You Could Get Outta Here was heavily influenced by (besides the Twilight Saga) Joe Dunthorne's novel, Submarine. I am not Joe Dunthorne, just as I am not Stephenie Meyer. And, like the Twilight Saga, I do not own Submarine. I read the book; the idea stuck. I want to try writing in present tense.

And I want to use Stephenie Meyer's characters. They're my favorite :)

Besides, school is starting. Summer, I'm gonna miss you.

This will be Rated T. There may be bad words. There might be bad actions. There might even be bad grammar. I don't know; I'm making this up as I type.

Devastation is in my heart. I think my legs might actually explode from too much walking. It's dark out. Black shapes block the moon. The streets have silence, unbroken by Forks' sleepers.

I throw the garter aside, letting the elastic get swallowed by the darkness, away from my sight. The thought of weddings make me scowl, and I have to keep walking just to get it off my mind.

All too soon, I am standing in front of Jess's house. I sigh. The one-story ranch house is right by the bank, where Mrs. Stanley works. It is also near my dad's store, Newton's Outfitters and Sporting Goods.

The store. Where Isabella Swan (Isabella Cullen?) and I used to work. Well, I still work there, but Bella would now be moving east, across the country, to New Hampshire. Dartmouth. She's married to Edward Cullen.

And me? I'm going to the nearest community college this fall. Nothing special. Not one single sports scholarship for me, no siree.

My grades took me a couple of miles from home, unlike Eric, whose grades took his ass to MIT.

I don't know how long I've been standing in front of the store, but I don't like it. It makes me feel girly, thinking of my friends and being jealous of Eric Yorkie.

I sigh again. What's wrong with being envious of Eric? He has a good future and a girlfriend (whom else was Katie Seymour, class salutatorian, supposed to date?).

My future is in a sports store. My girlfriend is obnoxious. It makes me so angry, how I can't help but love Jessica Stanley. Even as I think about her petite frame, her brown eyes, and her frilly dark hair, I want to shudder.

Suddenly, I hear a loud engine in the distance. The car is onviously expensive—the sounds are deep and smooth. I don't see any headlights.

The car zooms past me in record speed. I see almost nothing in the dark. Who drives over a hundred miles per hour, in almost total darkness, without lights on?

I head home.

Walking by Jess's house, I see her window is open. The moonlight shows that much.

I stop.

"Mike?" I turn to where the whisper came from.

The first thing I see is a blue blob. Her cell phone. Then it moves, and I see Jessica's face in front of me, looking at me blankly.

"Jess, what are you doing here?" I say.

"This is my house," she whispers.

"It's dark out, and kinda cold," I insist. She is wearing a loose shirt and shorts. I look at her legs, pale and smooth-looking.

"What are you doing here?" Jessica asks. She points the cell phone so I'd be in the light. Her screen's wallpaper is of a beach.

I shrug. "Just walking."

Jessica lowers her phone so she can see what I'm wearing. Dress shirt, black pants, shiny shoes.

"D'you wanna come in?" She motions to the open window. Her bedroom.

"Let's go." I take her hand.

- - -

"Don't make a sound," Jessica warns me as she pulls on my arm, plopping me down on her bed. The mattress does not creak, so we can move around without making much noise.

We sit in silence, waiting to see if anyone's awake.

Now the room is totally dark. I reach a hand to Jess's neck, guiding myself with her arm. Her T-shirt is big enough so I push the collar over her shoulder.

I swallow and breathe deep.

Okay, so I'm touching her shoulder, rubbing it a bit. What now?

I kiss her on her shoulder, and it is warm. I kiss her neck. Jessica does not move. She has become rigid. I feel her arms tight on her sides.

I want to kiss her more. I want to kiss more.

My hands rub on her sides, making up and down motions. Dad told me that if you give a girl a massage, she would do whatever you want.

I squeeze her forearms lightly. She exhales slowly, almost like a sigh.

"Whhhooooooo..."

I push the shirt's collar to its proper place, and I drag the sleeves over her shoulders, squeezing those too.

Then, I lever myself up with my knees and lean my body over hers, carefully pushing her down.

Her back hits the mattress. Jess sighs. I feel her minty breath in my mouth.

This time, she puts her hands on my face and pulls me to her.

- - -

Today is Sunday. I am helping my dad fix the Suburban.

"This thing breaks more than our Xbox," Dad huffs out, tinkering with the engine. He is leaning over, and the skin between his shirt and trousers is exposed. My dad is in his early forties, but he looks about fifty or so. His brown hair is close to graying at the roots, and his legs sag a bit. His face, though, looks surprisingly young. I have my mom's blond hair and blue eyes, but the rest I take after Dad, or so she says.

"Mike? You got the starter?" Dad is looking at me impatiently, hands on the edges of the car.

I hand him the starter and then help attach some of the cables. I'm no expert in cars, but I pretend to know a thing or two.

"So...where were you last night?" Dad asks. He sounds like he knows what I'll say next. He continues tinkering.

I blink. "I was over at Jess's house."

A pause. Dad twists the different colored cables, grunting and pulling.

"Did you use condoms?" he says. not looking up from his work. "Any type of birth control?"

"Right now, we're using abstinence," I say with a sigh.

"Oh. Well, when the time comes, be sure to use 'em." He is frowning. Dad is pitying me.