*Disclaimer: This is me Disclaiming that I don't own these characters and so on and hence forth.
At twenty-four, you would think that I would have my life figured out. That the future I had imagined would be happening NOW. I would have graduated from college like a big majority of The Class of so and so. I'd have travel around the world with the guys, goofing off and getting laid. I'd have a career and a steady income. Be married. Be a father. Work hard and provide for my family. Some of that has happened, in ways I never dreamed of happening. Some of it, I'm still trying to figure out. But to get to that part of my story, we'd have to go back to more than a decade ago. To a place where stories usually begin. Yes, I'm talking about High School. To my Sophomore year of high school, when my life changed forever. Dramatic, I know. But that was the year that She came into my life. And yes, of course this story involves a girl.
.
I can hear shouting the moment I'm in front of my house. For a moment, I'm worried. My parents never argue. This loud at least. As I step closer to the door, I realize that they're not actually arguing. My mother is majorly ticked off though. "If she does it one more time, I swear I will head right over there and shake her!" I hear my mother practically growl as I open the door. "Oh, thank God!" She says from the other room. "Edward can handle it. Her." She says say, and even though I cant see her face, I know she she's grinding her teeth. "Get in here, Edward!" I make my way to the kitchen where I find my dad, leaning against the counter, my mother pacing back and forth in front of him. And I'm right, my mother is pissed. It takes a lot to piss of my mother. Right now her brown eyes seem practically red and her pale skin is flushed, and at five feet you'd swear she was towering over me with the look she was giving me.
"Whats the problem?" I say, uncertainly. I mentally go through my day. Did I do something? I went to all my classes. Today. I haven't ditched a whole school day in weeks. I've turned in all my homework. Sure, I did fail my Spanish oral presentation last week, but my parents know I'm crap at Spanish.
"The problem is," my mother says between her gritted teeth, "is that this phone has been ringing off the hook for the past twenty minutes and I know its THAT GIRL!" Ah, I think. 'That Girl', the name she gave my girlfriend the first time she broke up with me. She's never gotten over it. And with all our break-ups-to-make-up, I can't say that I really blame her. "The problem is," she repeats, "that she keeps calling and hanging up. Calling and hanging up. School just let out TEN minutes ago! What is her problem! Doesn't she have a sixth period. Doesn't she know you have a sixth period. And what is your problem?"
"Now, hold on, Es. Its not his fault." My father, Carlisle, always the calm one, starts to rub my mothers shoulder. She's calmed some, but not much.
"I'm sorry," she says calmly. "Its just that, the moment I say Hello, the phone clicks. I mean, we have caller ID. Her name is displayed right there!" My mother gestures to the phone on the wall. At that moment it rings. My mothers lips purse and her eyes narrow, and, probably imagining the phone were Tanya; marches right over and pulls it off the wall. "He's right here!" She grits out, and marches back over to me, handing me the phone. Not before she says into the mic, "Tell her if she pulls this shit again, we change our number," my mother warns.
"What is her problem?" Tanya says before I get in a 'Hello'. By the sound of my mothers gasp I know she heard her, and in that moment I'm grateful the phone is cordless and I'm out the kitchen before Tanya can hear my mother say, 'That little bitch!' "I've been trying to get a hold of you!" Tanya screeches. "Where have you been?" I roll my eyes. Here it comes, I think. "Where did you go after school? Who were you with? The girls said they saw you talking to another girl. Who was she?"
Hello to you too, honey, I think. Instead I sigh and say, "It was Angela. She asked if she can borrow my notes for Health class." And in an instant, less than a second, I'm tired. Tired of all this. Of Tanya. Of having to explain myself every time shes unhappy with me. Lastly, at myself. Getting involved with her wasn't supposed to happen though. I mean, a guy in a band that listens to death metal dating a cheerleader. It didn't make sense to a lot of people, but at the same time? Total cliche.
But our relationship was great, at first. Tanya. Tall, long blond hair, beautiful blue eyes. I bumped into her at her locker, literally, last semester. I was reading over my Spanish notes and I wasn't watching where I was going. I thought she was beautiful from the get go. And not because of her looks. She had an amazing smile and this laugh that made my heart squeeze. She was confident and so sure of herself and sweet. We fell hard and fast. But things changed shortly after we lost our virginity to one another. After our first I love you's.
She became this crazed person I didn't know. Paranoid that I was fucking up on her. Every girl I spoke to, all I would hear is, 'Is she prettier than me?' or 'Do you want fuck her?' It drove me crazy. I felt like I was walking on egg shells every time a girl talked to me. She became shallow and focused on herself and her looks. Wearing clothes that seemed to get smaller and tighter. Eating smaller meals and exercising like crazy. Her laugh became fake, unless she was with her friends, and laughing at someone elses expense. Which was often. Her sweetness turned into a don't-fuck-with-me attitude. She was so unhappy and she didn't realize it. God forbid I mention it, those arguments were the worse. Those were The Break Up Arguments.
Don't ask me why I haven't broken up with her for real. Did I pity her? Maybe. She didn't have many true friends. The 'Girls' were like parasites. Feeding off of her and feeding her all this bull crap. They loved starting drama. And she fell for it every time.
Did I not break up with her because it was comfortable and all I knew? Sure. She was my first real girlfriend. The girl I lost my v-card to. I keep hoping she'll change. Drop the 'Girls' and realize she's better than that. That they were dragging her down.
"Notes for Health class? Right." She scoffed, in a tone that meant she didn't believe me. "Lauren said-"
And right then, I could scream from frustration. It's always the same shit. "Lauren said" or "Jessica said". I wish those girls would stay out of my fucking relationship.
"Forget what she said," I say, my teeth gritted in frustration. "For once, can we just not argue. Please! Just for one fucking day!" I feel guilty for yelling at her. My parents have raised me to treat women with respect, no matter who they were. I should throw those words in my moms face the next time she's upset with Tanya. She'd probably slap me.
"What the hell is your problem? Don't you dare try and turn this on me. I'm the one who is supposed to be mad!" She sighs, "You know what?" There's a pause. Here it comes. "Fuck you!" She yells, followed by a click.
I let out my frustration with a growl and throw the phone on my bed. Then I throw myself. My parents were right, when they said that relationships weren't easy. Then again, they never said that they'd be this hard. A lot of work, sure. But not hard. And considering my mothers reaction to Tanya, I'm pretty sure it wasn't supposed to be this hard. I think I'll break up with her tomorrow. Then I think I wont. And then I think that I must be some teeny bopper girl instead of an almost sixteen year old man. Just laying here, self loathing. I'm driving myself fucking crazy! (Or maybe Tanya is...)
.
"You got another one, Edward." My mother says from my doorway, with a smile. She must be in a better mood. A second later a thick yellow envelope land on my chest. I already know its full of pictures- slash- postcards. I couldn't keep the smile off my face if I wanted to. No matter how horrible my day had been going. Tanya who?
"Thanks, Ma." I say, sitting up. I cant rip the envelope open fast enough, and pour the contents on my bed. Out falls a page or two of notebook paper, the edges ripped, torn out of a composition book. And photos wrapped with a rubber band. I slip off the elastic and look at the first photo. It's a photo of Jasper, I can tell right away. Already I'm disappointment. It's never a photo of Her. In the photo, Jasper is squatting down in front of a little girl, a big smile on his face. He's handing her a bright red rose. And although it's a photo of the back of her head, I can tell by the way her head is thrown back that she's laughing. I look on the back and read her neat writing. 'Blue eyed boy meets a brown eyed girl... the sweetest thing.'
I've grown used to the randoms lyrics she throws on her pictures. I pick up the envelope and read her name in the upper left hand corner. Isabella Swan. Along with an address from Beijing. I flip the through the photos and study them for a long while. The small things in the background, trying to get some kind of clue to what they're doing there now. Looks like some kind of festival. I want to flip through them fast, get to her letter sooner. But its become a ritual to see the photos first, then get to the letter. It gives me a sense that I'm there.
My heart is beating hard when I get to the last photo. Anticipation. Knowing that the letter's next. The last photo is blurry, barely catching a pair of green Chucks standing in a puddle. In the puddle, my name written out with pebbles. I put the pictures on my bed and pick up the sheets of paper. Her letters to me usually read like a diary, different dates and different ink. Some writing sloppy, like she was in a rush to get it out. Some in neat cursive, like the whole time she was taking her time, thinking of me. The letter is dated a few weeks back.
Dear(est) Edward, 12/07
Get it (^)? Greetings from Shanghai! I would write out a greeting in Chinese,but then I'd have to walk across this small ass room, grab my translation book, turn it a few pages, then write it out (or draw it?), then proof, then erase ('cause odds are I fucked it up), then wonder if you can even read it, just to scratch it out and not even put it. Jeesh, that's too much work! Can I take a nap now? (I kid!) We literally just got here, and I rushed to plop myself on this bed so I can hurry up and write to you. Cause of course you want to hear about the long plane ride, where I almost strangled Jazzy with my earphones.(Right?)
She then goes on to tell me about how she almost strangled Jasper with her earphones. It was all accidental. Something about the way they fell asleep. I skimmed that part. Like I want to hear about her and Jasper. Then I roll my eyes. Why am I even bothered about it? The next part is dated a couple of days later.
Eddieeeeeeeeee! Please come rescue me. If I send you all this yen, or whatever the crap is called, will you come for me? You will? LET ME PACK! But, alas, zat will not 'appen. Can you read my fake ass accent? Its raining outside. Pouring. And hot. Like my clothes are sticking to me in the most disgusting way. Grrr. How is that possible? Looking outside makes me tired. All gray and wet. How in the hell are they still riding their bikes out there. And their kids. Oh my goodness, these kids! Out there. In the rain. Wearing shorts and just walking around puddle jumping. They're all like, la la la la, let my chest get cold. Whats pneumonia? Idiots. No, I apologize. I blame my hostility on the lack of sleep I've been getting. Something lately feels off. I'm anxious. I can't wait until
That part of the letter ends there. The ink on the L smeared, like the pen just slipped. I imagine that she saw something interesting and just dropped the pen and forgot about writing to me. The rest of the page, written in metallic silver gel ink, is full of lyrics to the song In the Rain by The Dramatics. The last page is written in bright green ink.
We're in Beijing! How fucking cool is that? Have you started school yet? What grade are you in? What's it like being in an actual school? It sound like fun to me. Its been forever since I've been part of an actual school. God, I miss you! Is that crazy?! I squeeze my eyes shut and try to imagine what you look like. The man you're growing up to be. But all I see is a bowl cut and a gap from the tooth you had just lost. Oh, Edward. If you can hear me sigh, you'd hear how unhappy I am. Right now. In this moment. I'm so tired of this. I miss HOME. YOU! People who speak English. El oh el. Well,clear English. I'm tired of translation books. And my portable CD player is busted! What is my life? I mean, I can't complain. Can I? I've traveled to places others have yet to go. And the stuff I'm learning? Priceless. But, then at night,when all the partying is over? I feel like I'm missing something. And I'm so tired right now that my thoughts are all over the place. Maybe its all this mein and egg rolls that have become my number one source of nutrition. Maybe I'll have McDanny's tomorrow. I should get some rest, but I cant stop thinking about you. Is that weird? My downtime is spent thinking of you. Of what you're doing. Would I be hanging out with you and if my Renee and Charlie didn't travel so much. What kind of teenager are Jazz and I compared to you and your friends. Are we crazy? Or tame? The way we speak? Is it the way you speak? Like, you know, when a white girl tries to sound chola by speaking random Spanish words. "Whad up, ese?" El oh el. Is that how you sound? Is that how we sound? I wish we could have grown up together. Physically, I mean. A real friendship. Instead I write letters and send pictures to a boy/man who I barely remember. Can I say that I know you? Can I consider you my friend. And you, sitting there, getting random letters and pictures from a girl who you probably can't remember. Is this what we've become? When did this letter get so depressing. It started off with We're in Beijing! El oh el. I'm just sleepy. I can't stop yawning. My eyes cant stop getting watery. Its 3:48 in the morning here. What time is it there?
N-e-wayz. Let me tell you about this cool festival that's going on...
The rest of the letter she tells me about the things she's been doing in Beijing. How this festival is one big party. How crazy her housemates are. Of how this is the first time that she and Jazz are living alone in an apartment that she shares with a couple of other teens that are touring from other places. I've always been jealous of the adventures that she's had.
I sigh, getting up off my bed with a few of that photos that I have deemed my favorites. I head to the wall across from my bed. Picking up a few thumb tacks, I start to pin them on my cork wall, next to the other ones that I've received over the years. I have hundreds of them. Photos and postcards from all over the world. From exotic places, like Morocco, and Greece, to regular cities like Plano, and Boise. Pictures and postcards that I have been getting since I was eight years old. First, postcards that her parents bought her, then eventually pictures that she started taking. Pictures of random things like a bus stop, or the sky, always with random lyrics that go she felt 'went with the mood'. In my small town of Chaplin, this wall is the only view I have of an outside world.
Isabella Swan. My best friend, regardless of what she thinks, and a stranger all at the same time. My last memory is of her being hauled of the playground apparatus after punching Mike Newton in the face. They moved out of their house a few days after that. For the longest time I thought that was the consequence everyone got. You punch a kid in the face and you had to move away. I mean, I was seven. Give me a break. I was traumatized. It wasn't until later that I learned that her fathers job always kept them up and moving. She'd only been in my class for a few months. The longest she's ever stayed in her lifetime she told me later in one of her letter.
All my memories of her are jumbled. Little kid memories that are always scattered, glimpses of a bigger picture. A quick shot of me laughing at the way her tongue stuck out the corner of her mouth while she concentrated on the jigsaw puzzle we were doing. Or a time that she did a neat flip on a skateboard that had me pissed at her for days, or hours. Maybe just minutes. The way she spoke with her hands sometimes, forgetting to use her mouth at all. It left me confused, I remembered. The way she would get mad when she realized that I didn't understand what she was doing. She loved to sing, and dance. She liked to fight and climb and skateboard. And she loved to visit me, I remember. She'd come over to my house everyday after homework. I felt special. She loved spending time with me. But she loved to leave with Jasper more, I think.
My memory of the first time I met her is clear, though. She was on the other side of the wooden fence in my backyard. She lived in the house that all the children in the neighborhood thought was haunted. I heard hear yelling before I actually saw her. She was yelling at someone, arguing about how what she just did counted as a point. I moved the loose board in the fence, the one my father said to not play with, to the side to see a girl about my age, wearing a dress the brightest green I've ever seen, a basketball against her hip.
"That was all net," she said. I realized then that she was yelling at a boy who seemed a bit older than us, only because he was so much taller than her. Already I was afraid for her. Didn't she know better than to yell at kids that were bigger than her. But the boy just shook his head, not speaking, but moving his hands. "Fine, then!" She said, throwing the ball to the ground. "I'm not playing with you anymore!" She said with huff, crossing her arms over her chest. Then she started crying.
"Are you okay?" I remember asking. Only because a few days earlier, when Jessica was crying on the yard at school, the teacher had asked her the same thing. They both snapped their heads in my direction. I felt nervous all of a sudden. "I'm fine," she said, wiping her eyes and sniffling. "My housemate is being mean, is all." I didn't understand what she meant by housemate at the time. The boy just shrugged, picked up the ball and started playing by himself. I moved the loose board, opening it up further, and asked her if she wanted to come and play. From then on, we were friends.
I was told later, by my parents, that I knew her before that moment. That they had just moved back a few days before, after being gone for a couple of years. That we had napped in the same playpen during block parties, when we were a few months old. I was, supposedly, the reason for her first step. "She wanted the ball that you had so badly," my father had laughed. "She just let go of the coffee table and took off." But of course, I didn't remember any of that. It was always that day with the bright green dress that I remembered.
"Where's that one from this time," my dads asks, breaking my reminiscence. I turn to see him, leaning against my door frame. "Beijing," I said, turning back to the photos. "Nice," he replies, to which I just nod. He must take my silence as a clue that I don't really feel like speaking. He knocks on the door frame twice. "Soups on," he says with a sigh, walking away.
My parents heard my conversation with Tanya. Of course. It didn't help matters that I'd been having trouble in school the past few weeks. The marks on my schoolwork not where they should be. My head not in the game during baseball practice. And band practice. I've been feeling anxious and strung tight, about ready to burst.
After dinner, I grab my guitar and head to James house. James, my second oldest friend. We practice for a few hours. Me on guitar, singing. James on drums, our friend Alice on bass. We're not rock stars, but we're pretty well known in our small town as a go-to cover band for last minute parties and Bar Mitzvahs. Its when I'm playing that I start to feel better. The stress on my shoulders melting away. I know parents say that a future in music can sometimes get you nowhere. But I know that this is what I want to do. This is what I want for my future. Not for the money. Or the fame. But to just be on stage, in front of a large crowd. Me and my guitar. Oh what a world that could be.
.
Alice is with me the following week (don't let Tanya find out) when I receive another photo. A picture of worn down, ragged shoes.
"Where's that one from this time?" she asks, before I have a chance to read the back.
"Kurgan. Russia." I said, reading the envelope the picture came in. That's all there was. This one photo. I can't remember the last time I only received one photo.
"Can you remember the first one you've gotten?" She asks, distracting me from reading the back of the photo. I'm itching to get it. Instead I place it down. I move away from my desk, and move to grab a postcard from my side table dresser. Its framed and has been sitting there since I received it a while after she moved away. It's a postcard from New York, a picture of a big red apple reading I heart New York. Her sloppy seven year old handwriting spelling out Edword Cullin. I still smile.
"Lucky bitch," she sighs. "Beijing, Maui," she touches random photos. "Greece, Rome, Paris, Germany. Jeesh. The biggest news Chaplin has received lately is Mrs. Carter running off with the mail man."
"UPS driver," I correct her, laughing. I head back to the desk to pick up the photo, my heart beat racing for some unknown reason. I feel nervous all of a sudden. Like, this photo may be my last.
"And all the while, we're stuck in this boring old town," she continues. "While there are kids our age, just like her, who's biggest problem is probably deciding what spot on the globe they're heading to next."
But I don't tell her that, according to Bella, it's not all cracked up as it seems to be. She goes on talking but I can't hear what she's saying. My eyes are focused on the back of the photo, and I'm sure my heart has stopped for a beat of two before thundering in my chest. I must look sick because Alice is going on about my face being pale.
"What's it say?" I finally hear her ask. But I can't speak. I hand her the photo, watching as her eyes scan the photo, her eyebrows rising on her forehead. "Does this mean..."
"I don't know," I say, moving to sit on my bed. I feel confused. Slow.
"Wow," she says, sitting next to me.
"I know," I breath, still trying to catch my thoughts. The lyrics to the song on the back of the photo going around in my head.
Its Home by Daughtry.