Author's Note: I've been busy doing so many other things lately, and though I've been in the mood to write, I've been having some issues with my stories. Those of you who read my other stories probably noticed I haven't updated anything in a while. Maybe it's been more than a month. I'm sorry. I'd explain, but it's kind of complicated. It's not exactly writer's block that I'm dealing with. Anyway, I'm not sure how amazing this little story is going to be. It's one of those stories that I only have a tiny idea for…and it could change as it goes on. It's mainly a story to, you know, get me back out there. Please review. Feedback would be really helpful. By the way, this piece is sort of like a companion piece to An Artist's Mistakes (which is not nearly completed), but you don't have to read that to understand this. This chapter's pretty short. It's sort of just an introduction. Enjoy. :).

I once saw a movie about a separated couple. At age ten, their daughter became seriously ill, and the man and woman both wanted to spend time with her. I didn't pay attention to the daughter. I didn't care what happened to her. All that mattered to me was the future of the couple. Fortunately, the couple had time to talk and laugh and kiss…and anything else a reconciling couple would want to do.

The movie had a happy ending. The man and the woman got back together.

Well, of course they did; the movie wasn't based on a true story. That's the only way an unrealistic and happy ending could be truly appreciated. No, it wasn't based on a true story. But it was based on a book, which, in my opinion, is more dependable than any true story. Real life has always been completely overrated.

It was no secret to anyone that I liked to read. In fact, I pretty much taught myself at age four. My mother and I were in the waiting room of a doctor's office when a picture book about a talking spider and a singing tree caught my eye. Who could resist that temptation? I begged my mother to read it to me, and she did. Seven times.

That's where the relationship between books and me began.

But this story isn't about my love for fiction. This story is about the two human beings that brought me into the world. The nonfiction world. The world where happy endings, singing trees, and talking spiders are difficult to find. In other words, this story is about my parents.

I believe I read the happy ending story—about the couple, not the tree—when I was eight years old. It was then, I suppose, that I became obsessed with disease. An odd obsession, but an obsession, nonetheless.

At least once a week, I would complain about a headache or a stomachache. Renée usually suggested Tums or Children's Motrin, so I realized, if I wanted to get my parents back together, I would have to do something bigger. About a week after my ninth birthday, I tried to get my mom to believe I had a life-threatening disease.

"Mom, I need to talk to you."

Renée raised an eyebrow and muted the television. "Something wrong, honey?"



I nodded solemnly. "Mom," I said, trying not to choke. I was not the best liar. "I have some very bad news."

I came closer, blocking the television. "I have a very serious disease."

"Oh, you do?" She looked amused.

"Yes," I said. "I might die."

She seemed unable to keep the smile off her face. "That's a shame. You're so young."

I sighed, my temper getting the best of me. "Mom! That's not what you're supposed to say!" Without another word, I ran to my bedroom and slammed the door. She didn't come to get me.

Needless to say, I wasn't doing a very good job. After visiting the school nurse three or four times a week for an entire year, I could feel people getting agitated.

"I know that you're just trying to get out of class, Bella. There's nothing wrong with you."

But I wasn't. I had nothing against class! Was it a crime to try to bring my parents back to each other? Did no one understand? Could no one see what I was trying to do?

One day, I was forced to ask myself terrible questions. Could it be that…the book was unreliable? Was it true that…happy endings didn't exist? Did no one believe in fairy tales? Were they not real?

No. What could be better than a book? Nothing. Nothing at all.

I tried to ignore the questions. I just had to try harder.

On the night of my twelfth birthday, an idea hit me. I felt so stupid for not having thought of it sooner. I was focusing on getting sick when it was much easier, especially when I considered how I always accidentally hurt myself, to give myself a bad injury. No one would be able to accuse me of faking it. Unfortunately, I realized, too late, that sticking my foot into the fireplace wouldn't appear to be an accident to any person with a quarter of a brain.

Instead of ending up with two parents living under one roof, I started therapy, and my parents had an angry conversation over the phone about how irresponsible my mother was.

"Pizza sound good to you? I'm exhausted."

"Whatever," I muttered, engrossed in homework.

I could feel her eyes on me, but I pretended to be oblivious.

Finally, she cracked. "Okay, so how was therapy?"



"Fine," I said, not looking up from the word problem I was trying to figure out. "We talked about how you beat me every night."

Renée didn't seem to appreciate the joke. "Isabella."

I rolled my eyes. "If you must know, we talked about school. Fascinating."

"That's what I'm paying for?"

"If you'd like, I could mention that comment next week."

Renée smiled. "How's your foot?"

"Ugly," I replied, impatiently tapping my finger against my textbook. "Oh, by the way…"

"Hmm?"

"Mark called," I finished. "He wanted you to call him back."

"Oh," she said, failing to hide how pleased she was. "I'll just go do that."

And she left me alone, just the way I liked it.

-- -- -- -- --

"Forks is the same as it's always been."

"Good to hear."

"How's your foot?"

I didn't want to talk about my damn foot ever again. "I'll survive, dad." I quickly changed the subject. "Mom wants to throw me a belated birthday party."

He chuckled. "Oh, boy."

"Exactly," I said, hugging a pillow to my chest. "She's inviting like every friend she has and every kid she remembers me ever mentioning. I so don't want to pretend to be happy about it."

I expected him to laugh or make some kind of comment about how ridiculous parties were, but he didn't. He was silent for a good three minutes, and then he said, "Bella," very, very slowly.

I was thrown off. "Yes?"

"Is everything…okay with you…and your mom…at home?"

My dad understood me better than anyone else did. I thought he, of all people, would have believed me when I said I was not suicidal.



"Yes," I said simply.

He cleared his throat. "And—and you'd tell me if things were not, right?"

"I would."

He seemed to believe me, but I still could detect a touch of concern in his tone. "Maybe you can come down with the flu."

"Excuse me?"

"On the day of the party," he clarified. "You could pretend to get the flu."

"Oh," I said, laughing. Or I could pray to really get the flu. "True."

"Bella! I need the phone!"

Reluctantly, I told my dad I had to go. "She hasn't talked to her boyfriend in like an hour. She could die."

"I understand," he said. He didn't sound like he did. "I miss you."

"I know," I said, absentmindedly pulling feathers out of the pillow. "I miss you, too. "

I hung up after there was another loud knock on my door. "Mom," I shouted, throwing the phone at the door. "Get a damn cell phone."

How long would I need to wait for an "accidental" break of my leg to not sound suspiciously planned?

Too long.