utterly sloshed. Gone were the refined discussions of the palaeolimnological evidence of late-Holocene settlement and abandonment in northern Guatemala, out came the enthusiastically (and somewhat chaotically) recited stories of adventures on the high seas, in the Great War, in the deepest depths of the Amazon rain forest, and on the scorching Arabian deserts. Indy told his fair share, including a recount of his days riding with Pancho Villa, spying in Turkish strongholds under the command of close friend T.E. Lawrence, workings with pioneering humanitarian, philosopher, and doctor Albert Schweitzer, and seduction by infamous German spy Mata Hari (not going to lie, that one made me a little jealous). I made some sort of remark about it, can't pretend that I was sober enough to remember exactly what it was, but Indy suddenly gave me this odd look, like he suddenly knew something that I didn't, before turning back to the table and telling another story. This time, it was about how he and is wonderful, beautiful, intelligent, blah blah blah girlfriend from New Jersey, name was Nancy I think, did blah blah blah to save blah blah blah and something involving Thomas Edison.

"Indiana," I clearly remember saying, "none of us wants to hear about your stupid adolescent love life, so save it for…" that was when I realized that, chances were that as the youngest and only girl at the large table, I was in fact the only one who didn't want to hear about his sexual and romantic exploits. This look crossed Indy's face like he'd just won something; I refused to believe it was me. Interesting fact: I get flushed really easily, if it's a little too hot out or if something just a little embarrassing happens, my cheeks get red kind of quickly—it's unfortunate in situations like this, but true and inevitable. When I realized that my entire face suddenly felt much hotter than it had 10 seconds before, I stood up abruptly and stated in what must've been extremely false and affected-sounding, "Gentlemen, Dad, this has been a wonderful dinner. Almost all of you are remarkable scholars and companions, and I wish you the best—it's late, however, and I'm feeling somewhat faint, so I'm going to go – yes, Dad, I know I shouldn't be walking on the streets this late, I'm going to call a cab – and get some sleep." Smiling graciously, I grabbed my clutch, shawl, and exited the room a little too hastily, almost tripping on my heels as I crossed the threshold of the giant oak doors.

Once outside, I stopped and put my hand on the cold metal railing, taking in a deep breath of warm Chicago air. Maybe he'd follow me. Maybe he'd apologize for being such an ass. Maybe it had nothing to do with me, and I was overreacting based on attraction and alcohol. Maybe if I counted to five, that'd give him time to come to his senses, rush out the door, and plant one on me. Five… four… three… two… one…

The door burst open and I turned to see Indy rushing out of it, stumbling somewhat awkwardly—even if his mind had recovered from drinking, it was obvious his feet still had their work cut out for them. But instead of apologetic and enamored, he looked annoyed. My heart sank a little bit when he caught up to me with an irritated look on his face.

"What the hell was that? Marion, you just embarrassed me in front of…"

"In front of who?" I interjected. "A group of stodgy old professors who will probably all have forgotten your name by the time they wake up tomorrow morning?" He looked frustrated and somewhat affronted, and I admit that I felt a little bad. Just a little, though. "What did you think you were doing anyhow, Jones? We both know that was not the time or place to talk about… what you were talking about!" I almost yelled, just managing to keep my voice at a loud whisper when I realized that we were a potential show for the late night strollers on the other side of the avenue.

"What was I talking about? For the love of humanity, I was telling a goddamn story!" he shouted in reply, obviously missing my hints towards subtlety and throwing his arms in the air. I shook my head fervently, frowning.

"Yeah?" Also known as the best I could come up with.

"Yeah! Jesus, Marion, stop acting like a such a child!"

"Seventeen. Seventeen!" I yelled, matching his volume. "I am a child, you idiot! Or haven't. You. Noticed," I slowed down emphatically, sneering as I tried not to look teary or anything stupid like that. He looked a little taken aback. Apparently he hadn't noticed. "I'm going home, Indiana. Go back to dinner and make sure those lovely old gentlemen remember your name." Bringing everything back into focus, I realized that Indy and I were now mere inches apart. I lifted my chin somewhat to try and match his height, closed my eyes briefly to feel the metaphorical electricity crackling, and gave a simple, "Good night," before turning and making my way carefully down the damp brick steps towards the street. A few moments later, I heard the door slam, and I turned around to see that Indy had retreated back into the restaurant. Honestly, I'd really been hoping he'd follow me again. Thing is, I'm still not sure whether I was trying to get him to follow me or if I actually wanted to be left alone.

Looking up at the large clock on the street corner and grimaced. It was past one o'clock in the morning, no way were there going to be any cabs heading to my neighborhood at this late hour (or early, depending on your perspective). I reluctantly began the walk home, too proud to go back in to dinner, too angry to even consider swallowing said pride, and too distracted to notice the shadow slipping out from behind a parked car. Suddenly, I was up against the wall – bricks, it fucking hurt, not to mention there was a damn large hand pinning both of mine behind me and what I recognized as a small hunting/skinning knife (ewww) to my throat. There was a horrible smell… alcohol breath and body odor, and it was all I could do not to gag right there. Gangster? I thought not. They were classier than this, and usually hat nice guns or some shit like that. This guy was one of your every day, run-of-the-mill thugs… I would've felt bad for the poor slob if he hadn't been about to murder or rape me or whatever the hell his plans were. Keep your cool, I internally scolded myself on the brink of a mindless breakdown. Think, Marion, stay cool. Stay cool, Ravenwood. Come on, you can get out of this.

"Pretty things should not wander Chicago streets at night," he muttered, idiotically releasing the one hand he'd had control over for the sake of touching my hair. I kid you not. Talk about being a real dumbass… Anyways, while he got distracted by the pretty shiny things, I moved my hand into my clutch bag, where I usually kept a Swiss army knife. I fumbled with the clasp for a few seconds before realizing that there was a better course of action—long explanation short, it would've involved the making of contact between my right knee and his only crotch, had a third figure not suddenly joined the scene, shooting across my peripheral vision and slamming into this nameless thug. The spontaneous jolt, of course, almost caused the knife he'd been holding at my jugular to dig right in, and it probably would have if I hadn't moved my hand there instead—on the downside, that caused a thick red line to suddenly appear across the back of my four left fingers, extending from the middle of the pinky to the middle of my pointer finger. The pain didn't really become noticeable for a few seconds, not until I realized that my attacker was on his back, and my "savior"s fist was making consistent and rapid contact with his face.

"Indy!" I gasped, surprised, kicking the knife down the sidewalk before pulling Indiana off the larger man, who now lay whimpering and weaponless on the pavement.

"We should call the… call the…" he took long, ragged breaths. "…cops."

"The cops in this town are about as useful as… they're really useless," I concluded lamely, breathing in a similar manner. No idea how it happened, but within a second my purse and shawl were on the ground and I'd pretty much glued myself to Indy, my arms around his neck and my face in his shoulder. "Indy, you… you saved… he almost…" Suddenly, the pain from the gash in my hand became apparent, and I drew back, hitting him across the face impulsively. "You almost just got me killed!" I reprimanded, shaking my bloody hand in his face. "That was almost my neck, Indiana Jones! What were you thinking?!"

The thug stirred a little bit, so the two of us grabbed my things and began a brisk walk down the street towards my house (at this point only a block and a half away), starting a new argument as if the last one had never ended.

"Got you killed?!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "You're ridiculous, Marion! I might've just saved your life!"

Scoffing, I replied, "I had everything perfectly under control."

"You did not," he retorted, and I shrugged.

"Well, I was about to!" We stopped in front of my lawn and turned to face each other. "If you'd like, I can give an example of my methods," I threatened, eyes moving between my knee and his crotch.

"Listen, Ravenwood," he replied boldly, though I swear he took a little step back at hearing my threat, "I'm sorry about that potential little cut, but if you don't mind, a 'thank you' might be appropriate right now!" His voice jumped a register as he said this last part, and I felt my shoulders sink a little towards the sidewalk.

"Let's go inside," I murmured, leading the way to the front door and unlocking it deftly, moving into the perfectly temperature-controlled foyer and turning once again to face the young man. "I guess… thanks, Indiana," my comment went directed towards the bench where my awkwardly tuxedo'd friend had just collapsed. A thought occurred, "Wait. Didn't you go back to dinner?"

He nodded slowly, explaining, "Your dad was nervous. He asked me to follow you, I guess now I know why, huh?"

"My dad asked you," I repeated, unable to mask my disappointment. "You know… if he could not find out about this…"

"Marion, your father deserves to know."

"If he knows, he'll never let me out of his sight." Bullshit. He'd keep me in the house for a week, get distracted by some new discovery halfway across the globe, and jet off at the most convenient moment.

"For good reason, damnit! That could've been really bad, Marion." He stood and made his way towards me, stopping when we were less than a foot apart. I blinked slowly, refusing to say anything stupid (aka nice), refusing to may eye contact and succumb to that blue-grey shock. I could feel the expectant silence fill what space was left between us, but my lips stayed determinedly pursed. "Fine, forget it. Do whatever you want, see if I fucking care anymore. Good night." With that, he moved deftly past me and into his room. Hearing the door close (and lock), I lifted my eyes and stared blankly for what must've been a whole minute at my own closed door at the top of the stairs.

See if I care anymore, he'd said.

Anymore.

Well, at least he cared at one point.

At least… at least he's one less thing I have to worry about now. Yeah, that's good. That's a good thing.

Yeah.

Ambivalently yours,

Marion