This is the beginning of a new story I'm starting, because of an annoying trend I've noticed. There are hundreds, I repeat hundreds of stories where Edward is born with the silver spoon, and Bella is poor/abused/unloved/weak/pathetic and all of the above. Now that damsel in distress is all good and well, but I like a bit of variation, so I'm trying the reverse scenario. Edward's not going to be weak or pathetic but he's going to have it tougher. Anyway, hope you enjoy the beginning, and let me know whether you think it's worth me continuing!
Welcome to the difficulties involved in being a thirteen year girl.
I'm sick of benefit dinners and I hate charities.
Not particularly 'charitable' or 'ladylike' of me, I know, and my parents would be appalled because they lived for them, or so it seemed.
I just wanted to do the things I always did, like play with our family puppy that I had gotten for my birthday, watch TV and swim in our pool overlooking the Malibu coast. And these damned orphaned children were interfering with my life, once again.
As far as I was concerned, the kids who were in orphanages got an incredible head start in life. Imagine all the time they had on their hands!
Parents were certainly overrated creations in my book, I mean, think of everything a 13 year old girl could do without them, the possibilities were endless!
Naturally however, I was cursed with two parents who seemed to spend half their lives at these dinners, raising money or congratulating each other until the early hours of the morning. Apparently it was "part of being a Congressman" my father told me, which I really didn't understand.
If I was completely honest, I didn't really understand what a Congressman did or was, but I didn't care that much either. All it meant to me was that my dad was away for a large part of the year in Washington DC where he worked, which was very cold and didn't have any beaches. No wonder mom refused to move there.
The thought of the beach made me perk up, as I flattened out my miniature green ballroom gown, using my small hands to rub out the creases across my midriff. It was identical to that of my mother, just smaller which apparently made it look 'cute', according to both my parents. It wasn't lost on me that it was one of the few things they agreed upon these days.
I was sitting at a table, watching the world of expensive jewellery, high heels and black ties file past when I heard my father's voice through the speakers. Uh oh. I knew that tone. It meant a speech was brewing. Bored witless and unwilling to be subjected to the experience of my father speaking at length on a topic I was pretty sick of, I hopped off my seat in search of entertainment.
The room which had become my prison was relatively large, and particularly ornate. You couldn't miss the crystal chandeliers or the large sculpture that sat in the middle of the room, observing everyone with it's slightly disdainful expression. My 13 year old self had never felt better reflected by a piece of art.
I studied a waiter as he shuffled past me, holding a silver platter. The boy, so my father had told me, was supposed to be an orphan, working under the new Employ an Orphan program where kids from local orphanages could "gain valuable life skills in the workplace while earning themselves some pocket money".
The boy in front of me, however, looked nothing like the kids from Oliver's Twist. He was clean, first of all, and secondly his formal clothing was neatly pressed down to his bow-tie, to match his haircut. To me that looked like every other waiter I'd ever seen. Unfortunately, I could claim to to be somewhat of an expert in the field.
I'd always imagined orphans would lead exciting, unencumbered lives, but the girl I'd tried to talk to had asked me whether I had the newest copy of Teen Vogue. I was almost wishing I had brought a copy, after being patted on the head for the tenth time, or had some bleached blonde woman coo over me like I was five again.
I was thirteen, for god sake! I was positively old! My mother always scowled when I said things like that, but I think it's because she's getting wrinkles, I see her lathering herself in that cream stuff, and whenever she goes to the doctor she comes back looking like a fish, with the skin stretched over her cheeks and her lips all puffed up.
I was determined to find myself a proper orphan to talk to, a real Artful Dodger. We had started doing Dickens at school, and I'd decided I loved it. It was like a whole other world opened up when my teacher started reading, and I was determined to find someone who existed in a place like that.
Scanning the room, my eyes alighted on the odd one out, naturally drawn to the individual who looked most out of place. And this boy really looked out of place.
He was tall and slender, and his suit was clearly made for someone shorter and fatter. His hair wasn't neatly pressed at all, in fact it was a bit of mess, and it was a funny bronze colour. Most noticeably of all though was the fact that he was grubby. His hands were streaked with dirt, and he had a dark smudge on his jaw that someone had clearly unsuccessfully tried to wipe it off in a hurry.
I sauntered over to him, watching him as I did so. He was clearly nervous, and felt out of place, that much was clear. He was holding his silver platter of watercress and leek seaweed rolls in both hands, and his chest height. Not exactly classic waiter posture.
He also wasn't moving, and when someone eventually decided that a watercress and leak seaweed roll was their hearts desire, he almost panicked and dropped all of them. Now he was sitting in a corner and looking around with wide eyes, apparently hoping everyone would leave him alone.
I was not going to be put off.
"Hello!" I said loudly.
He hadn't seen me, and his platter hit the floor with a thud.
"Ooops. Don't think you were meant to do that," I said, giggling slightly.
The look of panic on the boys face shut me up pretty quickly.
"No, don't worry, I'm sure it's alright. Hang on, I'll just kick that under here..." I said as I used my stupid semi-heels, or 'trainer heels' as my mother referred to them, to slide the evidence under the tablecloth of the sidebar, which hung to the floor.
"I'm Isabella, but everyone calls me Bella," I said to him, holding out my hand after I wiped my shoes on the carpet.
"Edward," he replied, and it was as he took my hand to shake it that I remembered that I could see the dirt on his fingers from halfway across the room. Never mind, I was determined to have that authentic orphan experience before I left, and this kid looked like my best chance.
"So, what's it like being an orphan?" I asked him. Subtlety is something I've always struggled with. Ever since birth it had been apparent that verbal, and more severely, physical coordination had seemingly managed to both pass me by.
Although, from the tremor in all the boy's movements, I thought I might have found a kindred spirit. He was shaking like a leaf, and his eyes darted around like those people who talk to my father when he's angry.
"I'm not an orphan..." the boy blurted out, before slapping is hand across his mouth.
I felt cheated.
"What do you mean you're not an orphan? What are you doing at a benefit for orphans then?" I asked, sounding outraged for no apparent reason.
Despite the slight stutter, the boy spoke with the most unique voice I'd ever heard. He spoke softly, but the quality of his tone was undeniable, it slid over me like velvet.
"Do you promise not to tell anyone?" he asked, glancing from side to side fugitively.
I positively rubbed my hands together with girlish glee at this statement.
A bit of mystery, a bit of intrigue? I could see my book world opening up in front of me. I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him round behind the trestle tables, and then dragged him down to sit next to me so we couldn't be seen unless you lifted the tablecloth and looked at the back wall. A perfect secret hiding spot in which to hear a mysterious story.
"If you're not an orphan, then what are you doing here? You look dirty enough to be an orphan," I repeated, and the boy appeared nervous as he picked at the carpet gently, looking the other way.
He really was the strangest boy I'd ever seen. He was thin, very thin, almost as if he didn't eat well enough. His skin was slightly sallow, and he was jumpy, his eyes never settling in one place for long, constantly watching everything and everyone around him. Of course, I was a thirteen year old girl, so I cared little for other people's problems. I stared at him as fiercely as I could muster until I got an answer.
Eventually he spoke.
"A man found me walking to the pickup spot, and dragged me in here because they were short one kid," the boy replied softly.
So many questions.
"First of all, pick up point from what? And why did you take the job?" I asked, channelling my best Sherlock Holmes. Not that I actually had read or seen Sherlock Holmes on TV, but I knew he was a famous detective, and the comparison made me feel smart.
"I'm... I'm... you promise not to tell anyone?" he repeated, and I nodded impatiently.
"I work on construction sites as a labourer," he said quickly, and I was shocked. None of my friends had part time jobs, we were all too young.
"How old are you?" I demanded.
The boy looked uncomfortable.
"I'm 13 years old, but I have a card that says I'm 15. Mom's boyfriend got it for me, cause otherwise I wouldn't be allowed to work."
"Why are you so desperate to work? And aren't those fake cards illegal?" I fired off, maintaining my assault.
"I... My mother's boyfriend says I have to. I don't really know anything more than that," he said, shrugging uneasily.
"My parents don't make me work," I announced, for lack of a better reply.
He was silent, but instead chose to keep picking at the loose threads of the carpet, and I was immediately affronted that he could possibly find this pastime more interesting than my company.
"You're being very rude you know!" I announced haughtily.
"S...sorry," he stuttered, his nerves returning, "I'm not really meant to be here. My mother and her boyfriend were expecting me home an hour ago. They'll be angry with me, I know they will," he blurted out, all in a rush.
"You're very strange," I told him truthfully, given that I'd never met anyone like him.
"Sorry," was all he had to say in reply.
We continued to sit in silence for a while, and I examined him out of the corner of my eye. He sat slumped slightly, as if he was exhausted, and stared intently at the carpet the whole time, never lifting his eyes to meet mine when he spoke, not like my mother had taught me was proper.
Instead he simply picked away at those loose threads, pulling them one by one from the carpeted floor, scratching almost inaudibly as he did so.
After a few minutes had passed, the boy Edward suddenly jumped up, and promptly bumped his head on the table with a sharp crack.
"I'm supposed to be serving," he breathed as if he had just remembered, looking more panicked than before, rubbing his head, "If he finds out I'm not working, he won't pay me!"
And with that, he ducked out from underneath the table, knocking another platter onto the floor as he did so. He was already gone however, racing into the kitchens where this unnamed "he" awaited to inform my pretend orphan friend his fate. Well, I thought of us as friends, anyway. But Mom was always telling me to be more careful around strangers.
No sooner than my thoughts shifted to my mother then she did appear, peering underneath the table cloth with a disapproving frown on her face.
I knew that look. That was her "I'm angry with you but we're in public" face and I smiled wistfully inside. It always meant a gentle telling off now, followed by a more serious one later.
"You should know better than that," my mother muttered in a dark tone, her hand wrapped tightly around my elbow, "in fact, you do know better than that. It's very important to your father that everything goes perfectly tonight, he doesn't need to be worrying that his daughter is crawling under tables with servants like she's three years old!"
"But mom..." I whined, as I was led away.
"But nothing," she cut me off, "you are going to sit and behave yourself young lady, until your father is completely finished, and everyone else has gone. And you won't complain."
I was seated back at the same spot I had been in before, and as I lowered myself into my seat, my mother grabbed the back of my gown and exclaimed in horror.
"Isabella! You've managed to stain the hem of your dress, you see, this is what happens when you crawl around on the floor, you get disgusting and grubby. Now sit here so no one can see what you've done."
My mother marched away, not glancing back as I toyed with the offending hemline. My mother was a strange woman, and I couldn't quite explain why to anyone who wasn't in my family. Not including my father, naturally, because he was never there.
So really that just left me to explain why my mother was strange.
To anyone who saw her in public, on television or radio programs, opening charitable projects or any of the many other things she spent her time doing, she was like "an angel gifted to earth" as my father had just described her in his speech.
I knew she loved me a lot, and cared about my dad, but it was like everything else got muddled up in between, they both had so much happening all the time that our family got lost somewhere underneath it all. I wished pretty much every day that all of it would just go away, and we could become a completely normal family for once.
Not that there was much chance of that happening, I was resigned to spend a lifetime, or at least my childhood, appearing a functions as the accessory of choice for my father when my mom wasn't within reach.
Hours. I had been sitting here for hours, which at some point had started to feel like years.
I was watching again, and caught sight of my pretend orphan friend, but he stayed away from me. I think he must have gotten into trouble, because he was positively shivering, and half ran everywhere in his haste to get rid of everything on his platter.
Slowly however, people began to leave, usually least important or least connected to my father first. Naturally his opponents left, the ones who made him curse sometimes when he was on the phone or computer at home.
Next it was the older guests, a couple of whom were snoring gently at the table I was sitting at, and making me giggle, until my mother had come to tell me off of course.
Finally, my father shook the hand of the last man, and pretended to kiss the last ladies cheek, which always seemed like a strange thing to me, and we were left with mom, dad and I, in the massive function room, as the cleaners began their hefty task of repairing all the damage that had been done to their previously sparkling floor.
"I'm going to help hand out the pocket money to all the orphaned kids who served tonight, because they're about to catch the bus back," my father announced, and I struggled to hold in my frustrated sigh. I just wanted to go back home and play with my puppy.
My father led my mother and I into the kitchens, where all the children who had helped serve were lined up, no longer wearing their suits, but dressed in their normal casual clothing, chattering amongst themselves.
My father, never one to pass up the opportunity, launched into a speech about how grateful he was for their help, and how all the guests had been so complimentary about their serving. I'd heard one woman threaten under her breath to cuff one of the boys after he spilt something on her, but daddy must have missed that particular assessment.
Next he produced certificates, which were quickly forgotten about when each child was handed a crisp ten dollar note with a firm shake of the hand.
My friend from underneath the table was given one too, and shook my father's hand, but looked decidedly less impressed with the money than any of the others. While my father wiped his hand on a napkin, clearly having noticed Edward's dirty hands, the money was extracted from the children for safe keeping by the head of the orphanage, and they filed out the back to where their bus was waiting to take them to their beds. I was more than a little jealous.
When they had all filed out however, Edward was left, looking confused and unsure of himself once again.
"Aren't you supposed to be out there with them?" My father asked kindly, "you wouldn't want to get left behind!"
Edward stayed silent, and stared at his feet. He was apparently hoping we'd ignore him and disappear.
"Hey? Your bus is going to leave without you!" my father said more loudly, putting his hand on Edward's shoulder.
I decided to rescue him.
"He's not an orphan," I announced, feeling buoyed by my superior knowledge.
My mother and father both looked confused.
"He's being paid because they were short a couple of orphans to help," I added, and now Edward looked up. I thought I was helping him out of an awkward situation, but he was staring daggers at me.
"What do you mean he's not an orphan?" my father asked, "these children have been brought from the orphanage to help out, I saw their bus arrive."
Silly daddy, always needed things explained to him twice. Mom was only slightly better.
"You mean this boy is being paid to be here? Where are his parents? Whose looking after him?"
I had answers to none of these questions so I stayed silent, and instead stared at Edward like my parents were. He didn't move, and continued to stare at the floor like he was trying to make a hole in it.
"Where are your parents, darling?" my mother asked more kindly, bending down as far as her gown would allow. My father was now blustering under his breath about being lied to and manipulated, stroking his moustache like he did whenever he felt slightly confused.
My mom had taken Edward's hand now, and with a firm "Charlie!" directed at my father, she led the four of us out into the main function room, where the clean up was nearly finished, and the lights were being switched off.
I yawned widely, and my mother frowned.
"Charlie," she said, addressing my father in her favourite tone of voice, "we can't just leave him here."
"But what do you expect us to do with him?" My father demanded, his eyes swivelling from Edward to my mom.
"We'll put him on the floor of Bella's room, and then tomorrow we can take him down to child services. No parents should be abandoning their child like this, it's disgraceful!" my mother said.
"Be reasonable, Renee, he could be a criminal for all we know! And you want to leave him with our daughter?"
"Stop being stupid, Charlie, he's thirteen and he's been left on his own. How many hardened criminals work as cater waiters and it's for one night!"
My mother was not an easy woman to conquer.
"I like him, he can stay in my room tonight," I piped up, and my mother smiled at me.
"There you go Charlie, it's settled then. Honestly, I can't believe you sometimes," she said haughtily.
My father just wore that look that he got whenever mommy and I ganged up on him. Our cleaning lady often described it as 'defeated'.
Edward will not be getting adopted. Because that would be weird/obvious. This story will be skipping through the years pretty quickly, because I'm not great at portraying thirteen year olds. Not that I'm promising to be better at them when they're older, it just hopefully won't be worse :) Anyway, if you're interested, or you think I'm wasting my time, leave your opinion below.