James. My first official crush. Fifth grade was when people still respected me, treated me like a regular person. I was Bella Swan, the fifth grade girl who always wore pink, but you did not mess with her. My friends were mostly boys, and a few girls, though I didn't exactly like the girls. They were always talking about bras and how they couldn't wait to get their period and how cute the boys in the fifth grade were. Yuck! I much rather preferred to hang out with the boys, playing tackle football at lunch and laughing at their jokes. My mom always said she was convinced I was part boy, which may sound weird now, but then, I was. I really was. I didn't understand girls my age, and they didn't understand me. The boys, however, were all easy going and couldn't wait to play sports and hang out after school to play baseball in someone's backyard or jump on the trampoline. Girls wanted sleepovers and wanted to paint nails and had already outgrown sweat and dirt. But that was okay, because hanging out with the guys is how I met James.
James had just moved from Austin, Texas to Phoenix, Arizona, directly across the street from me, with his mom and two sisters at the beginning of the fifth grade. Laurent automatically befriended the lost red headed boy who had a slight lisp and wore the same orange "Texas Longhorns" shirt, blue wranglers, and boots everyday. He quickly joined into our group, though it wasn't like we were picky. Over the course of fifth grade we got to know each other well. Well, for fifth grade that is. He often came over to my house to play soccer. He was naturally talented and, despite loving playing sports, I had two left feet, so naturally it was his job to teach me how to play.
As time went on, I suddenly realized what the girls were talking about when they thought boys were cute. I understood it. Because James was very, very cute. His slightly wavy red hair, blue eyes, and freckles were the thoughts in my poor fifth grade mind. It was while I was discovering these feelings that I started to really look at myself in the mirror. At that age, I really would have preferred to have my head shaved, but my mom would not let me. So instead, I had long knotted hair that I refused to brush. I wore jeans that were loose, random t-shirts that probably came from the boys' rack at Target, and running shoes. These things, I did not have a problem with. Not at all. What was wrong with my fashion sense? And hair is just hair anyway. My problem, was my weight. I had always been a chubby kid. I was nine pounds when I was born and never really outgrew my baby fat. So in fifth grade I was slightly chubbier than most girls, and who I am kidding, most boys as well. And I did not like that one bit. When I looked in the mirror I saw a fat girl, not the girl who wore pink and liked to hang out with the boys and who always smiled. Just, fat. I wanted it to change. If I was fat, James would never like me more than a friend.
From then on, whenever I was with the gang, I was always sucking in my gut trying to look skinnier. When I sat down, I lifted my legs up slightly so that the fat didn't spread out to make my legs look bigger. I rarely ate at lunch, or at all, when I was with the group.
Despite everything I did to make it less obvious, one day when James and I were together alone we started a conversation and that went on and on, and just when I thought it couldn't get any better, James said, "I don't know why the girls at school and you don't get along. I mean, if it's just because you're kinda big, that's messed up." My cheeks flamed, something that happened when I was embarrassed, and I felt like crying. James continued on, "No offense, or anything." That day I went home and cried. It wasn't because of what James said, I knew I was fat. I was just upset that he knew I was fat. I thought that I was doing such a good job to look thinner than I actually was. I thought that maybe he would be blinded by it all. I thought I was the stupidest person alive to think he wouldn't notice. However, it all slipped my mind when a week later my mom nonchalantly brought him up in conversation.
"So, you're friends with James? You know, the boy who moved in across the street a couple months ago."
"Yeah, Mom. He's over here all the time. How don't you not know we're friends?" I didn't understand what she was getting at.
"Oh, that's right." She feigned surprise, though I thought it was sincere at the time. "Well, I was talking to his mom on the phone the other day, and you wouldn't believe what she said. Apparently a certain somebody just can't stop talking about you. She said her house is always filled with, 'Bella this! Bella that! Bella is just so different from the other girls. She's nice and doesn't care about stupid stuff! Bella beat me at soccer today! Bella, Bella, Bella.'"
I stayed silent, secretly pleased with the new information I gathered but not wanting my mom to know anything. But of course she gave me that knowing motherly look that said she knew exactly how I felt about him.
Nothing ever happened between the two of us. I was too scared to tell him I liked him. What would the boys think of me then? I even pretended not to care when he packed up and moved across the country at the end of year without saying goodbye to me. Because although that hurt, he was the only one who addressed my weight but still had nice things to say about me.
That is, until Edward Cullen entered my life.