"Again, where are we-" I start, but Jason interrupts me.

"We're here." He points to the scenery before us.

"Here" is a kind of concrete cave bounded overhead by a bridge rumbling with car traffic. Underneath the bridge, the concrete curves alongside the hill leading up to the street, forming not only a perfect canvas for street artists, but an ideal half-pipe for the band of dirty skate punks risking their lives (without helmets!) zipping up and down it. Skaters are flipping and twisting off a few scattered ramps. We'd be in almost total darkness were it not for the swirling intensity of the spray paint covering every available surface, the bright colors giving the illusion of light. From any vantage point on the path or the bridge, the entire park would be completely hidden.

"What is this place?" I ask.

"Underground skate park!" he replies over his shoulder. He starts jogging around the space, vaulting off various ramps. "Cool, huh?"

"But what are we doing here?" I'm still feeling disoriented: the swirl of motion and colors is dizzying, and the space echoes with the sounds of kids shouting to each other. "In case you've forgotten, we're supposed to be writing an essay about art and culture."

"Are you kidding? There's plenty of art and culture here," Jason says, heading back toward a concrete barrier covered in colorful graffiti on the far side of the park. "Maybe even more than at the crusty old National Gallery."

I decide to let the comment about the National Gallery being "crusty" and "old" slide (especially since 187 years is practically a baby when you're talking about a city that was settled by Romans in AD 43) and instead follow him to the wall. Jason runs his hand over the concrete, chipped and cracked, but covered with some pretty impressive graffiti tags. There's no discernible shape or pattern, just swirls and explosions of paint. The color is so vibrant it looks like it's about to burst off the wall. It kind of reminds me of the Mondrian we saw earlier at the Tate.

"It's cool, right?" Jason asks, running his fingers over the wall. With his bright red hair, he looks almost like he could step right into the painting.

"Yeah," I admit, moving away from the wall toward a huge boulder closer to the river's edge. It's painted to look like a psychedelic Easter egg.

"Thank you," Jason says, taking a slight bow. "Better than the National Gallery?"

"I still want to see the Sunflowers," I reply, unable and unwilling to let him win so easily, "but this is pretty great."

"I'll take that," he says with a smile like that of a little boy who got an A on his very first test. He ambles off in the opposite direction, toward another concrete wall with a series of spray-painted stencils. They're not Banksy tags like the ones I've seen online, but they're good approximations. A series of spray-painted black rats depicts the evolution of man. There are also a number of poorly painted anarchist symbols, but most of the images are impressively detailed. In the middle of the wall, there's what appears to be a giant hole in the concrete, through which you can see a busy street scene. I actually have to step closer to realize it's all a spray-painted illusion.

In the corner of the park, a grungy-looking skater boy in skinny jeans and an even skinnier (and, I assume, ironic) Justin Bieber T-shirt picks up an acoustic guitar covered with an array of battered, peeling stickers. As he positions the leather strap over his shoulder, I half expect to hear a crushing rendition of the latest emo punk single. But instead, he begins gently plucking the opening notes to one of my all-time favorite Beatles songs, "Here, There, and Everywhere." I'm shocked by how talented he is: his version is beautiful and slow, with some small riffs on the melody. I close my eyes to listen, and for a minute, my hangover disappears. The Beatles played live on the banks of the Thames: a perfect London moment.

"You okay?" Jason asks, putting his hand on my shoulder.

"Yeah, I just completely love this song," I reply, leaning my head back to take in the sky and sucking in a deep breath. Mom walked down the aisle to this song, and my parents had a tradition of dancing to it every year on their anniversary, even if their dance was only a two-minute twirl around the living room.

"Yeah. The Beatles. Pretty good," he replies.

I snap my head around so fast I risk nerve damage, turning to stare directly at him.

"Pretty good?" I say incredulously. "Let me be clear: the Beatles are the best band ever to walk the face of the earth, and if you can't recognize their genius, I hardly understand how you have enough sense to dress yourself in the morning!" It's the exact speech my dad gave to my grandfather when he had the gall to question the Beatles' greatness. Of course, that was before I was born, but Mom still repeats the story from time to time, laughing about how Dad was so puffed up that Grandpa couldn't even formulate a response.

"Down, girl!" Jason says, holding up his hands. "I'm a fan."

He wanders away, I assume in an attempt to escape my insanity, and I turn back to some of the paintings around me. There's a spot where many layers of spray paint in a rainbow of colors have started to peel away. An industrious artist has taken some tool or another to carve out the lyrics to Queen's "Fat Bottomed Girls." It's somehow beautiful.

"Hey, Jason," I say, waving over my shoulder to show it to him, but when I turn, he's gone. I scan the park and see that he's wandered over to the street musician, who is adjusting the tuning on his guitar. Jason takes out his wallet and passes the guy some cash, which the guy takes, and in exchange he hands over his guitar.

Oh God. What is he doing?

Jason waves me over. At first I hesitate, but he's gesturing so frantically he looks like he's about to have a seizure. Finally, I trudge over to him.

"What are you-" I start, but he cuts me off.

"Sit," he says, and points to a bench, like I'm a dog.

I know he'll bug me until I agree, so I sigh and sit down where he indicates. I'm on the bench directly in front of him, so I have to look up a little to see his face.

"Happy now?" I ask.

Instead of responding, he launches into a perfect acoustic rendition of "Oh! Darling," but unlike skater boy, Jason sings. Sings!

Now, I normally do not like it when people sing near me, much less to me. I don't care if they're good, bad, or mediocre. It's all the same. Unless you're signed to a major label with music I can find on iTunes, I don't want to hear your live performance. It's why I can't watch American Idol. I keep worrying the contestants will mess up and be embarrassed, and then I'll be embarrassed for them.

But Jason is fantastic, and I'm mesmerized. His voice cuts right through the London fog, and I'm glued to the bench, unable to take my eyes off him. He stares right back at me, eyes sparkling. He hits every note, even Paul McCartney's trademark ooohs at various pitches.

"Believe me when I tell you (oooh!)," he sings, winding down, "I'll never do you no ha-arm." By the time he finishes the song, my jaw must be hanging down to the ground. And while I'm busy trying to figure out what I should say-in this moment when I should be totally embarrassed but instead I'm totally enchanted-he casually whips the guitar over his head, hands it back to the skater boy (who is applauding), and heads toward the far border of the park. I scramble off the bench and head after him.

"Where did that come from?" I burst out. He is pretending (I think) to examine more graffiti.

"I told you, I'm a fan," he says with a shrug, not looking at me.

"Sure, a fan, but I didn't realize that meant you were a mini Paul McCartney."

"Nah," he says, brushing the compliment off. "I just mess around. My mom used to play me Beatles records and all that."

I open my mouth to tell him about my parents, too, but something stops me. I don't like talking about my dad. I hardly ever do, even with Phoebe.

"Well, that was really good," I say, then pause before adding, "You were really good."

He shrugs and glances at his watch. "Hey, we can still make it to the National Gallery if we hurry. What did you want to write the essay about, again?"

"This," I say, willing him to look at me. "The graffiti. The 'gallery' of the park. It's amazing. There's art and culture here, you said so yourself."

"You think?" He finally turns to me.

"Yeah, of course," I say, walking toward the evolution-of-man illustration. "I've got my camera. We can take some pictures."

"Awesome," he says, his eyes lighting up. "Let's do it."

I reach into my tote and dig out my digital camera, checking the battery life. "How did you even find this place?"

"Oh, um, some guy-" he starts, but I'm already laughing.

"Of course," I interrupt. "You always know 'some guy.' "

"Yup, that's right," he says quickly. "I'm down with the shady characters." He points at a tag he wants me to photograph. "Are you sure about this? I mean, you aren't worried about your grade? I don't think this is what Mrs. Tennison had in mind."

"It'll be fine," I say, shockingly sure of myself despite the grade that hangs in the balance.

"Excellent progress," he says. He blows on his fingers, then brushes them off on his shoulders. "Good work on my part. You're making a lovely transition from Book Licker to Sexpot."

We spend the next few hours picking out the most interesting pieces from the walls and boulders all around the open-air park. By the time we leave, we've taken nearly forty pictures and have pages of notes in Jason's messy scrawl and my flat, loopy cursive; as we make our way back to the hotel, neither of us can believe it's nearly dark. I'm shocked that I've spent practically twenty-four hours with Jason Lippincott, and I actually enjoyed myself. I think this means we might actually be friends. Turns out Jason is full of surprises.

As we climb the hill and start toward the main road, I realize I haven't eaten in hours. Jason is busy on his phone, tapping out text messages with a furrowed brow. Either he's having a lot of emergencies or he's using his phone for decidedly un-school-related business.

I pull out my cell, wondering if there's another message from Chris that I missed, or maybe even a missed call from one of the other guys I met at the party. When I flip it open, though, the screen shows no alerts. I sigh loudly, but Jason keeps tap-tap-tapping away at his own phone. The sound is unnerving.

"I'm starving," I say. Either he doesn't hear me or he pretends not to. I kick a crumpled can on the sidewalk in front of me and it clatters loudly off the curb and into the street. "Want to grab some food on the way home?"

"Um, yeah, sure," he says, keeping his nose practically pressed to his phone.

"Great," I say. I can't believe I just asked Jason Lippincott to spend more time with me. I can't believe he actually agreed. I turn toward a pub on the corner, about half a block from the hotel. I have a total weak spot for fried foods, and I'm on an unofficial hunt for the best fish-and-chips in London. I reach for the door to head inside when I realize that Jason has stopped on the curb.

"Actually, no," he says, flipping his phone shut and putting it back into his bag. I wonder for a moment if he was texting the gorgeous-yet-punky pink-streaked girl from the party. I sneak another glance at my own phone. Still nothing. And now Jason is about to ditch me, too.

"No?" I ask, shoving the phone deep into my bag.

"I mean, not right now. I'm not hungry, and I think I really need some, you know, alone time. To decompress. I'm, like, really exhausted," he mumbles, stifling a possibly staged yawn.

"Okay, well-" I start, but I'm interrupted when Sarah Finder and Evie trip out of the pub. They look fabulous in their sightseeing attire, which includes skinny jeans and fashionably oversized button-ups. Matching plaid scarves are wound around their necks, and twin hammered-silver earrings dangle from underneath their shiny, perfectly wavy tresses. How have they achieved beach hair in London in March? I glance down at my favorite jeans, holes worn in the knees by me, not by Abercrombie or Fitch. Why am I the only one on this trip who seems to have packed for a field trip instead of a fashion show?

"Jason!" Sarah exclaims with a hiccup, rushing toward us to give him a bear hug. "Oh my God, where have you been? I haven't seen you since the Tate!"

The pair of them tower over me on their platform wedges, and I instinctively rise up on my toes so I don't feel quite so miniature.

"Seen anything cool today?" Evie purrs, draping an arm around his shoulders.

"Nah, nothing special," Jason replies, and I'm surprised by the little needles I feel poking at my spine when he says it. He's not looking at me, either. It's like suddenly I don't exist.

"Ugh, us neither," Sarah groans. "I don't know how I'm gonna write that stupid reflection paper."

"We're in London. Everything's special," I mutter. Then I clamp my mouth shut. I definitely did not mean to say that out loud.

"Oh, Julia, I didn't see you there," Evie says, giggling. "Having fun in London?" She doesn't even wait for my reply. Instead, she turns back to Jason.

"So where have you been?" She links an arm through his.

I wait for him to tell them about our afternoon at the skate park (and the mini concert), but several members of our class pour out of the pub and surround Jason. I find myself pushed nearly into the street by the throng. As they move back toward the pub door, Jason is swept along with them. I'm not quite sure what's going on, but I'm pretty sure their plan does not include fish-and-chips.

So much for alone time. I'm guessing it was Sarah he was texting on our walk. She probably invited him to the pub party. He was no doubt planning to ditch me before we arrived.

No wonder I got that weird, nasty text from her earlier. Luckily for Sarah, I was too hungover to respond, but even post hangover, I'm not sure what I would have texted. I don't need to be a part of Newton North drama, especially concerning Jason. Sarah is delusional, and she clearly has her sights set on him. And good for them, seriously.

She deserves Jason. And he deserves her.

I focus on the anger so I can't focus on the gross feeling churning in my stomach again, killing my hunger. One second he serenades me, the next he pretends I don't exist. Plus he ditches me after making such a big deal about the "buddy system," dragging me out to a party, and getting me in trouble with Mrs. Tennison.

So much for the new Jason. I can't believe I thought we might actually become friends on this trip. He's the same as he always was: a complete and total jerk.

Later that night, back in the hotel, I'm working on our essay. At first I set out to only do my half-five hundred words, no more, no less-but the more I typed, the less I wanted to deal with Jason at all. I'm nearly done with the whole thing now, and I'm not even annoyed. Jason clearly sees me as some kind of bummer or social ball and chain, and I'd prefer to limit our time together to our school-sponsored outings. No more house parties or detours to underground parks.

I take one more bite of my curry-chicken sandwich-which I picked up from a little grocer around the corner and have been working my way through as I've typed-and stretch my fingers. I'm about to get started on the conclusion when an email from my mom pops up with a bing.

Hi, hon! Just wanted to check in on your great London adventure. Have you fallen in love yet? Keep in touch. I'd love to hear all about your trip! I miss you lots and lots. Don't worry, I'm TiVoing all our favorite shows so we can watch them when you get back. Let me know that you landed safely! Lots of love my darling dear. - Mom Fallen in love? I know she means with the city, but I can't help thinking about the romantic jumble of boys I've met in the last twenty-four hours. I hit reply to start typing, but then hesitate, my fingers hovering over the keys. I can't really ask for Mom's advice without bringing up the drinking. And the sneaking out. And the ten thousand other rules I've broken in the day and a half I've been on the other side of the ocean. I wish I could ask her for some words of wisdom, but I don't think there's a mom-safe version of this story. Instead, I dash off a quick response, telling her about our trip to the Tate and filling her in on tomorrow's adventure to the Tower of London. I end by telling her I miss her lots, which is true. My laptop makes its trademark "whoosh" sound as the email zips through cyberspace to my mom.

I click on the document to churn out the last two hundred or so words of my (or "our") essay, but the cursor blinks at me. I can't remember what I was planning to say. My brain feels like a cereal bowl with too much milk in it. I need a break. I grab my camera and start flipping through the pictures from the afternoon when I come across one taken by the skater-boy guitarist. Jason and I are posing in front of a tag of a red British-style phone booth. The Queen of England is painted inside, and the text coming out of the phone reads London calling. My arm is thrown over Jason's shoulder. We look like a set in our matching black North Face fleeces, his pink polo peeking out of his unzipped collar. Jason's Sox hat has somehow been knocked askew, his rusty hair sticking out from underneath it in all directions. I was feeling high off the hidden park, the mini concert, and the fun of discussing the graffiti with Jason. I'm wearing a giant goofy grin, and he's laughing hard in the picture.

It's only now, as I look at the image on the back of my digital camera, that I see why he was laughing.

He's holding bunny ears over my head.

Seriously? Is he five?

I throw my camera at my bed, where it bounces twice before dropping off the edge of the mattress onto the floor. Instantly, I regret it; I realize the warranty probably doesn't cover accidents provoked by Jason-inspired rage. I rush over to the side of the bed to pick it up. When I reach down, I see it has landed next to my phone, which is flashing with a new message.

Radio silence much? JL is SO NOT INTERESTED -SF SF? I assume the text is from Sarah Finder again, like the nasty one I deleted earlier in my hangover-induced indifference. I guess she didn't take Mrs. Tennison's warnings about unapproved texting seriously-or else she thinks this constitutes a 911 situation.

It's almost laughable. She thinks I like Jason Lippincott.

But quickly, the humor starts to fade. If she thinks I do, is it possible that he thinks I do? Is that why he was so eager to ditch me? Why he was being so awkward and mumbly? Does he think I'm some sad crush girl? I could seriously melt into a puddle of embarrassment. It's one thing to be sad crush girl, but it's even worse for someone to think you're sad crush girl when you're not.

And if Sarah thinks I'm sad crush girl, then soon so will everyone else.

And that could get back to Mark.

I debate texting back-something like I'd sooner drill out my own eyes with an unsharpened pencil than date Jason should do it-but I'm worried that giving her any ammunition will only make things worse. Instead, I decide there will be no more semi-playful wrestling on the floors of any museums. Clearly it's giving people the wrong idea. Jason and I aren't even friends. He's the last person on earth I'd ever have a crush on. And I'm going to make sure that fact is obvious to Sarah and to everybody.

This whole day has turned into a fractured web of ridiculousness, and all I want to do is go to sleep. As I crawl into bed, my cell blinks again. I contemplate ignoring it, not wanting to know what snarky comment Sarah crafted this time, but I know I won't be able to sleep unless I read it. I flip open the cell and my heart skips a beat.

Chris.

Absence makes the