A/N: Hi, everybody! Here's the last installment in the Pereche series. It's not absolutely necessary to have read My Pereche, but it might help you to understand Edward's psychological situation. This is set before the Epilogue of Pereche, after Edward and Jasper's confrontation has ended. You might recognise Christine from that epilogue.

I initially expected this to be about five chapters, but I've already written three and it's going to be much longer than that. Maybe about 12? Don't expect me to be a fast updater, though. Real life is INSANE right now. But I do promise that I will never abandon any story I post.

People need to be thanked here... firstly, to Project Team Beta, for taking the time to pick up all my mistakes. PTB have taught me so much, and I can't recommend their services enough. Secondly, to the real Christine for letting me use her life as inspiration for these characters. You are SO awesome, hon, and I wouldn't have been able to do this without your encouragement. xxx

As always, no copyright infringement is intended. All recognizable characters belong to Stephenie Meyer, and the original characters belong to me.

I frowned into the mirror, tugging at the hem of my blouse, wishing it was just an inch longer. Logically I knew that nobody would care what I was wearing, but I was still desperate to make a good impression. I'd done this before, and knew how it would all work, but the thought of standing in front of a classroom of teenagers and trying to talk to them about literature still sent me into a cold sweat.

Sometimes I wondered why I had thought being a teacher would be a good idea. I was a million times more comfortable being on the other side of the classroom—being one of the anonymous crowd of students instead of the single one at the front with the whiteboard marker and the big desk.

I checked the driving instructions I had printed out three times before shoving them in my purse and tightening my scarf to protect me from the cool October Pennsylvanian wind.

I had just settled in my car when my phone chirped.

'Good luck big sis! Don't fall on your face!' I rolled my eyes at Amy's text. While she was joking, the potential for actually doing something stupid like that was high with me. I loved her—I really did. She was probably my best friend. But sometimes the sibling teasing would look plain mean to an outsider. Amy was the cheerleader type. And I was…. not. We lived in very different worlds. There was no way she'd trip over her own feet in front of a group of students. She'd never embarrass herself in front of them. She'd have them eating out of the palm of her hand within minutes—probably fetching her iced tea and cupcakes with just a brief look. I, however, would have to work incredibly hard to earn their respect. I would have to pretend to be someone else, not myself, in front of them. I would have to pretend to be like Amy.

It was a short drive to the school—the traffic was light on the freeway, and I arrived in twenty minutes. Walking up those stairs into the big red brick building, I couldn't help but feel like the me from seven years ago—the scared little Freshman starting a new school. We were in the same boat—old-me and new-me—unsure about what awaited us behind those squeaky double glass doors.

"I can do this," I whispered to myself as I pulled the door open and at the last second checked around to make sure nobody heard me talking to myself.

There were only a few early students in the halls as I found my way to my classroom. A woman in her forties was writing on the whiteboard when I came in.

"Uh, Mrs. Jameson?"

"Oh!" She looked me up and down, and seemingly happy with what she saw, smiled. "You must be Christine."

"Yes ma'am."

"Oh, don't be silly, girl. You can call me Maree when the students aren't around."

"That's—uh—okay, Maree." I tried to smile warmly, but I had a feeling it came out as a grimace.

She showed me into the resource room at the back of the class and pointed to a tall cupboard in the corner. "You can store your belongings in there. They tend to get a bit overzealous with the heat in here, so you won't need the scarf."

She kept talking as I stowed my purse, coat, and scarf, keeping my binder out so I could take notes and refer to the lesson plans I'd been sent.

"There won't be anything strenuous for you for the first week. Just observe. I might get you to help hand out worksheets and things like that, but that'd be about it. Just try and feel comfortable in the environment. Next week we'll start to ease you into leading discussions and teaching some topics."

I nodded, fiddling nervously with the clear plastic ring on my finger.

"Relax. They won't bite," she whispered conspiratorially as the first bell rang and we emerged out into the classroom, students filing in quickly.

"They actually might," I grumbled to myself as the lesson began. "I've seen their teeth."

Mrs. Jameson—I mean, Maree—was actually really nice. She introduced me to a few of the teachers during lunch break and encouraged me to eat at their table. I glanced around the group of world-weary educators, several of their expressions seemingly amused at my wide-eyed innocence and enthusiasm. I ate as quickly as I could without really involving myself in their conversation and excused myself as soon as possible.

I escaped out into the cool daylight and hid around the side of the building, breathing in deep lungs full of air. I needed to calm down. Listening to the older teachers hadn't been encouraging. They talked as if they hated their jobs. The kids were horrible, the curriculum was uninspiring, the classrooms were under-resourced. I had never considered any other career, but in the half day I had spent here, I hadn't found one thing to make me excited about the prospect of doing this for the next forty years.

Was I expecting too much? Had I romanticized the world I was entering? Had I watched Dead Poet's Society and Pay it Forward too often and believed they were real life? In a normal Pennsylvanian school what could I really expect apart from the dreary day-to-day of forcing teenagers to listen when they honestly didn't care about literature? I was no Max Medina.

I gazed up at the gray clouds dancing across the sky far above me as I contemplated a future of fear. Fear of speaking in public and fear of falling into a life unfulfilled. Just for once, I would like to have something exciting to look forward to. I would like to know that my future was to be one filled with love and excitement. I would like to feel passion.

And I was quickly beginning to believe that teaching wasn't my passion.

I just needed to make it through this placement in one piece before re-evaluating everything. I needed to struggle through the next six weeks of classes. Maybe there would be something to keep my attention.

We had a free period just after lunch, and I managed to sneak away to check my emails on my phone and send texts to my parents and Amy telling them how everything was going. Well—I may have fibbed a little bit and told them that everything was great. I sure wasn't going to burden them with the knowledge that all the money they had spent on college wasn't making me happy as they hoped.

There were only two periods left for the day—10th grade English and then AP English Literature and Composition.

I took furious notes all throughout the 10th grade class, just as I had during our morning classes, making notes on both the subject matter and how Maree taught it to the class.

I was flicking through my notes when the AP class came in and took their seats, and Maree filled me in on what the class had been learning. They had just finished a section on Dickens, and would be doing a quiz on what they had learned. They would be starting on Pride and Prejudice tomorrow, which I had read before, but didn't know very well. My face must have shown slight panic at the news, because she handed me a worn copy of the novel.

"Feel free to refresh yourself."

I was busy reading, engrossing myself in the world of Elizabeth Bennett while the class took their quiz, but found I couldn't concentrate. It almost felt like someone was watching me. Every few lines I would glance around, trying to work out where the feeling was coming from, but nobody seemed to be paying me any mind. There was nobody outside the window, Maree was busy grading papers, and the class was frantically writing.

I was officially going mad.

The words began to blur before my eyes, the feeling of being observed never leaving me.

My heart stuttered in shock when I looked up for the eighth time, and I knew my concerns hadn't been those of a raving lunatic. He was staring at me. Who he was remained a mystery, however. A student, sure. That much I could surmise. He sat at the back of the classroom, his long legs stretched out in front of his desk, and seemed to whisper to the tiny black-haired girl next to him. He was rolling his pencil around through his long, pale fingers as he locked eyes with me–eyes which seemed all knowing, like he knew the answers to all the secrets of the world. There was no boredom in his gaze; he just seemed to be studying my face with the faintest hint of curiosity.

"Eyes on your paper, Mr. Masen," Maree barked, almost making me jump out of my seat. I blushed furiously at essentially having been caught staring at a student and looked back down at my book, trying desperately to make sense of the words swimming on the page.

When I chanced a glance back up minutes later, nothing had changed. He was still watching me intently, but now his pencil was on the desk, and he was running one of his hands through his unruly reddish hair.

He was so incredibly calm, not caring that he should be writing—it surely wasn't humanly possible for him to be finished already—and he seemed to unwittingly draw all my attention.

I held my book up high in front of my face, giving me ample camouflage to study him without notice, and looked at him a bit closer. Sure, he was young—that was to be expected in a high school—but his eyes seemed so much older. Maybe he had been through a traumatic experience to give him the expression of someone who had been through several world wars and seen too much death. For a second, his lips looked to be moving impossibly fast, as if he was talking at some supersonic speed, but no sound came out. His skin was perfect—much too perfect for a hormonal teenager. It could almost be made from some kind of porcelain. There was even the slightest hint of a shimmer to it which I hadn't noticed previously.

His outfit didn't match the rest of the boys in the room. It was very preppy. He would have fit in well at the highest caliber frat house up the road at Pitt. The collar of his white button-down was perfectly pressed and stood out starkly against the dark gray of his light wool sweater. And it wasn't denim which covered those impossibly long legs like the rest of the class. Below his desk were a pair of dark camel-colored khakis. His feet were clad in what looked like brand new black Chuck Taylors.

I was intrigued. That was the best way to describe it. He continued to watch me, and I couldn't help but return the favor.

There was something drastically wrong with me. My eyes refused to move from him. Him. A student. He was—for all intents and purposes—my student. I was his teacher. I was at least four years older than him. Any fascination I felt was completely wrong. Absolutely wrong. Undeniably wrong. Potentially illegal.

I was sure I saw him smirk as I forced my eyes back to my book, not taking in a word that was written.

'Stop it,' I told myself. 'You're not attracted to a student. That's ridiculous. He's good-looking, sure. No denying that. But that's where it ends.'

BRRRRRRRRRRRR.

The bell rang, startling me from my internal chastisement.

"Hand your quiz in as you leave!" Maree called as they all packed away their books.

As she collected all the papers in, I moved behind the desk and ran my eyes down the register, open to this class.

There it was, in that plain black serif font. Two thirds of the way down the page:

Masen, Alice
Masen, Edward

That must be it.

Edward. His name was Edward.

Not that it mattered. I didn't care about the GQ model who just happened to be my student. Because that was what he was—a student. And that was how he had to remain.