"You have yourself a deal," he says. He holds out his hand. I roll my eyes and shake.

"A deal with the devil," I mutter. I hope I haven't traded away too much of my soul.

"Okay, everyone!" Mrs. Tennison calls from the other side of the room. "Bus is here! Finish up your breakfasts!"

I stand up and head toward the bus without waiting for Jason. I can only hope that today's adventures will be a little less adventurous than my last adventures.

"It's huge!"

"That's what she said!"

Cue riotous laughter as our bus rumbles past Big Ben.

I want to roll my eyes, but I'm afraid pretty soon they're going to get stuck in the back of my head, and penis puns are really not worth my permanent facial damage.

By the time our bus pulls up to the Tower of London, my expectations for the day are somewhere in the basement. Call me a cynic, but since Jason spent the entire time we toured Big Ben talking about how satisfied Mrs. Ben must be, my guess is that a landmark famous for its crown jewels is not going to bring out his most charming comments, either.

But from the moment we walk in the door, he is quiet. He's not cracking jokes or laughing or snorting or high-fiving anyone. He's simply following the rest of the tour, listening to the guides and (can it be?) actually reading the historical markers along the way.

We leave the Waterloo Barracks, home to the crown jewels, and Mrs. Tennison tells us to find our partners and discuss what we've seen so far.

"Remember, this is perfect subject material for a reflection paper," she says, her eyes aglow with the excitement of homework. "Don't simply discuss. Dissect! The work will be easier later!"

I find Jason in a corner, looking at a glossy brochure the tour guides gave us when we arrived. I don't expect much in the way of dissection. I will, after all, be writing his reflection paper.

"Crazy, huh?" he says, flapping the brochure at me. "You know they used to torture people here, right? Weird that everyone knows it mostly for the bling."

I stare at him. He goes on to talk about the juxtaposition of the famous jewels and the political prisoners who have been held within the tower walls. He actually uses the word "juxtaposition." I couldn't be more shocked if he donned a hat made of fruit and danced the cancan in the middle of Westminster Abbey.

"And a lot of the prisoners weren't even real threats, you know? I mean, sure Guy Fawkes tried to blow up Parliament or whatever, but they were more afraid of what he was saying," he says. I remember Guy Fawkes from our unit on European history. "Hey, did you take that political protest class Coach Hudson taught?"

"Not yet," I say. "I was hoping to get it next semester." "Coach" Hudson actually coaches the debate team, but he's just as respected as our soccer coach. Maybe more so. I've been dying to take his class.

"Dude, you have to take it," he says, his face animated. "You'll be totally into it."

I blink at him. Jason Lippincott's recommending a class to me is like my offering makeup tips to Evie. Fortunately, before I have to think of a response, the tour guide signals for us to move on.

As we continue the tour, I try to see the place from Jason's eyes, but every time we pass a darkened corridor, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I imagine invisible hands snatching me off to some prison cell, where I'm left to bed down on a pile of rotting hay, rats scurrying all around me. The tour guide keeps mentioning that the whole place is haunted with the ghosts of people who have been beheaded there. I can only imagine what their corpses would look like wandering around; somehow I don't think they're going to be as friendly as the ones in Harry Potter. I try not to linger too close to the dank stone walls, in case there's lingering tuberculosis or bubonic plague. I instinctively feel around in my bag for my travel bottle of hand sanitizer.

"Can you believe people were imprisoned here? Some of them for nothing," Jason says. He leans against one of the tubercular walls and I suppress a shiver.

"Well, odds are at least some of them were guilty of something," I reply. I'm not totally sure if I believe it, but I'm not going to get through an entire field trip without contributing something to a discussion with Jason. I clear my throat and channel Coach Hudson's debate skills. "It's naive and unfair to judge history by our standards. It's what they had. It's what they knew. And people should be punished for breaking the rules, so long as the rules are fair."

"And who decides if the rules are fair?" he asks.

"Society," I reply, keeping my tone even.

Jason raises his eyebrows at me and opens his mouth to reply, but then he shuts it. I feel a flicker of triumph. Does that mean I won?

We wander into the next room, an interactive prisoner exhibit. It's a little bit cheesy, with videos of reenactors with hammy British accents playing the roles of various historical prisoners. All around us are instruments of torture with historical placards explaining their uses.

Jason practically skips across the room. When he gets to the far wall, he whips off his belt with a flourish and strings it through a set of iron rings built into the stone wall high above his head.

"Jason," I say. "What-"

"Oh, flog me. I've been a bad boy!" His voice echoes around the room. "All the partying, all the girls, all the fun. It goes against society's rules. It goes against morality! Punish me, Julia!"

All my blood rushes directly to my face. Strangers are staring, mouths open, while my classmates giggle and whisper.

Without meaning to move, I sprint across the room. "What is your problem?" I ask, leaning in. "Are you mental or something?"

Jason just starts moaning, loud and long, writhing against the stone wall. I'm sure it looks awesome what with me standing so close to him. I leap back so fast I nearly fall ass over teakettle into a giant iron maiden.

A group of British schoolgirls in matching plaid uniforms explode into laughter.

"I love American boys," one girl says.

"So funny," the other agrees, and then she actually gives him one of those finger-wiggling waves. I have to keep myself from visibly gagging. How can they be charmed by him? This is London, where people have class. Can't they see he's essentially an overgrown seven-year-old?

I scan the room for Mrs. Tennison. Surely she'll put a stop to this ridiculousness, but she's nowhere to be found. Seriously? She's been hovering over us like a thick cloud of mosquitoes since we got here, and she chooses now to walk away? You'd think someone as anxious as Mrs. T would learn to hold it until the wild group of teenagers leaves the building containing priceless artifacts. I wait for a guard to throw us out, but even security seems uninterested. In fact, I catch one woman trying to suppress a smile.

Jason finally unhooks his belt from the metal rings. His grin is fading into a smirk.

"What's the matter, Julia?" he asks. "Let me guess-you're not into domination? Maybe you want to be dominated. They say it's the most controlling people who look for someone to tell them what to do. Look, if that's your thing, I'm sure we can make it work...."

I'm so embarrassed-and angry-I could reach out and smack him. Instead, I ball up my fists and feel my nails digging into the flesh of my palms.

"Why do you have to be such an ass?" I ask in the calmest, coldest tone I can muster. "Why do you feel the need to get attention every moment of every day? Were you ignored as a kid or something? Did Mommy forget to love you? Do us both a favor and get over yourself, okay?"

Jason's face has turned stony. "Dude, you need to chill out," he says. He tries to put on his belt but drops it; it clatters to the ground. "I'm having fun, Julia. F-U-N. You don't have to be such a bitch all the time, you know that?"

I open my mouth to reply, but he's already stalking away from me. My cheeks are burning, and to my horror I feel tears welling up in my eyes. I will them away.

I can't believe he called me a bitch. I feel like I've been plunged headfirst into a bucket of ice water.

The class is gathering at the entrance of the exhibit to move to another gallery, and Jason goes to stand in the back of the crowd, a little bit separate from everyone else, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and staring resolutely in front of him.

So much for not letting Jason get to me. So much for using him to help me get Chris.

My phone buzzes against my thigh, making me jump. I pull the phone out of my messenger bag with shaking hands and flip it open.

Was @ Globe last night and thinking of u, thinking of me? -C My heart leaps into my throat, and I swallow furiously, trying to put it back where it belongs. I wish I could run to Chris right now-which I realize is more than a little weird, considering that I can't even remember what he looks like. I press reply and stand staring at the blank screen and the blinking cursor. I have no idea what I can say that won't ruin it.

"Let me guess-Chris." Jason is staring at me from across the now-empty gallery. The rest of our class must have moved on. His eyes are expressionless. "You haven't scared him off yet?"

"What is your problem?" I burst out.

"I thought you already knew." He raises an eyebrow. "Abandonment issues and immaturity. Got any more to add to the list?"

I feel guilt squirming in my stomach. But he deserved it. He did. I look away from him. "You don't have to embarrass me all the time." My voice comes out all squeaky. "I embarrass myself enough as it is, okay?"

There's a moment of silence. Then squeak, squeak, squeak as Jason crosses toward me. He holds out his hand.

"Give me your phone," he says. He's not smiling, but his voice is softer.

"No way."

"Say the wrong thing and you might never hear from him again," Jason says. I can tell that he has forgiven me for what I said. I guess I can forgive him for calling me a bitch. I may occasionally be a little ... outspoken. "You know you need Dr. Love-in-Cott to help out."

"Ew," I say, making a face.

He leans into me and nudges me with a shoulder. "Seems like your tactic thus far has been to lie and dodge. Is that working for you?"

I feel like my stomach is going to do a dance right out of my belly button. I'm not going to ruin it. Am I? I stare down at my phone in my hand.

"Suit yourself," he says. Jason begins skipping backward, still watching me. Now the smile is back in his eyes. "Best of luck to you."

I feel like I'm in some kind of horror movie, standing at the front door, trying to decide if I should let the vampire in to defend me from the snarling werewolf. One will tear me limb from limb; the other will suck the life out of me. I can't decide which is worse.

He's nearly to the exit when I call out to him. "Wait!" I say, and he skips back over to me.

" 'Was at the Globe last night and thinking of you,' " he reads aloud as I show him the phone. "First of all, good sign. Thinking of you? That means he's-"

"Thinking of me?"

"Exactly," he says, ignoring my sarcasm. He plows on. "And the Globe. That's got to be a clue. Well, it looks like we have a little mystery on our hands, Julia Lichtenstein! And possibly some adventure." He rubs his hands together like a super villain. "The Globe is like the old-school version of a movie theater, right?"

I stare at him. "If by 'movie theater,' " I reply, "you mean the world-famous theater in which the majority of Shakespeare's plays were first performed."

Jason laughs. "Chill out. I'm with you. I'm not a total moron." His face lights up. Even his freckles seem to get brighter. "Maybe Chris is a theater geek. A nerd, like you!"

I stifle a nasty retort. Our class is heading out of the exhibit and down the stairs, another tour finished. Soon we'll be on the street and splitting up to "enjoy" our cultural hours. Our classmates' voices bounce off the stone walls, and I can hear them excitedly planning their next steps (most of which involve shopping or going to a pub to watch football). Jason and I hurry after them.

"So what do you think I should do?" I ask when we find ourselves back on the sidewalk.

"Well, I think this is a clue, and we should follow it," he says, looking around for some kind of direction. "And figure out who he is. And then you can live happily ever after reading books and going to museums, or whatever it is you nerds do."

"Ha-ha," I say, snapping the phone shut. "I'm not just a nerd, you know. I mean, I'm not a nerd at all. I just happen to find history interesting. And literature. And political structures. And-"

Jason cuts me off. "Please," he says, looking pained. "Never go into law. You put up a terrible defense." Then he perks up again. "So ... feel like checking out some British theater? We should swing by the Globe. Ask around. Maybe he works there or something."

"And when do you suggest we go?" I ask. I'm torn between my desire to do some major sleuthing on Chris and my vow not to break any more rules. I've got our itinerary in my bag, and there's not much free time on the schedule.

"No time like the present," he says, without missing a beat. "We'll use our cultural hours."

"We're supposed to use that time for independent tours so we can write our reflection papers," I say, trying to mask my exasperation.

"I think the sentence structure you're looking for is 'so I can write our reflection papers,' " Jason says. He bends down to tie his left sneaker, the lace of which is fraying and dirty. "Besides, half the class is using that time to hit pubs and go shopping. We're actually going somewhere that Mrs. T would call culturally relevant."

It's honestly not a bad idea, and I've wanted to see the Globe Theater ever since I first read Romeo and Juliet in the sixth grade. Even if Chris isn't there, at least I'll be fulfilling a lifelong dream.

Still, I'm conscious of the fact that I'm about to follow Jason through the streets of London while he supposedly helps me hook up with a guy. I think if someone had written that sentence down a week ago and showed it to me, my brain would have exploded and oozed out of my eye sockets.

"Come on, Julia, your destiny awaits, or whatever," Jason says, already a few steps down the road.

I know better than anyone that it's impossible to argue with destiny. I heave my bag up higher on my shoulder and start down the street to catch up.

wow, I guess you've got a new mtb ... -P "Dude, this place is seriously vintage. Can you believe Shakespeare might actually have stood right here?"

Jason and I are standing on the sidewalk, looking up at the Globe Theater in front of us. The sky is gray and looks on the verge of dumping on us, but it just makes the theater even more imposing. Jason once again seems to be intrigued and impressed by history, and I'm once again a little thrown off by it.

A cold, damp wind blows through and whips my curls directly into my face. I sigh heavily, tossing my head around, trying to wrangle my hair. I've been wrestling with my mane since we left the Tower of London, and the half-hour stroll along and finally across the Thames to arrive at the Globe has turned it into a Bride of Frankenstein-esque tangle.

"It's a reproduction," I reply, rummaging around in my bag for a hair elastic. I normally carry at least two.

"Seriously?"

I look over at his face, which registers the same kind of shock you expect to see when you've told your five-year-old cousin that fairies aren't real.

"Yup. This is actually the third one," I explain, winding my wild hair into a messy ponytail. "The first burned down during a show in the early 1600s, the second was demolished about thirty years later, and this one wasn't built until the late 1990s."

"See? Who needs Tennison when I have you as my tour guide?"

Great. I've gone from Book Licker to pathetic high school English teacher. I suppose both are improvements over sad crush girl, so I can't really be choosy.

Jason pops a piece of grape gum into his mouth. "Let's go find your lover boy," he says, taking off up the steps. "Race ya!"

When I get to the top of the stairs, I find Jason studying the theater's schedule in a glass display case.

"There was a show here last night," Jason says, tapping his finger on the glass next to a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. "Maybe your mystery man was here."

"Well, what are we going to do?" I ask impatiently. "Review security tapes?"

"Not a bad idea, CSI: London, but no," he says, gesturing toward the box office. "We'll go a little lower tech and ask that guy."

All the ticket windows are closed except for one at the end, where an old man with bushy eyebrows and a gin-blossomed nose is reading a thick leather-bound book. The nameplate in the window reads FELIX.

Jason sidles up to the window, but the man is too engrossed in his book to notice. We stand there for a moment, clearing our throats and trying to make ourselves known, but Jason finally just taps on the glass.

"What's that about?" Felix grumbles. His big, watery eyes peer at us over his wire-rimmed glasses.

"Yes sir, so sorry to bother you," Jason says, "but we were hoping you might be able to help us out with something."

"Whatssat?" he mumbles, clearly not particularly interested in helping us out.

Jason takes off his hat and twirls it around his finger. "Well, you see, my friend here is looking for her friend Chris ..."

" 'Scuse me?" he says. Now he's not even trying to conceal his irritation.