I suck in a deep breath, the kind that comes when I emerge from underwater after a long, hard swim. I feel like I'm taking in air for the first time in a week, and my lungs burn. My chest feels heavy and full. I'm finally surfacing, facing the truth.

But the truth makes me feel even sadder.

Because Jason said I was a mistake. He doesn't feel the same way. And then there's the blond at Harrods.

I came all the way across the ocean to discover my Mark fantasy is a total myth, to fall for my least favorite classmate, and to find myself once again pining for someone who doesn't want me back.

"so quick bright things come to confusion" -J I pull myself up off the steps before the family inside notices a sobbing American girl parked in front of their house and calls the police. I start down the street. More than anything, I want to have a heart-to-heart with Phoebe, but I glance at my watch and see that I'm supposed to be at the Globe Theater in exactly twenty-six minutes, and I can't be late. We're seeing a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream and everyone will notice if I come in after it starts. After everything else on this trip, if I miss the play, I'll probably get expelled. Not to mention that Mrs. Tennison will know for sure that I went off by myself. I'll be totally screwed.

I take a quick scan of my surroundings, searching for the busiest-looking street, which seems to be at the end of the block. I know I'm at 42 Ebury Street, but I don't know where 42 Ebury Street is, and I have no idea how long it will take to get to the Globe.

I manage to hail a cab fairly quickly this time; I pray the ride won't cost me more than the twenty-five pounds I have in my wallet. The cab ride is the fastest, jerkiest, scariest twenty minutes of my life, but when we screech to a halt in front of the theater with five minutes to spare, I tip the driver generously.

The entrance to the Globe, nearly empty a week ago, is now packed with people. Cabs are trying to squeeze down the road, dropping people off for the evening show, and they keep having to honk to get pedestrians out of their way. It's loud and chaotic, and it looks like Mardi Gras, with tourists and theatergoers milling around, only everyone is sober. I tuck my chin and try to make a beeline for the entrance. The crowd is so thick that I find myself ducking under elbows and backpacks and babies perched on hips.

When I get to the entrance, I am greeted by a rather official-looking and angry ticket taker. My heart sinks further into my sneakers as I realize that Jason must have both of our tickets. Without him, there's no way I'm getting in.

I rise up on my tiptoes and even take a few vigorous jumps as I attempt to see over the crowd. A dense crowd of tourists is clustered around a life-size diorama of A Midsummer Night's Dream, complete with fairy mannequins and a donkey costume, entirely blocking my view. Damn short legs. I'm about to give up and go sit on the curb and cry when I spot a rusty mop of messy hair in the back of the crowd. Jason is standing with Ryan Lynch and they're talking animatedly. Ryan's got a dusty, ratty Hacky Sack out and the two of them are passing it back and forth between them, barely missing knocking over the people around them.

"Jason!" I call out, waving my arm over my head like a crazy person, but his back is to me and he doesn't notice. I wedge my way through the crowd of theatergoers and tourists, and as I get closer, I begin to hear snippets of his conversation. I hear him say "she," and realize he's talking about a girl. "Intense" comes through and "long time," but I can't catch it all. Intermittent honks from the cabs trying to get through keep interrupting my eavesdropping.

"And she's really cute, but-" HOOOOONK. "You know what I mean?" Jason says.

"Totally, dude," Ryan replies. He executes some weird hopping motion, passing the Hacky Sack behind his back, then over his head to Jason. "I really think you should just-" HOOOOONK.

Dammit. I can't hear a thing. They must be talking about that blonde from Harrods, but none of the good stuff is coming through. Stupid cabs.

Ryan gives the Hacky Sack a hard kick, and it comes at Jason so fast he has to flail for it. His toe barely gets a piece of it, but it's enough to send it flying over his head to land right at my feet.

Jason turns to grab it, and I realize instantly that he's going to spot me. I don't want him to think I was eavesdropping, so I duck quickly and sort of hop backward away from him. I spot a Globe employee wearing a sandwich board bearing the image of Queen Titania and race to get behind him. Only I don't look where I'm going and bump into a grizzled, potbellied man, who looks down at me and grunts angrily.

"Sorry!" I squeak, and try to dodge him. I collide face-first with the guy wearing the sandwich board. It's kind of hard to retain your balance when you're wearing a giant piece of cardboard, so he goes flying backward. I reach for him and manage to grab the edge of Titania's face, but he's too heavy. He tumbles backward and I tumble with him, landing right on top of the pile. I actually bump noses with the poor guy. He grins at me.

"Hello, lovely," he says. I realize I am now practically straddling him.

I quickly roll off him, thudding down on my butt.

"That was graceful, Book Licker."

Jason extends his hand to me. He's laughing so hard that he has a tough time pulling me off my butt. I scramble to my feet, feeling as though I've been stuck headfirst into the sun. My whole body is burning. I forget that I was actually trying to find Jason, and instead wish I were back in the cab, panicking over not having my ticket.

"Don't look so glum," he says in a faux-British accent, chucking me on the shoulder. "No one was looking."

Clearly, he's lying. A Globe employee is trying to haul the sandwich-board guy up off the ground, muttering to herself and casting me dirty looks. A couple of other groups are still chuckling, and a nearby mother with a toddler on her hip looks concerned that I'm injured. I feel so ridiculous and so out of control I'm worried I'll start crying again.

"Julia!"

I whip toward the sound of my name, but all I see is a giant furry donkey head bobbing next to me. I hear cackling coming from inside the donkey head as it starts performing some kind of weird, shuffly dance.

Now people are staring, but at least they're not staring at me. Ryan is laughing and squeezing his legs together, like he's trying not to pee his pants. Even I have to admit Jason looks pretty funny, and I manage to crack a smile, right before Mrs. Tennison lets out a horrified shriek and barges toward Jason.

Jason whips off the donkey head and gives me a wink. As Mrs. Tennison shakes her finger in Jason's face and launches into her Why-Can't-You-Have-Any-Respect spiel, which at this point I seem to have memorized, I feel a rush of gratitude for him. It's followed quickly by a wave of sadness. Things seem slightly back to normal, whatever normal is for things between us. Just two buddies, having a good time being buddy-buddy.

I try to forget my revelation today-that I've totally and completely and pathetically fallen for him and become sad crush girl-and instead concentrate on getting us both into the theater. I don't know whether to feel relieved that things seem normal, or sad that they're not different.

I follow the rest of the class into the theater. Or at least, I try to follow them. There's a bottleneck at the entrance, and the crowd is getting tight and a little testy.

"You always do this," a woman snipes behind me. "I tell you ten times, and you get annoyed that I have to tell you ten times, and then you still forget. If I didn't love you, I think I'd have to kill you."

"How about next time you only tell me once, and maybe we can avoid these stupid arguments?" a man replies. There's a bit of an edge to his voice, and it cuts through the hustle and bustle of the crowd.

"Or maybe I tell you twenty times, and you finally remember to bring the camera," she snaps.

We all make our way through the door onto the floor of the theater. It's standing room only, and the angry couple winds up right behind me. Great.

The lights go down and the play begins. I'm nearly taken in by the magic onstage, but I can't shake this overwhelming feeling of ick. It doesn't help that midway through the second act, I hear the woman whisper to her husband, "I really wish we had the camera," and he just sighs heavily in response.

The headache that's been building since the lights went down has become a dull ache at the base of my skull. It creeps around to my forehead and by intermission is throbbing heavily in my temples. As I suffer through act three, I can't believe I'm actually hoping for the play to end. This performance, which I've been looking forward to since I got the itinerary (my favorite Shakespeare play performed at the Globe? Um, awesome!), is turning into the nightmare of my life. I'm totally miserable, and miserable about being miserable.

The crowd is packed in tight all around us. I look up to see that the balconies all around us are packed, too. It feels oppressive, faces everywhere bearing down on me. I want to sit down, even if it's just on the ground, but there's not enough room. I can't focus on the stage. The actors dart around in a total blur. I feel like someone's shoved cotton balls soaking in Jell-O into my ears. I hear muffled laughter from the audience, which only makes my head pound harder.

Onstage, the actors are shouting at each other: one lovers' quarrel after another, layering over the audience like a big quilt of angry noise. I lower my head to try to block out some of the chaos, but as soon as I close my eyes, I get a flash behind my eyelids. Sounds: inside my head, inside my memory.

I hear the yelling, two distinct voices, muffled as if coming from behind a door. I close my eyes tighter, and then I can see it. I'm sitting on the floor of my room, lights out, my pink flowered nightgown pooled around my ankles. I've got my ear pressed against the door to hear the sounds coming from down the hall. I know I should be in bed, but I can't sleep. I can't stop hearing the shouting, and I want to know what it is.

I snap my eyes open. The memory makes me feel all off-kilter, and I don't know why. Everyone fights, right?

And like another zap to the brain, I know why I feel so off. Because I've always thought my parents never fought. Sure, everyone's parents fight, but not mine. Because they were perfect. Weren't they? As soon as the thought occurs to me, I realize how ridiculous it sounds.

I can't focus on the rest of the play. The actors finish their lines; the story wraps up; the audience applauds; the lights go up. Suddenly, the crowd is flowing toward the door. I follow Jason out of the theater. I keep my eyes focused on his back. He's wearing his North Face fleece, and I notice a short brown hair stuck to the back. It looks like a dog hair. Does Jason have a dog? I want to reach out and pluck it off, but I don't. I'm too busy forcing one foot in front of the other.

"I have to say, Book Licker," Jason says when we're in the lobby, "that was actually pretty awesome." His smile is so big it touches his eyes with sparkling color.

"Yeah, great," I say, and that's all I can muster. Talking produces a strange echo in my skull that I can actually feel. It only makes my headache worse.

"Hey, are you okay? You don't look so great," he says. He reaches out like he's going to rub my back or put an arm around my shoulders, but after a second, he thinks better of it and drops his arm.

"Gee, thanks," I reply, still staring at my shoes.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Jason says. "Why do you always take everything I say the wrong way?"

Before I can respond, he turns and heads over to Ryan. I'm too tired and distracted to chase after him. I can't focus on anything at all; the only thing I can hear is the muffled yelling from behind a shut door echoing through my head. Over and over and over.

@ the Spice of Life pub if ur free

Will wait all night if I have to -C

"Dude, she looks sort of pale. Is she gonna ralph?" Ryan's voice barely registers.

Jason ducks so his face is directly in front of mine.

"Julia? Yo, Julia!" he says. He snaps his fingers in front of my face, but his expression is concerned. "Seriously. Are you okay?"

I blink a few times and then shake my head. I didn't even notice that we'd emerged onto the sidewalk in front of the Globe and were waiting for cabs to take us back to the hotel. A whole line of them, shiny and black, are about to pull up, and we'll group up and distribute ourselves into them. In my pocket, my phone vibrates. I jump, then pull out my phone and flip it open.

"Of course that's what gets you to stop being a zombie, Julia," Jason mutters. "You have to be on the other end of a freakin' phone."

"It's Chris," I reply as I scan the text message. "He's at a pub and wants to know if I want to come by."

"Well, sounds like it's finally time, then," he says. I'm still feeling a little foggy, so I barely register the edge to his voice.

"Do you think I should go?" The words are swimming on the screen, forming and re-forming.

"Why not?" he says neutrally. "Time to man up, I guess."

"Alone?" I mumble, my mind racing.

"Why don't you take Mark with you? He's a real gentleman, from what I hear."

At the mention of Mark, I look up. Jason is giving me a dirty look.

"What are you talking about?" I ask. I feel a slight tremor starting in my fingers, and I have to grip the phone tight not to send it clattering onto the pavement.

"Forget it," he says.

Great. On top of everything else, it sounds like gossip about Mark and me has made the rounds. The potato that has been sitting in my stomach all afternoon becomes a five-hundred-pound anvil. I guess that settles that. Mark was a stupid childhood fantasy, and my absolutely insane feelings for Jason are clearly unrequited. I've spent this entire trip talking about, thinking about, and chasing romance, and I am not leaving this country without actually finding some. I won't spend another minute pining for someone who isn't available, not when there's a perfectly sweet guy who's been pursuing me all week. And I've been blowing him off. For what? For Mark? For Jason?

For nothing.

But Jason obviously isn't done with me yet.

"Last time we talked, it was Mark. Now we're back to Chris," he says. He throws his hands up in the air. "Jesus, Julia, you could get whiplash following your stupid love life."

"It's not even like that," I reply with a touch of venom in my voice. If he's going to dish it out, he'd better be able to take it. "I spent some time with Mark, and I realized that maybe he's not who I thought he was."

The cabs have begun to arrive. Our classmates swarm them, until only Jason and I are left standing on the curb. We have to take the last car by ourselves. Together. Jason jumps in first, shouting through the window. "Didn't I already say that?"

"No, what you said was that Mark was too good for me," I reply, sliding in after him.

"I never said that. You hear what you want to hear, don't you?" He turns toward the window so I can't see his face. The cab jerks into motion.

"Whatever, Jason," I sigh. I turn away to look out my own window. Our cab races across the Thames by way of a narrow stone bridge, then dips into a dark tunnel. There's nothing to look at to distract me from my anger at him.

"Exactly, whatever. Brush me off, just like you brush off everyone else."

"What are you even talking about?" I struggle to keep my voice from trembling.

"If you would pull your head out of your guidebooks for point two seconds, maybe you'd see that you're not the lonely victim you're always pretending to be. There are people who actually care about you."

"What, like you?"

I hear him draw a quick breath; then there's a long pause.

"Maybe," he says finally.

"Oh please," I sputter. "What a great friend you've been. You ignore me when it suits you, throw me in the pond, ditch me to buy 'soccer jerseys' and who knows what else, embarrass me twenty-four seven, and practically get me booted off the trip."

"If it wasn't for me, you would have spent the entire trip alone, too busy looking up facts and dates to have any fun, and spending all of your time daydreaming about your stupid MTB, Mark. You should really be thanking me."

"Thanking you? Thanking you?" I slam my hand down on the leather seat in frustration. The muffled thwack is hardly satisfying, and now my hand sort of stings. "You're delusional, do you know that? You're delusional, and ... and immature, and-"

"And selfish, and a child, and an ass," he finishes for me, practically spitting. "I know, you've said it before. You've said it many times, in fact." He turns to face me. His eyes are half-narrowed, and he's staring at me with such intensity I draw backward. "You know what your problem is? Nobody's good enough for you. You live in a fantasy world. And if you don't wake up, you'll end up alone, with your books and four million number-two pencils."

My vision flashes red. I can't even believe what I'm hearing. I want to pinch myself to see if I can wake up from this nightmare.

"How dare you say that to me," I choke out.

"What, dare to tell you the truth?" Jason is laughing now, but it's an angry laugh, harsh and cutting. "See? You can dish it, but you can't take it. You act like you're the only one with feelings."

"The day you show feelings is the day I-" I mutter, but he cuts me off.

"What? Put down your guidebook? Use a pen? Break the rules?"

"I've been doing nothing but breaking rules since I got here," I shout, nearly lunging out of my seat at him.

"Yeah, and you seem to have had more fun than you've had in your whole life."

"No, I've been stressed and miserable! I've had more trouble than I've ever had in my entire life combined since I started breaking rules."

"Why are you saying that like it's my fault?"

"Because it is! From the moment we left Boston, you've been picking at me and pushing me. And I'm sick of it-sick of your jokes and your smirk and your dimples and your immaturity." I'm breathing hard and raggedly and I can feel my cheeks turning red. The driver flicks his eyes in the rearview mirror, unable to ignore me.

"Immaturity? Is that the best you can do?" He finally turns to face me. "C'mon, Julia. You can do better than that. Go crazy. Use a bad word." He narrows his eyes, and all I can notice are his eyebrows, which are as fiery red as his hair. Suddenly, I'm distracted by them; they're all I can look at. I focus on them instead of the pain and anger and frustration in his eyes. I ignore the fact that he appears on the verge of tears.

"You want me to do better?" Steely anger is bubbling inside me, hot and molten. "You're not immature. You know exactly what you're doing. You choose to be a jerk. And what's sick is you're so good at it. You've lied and manipulated my feelings all through this trip, and you enjoyed it, didn't you? You've probably been off with Ryan just cracking up over how much you screwed me up. Tease me, comfort me, mock me, kiss me, blow me off for some supermodel. Was that fun for you, to screw with my head? Did no one ever teach you it's not okay to treat people like that? Oh wait, probably not. Your mom ditched you before she could get to that lesson."

I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. His whole body tenses up, like he might pounce on me or break into a sprint and run away. If his eyes were laser beams, he would have bored two perfect holes straight through to the back of my skull.

For a quick moment I actually feel a little scared. I instinctively scoot back against the door of the cab. But his body loosens, really quick, like someone plucked the tension right out of him from above. He leans back against the seat and raises his hands in a slow, labored clap.