And that was how I found myself watching Star Wars for the bazillionth time, surrounded by four crazy people.

"Jen! Take the popcorn!" Jubilee insisted, shoving the bowl at me.

"But I don't like --"

"I know! This way I know ya won't, like, eat it all."

I really hated popcorn. I held the huge bowl, though, despite any of my protests. This wasn't so bad. After all, I liked Star Wars. A few years ago, I even wanted an ewok. But that was --

Something flew at me from the side -- !

-- grey fingers took a handful of popcorn from the bowl in my lap.

It was just Angelo. But it wasn't funny.

For a while the movie held our collective attention, but every once in a while, Jubes or Ange would yell at Han for being an idiot -- especially Jubilee -- but then of course Alison had to defend her hero, which resulted in an argument until Everett finally mediated and things quieted down again.

I didn't care. Not really.

I wondered how it would be to have Jono here -- not just here, of course, because that would be hard on me -- but here with me. How would it feel to have him sit beside me on the couch, holding me close in the darkened room as the television flickered before us like a blue fireplace?

I had no right to think of him that way. He was with Paige and she was the one he'd be holding.

Her.

Not me.

Her.

It wasn't the first time I'd been rejected. But this was different -- this was different.

"Anyone want anything to drink?" I asked, and left before anyone could answer. But I wasn't going to the kitchen. Was I? I did need more pop. And snacks were running low. But I wasn't going to the kitchen. My feet gained a life of their own and propelled me towards the bathroom. Upstairs. To the bathroom.

Why there?

I didn't know. I turned on the shower and let the steam rise. I wasn't crying; my face wasn't even hot. Instead it seemed all blood rushed from every part of my body so that everything was numb except this awful sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I listened to the water fall on the shower floor and it sounded like the rain that refused to come. I was wasting water and I knew it. I didn't care, though. I was feeling wasteful. I opened a drawer and found a tube of toothpaste. I emptied it into the sinks, squeezing right in the middle where I wasn't supposed to, building mountains of toothpaste. I poured a bottle of Scope into the toilet. I couldn't very well waste the bar of exfoliating soap that rested on the soap dish; it didn't wash away so easily. Instead it replaced Paige's soap. That'd work very nicely for her. Too nicely. I decorated the entire room with toilet paper streamers, hanging long white strips over the rod the shower curtain hung on -- I tossed it into the air and let it fall where it pleased. I wrapped my surroundings like mummies in bandages --

-- in bandages --

-- in --

I was still so numb. I wanted to scream and tear things apart; I wanted to break things but I knew the consequences would haunt me.

Damn the consequences.

I tore the shower curtain from its rod and threw it onto the floor. The water still ran. Someone's lipstick became a wonderful crayon for the mirror. I just scribbled until the entire stick was used. There was no need to draw anything specific. Just anger.

I slammed the door a few times. Hard. Harder.

Emma was so lucky I didn't have an offensive power. Paige was even luckier.

"These precious things -- let them break -- let them wash away!" I screamed. I wanted to scream even louder but my voice wouldn't let me. "I wanna smash to pieces these beautiful boys ... " My voice grew quieter as I continued my shaky rendition of "Precious Things". Quieter and softer and --

-- someone was coming. Quickly, I hid -- somewhere. Anywhere. Who was coming? I checked. Not Paige -- she was terrified of me. Good.

Monet?

Oh, Light, she'd give me a talking to.

I ran out of the bathroom, but was grabbed fiercely by the arm and forced to stop. My captor, as I'd predicted earlier, was in fact the matchless Ms. St. Croix. She glared at me sternly and ordered, "Do not run in the house."

"I wasn't --" I protested.

"Yes," she interrupted, "you were."

"But it's not my fault!" I blurted. Oh, Light, now I'd have to tell Monet! Great. But of course, she already knew everything. Monet always knew everything. Maybe she knew of a cure for this disorder I seemed to have.

"Then whose fault is it?" She was sceptical -- after all, my feet had moved me so quickly, not anyone else's.

"No one's," I dismissed.

Monet was appropriately confused. "I do not understand."

"Neither do I." I tried to wrestle free of her grasp but couldn't. "Could you let me go now?"

She released her grip on my arm. "Do not run in the future."

I nodded and Monet proceeded to the bathroom.

The --

Oh, no.

"Monet!" I called. "Don't go --"

A shocked scream pierced the air.

"-- in there." I was too late. Sheepishly, I jogged to the bathroom door. The mess was awful, with toilet paper and lipstick all over the place. I couldn't believe I'd done it myself.

All by myself.

"Jubilation!" Monet called, prepared to rectify the situation as immediately as possible.

"No -- it wasn't --" I tried to explain.

She left to track down Jubilee.

"Listen to me. Jubilee didn't -- I mean, she -- it wasn't her." I certainly couldn't admit I'd done it.

Monet turned and eyed me curiously, her arms folded and radiating ~impatience~. "Then who was it?"

"I don't --" I began to lie, but had to hold it back. Something inside me -- or perhaps that imperious glare held over me -- made me confess. "I did. Me."

Again she was sceptical. "You? But --"

But I followed the rules. I was a good girl. "What?"

"Why?" she implored, confused.

"Jono," I blurted. No, stupid! He had nothing to do with this! This was all Paige's fault!

Monet raised an eyebrow. "I fail to see a connection."

"I -- well, I mean I -- actually it was more Paige, I just -- I don't know." I sat on the tile, giving up. I didn't see a connection either and I wanted it all to be over. "I mean, I thought I was done with all of this," I admitted, looking up at Monet's tall, slim form.

"You have feelings for Jono and you're upset at his apparent interest in Paige," Monet concluded clinically.

I banged my head against the wall behind me in frustration.

"You are going to hurt yourself," Monet informed me. "That will bruise."

She was probably right.

Okay, she was right. I quit banging my head.

"It is unnecessary to vandalise the bathroom because of it," she insisted.

"So what else am I suppose to do?" I demanded. There wasn't much I could do. "Just watch it happen?"

"You cannot change how others feel," Monet said. "Simply accept it. Your own emotions will wane with time, no?"

Not bloody likely. I sighed and looked at the still-running shower and then back up to Monet, standing over me like some imperial queen about to issue an order to one of her servants.

"Good," she said.

Good what?

"Now clean up this mess."

Queen Monet at her best, may her majesty live forever. "Um ..." I began, unsure of how to ask the question I knew she'd probably respond to negatively.

"Yes?" she prodded.

"I ... um, I don't suppose you could help me with this?" I indicated the disaster area that surrounded me.

"Don't be ridiculous." With that, she spun on her heel and left.

Ugh. I didn't want to clean this up! Maybe, I reasoned, someone else would help. It wasn't that I truly wanted to clean it -- I would have preferred to leave my signature in the room, proclaiming my anger for all to see. But either Frost or Cassidy would see it sooner or later, and then I would be faced with those consequences I'd condemned earlier. And that would be embarrassing -- with a class as small as ours was, everyone would know of my misfortune in short time.

Feeling slightly hesitant, I cautiously entered the den. Star Wars had ended long ago, and now Alison had seated herself before the television, prepared to deluge herself with images of Highlander reruns.

"Hey, um ..." I ventured.

She peeled herself away from the screen just as the theme song ended and a run of commercials began. "What?"

"Could you, um, help me?"

"With what?" she asked.

I hesitated. If anyone would help me, it was her, but ... "Eh ... cleaning the bathroom."

"What?" she asked, disbelieving. "No! I'm watching Highlander!"

Some friend she was.

I went back upstairs. I walked right past the bathroom, not looking into it. I didn't want to deal with it or anything else. I just wanted to get out of here. And go somewhere else.

Somewhere.

I went downstairs and got a bowl of ice cream. I needed it right now. With lots of chocolate sauce. And I took it up to my room, turning on some music.

"Jubilation!" someone -- Emma? -- yelled. What was she doing back already? I thought her ... meeting ... was going to last until midnight at least -- or even later. It was only 8:00.

I continued eating my ice cream. I wasn't the one being called, though I was certain I was the one the punishment was intended for. Poor Jubilee. She was always blamed for those acts which were even the least bit immature. And even though she was perfectly innocent, I didn't go to her aid. I wasn't prepared for the fate that awaited me.

But alas, my name was next on the list of suspects. "Jennifer!"

I'm not here. Go away.

"Jennifer!" Frost called again.

I dug my spoon deep into the cold chocolate ice cream and let the wonderful stuff melt in my mouth around the hard, metallic spoon.

The long instrumental introduction of "Etienne" finished just as a knock sounded on the door. I ignored it and turned the music up.

"Maybe I'm a witch lost in time ... running through the fields of Scotland by your side ... "

"Jennifer!"

" ... kicked out of France ... "

"Jennifer, open the door."

" ... taken to a land far across the sea ... "

"If you don't open this door I'll --"

"Go away!" I shouted, interrupting her threat. I skipped the CD to the angrier "Take to the Sky" and screamed along with the lyrics, drowning Emma out. Ignoring her.

Emma opened the door herself, using some weird psionic trick to unlock it. "Explain the condition of the bathroom to me," she demanded.

I said nothing.

"Jennifer, I am not amused."

"No kidding," I told the wall, my voice flat and face expressionless. Didn't she know I'd know if she was amused?

"You're so much smarter than this. This sort of behaviour is beneath you."

"If I were Monet St. Croix this would be beneath me."

Emma radiated a slight ~confusion~ before going on. "This isn't about Monet."

"And you figured that one out all by yourself!" I commented sarcastically.

Emma's ~frustration~ was plain as her attempts to get through to me failed.

"Ms. Frost," I addressed her, turning from the wall to the slim figure in the doorway, "stay out of my life."

"You will not tell me what to do." She was getting angrier. Good. That was what I wanted. Then she'd leave me alone.

"Get out of my room."

"I am calling your parents."

Her threat hit me cold. Light -- not my parents. In my anger I believed I was invulnerable, and I'd forgotten that Emma was still my teacher and retained all authority of that position. She could easily call my parents, and tell them I'd been insubordinate. And then I'd be sent home. Back to my parents. Back to all those people back at public high school whispering about the "psycho". Back to internet addiction and a reputation I didn't deserve. While I had my share of problems at the Massachusetts Academy, they weren't the same problems that faced me at home.

"Fine. I'll clean your stupid bathroom." I I turned back to the wall.

"Jennifer, this is a problem that does not end at the mess you've made of the bathroom."

"So where does it end?"

She said nothing, unsure of how to answer.

"I don't like you, either." I felt the adrenaline course through me as the words left my mout; something in my throat tightened and I recalled all too plainly the threat she'd made only moments before that she'd call my parents.

She held back her ~anger~ at my comment. I hoped she wouldn't follow through with her promise! She opened her mouth to say something -- issue a command, perhaps -- and then shut it again, examining me with a curious expression on her face. "I had my suspicions earlier," she mused softly, "now ... "

"What?" I asked, hoping for all the world that she would just leave.

"I'm certain," she said decisively. "But it isn't possible."

I refrained from speaking, fearful I might say something that would just ... not be good. And I wasn't sure what she was talking about, but I had my theories.

"Ms. Frost?" I asked, trying to bring her out of her weird trance. "Ms. Frost, are you okay?"

"Yes," she muttered absently. "Yes," she repeated, her voice firmer now and her eyes fixed on me. "You will clean the bathroom tonight," she ordered. "I don't care how long it takes. It will be done tonight." She left.

I sighed. In minor defiance, I left the ice cream bowl where it was, vowing not to put it away for at least a week. That decision made, I headed for the bathroom and prepared myself for the task that lay ahead of me.

***

Stupid bloody greasy lipstick. I'd wiped it off as best as I could, but there remained a red outline where the lipstick had coloured the mirror.

It had been easier to simply dispose of those things that needed to be thrown out. The shower curtain, however, was nearly impossible to put back up; some of the rings had snapped. If I remembered correctly, duct tape was kept in the basement -- and I wasn't going back down there. I'd done everything I possibly could have, and I was too tired to do any more. I wasn't sure what time it was, but I'd been up since six that morning and I needed my sleep. If Frost wasn't satisfied, well, she'd just have to live with it.