When I was a little girl, I used to watch him from across the playground at school. Both of us were what I guess you would call loners. But really, when it came right down to it – both of us were lonely. At least that's what I always thought.
I always wondered why he didn't have any friends. I knew why I didn't have any friends, but other than the imagined loneliness, we had nothing in common.
His clothes were always new and clean and pressed. Khaki pants and crisp denim, polo shirts and henleys in deep colors, rich colors. My clothes were always worse than hand-me-downs. Things bought at thrift stores or yard sales, and more often than not, they were donated from some charitable organization that helped out the needy.
Of course, when I was seven, my mom thought I didn't know what needy was.
My mom thought I didn't know a lot of things.
She was wrong.
I'll never forget this one particular day. It was late October, so it was kind of chilly. No, that's a lie. It was cold. Well, it was starting to get cold, and I didn't have a jacket. I tried to brush it off when the teacher told me that probably shouldn't go out for recess. I told her I had just forgotten it at home. She looked at me like she knew I didn't have one. And looking back on it, she probably did. But I told her I was fine, that I wanted to go outside and play with the other kids. I didn't want to play outside, though. I just wanted the only twenty minutes during the day that I could sit off to the side and watch him. Wonder about him. Imagine all the things I didn't know about him.
She nodded her head.
And I went outside and took my place on the grass.
It was freezing. I was freezing. And to make matters worse, he wasn't even there. At least, he wasn't where he normally stood. I wrapped my arms around myself, my red fists gripping the thin, knit, long sleeve shirt. It smelled sour – the kind of sour that comes from staying in the washing machine too long after the cycle. I worried that someone else would smell it, too.
After ten minutes, I couldn't stand it anymore. I'd looked all over, and he was nowhere to be found. I was just about to stand up and go back inside when I heard his voice.
"Aren't you cold?"
"No."
I wasn't actually cold anymore. My face was hot and red like my fists.
"You look cold."
He looked perfect, of course. Dark jeans and a grey fleece jacket. I could see the green collar of his polo coming out of the neck. His hair was the color of the old copper teapot that that sat on our stove at home – the one we never used – and his eyes were the same color green as his shirt.
"I'm fine."
"Do you want to borrow my jacket?"
"No," I told him, still in shock that he was actually speaking to me. "Because then you'll be cold."
"Do you want to go inside then?"
"Are you going in with me?"
"Okay."
"Okay."
He didn't say another word as I stood up. And still, nothing else once we were back in the classroom. We had alphabetical assigned seating, so he sat down at his desk near the front of the class, and I sat down in mine at the back. It took me a few minutes to warm up, but whenever I would look up, I saw him looking back. I still didn't know why he wasn't saying anything. And we only had a couple more minutes until recess was over.
"Hey," I called out into the quiet. "Why did you want to come back in?"
He tilted in his chair just a little.
"Because I knew that you were freezing, and you don't have a jacket."
My face flamed, and I blinked my eyes to fight back the tears I knew were hiding.
"Yeah, well, you don't know anything."
I cried until I went to sleep that night.
Maybe it was because my mom was asleep on the couch when I got home. Maybe it was because there was an empty glass bottle on the table in front of her, so I knew she wouldn't be waking up soon. Maybe it was because I had another cheese sandwich for dinner the third night in a row. But really I knew – I cried because Edward Cullen talked to me for the first time that day. Not because he wanted to, but because he felt sorry for me.
When I got to school the next morning, on the back of my desk chair was a grey wool coat.
…
Today I watch him from across the high school lunchroom.
It's a lot like when we were kids.
He's still perfectly pressed and put together in expensive clothes I can only imagine. And I'm still in hand-me-downs and thrift store specials.
His eyes meet mine occasionally. Sometimes I can't force myself to look away quickly enough. Even though I should. Even though looking at him now hurts more than it ever did when we were kids.
He's still more – so much more – and better than I will ever be. And I am still the poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks.
I'm pretty sure he knows that now. I'm pretty sure I know he knows by the way he pulls her into his lap. Perfect, blonde, and everything I'm not.
He kisses her with closed eyes, and I can't look away. Almost like the pain of looking reminds me of my place.
But somewhere in the middle, his eyes open.
Somewhere in the middle, he sees me looking.
And he looks at me while he kisses her.
I hate him.
I hate myself more.
I grab my bag and leave, never once looking back.
The characters belong to Stephenie Meyer
The title belongs to Coldplay.
The angst belongs to me.