Glue

by thewayigetby

I am the glue that holds my family together, but years of heavy wear made cracks in my paste. As my family disintegrated, I found something I wanted glued to my side. The sick irony being, the one thing I wanted to stick...left. AH/AU

Prologue:

You all know the adage, that grade-school saying. The one you used as a comeback when you couldn't top an insult. When someone called you "donkey-butt" or "maggot-breath" and it reduced you to tears.

I am rubber and you are glue. Anything you say bounces off of me and sticks to you.

I have always been glue. I have never been able to brush things off easily. I will never be cool, laid-back rubber. I envy rubber.

Instead, I am sticky and white, a thick adhesive substance. I carry around everything I touch. My family's baggage is deeply embedded in the slime that covers my body. I was the glue that held my family together. But years of heavy wear made cracks in my paste. Fragmented, we all fell apart, one tragedy more pathetic than the next. I failed as glue; its heavy burden made me falter.

As my family disintegrated, I found something worth holding on to. Something I wanted glued to my side. The sick irony being, the one thing that I needed to stick…left.

He was my Cheshire Cat. Always disappearing and reappearing. Beyond my grasp, even when I didn't know I wanted him.

Chapter 1:

"Your free ride is over! Get up!" A gruff voice accented with erratic pounding disturbed my wishful dreaming, shattering the small ounce of hope that I was three thousand miles east. I opened my eyes to an unfamiliar room with a slanted popcorn ceiling and groaned. My worst nightmare had manifested itself. I was back home for the summer…if I could even call this place home.

During finals week, in between the stressful hours of caffeinated library marathons, I had gotten a hysterical phone call from my mother. Through the sobbing and sniffling, I had calmly figured out that while no one in my family had died, or was dying, our family's fate was equivalent to societal bloodshed. My father had been fired from his high-paying executive job in Seattle and we needed to move.

My normally demure, albeit dramatic, mother spewed off curses left and right. I caught words like "old age lawsuit" and "unethical" mixed in between f-bombs. It was a shock to us all, especially my fifty-six year old father, Jeffrey Brandon, who had spent the greater half of his life devoted to this Fortune 500 Company. He often chose work over family, but his commitment was never met with complaint. Not even from my lonely mother. She sought friendship and solace in her structured daily activities—yoga classes, tennis lessons, and manicures.

Over the past twenty years in which my father was peacefully absent from my life, I had never realized his true character. My father was an angry man. Being unemployed, overweight and past fifty made him even angrier.

His irrationality and short temper was present in everything he did. He drove aggressively and offensively, weaving in and out of lanes, trailing cars bumper-to-bumper, and braking late. On the ride home from the airport, I had sat in the front seat at my mother's insistence. By the end of the stressful two hour drive, my right calf ached from pressing on an imaginary brake pedal as I death gripped the ceiling handle.

When assembling the technology in our new house—the television, computer, and Internet connection—everything from Jesus to Apple was cursed to hell and back as my father, tangled in wires and user guidebooks, worked to set up his home office.

His anger, as of late, has been directed towards me rather than the inanimate objects he clumsily breaks. He is neither violent nor abusive, but volatile. I am waiting for the explosion that will surely bring down my family, once and for all.

For the past two weeks I had been living in the confines of this small house, unpacking room after room and consoling my heartbroken mother. And every morning, I am woken up at seven thirty with the punctuality and aloofness of a military sergeant.

Apparently, it was time for me to find employment. Never mind the amazing, once-in-a-lifetime internship I passed up in New York City. No, I had to seek a paying job so I might monetarily contribute to my fragmented and wasted family.

To make matters more difficult, my car had been sold and I now lived in the smallest fucking town in Washington. Forks. I had never heard of it before and when I told my high school friends from Seattle, they looked at me like I was crazy.

Suburban life pleasantly surprised me though. Having lived my entire life in a city, first Seattle and then New York for college, the gentle hubbub was refreshing and calming. I had been given a small tour of the town on our drive home and it wasn't as pathetic as my mother described it to be. Sure, it didn't have any spas or martini bars for her to frequent, nor would there be five star menus and exceptional, ass-kissing service, but I looked forward to the change of pace. I was determined to remain optimistic.

"Alice, it's been ten minutes. Get up already!"

"Yes, father dearest," I muttered. I threw back my covers, vigorously rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, and inspected my new room with a yawn.

My parents had bought an older house on a cul-de-sac. It had gables and window shutters painted in a peeling and faded blue and a small porch that looked naked without its quintessential swinging bench. This house was not in my parent's style. Hell, it was so vastly different that I feared my father had finally hit his mysteriously absent mid-life crisis. The apartment in Seattle was modern, with floor to ceiling windows facing east and a sense of cleanliness and sterility that was only attainable with a plethora of marble and steel. This house, with its centenarian status, was on the verge of collapse.

It seemed preemptive to me that we had to give up our apartment so quickly. So rapidly change our entire way of life. Personally, I think my insulted father needed time away to lick his wounds. Or maybe my mother had squandered away our savings with her five hundred dollar hair appointments each month. Either way, I was not involved in any discussions of our financial stability, or in this case, instability. I was expected, as the so-called prodigal "daughter" to return home and aid the family's cause, which, in this case, was solely monetary.

My new room faced the backyard. Twenty feet from our small deck, the weedy lawn was abruptly cut off by a winding creek and centuries of untamed forest. My room was small, as expected. With my full bed and desk, I had just enough room to open and close my closet door. I hadn't bothered to remove the old wallpaper, finding the lavender floral pattern to be charming despite its state of disrepair—outdated, faded, and cracked—just like everything else in this house.

The upstairs toilet only flushed with a perfectly pressured push and flick of the handle. My mother had yet to figure it out and my father always spent five minutes jingling the handle, muttering beneath his breath and occasionally kicking the "porcelain pain in the ass."

The kitchen lacked a dishwasher and had tacky Formica countertops. Two weeks of washing dishes and furiously scrubbing the stained counter had left my nail beds spotless and my fingers perpetually pruned. My mother still thought we had a maid to clean up after her dinners, for which she managed to use every piece of crockery and pot or pan we owned.

The new house certainly had its quirks, which only served to make this experience seem more surreal, even romanticized. If my bedroom door had a lock on it, I'd love living here. But as is, with the suffocating proximity to my parents, it was beginning to drive me insane.

I grabbed my useless iPhone and checked for text messages out of habit. I had none and I still had no service. I saw that it was only 8:49 in the morning. He let me sleep in, I thought.

Shuffling to the door, I blindly walked towards the stairwell, groping around for the handrail and stumbling to the kitchen. It smelt like burnt eggs and cheese, with the lingering aroma of coffee. Reaching for my father's beloved French Press, I poured myself a cup and held my breath as I took a sip. I suppressed a cringe, he enjoyed strong coffee and we had run out of milk last night.

My father was sitting at the kitchen table, sorting through bills and shoveling eggs down his throat. I could just imagine my mother chastising him about table manners and then cholesterol.

I grabbed cereal and sat down next to him. Before I could take a bite, a newspaper was tossed at me and I fumbled to catch it.

"Here's the help wanted section," my father explained, not making eye contact, "I circled some things for you."

"Thanks?" My brows furrowed as I quickly scanned the page, my eyes stopping at the perfectly circled advertisements.

Waiter/Waitress Wanted: New Restaurant in Port Angeles…Experience required.

No car. No Port Angeles.

Newton Sporting Good's: Friendly Face needed for mornings.

Sports were not my thing, but I could definitely work it with a charming smile.

After nixing an ad for a full time caretaker for an 84-year-old with a bad hip and laughing at the EMT position, knowing full and well I'd pass out at the first sight of blood, I called up Newton's.

"Newton's Sporting Goods."

"Hello, my name is Alice Brandon, I'm calling about your advertisement in the paper," I said confidently. I was usually more outspoken with a telephone connection between me and the other person.

"What did you say your name was again?" the voice on the other end questioned.

I hesitated before answering, unsure of the importance of my name.

"That's odd," the woman responded. "I was certain I knew everyone in this town." She paused for a moment, as if she was mentally flipping through her Rolodex. "Anyways, I'm Margaret, the owner of Newton's. So you're interested in the morning position?"

"Yes, I am."

"When can you stop on by?"

"I'm available all day."

"Come on by anytime before four. Bye, Alice."

I said goodbye to the dial tone and started to doubt my assumptions of suburban pleasantry.

"So?" my father prompted.

"I'm going in later for an interview."

"Good," he replied and then lifted up his newspaper again.

An hour later, I turned down Elm Street—small towns are so creative with their streets name—and stood in front of Newtons, one hand blocking the sun as I checked out the exterior. It had full-length glass windows that showcased scenes of camping, fishing and kayaking. I felt uneasy as I opened the door, I had assumed "sports" meant the traditional baseball and basketball; activities I could easily lie about both watching and enjoying. I knew jack about outdoor hiking and canoeing. The closest thing I got to all that was walking. Three years in Manhattan had given me defined calves and the ability to power walk through hoards of slow-moving tourists without spilling my uncapped Starbucks latte.

The frigid air inside the store hit me like a wet slap to the face. I hadn't realized I was sweating. Looking around I saw that it was unsurprisingly empty for a Sunday morning.

I made my way towards a blonde boy sitting at the register, finding it odd that he was wearing sunglasses indoors, but a middle-aged woman with long blonde hair and tortoiseshell glasses quickly intercepted me.

"Can I help you?"

"Hi, I'm Alice…"

"Oh! You're Alice! Nice to meet you. I'm Margaret, we spoke on the phone?" She stuck out her hand and lightly grasped mine. "Come on back with me, we'll have a little chat."

We bypassed the register and Margaret told me to ignore her insolent son, Michael. "He's the reason we put out the ad," she explained. "Apparently, my son can't handle waking up before noon now that he's a high school graduate." She looked like she wanted to reach out and ruffle his hair and pat his head like a puppy, but refrained.

I laughed and followed her into a small office off the stock room and sat down in the offered seat.

"So, Alice, are you a graduate of Forks high school?"

"No, I'm new to the area actually. I'm on summer vacation from Fordham University."

"That explains it. I knew I had heard the name Brandon recently. How do you like it here?"

"I haven't really explored much yet, I'm still helping my family get settled."

"That's awfully nice of you." I scoffed internally; I wished my parents felt the same. "Maybe Michael would be willing to show you around. There's not much to our town, but there are hidden treasures here," Margaret offered.

"That sounds great," I lied. I had no intention of letting a high school jock take me around town.

Margaret and I chatted for an hour, moving smoothly from formal questions to genuine inquiries about college and the move from Seattle. The conversation turned personal several times and I slyly deflected questions of my family with the ease of a veteran publicist, replying with vague statements that implied nothing of reality.

Despite her hippie appearance, Margaret was a regular suburban, nosy neighbor. Though I was certain everyone around town would hear a skewered version of what I told Margaret, I found her rapt curiosity to be charming and comforting. It had been a while since I had a real conversation with anyone that showed a sincere interest in my well-being. Not including the one-sided conversations I had with my cat, Wesley.

Though my mother asks the basic questions, "How are you?" or "What are you up to?" instead of listening and responding to my purposely generic replies, she uses them as segue into whatever is on her mind. This, as of late, has involved complaints regarding the new house, my father's lackadaisical attitude, and her boredom.

Once Margaret realized the time, she offered me the position at eight dollars an hour. I blanched, knowing that half of that would be going towards my parent's wallet, making my wage a cringe worthy four dollars an hour. Thankfully, Margaret pretended not to notice my reaction. I did need the money and having a job would get me out of the house and appease my father. So I eagerly accepted, barely acknowledging her warning of the slow and early mornings. I would start tomorrow, bright and early at eight. On weekends, I'd open at ten.

After giving me a more in depth tour of the store and stock room and explaining my duties, Margaret and I found ourselves at the cash register, observing the snoring boy, his head lazily propped up on his fist. Out of nowhere, Margaret raised her hand high and slapped the back of her son's head. "Michael! Wake up!"

"Huh?" the boy questioned, pushing his sunglasses up and blinking his blue eyes.

"Meet Alice. Your replacement."

"No more morning shift?" he verified, his surliness at being stirred fading.

"No, sweetheart. You can go back to afternoons. I know how you like working with Bella," Margaret said affectionately.

Michael's eyes widened, shifting between his mom and me. "Mom," he whined, elongating the last syllable as though it were a secret code for her to shut up.

"I know, I know. She's dating Edward and you two are just friends." Margaret seemed oblivious to the torment she was inflicting on her son. Michael clutched his head and groaned. Their close relationship was apparent; Michael was definitely a momma's boy. It was kind of adorable.

I excused myself, laughing softly and walked back towards home. Along the way I detoured through several neighborhoods. It was nearly midday and disturbingly quiet. Every once in a while, a car would pass me by, slowing down noticeably; I could feel eyes inspecting me. Suburbia was hyper-aware of every little anomaly and change.

For the first time in my life, I was the new kid. Not that it particularly mattered. I doubted that over the next three months I'd meet many people in the neighborhood. There would be no awkward exchanges or friendly, but impassioned waves. I would work, avoid any interaction with my father, and then soon enough, I'd be on a plane, back to school with miles of comfortable distance between my family and myself. The plan was simple, the execution would be tedious.

Only three more months. Eighty-eight days. Two thousand and some odd hours. My goal was to spend half of them sleeping and the other half at work. Maybe I could escape to Seattle for a week or two and visit with Rose.

I took a deep breath as I approached the house all too quickly. I really had to learn how to slow down; leisurely walks would take some getting used to. I opened the front door carefully, hoping to avoid the wheezing of rusted hinges and sneak upstairs for a shower.

"You're home early," my father remarked, his voice echoing from the kitchen. What I wouldn't give to be stealth like James Bond.

Knowing he was going to ask sooner or later, I told him all about the interview, Margaret, and my hours, leaving out my skimpy salary. He would undoubtedly make some snide comment about it. Being an uppity businessman for the better half of his life had made my father a snob, yet another reason why I didn't understand our family's move to bumblefuck.

My father just nodded as I told him I started tomorrow, as he rummaged around in the kitchen drawers.

"Can I help you find something?" I said exasperatedly. He was fucking up any semblance of organization I managed to create and I could tell immediately he was losing his patience.

"Matches," he deadpanned, hands still ferociously searching. I walked into the living room and opened up a jar sitting next to his cigar box, and plucked out a box. Was it just my father that was entirely useless or all men in general?

"Here." I tossed them to him and muttered, "you're welcome" under my breath.

My father pretended not to hear and pointed to an opened letter on the table. "You got mail," he said as he walked out to the deck holding an unlit cigar and a bottle of beer.

"Thanks for respecting my privacy, Dad," I spoke to the empty kitchen. I picked up the open envelope and saw that it was from Fordham, my spring semester grades.

Looking it over, I saw I had managed four A's and one C. The C was in French, which had been a last minute addition to maintain full-time status and keep my scholarship. My father had warned against it, calling French "unpractical and a waste of time." He had suggested I learn either Spanish or Chinese, but I hadn't listened. Instead, I daydreamed about a vacation in Paris, visiting the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre and speaking in perfectly accented French.

It could still happen, except maybe I'd refrain from speaking French.

I spent the rest of the day in a state of lethargy as I perused box after box of junk I'd kept over the years. I found my high school yearbooks and kindergarten art projects.

Hours later, as the sun was setting, I stumbled upon a photo album. Flipping to the first page, I saw a photograph of my older brother and me. We were just toddlers then, dressed up in matching outfits, him in overalls and a cardigan and me in a summer dress. Our hair was freshly combed and wide grins revealed gaps in our mouths.

I picked up the home phone and dialed my brother's number.

"Peter!" I yelled ecstatically when he picked up.

"Hey, Ally. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I just felt like it's been too long since we last talked. How's everything in Chicago?"

"It's great. I'm still working like a dog. But Gwen and I just moved in together."

"That's fantastic! Tell her I say hello."

"Hey, if you've got free time from your internship, you should come visit sometimes. We've got a pullout sofa with your name on it."

"That sounds very tempting. But…" I hesitated, knowing that Peter didn't know I had turned it down and come home instead. He also didn't know about Dad losing his job or our move out of Seattle. In a way, Peter was the estranged member of our family. He was four years older than me and had opted to not attend college, instead choosing to follow his girlfriend to Chicago and find a job.

He had never been great in school. Though he was brilliant and creative, the report card always suggested he was an idiot, failing because he never worked well with the structure and stress of exams.

I remember when Peter told my parents he wasn't applying to college. That fight had ended in doors slamming and an unbearable silence at the dinner table for weeks. My father became even more absent and my mother was disgraced. She had always imagined he would attend school and she could have the opportunity to boast of his ivy-league future.

When he packed up and left, I had been the only one to say goodbye and the only one to keep in touch. I had tried to rebuild the bridge, but failed each time. I had left his phone number on the kitchen table, only to find out later that it had been quietly discarded.

Neither my parents nor Peter had any interest in reconciliation. Thus I found myself in the middle, unable to sever contact with either.

Occasionally, my mother would ask how he was and I would answer, feeling like I was delivering a daily status report on the stock market, rather than her own son.

"What is it, Ally?" Peter's voice broke me out of my reverie.

"I'm not in New York," I admitted, scrunching my eyes closed, already anticipating a tongue-lashing.

"Then where are you?"

"At home. Well, actually, in Forks. Not that you'd know where that…"

"You went home? What did she say to guilt trip you this time? She's shameless."

"It wasn't Mom. Dad lost his job…" I tried continuing, but Peter's boisterous laughter exploded out of the phone, echoing through my room. I personally didn't see the humor in my situation and waited impatiently for his chuckles to diminish into gasping breaths.

"It isn't funny Peter," I whined, acting four years his junior, "They're unbearable and there's nothing in this podunk town to distract me at all."

"So leave. Get on the next flight out here and spend the summer with Gwen and me."

"I can't." Even though I could very easily slip out my window and hitchhike to Seattle, I couldn't. Something always kept me from making the emancipation, from making the unexpected move. A therapist would probably tell me it was a compulsive need to be loved and appreciated, to fulfill the role that Peter had abandoned, but I didn't need to pay some professional to know that it was misplaced guilt.

Peter sighed, "I will never understand your devotion to them, Ally. You act as though you're indebted to them, when you don't owe them anything at all. I don't want to see them bring you down."

"They won't."

"Don't let them." His voice was firm and full of conviction that should have been in mine. Silence befell us and our conversation ended shortly after, remaining entirely superficial. He raved about his apartment and the city, while I wondered out loud when Gwen and him would finally get married. Deflecting my question, he said he had to run and we hung up awkwardly, words left unsaid on both sides.

I let the phone fall to the floor, a low thud on the wall-to-wall carpet. I lay there, unmoving until my toes felt numb and my fingers felt detached from my body, staring at that damn popcorn ceiling and blinking away the moisture gathering in the corners of my eyes.

He had promised to call more often but I knew he didn't mean it, at least not genuinely. He always made promises he wouldn't keep, but each time we spoke, he promised something new. I didn't take them to heart anymore because each time he said "I'll call more," the sentiment sounded false. As though he thought he should say it, instead of truly meaning it. He said it to appease me and that thought made me sick.

I wanted to yell at Peter, to throttle him for making the first cracks in the concrete foundation. His departure broke up our charade as the happy all-American family. Not that the charade particularly mattered to me, truthfully I was happy that the constant fighting stopped, but it mattered to my mother. My poor embarrassed mother. Peter had escaped from her daily looks of dismay the moment he stepped on that plane, but that didn't mean I was exempt.

I sighed and shook my languid body. I wasn't mad at my brother anymore; those days had long passed. I had grown since then, no longer punching my pillow with rage or silently sobbing into it. I wasn't mad at Peter, I missed him. He never understood, despite the numerous tearful phone calls in the first few months, when he left for Chicago, he left me too.

I jolted awake, still in my clothes from last night and on top of the covers, feeling stiff and empty, but surprisingly awake. I slowly undressed, choosing my outfit without care and avoiding the mirror. I walked downstairs, sliding my way down with socks to muffle the creaks and groans of shifting wood and rusting nails to be greeted with my father's five foot ten frame crowding the hallway to the kitchen. He was wearing sneakers and embarrassingly short shorts that revealed pasty thighs and a bulbous mid-section.

"What are you doing?" I spoke to his back, as he bent his left leg and held the ankle behind his back for five seconds before losing his balance and nearly crashing into me.

"I'm going for a run, Alice." He sounded annoyed, interpreting my inquiry as disbelief, which it was. I chose to not reply, instead squeezing past him to make some green tea and eat a bagel. It was only slightly stale, but after I toasted it, the crunch sounded normal. I heard the front door close and watched my father set off at a slow pace through the window.

At least he was getting out of the house. My mother hadn't ventured past the mailbox at the end of the driveway. She treated the small town like a plague, if she spent too much time here, she'd get infected. Upon meeting Margaret, I had assumed my mother would enjoy suburbia, it had the same amount of gossip, not necessarily the same level of scandal my mother was accustomed to dishing and receiving, but it was something.

After pouring the remaining tea into a thermos, I headed out the door and lazily strolled my way to work. I noticed that there were no sidewalks until you got into the heart of the town. Not that I was in any danger of being run over. It was before eight on a Monday in June. Every sane person was still asleep. If I didn't have this job and if my father didn't insist on waking me up every morning, then I would be sleeping until noon. I had always been a night-person, preferring moonlight to daylight. At school, I was almost nocturnal, often starting my work once everyone else had gone to sleep, not from procrastination, but because I worked better at night, when everything was still and quiet.

I walked past a coffee shop, noticing that they catered to dog owners specifically, allowing the pets to come indoors with their owners, even offering dog-treats that, strangely enough, looked appetizing. I wonder if they could make a decent cup of coffee...I might need another jolt after this tea.

Walking around the back of Newton's, I entered in the passcode for the back door and flipped on all the light switches Margaret had shown me yesterday. The store came to life, the fluorescent lights emitting a dull humming noise as they flickered on. I sat myself down at the counter after opening the front door, retrieving the cash till from the safe and switching the closed sign to open, my hands on my lap, thumbs already twirling.

Now what to do…

Several games of solitaire later, I started going stir crazy. The excitement that had propelled me out of my bed this morning had waned as the front door remained unopened by any browsing customers for the past two hours. It didn't help that it had started raining.

Margaret had called once to check up on me and I managed to stretch that conversation to ten minutes, unwilling to endure the silence of the store. She had told me Bella would come in at one before hanging up and I was eagerly awaiting the presence of another human. Margaret had told me a lot about Bella and it seemed that the girl had absolutely no clue about Michael's schoolboy crush on her. She "treats him like a close friend," Margaret told me while showing me how to operate the register and count the drawer. I was looking forward to meeting her.

Spotting a duster beneath the register, I grabbed it and stretched as I hopped off the stool. I cleaned at a painstakingly slow pace; inspecting every last piece of merchandise to familiarize myself with all the gadgets I never knew existed. When there finally was a customer, I was going to sell the shit out of this store. I had hoped my ventures would eat up hours of time, but as I finished carefully rearranging the fishing poles, the clock only read 10:40.

"This is ridiculous!" I said to no one. I had the odd habit of talking to myself to break up the silence. It was comforting to hear a voice echo in the empty store and I wished there was a radio to provide some form of entertainment. Checking my cell phone, I squealed as I saw that the pathetic piece of technology had managed to obtain one bar of service. I quickly sent a text message to my friend from Seattle, Rose, while holding the phone at the exact angle and height, so as not to disrupt the fragile and finicky connection.

As I awaited her reply, I sat down behind the register, clicking my un-manicured nails on the counter. Boredom made me sleepy and I half-halfheartedly fought against the fatigue that tugged at my eyelids. With my heavy head resting on my arm, I stared out at the large storefront windows, watching the occasional car pass and the silent downfall of heavy rain that wilted tree branches and coated slick asphalt.

What exactly did I like about small towns a week ago?

I closed my eyes against the harsh florescent light and pictured Bryant Park, one of my favorite places in the city. I was missing their Monday night summer film festival, with classics like Rosemary's Baby and Monty Python. Last summer, my roommate, Christine and I deemed it a permanent tradition. No matter how exhausted we were or how humid the weather, we'd make it to Bryant Park and drink boxed wine out of paper cups and munch on microwaved popcorn. Thinking back, despite the late night hours I worked hostessing and the summer classes, last summer was so tranquil and serene. I took it for granted, especially the thousands of miles between my parents and me. It seemed like the proper distance where I could still maintain a loving relationship with both of them. Limiting my mother's rants to the telephone meant I could multi-task on the other end, offering up one-syllable prompts every twenty seconds or so.

I heard the faint sound of a bell chiming and assumed it was the rain assaulting the glass panes. It was miserable outside and lucky me, I hadn't brought an umbrella for the walk home. I snuggled my face deeper into the crook of my elbow, imagining it was my lavender-scented pillow.

"You're not Mike." I lurched my head up immediately at the sound, wide-eyed and embarrassed at being caught napping on my first day.

"No, definitely not Mike," the voice confirmed. My eyes focused on the dripping wet figure standing directly in front of me and I tilted my head up to take in his face. His chin was speckled with light facial hair that looked like it took several days to grow in evenly. As I starred at his mouth, wondering how a boy could have such nice full lips, a pink tongue darted out and wet his lower lip.

"He…" I croaked out and then coughed, clearing my suddenly raw throat. Mimicking him, I licked my own chapped lips before beginning again, "Michael doesn't work mornings anymore."

"Michael, huh? You sound like his mom." I raised an eyebrow at his comment, unhappy with being compared to a middle-aged woman. "Is he working later?"

"I don't know. Why don't you call him?" I suggested.

The boy wiped bleached blonde hair out of his eyes, pushing it behind a pierced ear to reveal dark eyebrows that curved over deep blue eyes.

Why is it that guys always have pretty eyes? They never appreciate them. Now, if I had those friendly eyes, instead of my sinister ones...wait, was he talking? "...own a cellphone."

"You don't own a cell phone?" I repeated, aghast at the prospect of being separated from my iPhone.

"I don't really need one."

"I suppose you're right. It's not like you get service in the boondocks anyways," I muttered, staring at my defunct phone. It had failed to deliver a response from Rose.

"You're new," he said as he searched my face for a hint of recognition or familiarity. I felt uncomfortable under his close scrutiny, wishing I had put makeup on this morning or spent more time fixing my hair so it wasn't currently frizzing out of its normal sleek and pin-straight bob…stupid humidity.

"Today's my first day." I fought the urge to run a smoothing hand down my hair.

"No, I don't mean that. You just moved here."

"Uh, yes." How did he know? Do I really stick out like a sore thumb? Maybe he's a stalker.

"Sorry, it's a small town. You learn to recognize the foreigners pretty easily." I gave a half smile, wondering why he was still talking to me. I hadn't realized small town niceties included conversations with complete strangers.

Complete stranger. My defensive instincts kicked in, after so many years in the city, my apartment being broken into twice, and my wallet stolen right out of my handbag, it had all made me wary of "nice and friendly" people.

Then I realized that I was alone with this nameless guy, in a sporting goods store that sold many varieties of weapons. How long had he been in the store while I was daydreaming? Did he steal something? Holy fuck, did he steal one of the hunting knives?

I trembled as I observed his physique. He towered over me and was built like a swimmer, wide shoulders that tapered to a slender waist. With a tan and a sun-screened nose, he would look like the stereotypical lifeguard. I peered around him to see that the rain had not let up and was keeping Forks' residents indoors and away from town. It was unlikely that anyone would come in or even hear me scream over the torrential downpour.

I eyed the phone out of the corner of my eye. It was close enough, but whom would I call? Did they even have a police department in this town? It probably had one squad car and an eighty-year old who was hard of hearing that would answer the emergency call. I was screwed.

"Are you okay?" he asked hesitantly, his eyebrows knitted together.

Why yes, rapist, I'm doing fine.

"Fine," I replied. "Great actually, would you like me to call Margaret and find out where Michael is?" I was amazed my voice didn't break. Confidence was key in this situation. I could pretend to call Margaret and really call the police.

"That works," he replied. He reached over and grabbed the phone, quickly dialing. Damn it, rescue plan thwarted.

He turned his back to me and walked several feet away. If you want privacy buddy, walking away isn't going to get you any. I can hear you just fine.

"Hey Maggie, its Jasper. Mike there?" he spoke into the phone.

Jasper. Hmm…bizarre name. It didn't fit him. He looked more generic, like a Ken-doll. Nothing I hadn't seen before and in much neater packaging. I studied Jasper's back, eying his wrinkled clothing and his squeaking Birkenstocks. His entire appearance exuded the effortless disarray of a teenage summer, one that normally didn't start until afternoon. He looked youthful and if he was friends with Michael then he couldn't be much older than eighteen.

I repeated Michael's name in my head and sighed. Okay, so maybe he wasn't a rapist. My tendency to overreact astounded me. At least I didn't have to apologize for accusing him of anything. That had happened before. My mother's cautious approach to everyone apart from her small circle of friends had obviously influenced me during my childhood when she kept me sheltered from everything she didn't approve of, quite an extensive list.

A throat cleared and again, Jasper had caught me by surprise. He stood in front of me with a large infectious grin. He wiggled the phone in front of my face, "Maggie wants to talk to you." I grabbed the phone, but not before noticing he had a nice smile despite the small gap between his front teeth. Not enough to look like a beaver, but big enough to look boyish.

"Hello?" I said into the phone.

"Alice! So I see you've met Jasper. Isn't he the sweetest? He and Michael have been good friends for years. Is he keeping you company? I can't imagine there's much business what with the rain."

"No, there really haven't been many customers," I responded, disregarding her other two questions.

"Oh, you poor thing. You must be bored out of your mind. Don't worry, I told Jasper to stay, just in case the power goes out."

"That's not really necessary…"

"He insisted on staying. Now you be careful driving home, this is the kind of weather that tips over trees."

"I will."

"See you tomorrow, Alice."

"Bye, Margaret." I replaced the phone in its cradle and looked at my hands, as though a careful inspection of the life lines on my palms would quell my embarrassment. It didn't work, but at least it kept me from staring.

"So, you're friends with Michael?" I prompted, not really caring about the answer, but hoping to squelch the awkward silence resonating between us.

"We go to school together…I mean, went to school together."

"Just graduated?"

"A week ago. How about you?"

"What?"

"Did you graduate this year?"

"2007." Remembering the year made me cringe. I would be twenty-one this summer, and as far as I could tell, I'd be celebrating at a local bar called Doyle's that probably served peanuts and cold beer. I can see it now, me between an off-duty cop and an old man with no teeth wearing camouflage. Oh boy, it's going to be quite the party. I wonder which one will buy me a drink.

"From where?" he asked, not appearing the least bit fazed to learn that I was older, despite being at least a foot shorter.

"Lakeside. In Seattle. I doubt you've heard of it. It's a small private school."

"No, no. I have. You're in college now?"

"Fordham," I explained, giving the typical response that listed my year (senior), my major (art history), and one vague statement about living in New York.

"I've never been."

"To New York?" I clarified.

"Yeah. Honestly, never been out of the state really." Dear God, he was a homebody. This whole town probably was. I bet his mother and father were high school sweethearts and his aunts and uncles lived on the next street over. If their grandparents didn't live in the same house, I'm sure his mom made a casserole for them each week.

Despite its initial charm, small-town life was appearing more and more pathetic.

"What are your plans for next year?" I asked, half expecting him to say he was joining the family business.

"Undecided, but with multiple options. Either way, I'll be leaving Forks."

"That's nice." It was the only decent response I could procure that wouldn't insult him or this town. What I really wanted to say was "Good for you! Get the fuck out while you still can!"

Jasper had been walking around this whole time, tinkering with products and placing them back. But when he asked me about Bella, he moved up to the counter where I was still sitting, uncomfortably perched on a stool and rested his hands on the edge.

"No, I haven't met her yet," I responded. My goodness his eyes were dazzling.

"You'll like her. Bella's like that. Real easy-going, but a lot of fun. We've been good friends since she started dating my brother Edward." It sounded like this chick had her own fan club. There must not be many viable female options for the boys in Forks.

"Oh, you have a brother?"

"Biologically, no. We're related by marriage, my mom married his dad a couple of years ago." Jasper told me more about his initial distaste for Edward and his dad, Carlisle, explaining how he and his mom had been alone for many years, but eventually they become one mismatched family. The entire story was Lifetime movie ready, but I reigned in the sarcasm momentarily and politely nodded instead. Truth be told, I was slightly jealous. Their family may have formed unconventionally—then again, most of America had atypical families nowadays—but I could tell that there was love.

"Do you have any siblings?"

I had to think about my answer for a moment, because the truth was complicated and usually led to more questions. "Yeah, my older brother Peter. He lives out in Chicago now." I hoped that by providing additional information, he wouldn't ask for any specifics.

"So you're living with..."

"My parents," I finished for him. "On Birch Close."

"Ah, across town. I live near Fremont pond." My face must have given away my confusion, as he offered to show me around sometime. I politely agreed, knowing that if he ever remembered this offer, I would simply play stupid. Despite his attractive looks, I still had no intention of letting a high school jock "show me around town." I may be out of high school now, but I still get the euphemism.

"So you moved here from Seattle?" he asked. I nodded, already bored by this conversation. I had a nearly identical conversation with Margaret yesterday. "I never realized Forks would attract city folk like yourself."

"Trust me, it's not the first place I'd choose to be right now," I replied honestly.

"Oh yeah? Rather be in New York?"

"You have no idea."

"And what has Forks ever done to you?" He couldn't possibly be insulted on behalf of his little town, could he? I looked up to see him smiling the same eager smile that had been silently taunting me all morning. I felt like slapping myself on the forehead, he was very obviously joking with me. I'm not usually this dense.

"Forks has surprised me some, though I fear for my boredom after another three months of this." I waved my hand around the store. Since Jasper came in the rain hadn't let up and the door had remained shut.

"So perhaps it's not where you are, but the people you're with…"

Immediately, I was on the defensive, "What are you insinuating?"

"Nothing." Jasper held up his hands up in surrender, "Just making polite conversation. I'm not as nosy as everyone else."

I never talked to anyone about my family. The one time I opened up to my roommate during freshman year, I had felt so guilty, as though I was betraying my family by revealing their secrets.

"What kind of name is Jasper?" I blurted out. If he noticed the swift change in conversation he didn't question it.

"I could ask you the same thing, Alice. Are you named after little miss Alice in Wonderland?"

"How creative, I've never heard that one before," I half-growled.

"I can be the Mad Hatter," he said excitedly. He took a quick step back and gave a deep bow, pretending to tip a hat in my direction. "Would you care for some tea, Alice?"

This conversation had me rolling my eyes so often I was getting dizzy.

"Or perhaps you would prefer a smoke from my hookah?" he said next, imitating the Caterpillar. "A bite from my mushroom?" I fought against the makings of a small smile.

"Wait, I've got it. You're a cat person, aren't you? So I can be your Cheshire Cat."

I started laughing at the ridiculousness of it all and Jasper gave himself a pat on the back, "By golly folks, she is human. She can smile!"

The bell chimed, interrupting my reply and in walked a tall and lean brunette, her dark hair sashaying past her shoulders in damp loose waves. She looked up as she shook out her rain-soaked umbrella and smiled. Her bright pink cheeks pushed up square rimmed glasses as her giant smile exposed white and perfectly straight teeth.

"Oh goodness," she began, as she approached the counter in the back of the store, "I don't even have to ask how this morning was. I can see it in your face. It was dead quiet, wasn't it?"

"You could say that," I replied hesitantly. Then she started laughing.

"Silly me, Alice, you probably have no idea who I am. My name's Bella." So this was Bella…I was beginning to see why Michael was obsessed with her. She extended out her hand and grasped mine. "Maggie's told me a lot about you."

"That was quick."

"You have no idea. She had me on the phone moments after you left the store. Gotta love her though, she means well. Anyways," she continued, pointing an accusatory finger at Jasper, "what are you doing here?"

"Just stopped by to hang out with Mike. I didn't realize Maggie had hired someone already."

"I'm surprised Maggie didn't call you too."

"If she had I wouldn't have had the chance to meet Miss Alice here," he said, smiling broadly in my direction. He was starting to look like the Cheshire, with a wide smile that never disappeared.

Bella gave him a knowing glance and then turned towards me, "So no business at all?"

"None. Jasper's the only one who opened up the door this morning."

"Ouch," she walked around the counter and set down her things. Noticing the cleaning supplies, she held them up in question, "Did you clean the store?"

"Uh, yeah," I replied hesitantly. "Is that not okay?"

"No, that's totally fine. You'll get employee of the month for sure. I don't think I've cleaned the store in months," she replied laughing.

I shrugged my shoulders, "Well, I was bored. I didn't have anything to do besides that deck of cards and there are only so many times I can play solitaire."

"Rookie mistake. Next time, bring a book," Bella said, holding up a hardcover Jane Austen anthology. I was never much of a reader. Books couldn't hold my attention long enough for me to become invested in the characters and actually care about how they finished. I had countless bestsellers on my bookshelf, all half-finished, some with the spines unbroken. All gifts from my father who had read them, not out of interest, but for the sake of small talk.

"Oh, trust me, I will. This morning was brutal."

"You wound my pride, Alice," Jasper said with flourish, his fisted hand pounding on his heart. "I hadn't realized my conversational skills were so lacking in refinement that they would be characterized as brutal." Bella chuckled at his dramatics and I gave him a scornful look that puckered my lips and creased my forehead. I didn't like him making fun of me constantly.

"You're really not that interesting," Bella conceded, a small smile on her lips. "But why are you all wet?"

"Ah, see! I am a mystery."

"I'm going to guess you walked here despite the mini hurricane happening outside." Jasper shrugged his shoulders and Bella punched his arm, "You're so emo, Jasper. Who walks around in the rain?"

"It's refreshing. Plus if I remember correctly, you and Edward seem to enjoy the occasional walk in the rain…"

"Oh, shut up you."

"When you two strut in, clothes soaking wet, you don't think it's going to make me a little curious?"

"That's none of your business," she accented each word with a poke.

"And to think, I always thought Edward was a gentleman."

I interrupted their banter, hating how much it made me feel like an outsider. Reminding me of how alone I would be this summer. "Well, it was nice to meet you. See you tomorrow." I gave a small wave and headed towards the front door.

"Did you bring an umbrella?" Bella called after me. I turned to see her offering me hers and I shook my head at the kind gesture. Jasper still had a stupidly, huge grin on his face. It looked like it held a hint of condescension mixed with amusement and silent laughter. I snarled beneath my breath and proceeded to walk right out into the storm. Within seconds my clothes were drenched and my skin sizzled from the pelting rain. The harsh wind pulled my clothes taut against my shivering body and created dreadlocks in my hair, mercilessly whipping me in the face. Raindrops flowed down my face in droves; mixed in was a tear or two.

What a shit day.

Thanks to my beta, Sunsetwing, for her initial read of this story...about nine months ago.