Holdinghandsholdinghandsholdinghandsohmygodwe'reHOLDING HANDS.

Ahead of us, Jason continues to make a complete and utter idiot of himself. He jumps over benches, cartwheels through the grass, and jumps to swat at low-hanging tree branches. He's careering down the path like a battleship. Every once in a while a pedestrian has to leap out of his way to avoid being flattened by the S.S. Inconsideration. It feels like Mark and I are in charge of a hyperactive eight-year-old.

The path opens up, revealing a large pond on our right (thank God, goose-free). The scenery again draws memories of home, of walking along the Charles River on the Esplanade with my parents, petting passing dogs and feeding ducks. (Ducks are little and cute. Geese are huge and evil. Major difference.) Ahead of us, Jason stops and surveys the scene.

"Like home, huh?" he calls back. He does a double take when he sees Mark and me holding hands; he is in such shock that his freckles seem ready to leap off his face. For some reason, I feel incredibly guilty.

My immediate reaction is to wrench my hand away from Mark's and grab my guidebook, anxiously flipping through the pages until I find our location. "It's called the Serpentine," I say as I read the tiny black text. A small black-and-white picture accompanies the blurb, and I study it closely, hoping that neither boy can tell how uncomfortable I feel.

"That's a pretty incredible name," Mark says, stepping to the water's edge. "Does your book say where it comes from? Is it full of snakes?"

"Damn right!" Jason exclaims. He climbs on top of a bench, balancing perilously on the back, then flings out his arms, beats his chest, and shouts, "Behold the Serpentine!" His voice booms and echoes across the water. I take a few steps away from him. An older couple is passing us, and I shoot them an apologetic smile, which I hope communicates something along the lines of How terrible to see madness in someone so young; I'm sure his keeper will bring him back to the asylum soon.

"Um, my book doesn't say where the name came from, though it does mention that while people tend to call the entire body of water the Serpentine, it actually only refers to the eastern portion of the lake."

"Fascinating, Book Licker," Jason says. He leaps from the bench, landing hard right in front of me. "Just fascinating. But I have an idea. Why don't you take your nose out of your book and actually look at the damn thing."

Mark laughs, and I slam the book shut. I don't want Mark to think I'm a total nerd, and I don't like Jason making him laugh at me. I wrestle with my messenger bag to get the book back in its proper spot among my pencil case, wallet, phone, and copy of Pride and Prejudice, but the bag is putting up a fight. I walk over to a nearby bench and sling it down on the seat, where I'm finally able to make it all fit in its proper alignment again.

"That's more like it," Jason says, his wide grin more of a taunt than an encouragement. He takes off, leaping over benches and cartwheeling along the grass.

"Jason, would you knock it off?" I say through gritted teeth. "I really don't want to drag you to the hospital when you break your arm."

"Oh, come on, Jules," he says, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Lighten up. Have some fun!" He turns to Mark conspiratorially and stage-whispers behind his hand, "Our girl is quite the planner. Seriously. You should ask her about her plans. Her long-term plans. She's definitely got some."

"Yeah?" Mark looks slightly puzzled. I start to fear Mark will connect Jason's lunacy with me, so I roll my eyes expressively to show that I have no idea what Jason is talking about.

"Definitely." Jason raises his arms over his head to execute another cartwheel. He gives me a wink, then flings his body headfirst at the ground. When he wheels over and pops back up on his feet, I can see right away that he has way too much momentum. He starts to fall backward but gets his feet moving into this crazy backward run to avoid falling on his butt, his arms swinging like an out-of-control windmill. I try to step out of the way, but before I know it, we end up in an insane bear hug and he's carrying me off my feet ... straight into the pond.

I try to scream, but quickly shut my mouth as we go tumbling under the surface. Cold scummy water floods my nostrils and soaks into every bit of my clothing. I pop back up to my feet. Jason is laughing hard already and sputtering pond water, struggling to stand in the muddy depths.

"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?" I scream, shoving Jason hard back into the pond.

"I thought you liked to swim," he says. He fakes a backstroke as he lies in the water.

"You. Are. Unbelievable," I choke out.

"C'mon, Jules." There's a leaf draped over his forehead, and he's struggling not to laugh. "It was an accident."

I'm so miserable and wet and pissed that I can't even speak. I can't believe this is the second time today that Mark has seen me completely drenched. I don't even want to think about the crazy things my hair is doing. I want nothing more than to drown Jason right here in the pond. Or at least give him a good kick in the teeth. I try stomping angrily out of the pond, but my jeans and sneakers are so heavy with water that I can barely lift my legs. The sleeves of my soaked sweater are now hanging well below my hands, and its hem is sagging close to my knees.

I make it about four steps before stepping on the elongated hem of my soaking-wet jeans and pitching forward face-first back into the water. As I struggle to stand up, I can hear Jason laughing behind me.

I can't believe I was ever confused about his place in my life. The only feeling I will EVER have for Jason Lippincott is complete and utter hatred.

Mark is standing at the edge of the pond, holding my bag. Unlike Jason, he's not laughing. He looks concerned.

"Jesus. What's your problem?" he calls out to Jason. Then, to me: "You must be freezing, Julia."

I trudge (carefully) through the water a few paces before Mark reaches out and offers his hand. I take it, and when I'm back onshore, I reach up and wring out my hair.

"Here, put this on," he says, pulling off his forest-green fleece and holding it out to me. I pull off my own sweater and throw the fleece on over my still-wet T-shirt. It's not a cold day, but there's a cool breeze, and walking back to the hotel in sopping-wet clothes would probably lead to the flu.

I think suddenly of my mom on the side of the road, her ankle swelling, when my dad pulled his car up to her. This is it. Mark is saving me. The thought warms me up as much as Mark's jacket.

Behind me, Jason fakes a swan dive into the pond and calls out, "Come on, Julia! Don't you want to stay in?"

The softness of Mark's fleece, still warm from his body, and the woodsy smell that permeates it serve to block out the anger. I pull my hands into the sleeves, tug the collar up around my cheeks, and take deep, soothing breaths.

"Better?" he asks. I nod. "Look, why don't we head back to the hotel so you can get warm and dry? I'll call my dad and tell him to meet me a little later."

"Okay," I reply. "If you're sure you don't mind ..."

"I definitely don't mind." Mark puts his arm around me, pulling me close to him and rubbing my back for warmth.

"Hey, where are you going?" Jason calls out. He's still sloshing his way out of the water.

Mark swivels around. "It's none of your business." I lean into Mark. At this point, I don't care if I get in trouble for ditching my buddy. I don't care if I get booted off the trip, as long as I don't have to spend a single added second with Jason right now.

It's not until we're back on the block of the hotel that I remember I was supposed to set up a meeting with Chris. I stop short, a pinch of panic in my chest.

"Everything okay?" Mark asks, and once again his concern serves to release any tension I feel.

"Yeah, just fine," I reply. "I just forgot to do something, but it's, uh, no big deal."

Back in the hotel, I start for the elevator but am stopped short by a snooty little throat-clearing. I look up to see Sarah, giving me the up-and-down with her eyes. I can't even imagine what she must think, me soaking wet and fully clothed, dripping all over the plush crimson rug. She practically does a spit-take, though, when her eyes land on Mark. She nudges Evie, next to her, and doesn't even try to hide that she's pointing at me, even though I'm looking right at her.

"Hey, so is it cool if I leave you here? I want to grab a bite to eat," Mark says, tilting his head toward the bar, where Evie and Sarah are still staring.

"No, that's fine," I reply. "I could come with you, if you want."

"No, you should go change," Mark says, taking a few steps backward. "I'll be fine."

"Okay," I say, trying not to betray that my excitement about the afternoon is melting into my sneakers. "Well, at least let me give you your fleece back."

"Don't worry about it," Mark says. "I'll get it from you later."

And just like that, I feel like someone is playing a bass drum in my chest. Later? He wants to see me later!

"Yeah! Later!" I call, but Mark is already heading into the bar, where Evie is giving him one of those cheerleader grins and Sarah is waving him over. Gag. I hop onto the elevator and pull the neck of the fleece up around my face, breathing in the woodsy smell of him. He spent his day with me. He saved me.

Back in my room, I dig out my phone, once again giving the universe a giant thank-you for my bag's not going into the pond with me. I flip it open and dash off a quick text to Chris, apologizing for standing him up. Only when I get to the excuse part, I realize I can't tell him I was touring London with my nemesis and my MTB. But as my thoughts linger on Mark and his arrival in London for fashion week, I come up with the perfect excuse.

Can't tonight!

Photo shoot running long.

Another time? -J

Sounds like your life is spicy indeed. Luckily I like things hot ... If things settle, let's try again -C I scrunch my toes into the end of my sneaker and give my foot a shake. There's a teeny, tiny rock in my shoe that's been wedged underneath my toes all morning. Every fourth or fifth step, I think it's finally shaken free, and then it's back again, poking into the bottom of my foot. As I shake my foot, I feel the pebble start to move a little, so I shake harder. The morning is cool and breezy, and I pull my purple Windbreaker tighter around me.

We've been walking all morning, first touring the London Pavilion and the Criterion Theatre. I'm still not speaking to Jason, and every time he comes within a ten-foot radius of me, I maneuver myself around my classmates to avoid him. Mrs. Tennison finally released us to explore the rest of Piccadilly Circus (which for my classmates means shopping). All I can think about is how much I can't stand Jason.

Well, that and Mark. I haven't stopping thinking of Mark since he left me in the lobby last night. I dreamt about him all night, thought of him the moment I woke up, imagined him as I brushed my teeth and washed my face, and even took him into account as I picked out my outfit. That's why I'm wearing my purple North Face Windbreaker. Mark has one just like it, only in forest green. He wears it almost every day, except for on rainy days, when he wears his Patagonia rain jacket. When it's cold, he wears his green fleece underneath, but not today, since it's folded neatly on my pillow back at the hotel.

Uh-oh. I'm definitely worse than Susan. I sound like a psycho stalker.

I look around for a place to sit, but there are people everywhere. I start elbowing my way through the thick crowd. Everyone is facing the same direction. I start to wonder what they're all looking at. I'm way too short to see over the crowd. I hear some muffled shouting, and every few seconds the whole group explodes in a thunderclap of laughter.

" 'Scuse me," I say, wedging my shoulder between two little old ladies, their ball caps adorned with giant silk peonies. I squeeze past them but accidentally elbow the one in blue polyester pants. She begins cursing at me in what sounds like German.

Looking at the ground, I can see some free pavement through the legs of the line of men in front of me. That might be my spot. I squat low and push through, but my messenger bag catches on a pleather fanny pack, and I stumble forward into the open pavement. My bag, snapped free of the fanny pack, shoots forward and beans me, knocking my sunglasses down over my face.

"Excellent! A volunteer!"

I shove my sunglasses back to their perch on top of my head and shake my hair out of my face. I'm sitting right on my butt in the middle of a circle of tourists. The only other person in the middle of the crowd is a tiny old man with scraggly gray hair. His face is long and looks even longer with his aged skin sagging low around his chin. He's wearing the kind of black spandex leggings you see on male ballet dancers or circus performers, and a grubby white V-neck T-shirt hangs loosely on his bony body.

It's only when he points a long, bony finger in my direction that I realize he's talking about me. I'm the volunteer.

"Oh, uh, no," I say, scrambling to my feet and dusting the street grit off my butt. "I'm not, uh ... What I mean is, I don't really want to-"

"Don't be shy, m'dear!" he says, giving me a wink. "Let's have a round of applause for our lovely volunteer!"

The crowd breaks into a booming applause. I scan the audience, panicked. The crowd is thick and heavy. There must be at least a hundred of them, and all their eyes are trained right on me. I feel a lump the size of a tennis ball forming in my throat.

"Please ... you don't understand.... I don't really like-" Crowds. People. Volunteering. Being in public. All the words collide in my head at once, and I can't get a single one of them out.

"Just stand there and look pretty," the man replies. He's now holding my arm up, making me wave at the crowd. "Easy peasy."

Great. Now I have to embarrass myself in public in a foreign country, and I'm expected to look good while I do it. I liked it better when my biggest problem was a rock in my shoe.

The man introduces himself as "The Fire Man." This can't be good. Before I can repeat my protests, he whisks me off to the dead center of a circle and points at a wooden box painted bright banana-yellow. It's pretty tall, about half my size, and narrow. It looks like a stiff breeze might send it tumbling over.

"Stand," he orders. I stare at him.

"I'm sorry, what?" My brain feels as though it is a pile of oatmeal. The crowd thinks I'm making a joke, and everyone roars with laughter.

In response, this tiny old man who looks like he's made of toothpicks suddenly develops Hulk strength and picks me up by my armpits. In one quick motion, I'm standing on top of the yellow box. My knees start shaking immediately, which causes the box to wobble, making a little tap-tap-tap noise on the sidewalk.

"Hold still, now," he says loudly in a stage voice to the crowd. "As an American, you'll want to have very, very good insurance for this next bit."

"What?" I cry, but the Fire Man is already prancing away from me, shaking hands with the people in the front row, really working the crowd. Everyone is laughing and cheering, and I start to worry that they actually want to see me seriously injured. I thought I was in London, not the Roman Colosseum!

Standing-or, more accurately, wobbling-on top of the box, I can see over the crowd a bit, all the way back to the Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain, where people are lounging on the steps in the morning sunshine. I spot Jason in the audience, directly in front of me and about three rows back. He's standing with Ryan and the ever-present Susan, and they're smirking at me. (Well, actually, Susan's too busy making moony eyes at Ryan to smirk at me, but he's making up for it by smirking extra smirkily.) I freeze.

"Ah yes, that's much better," the Fire Man quips. "You'll want to hold absolutely still."

A young boy, maybe about ten or eleven years old, appears out of the crowd. He looks like a younger, miniature Fire Man. His hair is blond, stringy, and shoulder-length. He's wearing the same black tights and white V-neck, though his T-shirt looks a bit newer than Fire Man Senior's (or at least like it's been washed sometime in the last year). The boy takes his position to my left, never meeting my eyes, and the Fire Man stands to my right. I look back at the boy, hoping he'll take some pity on me and let me get down, but he just stares straight past me. I see a spark in his eye, which I realize quite quickly is a reflection of an actual spark.

Behind me, the Fire Man is holding what look like four bowling pins, and he's lit the fat end of each on fire.

ON. FIRE.

I yelp and make a move to hop down, but the Fire Man shouts, "HOLD STILL!" I freeze just in time for the first flaming bowling pin to go whizzing past my face. Within seconds, all four of them are in motion, back and forth between the old man and the little boy. They alternate in front of me and behind. I want to reach back and grab my ponytail to protect it from the flame, but I'm too petrified to move. I watch the flames fly back and forth, faster and faster. I can't take my eyes off them. As they move, I start to slip into a slight haze. The crowd seems to melt away and all I can see are the flames darting past my eyes. They're falling into a steady rhythm, and my thoughts go with them.

Mark. Mark. Mark. Mark.

Mark. Mark. Mark. Chris.

Mark. Chris. Mark. Chris.

Mark. Chris. Mark. Jason.

As Jason's image flies into my brain, my vision clears and I spot him in the crowd. He's staring at me with an expression I can't quite read, though it's definitely not his standard sarcastic smirk. I can still see the flaming bowling pins flying around, but I'm suddenly not afraid. I'm just tired. Talk about juggling. How did I get here? A little over a week ago I hated Jason, and Mark didn't speak to me. The biggest adventure I'd ever experienced was a Boston Duck Tour with Phoebe. (She pretended we were Swedish exchange students, which meant I mostly sat mute.) Now I've kissed Jason (but I'm back to hating him) and Mark is not only talking to me, but he wants to spend time with me. Throw in the fact that I've got the single hottest guy I've ever seen (after Mark, of course) reading Shakespeare and texting to meet me, and I feel like I've Freaky Fridayed myself into the life of someone far cooler than I am.

What in the WHAT is going on with my life?

The crowd breaks out into thunderous applause, and just like that, I'm out of my trance. The pins aren't burning anymore, and the Fire Man and the little boy are taking a bow. They gesture to me, and I give an awkward little curtsy from my perch on top of the box.

"Very nice, very nice," the Fire Man says, offering me a hand as I hop back down to the pavement. "Always good when our volunteers don't wear a whole lot of hairspray!"

The audience laughs, and I take the opportunity to dart back into the crowd. I push my way through to where I saw a few of my classmates standing, but they've disappeared. I push through farther until I've finally hit the outer circle of people. I reach the foot of the Eros Fountain and decide to finally take the annoying pebble out of my shoe. Out of nowhere, Jason plops down next to me. At this point, I'm too exasperated to think about moving, and I ignore him as I pick at my double-knotted sneaker until the lace finally comes loose. I pull my sneaker off and turn it upside down, giving it three good, hard shakes. Nothing falls out.

"Are you going to ignore me for the rest of your life?" he asks, nudging me with his shoulder.

The answer is yes, so instead of replying, I jam my sneaker back onto my foot and quickly retie the double knot. When I'm done, I hop up and step onto my newly adjusted foot, happy that I don't feel any kind of rock in there.

"Don't you want to enjoy the fountain? It's a famous landmark," he says. He reaches down and brushes a smudge off the white toe of my sneaker, and I can feel myself softening. "If you study the details, you could probably get an entire reflection paper out of it."

Even though the dirt on my sneaker is now gone, I reach down and rub at it anyway.

"C'mon, Julia," Jason says. He reaches down and pulls my guidebook out of my bag. "Why don't you tell me all about it?"

I sigh. "They should assign you to interrogate criminals with the Boston police," I reply. I take the book out of his hands. "You could definitely wear down even the most hardened criminal." I flip to the section about Piccadilly Circus, London's classier approximation of Times Square.

"This is called the Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain," I say as I read, running my finger along the tiny text as I skim for the pertinent information. "It was built to commemorate a famous Victorian philanthropist named Lord Shaftesbury. When it was built, many Londoners were angry with the presence of the naked winged archer, Eros, at the top. They felt it was too erotic an image for such a respected and conservative man. And also that the statue was in a vulgar part of town. As a result, Eros is often called the Angel of Christian Charity. I guess because a naked love god is a bit too scandalous."