Eventides

I|Make-Believe, Let's Pretend

Would you like to know what my favorite game is?

Make-Believe. Or Let's Pretend, whichever you like to call it.

You want to know why it's my favorite game?

It's the only game I'm good at.

I cannot win Tag to save my life. I'm alright when playing Hide and Seek, but when I hide either someone gives me away or they don't try to find me. When I seek they hide where I don't want to look.

At least with Make-Believe, or Let's Pretend, I am formidable. I can act like something I'm not. For instance, I can act like I am strong, when I am weak. I can act like I am brave, when I am scared. Or, my best fake-out, I can act like I am happy, when… I am not.

See? I can pretend among the best, I can make you believe I'm this way when I'm nothing like it.

I suppose it helps when you play the game every day, every hour, every minute, every second…

I've learned to play this game ever since I was little, and I've become a natural. I'm not proud of it, but what can I do?

I'm barely fifteen. Fabricating is all I can do. It keeps everyone else happy.

I should apologize, to the off chance that someone could actually listen to my mentality. I am a Debbie Downer, but I try to keep it to myself. It would be pitiful if I were to be woe-is-me, because there are others out there less fortunate than I, and yet so many of them live with their heads high and their backs straight. They hope for the best to come to them one day.

I stopped hoping. I don't remember if I ever hoped. I just live with what I have. I just accept what I get. I just handle the now, the past is over with, and the future is… unclear.

I'm prattling again. I'm sorry.

Want to know what I'm doing right now?

I'm on my bed, my sheet and comforter only covering my legs. I think I've woken up twenty minutes ago. This always happen, I wake up earlier than I should. But this is one of the few moments I could reflect, I could bask in the ephemeral calm and be content, comfortable.

Any moment my mother would burst through and coerce me out my cocoon to begin my day. If she was like any of the Marvel or DC characters, I would constantly need a new door. That's how vigorous she is.

It would not be the first, nor the last, that I question the error that is letting the woman named Renée bear a child. That bundle of pseudo-joy being the obvious.

Quick thuds on hardwood, getting louder and louder, coming closer. Speak of the—

"Upsy Daisy, Bella!"

… Devil. Speak of her, and she shall appear.

My mother: Renée Dwyer. Formally Renée Swan. Maiden name Renée Armour. She slams open my door, making the dent in my wall another centimeter deep. Renée always has to make a melodramatic entrance, no matter how unnecessary.

Out loud I address her as Mom, but really she's nothing more than a Renée to me.

She looks at me with the brightest smile she's ever given me, her eyes are shimmering diamonds. "I'm sure you've had plenty of time to get the sleepies out your eyes out your eyes! Now come down and have a big breakfast, today is a big day today!"

Has anyone else notice when she's excited she tends to repeat a word or few? Not just me, right?

Either way, Renée skips off before I could even consider responding, no doubt to share the showers with Phil – my stepfather. In fairness, he's not terrible, but he certainly doesn't deserve an accolade. Like Renée, it is one of those many wonders for why he's taking the role of a father to a child that's not his. Guess who said child is.

Lucky me.

Notwithstanding, I can't wallow in bed another minute, though I'm well aware I could stay here for twice the time while my odd parents are… ahem, occupied. But my legs are stiff and cramping, and I am beginning to feel restless. Well, upsy daisy then.

After making up my bed and washing up in my personal bathroom, I dress into a pair of navy capris and a light gray tee-shirt. Refreshed, I went downstairs for my "big breakfast" meant to energize me for my "big day today".

This 'big day' one could ask? I'm moving away. Only me. Alone.

Eleven years spent with my biological mother, I figured it was time to spend the last five years before legal adulthood with my biological father. It was my decision, though Renée hadn't been subtle. She made it quite apparent which choice she would be happy with.

In the kitchen, it's not large enough for an island, but fitful enough for a table to not take up space. Atop the table is my 'big breakfast', an omelet, four strips of bacon, squeezed orange juice, and a fruit bowl.

There's eggshells in the omelet, the bacon is burnt, I see peel bits in the orange juice, and the fruits are all rotten…

It's the thought that counts, right…?

Thoughtfulness or not, I don't want to suffer another food poisoning, besides the garbage disposal is seldom used. Renée won't notice. Rice Crispy and Minute Maid are much safer.

I have at least another twenty minutes before Renée and Phil are done with their endeavors.

It took me seven minutes to finish eating, two minutes to wash and put away the dishes I used that wasn't my 'big breakfast', and thirty seconds to arrange the utensils to make it seem I enthusiastically partaken the best 'big breakfast' of my life.

As I aforementioned, I'm formidable in Make-Believe, or Let's Pretend.

I spent thirty minutes watching cable television, specifically the all time classics of Tom and Jerry. There's something hysterical seeing one of the most instinctive enemies mutilate each other in the most creative ways. I wish we are this flexible and disproportioned to life-threatening injuries in reality. So many would've been spared.

My parents are preoccupied longer than I guesstimate.

Tom was just hit in the face with a clothes iron when Renée and Phil comes down stairs, Renée shamelessly flushed. I don't need to see her dazed smile to know it wasn't from the steam of the shower.

She spots me on the couch and asks, "Bella, are you all packed?"

"I've been packed for a week now." I deadpan, she's not the only one who's glad I'll be out of this picture in a few more hours.

"Good, deary! Me and Phil will just grab some breakfast. Oh! Did you enjoy the big breakfast I prepared for you?"

You know, I'm getting sick of the words 'big' and 'breakfast'. "Yes, Mom. I was so full I needed to relax before I clean the dishes."

"No, no, I'll clean them for you. You just relax, sweetie."

Wow, maybe she is more glad that I'm leaving. My heart's too numb to ache anymore. Nevertheless, I'm not sticking around to be immune to her stings.

I shut the TV off as I stand. "I'm going to Lynn's now." I announce as I walk to my slip-on sneakers by the frontdoor.

"Have fun!" Renée hollers to my back. I can imagine her waving her hand exaggeratingly over her head.

I don't bother humoring her a reply, I just walked out, uncaring that I left the door unlocked as I went. I was never given a personal key anyway.

My flight to Forks, Washington isn't until two in the afternoon. It's only four past ten, so I'm granted ample time to hang out with my only Cali-friend: Gwendoline Davies.

She lives only a fifteen-minute bike-ride from Renée and Phil's house (I never called that place my home) and her abode is grander than theirs. I think Renée is actually jealous of me befriending someone of a higher class, considering she never did at my age.

Lynn never liked her name, and she despise the shortened version Gwen with infernal passion. Gwennie is even worse, she may actually kill someone for addressing her as such. She almost broke Darwin's nose during lunch back in the sixth grade, but I vouch that he had it coming.

The ride to Lynn's is relatively peaceful. No traffic to maneuver and scarce vehicles to avoid. The only bump is the bike itself. It was a used one that Phil got from one of his… teammates. Oh, right, I fail to mention that Phil is a part of a minor league baseball team. Sorry, imaginative audience of mine, it's a fact I let slip through the wrinkles of my brain all the time.

So, yeah, he got me this used bike on for $15. The best bargain he's ever made. The green and blue paint job is worse-for-wear, having seen better days before meeting me. The seat is loose too, and not adjustable like the newer models. I'm actually surprised I wasn't given an old school penny-farthing, then again I'll get scraped knees every time I'd try to get on that high wheel. Luckily the wheels on this two-wheeler is functional, and I'm all utilitarian than aesthetic, thus it suits me just fine.

But I've droned on enough and I can see Lynn's three-story castle. Luckily, I managed to strike a deal with Mr. and Mrs. Davies to let me park my bicycle in their backyard shed – Renée 'forgets' to buy me a lock.

The deal is that I do a chore whenever I visit, whether it's watering the garden, managing the laundry, or scrubbing the toilet. They're people who sport cleanliness, and it's not like they're making me clean the chimney or ungut the gutters, so it's not a real hassle for me to do. It's a fair trade for the juxtaposition of my drab presence.

Overall, I wouldn't say Lynn's parents are bad people, but they are quite narrow-minded. At least they try to be nice.

As per usual, I knock on the back door, and waited for some odd minutes (the longest was twenty-two minutes) before one of the parents answer – Lynn is not allowed to let me in.

This time it is Mrs. Davies. "Oh, hello Isabella." She 'politely' greets me.

"Salutations, Mrs. Davies."

"Here's the key for the shed."

"Much obliged, ma'am." Buttering them up with high class formality is exponentially beneficial.

Once my bike is safely secured and I leave my shoes out on the back porch, I venture up the grand stairs to Lynn's room. The Davies have the luxury of double-doors for their bedchambers, even that Lynn's happy to have.

As always, Lynn's doors are closed. A couple knocks later, and she opens up. People often say we're polar opposites by our looks: I'm pale, she's tan; my hair's ridiculously long, her's incredibly short; I'm lanky, she's lusty; I'm short, she's tall; my eyes are boring browns, while hers are mesmerizing amethysts.

"So here you are." She deadpans. Honestly, we're quite identical in persona.

I merely shrug.

Laxed as ever, she goes back to whatever she was doing, leaving the door cracked enough for me to squeeze. As an unspoken rule, I close and lock the door. "This is it…" I say as I beeline for a beanbag chair.

Lynn scoffs from where she lays out on her queen-size bed. "Don't go sentimental on me, it's not like we won't keep in touch." She looks up from her sketchpad to smirk at me. "Or… do you plan on changing yourself for popularity? Gonna join the gossip girls?"

She's one of the few to get a genuine laugh out of me. "I'd sooner rig Renée as best mom." She's the only one I can be completely honest to.

Most friends would spend most their time talking to each other about anything, whatever to keep it going and avoid awkward silence. But Lynn and I are a pair of oddities who believe silence is platinum, we don't need to talk when we have nothing to say. We simply do as we please while just so happening to be in each other's company.

Plenty would think that it's a waste when trying to build friendship, but in the end it's all about whatever works between said friends. Lynn would work on visual arts with her headset engaged, while I would write or read whatever selection she has to offer. It's through her I come to appreciate underrated writers like Olaf Stapledon or Dambudzo Marechera. Besides, as we're comfortable to do our favored pastimes and partake our cherished hobbies, we come to know each other by observation. The tête-à-tête comes naturally, nothing feels forced out.

"Renée's cooking sucked more than usual." I start after ten minutes.

Lynn is gifted to hear her music in deafening volume through one ear, yet being crystal clear with the other. She smirks. "She must've been giddy that she won't be burdened by motherhood anymore."

"Yup." Oh, if only you knew Lynn. Yet, I don't want you to know. "Overlooking the fact that I've been mothering her the moment I was potty trained."

"When were you?"

"Two." As expected, she snickers. Oblivious to my honesty.

I'm not complaining, I accepted that Renée isn't synonymous to what makes a mother. But poking fun at it lessens the pain of that fact, pretending for a few seconds that it's not my truth.

Told you I'm good at pretending.

So the next couple of hours was small talk here and there, mopping the kitchen floor when Mrs. Davies "asked" me to, and before I know it, it's time to go.

Perched on my bike for one last ride, Lynn stands off on the curb.

"So, I'll write to you?" I teased.

She snorts. "It's called e-mailing, Victorian Era."

People say we're snarky with each other, Renée thinks I need to learn how to pick friends. Stereotypes rule everything.

"I'll be sure to send you uncountable messages on every mundane detail."

"Do that, and I'll disconnect."

But we know we'll miss each other.

With a nod to my only friend, I ride away. I could feel Lynn watching my back, and I'm tempted to look back at her… but for the sake of my bone structure and knowing that it's not the last I'll see of her, I continue to face forward.

I'm half-surprised that my things were already put in the trunk. Nothing cluttered, just two decent sized cases and my bookbag carrying my diaries – thirty-six editions worth nine years.

Nothing to say, I just hop into the back seat. The ride to the airport was roughly thirty minutes, just enough time to read the conclusion to The Kite Runner. An engaging read, albeit relentlessly depressing and – efu laghati* – I fucking loathe Assef (befitting that "ass" is in the bastard's name). His comeuppance was personally dissatisfying, but the ray of hope in the end makes up for it in spades.

The last ten minutes I spent contemplating after finishing the final page. Of all the characters, Hassan is by far my favorite, and it tears my heart every time reflecting the life he led. Amir – the protagonist – was a coward who needed to attone through Hassan's son, and this time around he accepted all the suffering, and all the hardships to do the right thing.

This serves to strengthen my belief that the good guy is always stronger: it's easy to do what's wrong, but it's tough to do what's right.

The airport is in sight, and before I know it, me and my luggage are out of the car. Renée is considerate enough to hug me and lavish my face with kisses – thankfully she's not donning lipstick like usual.

"I'm gonna miss you, sweetie! Miss you!" She blubbers through kleenox.

"I'll miss you too, mom." I respond automatically. It's the truth, I do love my mother. I just don't like her.

I'm not so angsty not to believe that Renée does love me, but there's a stark difference between saying it and displaying it. Renée has always been all talk.

The farewells doesn't drag on, Phil just nodded my way and, once Renée hops back into the car in a rush, I watch them drive off. I can accuse that they were speeding.

Nothing new that I have to pull my own weight, literally with my bags. I did what needed to be done to get on the plane, and now I'm waiting an hour and a half before take off. Instead of lamenting what I could've been doing with so much spare time, I just drifted off into la la land.

Daydreaming isn't really a hobby, more so an effective time killer. I could dissect anything in my brain… and I just noticed how macabre that sounded, I apologize.

… Only I would stitch two unrelated concepts such as cinnamon buns being the catalyst for World War III. I need a psychiatrist.

I'm so far gone I barely noticed the plane moving. I'm utterly dazed as it took off, barely bat an eyelash as it goes higher and higher.

Now I'm on the same level as the clouds… how nice.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

And here's the complete chapter that is the beginning of Eventides. Like I've said when this was a promo, I had a liking to Twilight at first, but then the sequels and the Team Edward vs. Team Jacob, and Bella's poor representation as a typical teenage girl, never mind being a role model to teenage girls. But, if you guys like or love the canon series, more power to you. It was creative and it did reach out to its targeted audience, even though some concepts could've been looked at a second time.

My intention for this rendition of Isabella Swan is a young girl who is cynical and pragmatic with her surroundings. Her disdain for her life is obvious, but she deals with it only she knows how. I hope to do this story justice, especially since writing in first person still feels foreign to me.

Please only provide constructive criticism, any flames will be extinguished.

*Efu laghati (عفوا لغتي)—Arabic for "pardon my language". Bella just strikes me as the the type to learn different phrases in different languages. I apologize in advance to native Arabians if this isn't accurate, I'm relying on Google Translate.