a/n: Hey, youu! So, I deleted my other Twilight fic because it doen't seem to get any positive response from anyone. :)) I just decided to delete it then. :D Anyhow, here's my new story. I hope you enjoy this. Oh, some announcements. There's no actual Bella/Edward relationship, though it is highly implied in the end. Mostly, this is a story about how Bella finds strength to show the world what talent she has, okay? So, please don't get mad at me if you don't like how it ends. I decided to end it that way because I wanted you guys to be the ones to continue the relationship of Edward and Bella. Hope you enjoy! :)
"Ten for Eric Yorkie!"
"I have five more."
"So, that's eighty-three in all. And Biggest Party Animal goes to good 'ol Eric Yorkie," Jasper calls out.
The room lets out a breath. Everyone nervously starts fussing with the crinkly candy wrappers that litter the table, along with monstrous stacks of graph paper, ballots, rulers, pencils, and photos.
We're sitting in the yearbook room, which feels more like a very hot closet. By we, I mean the yearbook editors. And you would think, from the tense hush as the votes for senior superlatives were being called out, that we were hosting a UN summit. We've gotten through Best Eyes, Most Flirtatious, Biggest Kiss-Up, and now Biggest Party Animal. I haven't gotten a single vote - not in any category.
I'm not sure why I'm invisible. Or how I got to be this way. I simply melt into the throngs of students in the hallway, the rows of bobbing heads in the classroom, the cheering fans in the bleechers - faceless and forgotten. My mother always tells me I'm pretty, though it's usually followed by a you should cut your bangs, Bella, why do you always hide your face like that? I know better than to take her at her word. I mean, she's my mom, after all. But the kids here at school, they just don't seem to notice me. Maybe it is my too-long bangs.
Now it's finally senior year. The end of everything familiar. The end of childhood, really. And all these kids I've been with for my entire life, well, suddenly the road is about to split, and everyone will go their seperate ways. So senior year comes to be about remembering and being remembered - as the coolest, prettiest, cutest, funniest, prettiest, baddest. . .
We have the yearbook, pages of pictures with our names, so everyone can see one another in the days or years to come and remember. And we have the senior prank, senior superlative, senior prom. The photos, the memories.
But to be remembered, you have to be noticed first, right?
A few hours ago, Jasper Whitlock, one of my coeditors on the yearbook, asked my best friend, Alice Brandon, to go to the prom with him. He asked her in the cafeteria. He got up real close to her - they were standing against the back wall - with his head bent down to hers. Alice was tugging at her fingers, twisting them so her knuckles turned white, twisting them like you wring the wet from laundry. It was clear he was asking her, because suddenly Ali's face lit up in this big, beautiful smile, and a big grin stretched across Jasper's dopey face, and I was so happy for her.
Only there was this tiny gnawing voice scratching at the corner of my mind. I'm happy for her. I am. It's just. . . who will go with me? Alice is the only one who really sees me, hears me. Probably she wishes she didn't here so much of me. She's the sounding board of my songs. No one else even knows that I wrote them.
After I watched Jasper make his move, I looked around the noisy lunchroom; everyone was sitting in their usual spots, in their usual groups. Nerds with nerds, jocks with jocks, chic clique with chic clique, goths with goths, and so on. When you don't fit in with one of these boringly typical groups, how does anyone know who you are?
I spotted Jacob Black, sitting with his soccer teammates, laughing at a joke, and stuffing Tater Tots in his mouth.
God, I wish he would ask me.
Ugh, I'm such a loser.
Not in my wildest dreams.
It will ever happen.
He's in my calculus class, physics class, and my world history class. He sits beside me or behind me in all of them. But he's never spoken to me. He's never even looked at me. And I'm sitting in the cafeteria, eating alone.
Back in the yearbook room, I'm sifting through photographs. I'm the editor of the senior section, which means that I am the one choosing which pictures will go where. I selected who will be seen and remembered in the years to come. It's sort of ironic, since I'm not in any of the candid photos that our photographers took. I'm invisible even to my own staff.
This is making me depressed. So I go back to counting more votes for senior superlatives. Ninety-nine for Angela Weber, Most Likely to Succeed. The whole thing kind of makes me want to throw up. Why do we feel the need to categorize ourselves - are we talking about the past, describing the present, or is it a forecast of the future?
Alice leans over and whispers to me, "You should ask Edward. Jasper thinks he'll totally say yes."
"Edward? I don't think so," I say.
"Why not?" she asks, her voice rising a note.
"Because I don't know him, and I would rather not?" I tell her. "Anyway, could you not scream it for everyone to hear? Come on, I'm going to lose count." I don't want to have this conversation again. Don't get me wrong. Edward Masen is a stunning specimen, but I'm not asking him just because he's Jasper's best friend.
"Bella-" Alice's annoyed now. "If you wait forever, everyone will have a date already."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I snort.
"That's not what I meant! Ugh, you're so difficult!"
"Whatever. Anyway, I don't even know if I want to go. The prom is such a stupid cliche."
"What do you mean you don't know if you want to go?" she screeches. "Bella, not going to prom is such a cliche. What's with you?"
"I just don't know if I want to go, that's all." I shake my head and keep tallying. One hundred and eighty votes for Tanya Denali, Most Artistic. No surprise there.
"Bella-" Ali takes a breath, pursing her lips in that I don't know if she's crazy or just trying to make me miserable way of hers. "You might really like Edward."
"And maybe I won't. Look, I'm fine. On my own. If someone askes me, great. Otherwise -"
"You mean if Jacob Black asks you," Alice interrupts. "Bella-"
"Please, can we talk aboout something else?" I just can't listen to her tell me that Jacob is never gonna ask me to prom, especially when she already has a date.
"Sure, whatever. I just wish you'd consider going out with Edward. It won't be half as much fun for me if you're not there." Alice sheakes her head and pulls over the yearbook spread she is working on. "Anyway, what do you think of this layout?" she asks. End of subject. . . but only for now.
As soon as I get home that night, the phone is already ringing. I'm sure Alice wants to resume our conversation about Jasper's proposal. I ignore the call, and help my mom make dinner instead.
"Who was that on the phone?" Mom asks.
"I think it was Alice. . . Jasper asked her to prom today."
"Oh, that's nice. When are you going to get a date, Bells?"
"Mo-om! Why can't I tell you this without you bugging me? I'll get a date when someone asks me."
"If you just wait around, Bella, you'll end up sitting at home, alone. And then you'll regret it for the rest of your life, like I do."
My mother brings up the prom in pretty much a nightly basis. She never went to her prom, and still regrets it. Every weekend for the past two months, she's asked me if she could take me to the mall to shop for a dress. I keep reminding her that no one has asked me yet. But it's like talking back to the television set, so we're going to the mall on Sunday. I can't wait.
I excuse myself and go upstairs to work on my newest song.
If I wear pink lipsticks
and curl my hair,
will you see me?
If I wear this blue prom dress
and powder my nose
will you hear me?
In this I find my voice.
At school the next day Alice finds me by my locker and asks where I was - why I didn't answer the phone?
"I must have been in the shower," I tell her, pulling out my books and slamming the locker shut.
My calculus notebook lies open on my desk. Formulas and equations are scrawled wildly across the page, framed by flower doodles, mindless scribbles, and snatches of verse. Mr. Heckler is giving a quiz next period, but I can't focus. The girls in front of me are whispering across the aisle to each other. Study hall is rarely used for studying.
Jessica sits directly in front of me, Lauren to Jessica's right. They are both in the Chic Clique. They don't know that chic is pronounced as sheek. They say chick clique. No one has ever corrected them.
"I mean, he's the sweetest guy in the world, but he's positively clueless when it comes to colors! I'm sure he'll show up with red roses, but my dress is lavender!" Lauren whisper-wails plaintively.
"I know!" Jessica whines softly, her voice dripping wth sympathy. "Mike is, like, totally hopeless. He'll probably bring me spray roses."
"Eew." Lauren wrinkles her perfect pug nose, and the girls giggle.
A debate ensues: plum or rose-colored lip gloss? Hair up or down? Or both? False eyelashes or brown mascara? Liquid eyeliner or pencil? It makes my head swim.
I bet these girls have had dates for the prom since they were in their mothers' wombs. I'm pretty sure it's never crossed either of their minds to worry about not being asked. I just close my notebook, close my eyes, and wait for the bell to ring. I'll take my chances in calculus. Maybe Jacob will notice me today.
The calculus quiz isn't so hard. I'll probably get a B. Once it's done, I quickly lean over to pull out my notebook from my desk, so I can pretend to take notes while Mr. Heckler lectures. Before I can stop it, my pencil rolls off my desk and comes to a neat stop right next to Jacob's soccer shoe.
Oh my gosh. What do I do?
Jacob leans over and brushes at the pencil with his fingertips. It rolls a bit farther, then he grabs it. As he straightens and moves to hand the pencil to me, he smiles, his black eyes lighting into my own chocolate ones.
I feel my eyes widening and then a warm blush snakes its way up my neck and over my cheeks.
"Thanks," I whisper.
"No problem," he mouths.
I can't believe it. I can't believe it. Jacob Black does know I'm alive. He was forced to acknowledge it here. Today. Here in this very mustard-yellow-painted calculus classroom.
Maybe he'll ask me to prom. . .
"Did you hear?" Alice blabs embarrassingly loudly as soon as I see her in the halls. "Jacob Black asked Renesmee Cullen to the prom!"
"What?" I can feel all the color drop from my face. I've been so busy replaying the pencil-returning incident that I think I've missed what Ali said.
"Bella, what's wrong with you? Jacob asked Renesmee to go to the prom with him! So now will you ask Edward?"
All I can do is stare at her.
"Oh, Bella, come on. I know you have this big crush on Jacob, but you've never even spoken to the boy. Did you really think. . ." Her voice trails off. I can feel her shock settle in. She's watching me and marveling at how pathetic I am. "Bella. . . I'm sorry," she says.
"It's okay." I sigh. "I'm just. . . never mind. I'm fine." The pencil exchange is private; it's mine. "I don't think I'm ready to ask Edward yet, okay?" I feel my eyes wander over to Edward Masen. He was new to the school this year. I don't have any classes with him, so I've never really gotten to know him. I've never even spoken to him.
Could he like me?
Why doesn't he ask me himself?
Why do things have to be so complicated?
It's Sunday morning. The prom is four days away. My mom is waiting downstairs for me, the car engine running. It's Prom Dress Day at the mall. When we arrive at the first two dress stores in town, my mom strides up to the clerk and says proudly, My daughter needs a prom dress!"
She announces it like she's declaring peace in the Middle East. I want to die. Suddenly I'm in the center of a maelstrom of puffy dresses. Blue sequins, gold taffeta, red satin. Ugh, it's too much!
"Mom, I think I'm done," I tell her, wiping my hand across my brow.
"What do you mean? You've only tried on four dresses. Here, try this one on." She thrusts a baby blue slip dress towards me. I finger the material; it slides through my hand like a whisper.
"Okay, I'll try this one on," I answer. "But that's it. Then I'm out of here."
As I pull on the dress, feeling it glide over my body, brushing my skin so lightly, suddenly I know what it means to want to look perfect.
"It's gorgeous," my mother breathes.
As I twirl in front of the mirror, I have to admit, I agree. It's stunning and absolutely me. Or the me I wish I were.
It's the day of the prom, and I don't have a date. I have shoes, a dress, even a handbag and a hairstyle picked out. But no date. And you'd better believe there's no chance I'm going stag. My mother seems to have convinced herself that I have a date. Even though I've told her of no such thing. And every chance Alice has had this week, she's hissed it's not too late to ask Edward.
Why doesn't he ask me? I keep wanting to growl. Doesn't he know that I have a beautiful dress and it's just waiting for him to ask?
Seniors don't have school today, because, even if we did, the girls would cut anyway so they could spend the day getting ready for prom. My mom made an appointment for me at her hair salon. I can't seem to get the words out of my mouth, I don't have a date, Mom. Rather, I let her lead me around like a show dog and try not to think about what will happen tonight when she realizes that I have nowhere to go.
As I sit under the stylist's deft fingers, letting her poke hairpins into the giant updo she convince me I had to have, I thumb through our local paper. In the entertainment section, a listing catches my eye. Open mic night at Café Français, Forks idea of a French Café, starting at seven. I sigh and look up at the mirror. I feel ridiculous. Who has their hair swept up in a cascading beehive when they don't have a date?
That night, my mom helps me get into my beautiful blue dress without messing my hair. She tells me to look down and gently applies my eyeliner and watches as I brush on mascara. Her eyes blink back tears, and she smiles at me. She takes some picture- two rolls actually- then drives me to Alice's house. As her car pulls up to the curb, I lean over, kiss her on the cheek, and get out. I begin walking up the path to Ali's front door but stop halfway and wait for mom's car to pull away. Then I pick up the hem of my dress and hightail it back to the way we came.
Running in pointy-toed high heels is not easy, but adrenaline is pumping and pushing me on. I've never done anything like this before.
When I get back home, my mother safely picking up dinner on the way, I race around to the side of the house and pull out the guitar case I'd hidden beneath our blue spruce tree. I open it to make sure the overflowing folder stuffed with scraps of paper is still there. It was hard leaving this stuff outside in the open.
I replace the folder, sling the guitar case over my shoulder, and start walking.
White limousines seem to fill the streets tonight. Boys in tuxedos are standing up through the sun roofs, the wind blowing their hair, drowning their shouts. Girls giggle and scream from inside the car. All the flowers in all the gardens are bloom, and the air smells like one giant, universal corsage. In my blue dress, I feel like a petal of one of its roses.
This feels right.
Finally, I make my way into the dimly lit café. The Café Français is only half full. I fall into a chair at an empty table, beads of sweat lining up on my forehead, on top of my lip. My heart starts to race. This is it. It's time.
When the first call for singers goes out, I find myself marching up the aisle to the spotlit stage. As I hang the guitar strap over my shoulders and begin to sing my first song, I hear my voice come out shaky. I look up and feel my eyes lock with - could it be - Edward Masen's. He smiles crookedly and nods, as though he's willing me to go on.
He hears me. Edward Masen sees me.
What good is lipstick when
I'm not talking to you?
And I'm not curling my hair for you,
Because I've got the Pink
Prom Dress Blues. . .
I lock my eyes with Edward.
Suddenly, I don't feel so blue anymore.
REVIEWS PLEASEEE! :) Thank You. :)