Disclaimer: Don't own Twilight.
Chapter One
Once upon a time…
How does anyone begin a story like that? I mean, it's just super vague, isn't it? It doesn't even make sense. Why is it so popular to start a tale with the phrase 'once upon a time'?
Come to think about it, how can anybody take a novel seriously that starts with something like that? How? And why, why on earth world they make us write a paper on that novel? It's got to be some kind of joke, hasn't it? Talk about teachers' warped sense of humour.
Maybe I should write a letter to the education minister, requesting that they look into the very urgent issue of the subject matter of essays…
"Bella!" I jump, wondering who has interrupted my train of thoughts. The teacher.
Ah, that explains it. See, the teacher, Mrs Collins, and I have never really got along. I mean, it's not like I did anything to cause her hatred of me, but as soon as she set eyes on yours truly, Mrs Collins seemed to have it in for me. I try not to provoke her, but when she starts a confrontation I can't help but fight back. I don't do it on purpose, it's just this natural reaction that I have.
"Bella!" she repeated. Yes miss, I heard you the first time, I think to myself.
"Bella, how much work have you done?" I glance down at my desk, my eyes taking in the, um, incomplete essay. But hey, nobody else had done much more! I shuffle uncomfortably in my chair, playing with my pencil and trying to think up a plausible excuse. Have I already used the 'I'm sorry miss, but I have repetitive strain injury in my thumb and therefore cannot write because I am incapable of gripping a pencil' one? Yes, I have. Damn.
Mrs Collins taps her foot impatiently. It's really irritating, people tapping their feet. Couldn't they just chew their knuckles or bite their nails – something that requires little effort and no noise? And perhaps they could forget to wash their hands as well, resulting in them contracting some dreadful disease that renders them bedridden and definitely not fit enough to continue with their job of torturing us poor teenagers.
But teachers don't do that. They just tap their feet, and say, just like mine is doing now, "I'm waiting, Bella."
"Um, well miss –"
"I'm married Bella, I'm a missus," she cut me off. "You need to learn your manners. Don't you understand that it is rude to address someone as just 'miss'?" I sigh theatrically.
"Well I can't just call you missus, can I miss? 'Cause that's impolite and you'll tell me off. Just like you tell me of for calling you miss. I just can't get it right, can I?"
Mrs Collins' eyes seem to bulge out of her head. Seriously, I didn't say anything that bad! She glares at me. "You do realize that, Bella, that it is saying disrespectful things like that can lead to detentions? Because if you carry on the way you are going, young lady, that is exactly how you will be spending this evening. Is that what you want?"
Well, there is only one answer to that.
"Of course miss," I reply. "Why, there is nothing I like better than a good detention. It's not like either of us have a life outside school anyway, so we might as well waste our time doing something exceedingly boring and pointless rather than enjoying ourselves and participating in something constructive! In fact, if you give me a detention I shall be eternally grateful and there is a possibility I could even buy you a Christmas present – the only one you will be getting, I might add." I pause and make a show of thinking hard. "On second thoughts," I say, dropping the sarcasm. "I'll give it a miss, thanks."
The class has stopped to listen, looking up from their papers to watch the drama. One of the stuck up clever people is looking at me disdainfully and muttering to her friend about 'unruly children disrupting the class, blah, blah, blah'. I didn't exactly ask her to come and watch. There is no sign above my head saying 'spectators are welcome to watch Bella Swan be humiliated in front of her peers by her cruel teacher' is there? No. So they have no right to mutter.
The teacher in question is turning bright red – not the most attractive sight, but then again, maybe now wouldn't be the most opportune moment to point it out. Finally she managed to get out her words.
"Principle's. Office. Now. Go."
Honestly, what kind of English teacher can't construct a proper sentence? Kind of defeats the point. How on earth did she get her qualification? What kind of incompetent person would allow a woman that obviously detests kids to become a teacher?
I suppose that that is irrelevant now, though. I pick up my bag and stuff my things into it, slinging it over my shoulder in what I hope is a nonchalant and cool manner. After saluting the class, I head for the door, leaving Mrs Collins standing by my desk fuming. I allow myself a congratulatory smile as I head down the corridor.
My school, Oliver Tomas comprehensive, is not particularly big, for a high school, but it's still reasonably large. When I first came here – just over four years ago – I managed to get lost a total number of fifteen times before I worked out the way around. It started off really small, just a handful of classrooms clustered together in the middle of nowhere, but over the years it has grown; passages, storerooms, a library and a hall, built whenever the management came into some money, have made it into a labyrinth.
I wouldn't be surprised if students started walking around with sat navs to guide them to their lessons.
I round the final corner and arrive at the principles door. There are two other people waiting to go in, one of which I know – Jacob.
"Hey Jake," I grin. "You beat me! I was so sure that I would be the first to end up here this week."
Jacob Black is the year below me and generally we wouldn't have been friends, but due to the ability we both share of ending up in front of Mr Johnson's office regularly, our acquaintance grew to friendship. A Native American boy with black hair, dark skin and entirely too much height. In my personal opinion, people that tall shouldn't be allowed – it's depressing for the rest of us.
He had been facing the other way when I spoke, and turned at the sound of my voice.
"So did I," he agrees amicably. "I just couldn't resist pocking a bit of fun out of Mr Holland, know what I mean?"
"No Jake," I say. "I don't. It's not me picking on teachers; it's the teachers that pick on me."
He laughs. "What I use is called pre-emptive attack," he counters. "I make the first move so that they can't start on me."
I give him a sceptical look. "Basically, you're a trouble maker, Jake. I pity your poor father. Respectable gentlemen shouldn't have to put up with people like you."
"Look who's talking," he retorts. "At least my dad isn't a policeman. Do you tell him about your detentions before or after he puts his gun away?"
"Touché," I concede. "Good point."
"I know," he replies smugly.
"Arrogant bastard," I mutter.
"What was that?"
"Nothing!"
At that exact moment a fight breaks out in the nearest classroom and the space is filled with shouts, screams and the clash of chair against chair. At least, I can only assume it's a fight, because I can't imagine a history teacher being interesting enough to get her students to do a re-enactment of the battle of Hastings. Or maybe the class are getting some personal experience on the murder of Julius Caesar – they play the unsatisfied politicians and the teacher plays the general that gets stabbed in the back multiple… Hm, not a bad idea.
Mr Johnson strides out of his office glowering around, until his gaze comes to rest on me.
"Hey, hey, hey!" I hold my hands in the air. "No looking at me! I'm innocent! I've done nothing!"
He narrows his eyes. "What is all this noise?"
Wordlessly, Jake points to the source and our dear principle swings around to go sort it out. We catch a few words like, "…disappointed of you … disgraces to the school… hope you are thoroughly ashamed of yourselves… Now behave properly!"
Then he's back, looming over the three of us, his face dark as a thundercloud.
"And what have you two done now?" he growls at Jake and me, ignoring the other boy. "I had hoped that you could stay out of trouble for at least a day."
"Actually, this is the first time this week," I point out.
"Don't talk back, Just answer the question!"
Why do teachers do that? They say don't talk back and then they tell me to answer the question! It's a bit hypocritical, isn't it?
"Well sir," I say. "I'm not sure exactly what I've done. You'd have to ask Mrs Collins if you want to know that. Just bare it in mind, though sir, that she might not be the most reliable witness –"
"I'll deal with you later, Swan. Black – my office – now!"
"See you later, Bella!" Jake grins. "Let's see who gets detained the most after school!"
"Black, I'm warning you –"
"Going sir!"
Jake and Mr Johnson disappear through the ominous oak door, leaving me alone with the stranger.
He is tall, but not in the same way Jake is. I guess that he must be about my age – fifteen – though I have never seen him around before. His bronze hair is slightly dishevelled, and I wonder if he made it that way on purpose, or if he naturally has untidy hair. I wouldn't be surprised – some of the guys I know actually straiten their hair in the morning! Even I can't be bothered to do that and I'm a girl!
My eyes take in his facial features, and widen slightly in appreciation, because the boy looks like a male model: bright green eyes; a strait, perfect nose; high cheek bones that give him a sophisticated, angular look – yep, this kid has it all.
He obviously notices my appraisal because he speaks, "Like what you see?"
"S'alright," I say, looking away. "You new?"
"First day. I transferred. It's one hell of a confusing school you've got here, you know."
"Tell me about it," I reply. "Are you here because you are lost, or because you were sent here?"
"Sent," he smirks. "Didn't like the way one of the boys in my class was looking at my sister, and made my displeasure known in the way of rearranging his face."
I whistled. "Good work! I think you just broke my record; it took me at least two days! Is your sister new as well?"
He leans easily against the wall, looking relaxed. "No, actually. Our parents are divorced; I lived with my dad, while she stayed with mom. I got fed up with his moping, and some other things happened, so I decided to come and stay down here with her and the new guy."
"I'm sorry," I say, realizing that this might be a touchy subject. I try to mimic his easy demeanour, but I'm not sure how successful I am. "Should I know your sister?"
"Dunno. Alice Cullen rings any bells?"
Alice Cullen! Shit! Alice Cullen is prissy, perfect, annoying, and most importantly, popular. We don't exactly get on.
It all started with her best friend, Rosalie Hale. Rosalie Hale is one of those people that thinks everybody is her inferior, the sort that sneers down at people in the corridor for no reason and whenever she has to talk to someone she looks at them distastefully, as if someone put a slug under her nose. This sort of behaviour really serves to aggravate me, and well, one time I just got sick of it and told her to piss of and take her aloofness elsewhere.
It's pretty easy to guess that she didn't take particularly well to this, and slapped me. I kicked her, and since then, she and her best friend have had a loathing for me, have hated me with a passion.
Well, I suppose the feeling is mutual.
I stare at the boy with a mixture of horror and amusement.
"And I thought you were alright mate!"
"What?" he asks self consciously.
"Ask your sister about Bella Swan, I assure you, she'll have much to say."
He looks at me, confused. "You don't like each other?"
I snicker, "You could say that."
We stand in silence. Neither of us is sure what to say – should we disassociate ourselves from each other now, or later, when he is told what a total loser I am?
I mean, obviously I'm not really a loser; how could I be? But I'm not part of the 'in' crowd, and two people who are, hate me. Yeah, doesn't really help with social standing. The boy clears his throat and I glance up. He shuffles uncomfortably, trying to make up his mind on something.
I wait.
To my uttermost shame, I find myself beginning to tap my foot. Mrs Collins has corrupted my mind, I am polluted! My peers will put me in quarantine if they find out! Hell, I might have to put myself in quarantine! I can just feel the, 'I'm waiting Cullen' on my lips. Resist the urge, Bella, I tell myself. Resist the urge.
He clears his throat again.
"Is there something you want to say, Cullen?" I ask.
He swallows, then holds out his hand. "Edward," he says. "Call me Edward."
Just then, Jake walks out of the principal's office. He eyes us curiously for a moment, then grins.
"I got a full blown lecture!" he mouths. "Old Mr Johnny is in a bad mood!"
Mr Johnson, who is standing just behind him, looks even more displeased than he was before. There are beads of perspiration on his lined forehead and his small, piggy eyes are overshadowed by a frown. He seriously needs to get some air conditioning in that room of his. It can't be healthy to perspire as much as he does. The schools budget isn't that low is it? They even managed to find the funding to make that pointless student/teacher bonding room that people avoid like the plague. Surely they can spare a bit of it so that pupils being told off don't have to endure being hit with drops of sweat while Mr Johnson is in mid rant, right?
"Swan, get in here now! And I mean now! This instant!"
I gulp.
"What did you say to him?" I mouth back at Jake.
He just shrugs. Thanks so many, traitor. Might as well get this over and done with.
I enter the office.