B POV

I sat on the bench, pen in hand, trusty composition notebook on my lap, ready and eager to jot down my daily observations from the high school commons. The spot was ideal: off to the side, but still able to see everything that happened across the vast space in the center of the school. I needed some ideas for a main character, and this seemed like the best place to find them.

Growing up as the only child of successful actors definitely gives one an interesting perspective on things. Even after Renee split to chase after George Clooney and left me alone with Charlie the Boozehound, I was able to spin it into a positive. The short story I wrote about their divorce won me an award. Still, my dreams were a little bigger.

I knew I wouldn't be happy just writing short stories, though. I had much loftier goals: books, poetry, screenplays, song lyrics — you name it. I wanted my name to cover every inch of Barnes and Noble. I wanted to be the next Nabokov, but with a bit of an F. Scott Fitzgerald flair. I wanted to write a movie that would make Citizen Kane look like Gigli. I wanted to be held in higher esteem than Emily Dickinson without resorting to a life of seclusion to obtain it. Unfortunately, living the life of the privileged didn't exactly give me much material to work with. As much as I loved my parents' Porsche, my Armani sunglasses, and my 7 For All Mankind jeans, they didn't give me the makings of a tortured artist. I needed to find out what life was like for other with an objective eye. This was why I was sitting on a bench, writing down notes on everyone around me.

I saw the athletes with their bulging biceps and thick necks laughing as they chugged their sports drinks, relishing in the fact that while they were on the campus, they were kings. I saw the cheerleaders tossing their hair at the athletes as they batted their eyelashes and stuck out their breasts. Their desperation for attention would have been comical if it weren't so pathetic. I saw the goth kids in their black vinyl and chains as they pretended they didn't care about the people around them. I saw the grunge holdouts, desperately clinging to their flannel as they worshiped Kurt Cobain on an altar. I saw the girls like me: girls with designer clothes bought with Daddy's money that didn't seem to care about anything. Granted, I knew that I, at least, cared about something. Hell, I cared about everything. I cared so much – and worried so much – that I was singlehandedly keeping my shrink in business with all the Valium he prescribed and sessions three times a week.

I was lucky, though. No one really bothered me because everyone feared me. It's what happens when your father's bigger than Bruce Willis, your mother's poised to be the next Meryl Streep, and you show up to school after running away with your dad's hot co-star at age thirteen with dyed black hair and a self-imposed vow of silence. To be fair, I still would have been left alone because of the drastic hair change and the running away, but the fact that I had my parents' last name helped me out a lot in that regard. It was how I wanted things, really. I didn't want anyone standing in my way as I made my ascent to the top. I was glad I at least had the common sense to go back to my natural brunette coloring, though. Didn't want to be mistaken for one of those goth kids.

As my eyes scanned the commons, they fell upon someone I'd never seen before at this school, which was a weird occurrence since my daily observations meant I knew who everyone was. This new girl was so petite she looked almost child-like, with short, choppy black hair and pretty, pouty lips. She was wearing a dress that barely qualified as clothing. The pale pink fabric was thin and wispy, practically made of gauze, and the skirt falling in jagged edges at the tops of her thighs. She was wearing black tights that had rhinestones glued in constellation patterns all over her legs. Her knee-high pink boots were a soft suede material the same shade as her dress. The outfit was gorgeous and fearless, and I instantly admired this New Girl for being so bold in such a pathetically typical high school.

New Girl was walking by herself in the very center as the other students hurled insult after insult to her, calling her "freak," "weirdo," and "psycho" as she strolled by, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings. It was out of the ordinary even for a school with such divided cliques. I had no idea what this girl had done to incur such immediate hatred, but I was absolutely positive that it this level of harassment was completely unwarranted. This display of sheer cruelty tugged at my heartstrings, and before I realized what I was doing, I had grabbed my shoulder bag, flung it across my body, and walked into the commons until I was standing next to New Girl.

"Are you okay?" I asked her. She was staring at her feet, and didn't look up once as she nodded to me.

"Fuck them," I said, enunciating every consonant, as I put my arm around her. Her shoulders were tense, but her body moved in closer to mine as she hugged her schoolbooks closer to her chest.

"I'm used to it," she replied in a soft voice. The sound was a light soprano that made me think of cherubs and Handel and bells.

"Doesn't matter. I still say fuck 'em. I'm Bella Swan," I said as I squeezed her a little closer. The second I'd stepped up to her, the insults stopped.

"Thank you, Bella, but really, you don't have to help me. I can handle it." Her voice was so soft, I almost didn't hear it. I detected a note of wistfulness in her tone, a sadness and desire that swirled out of her gentle voice's melodic dialogue.

"I'm sure you can. Doesn't change the fact that I want to help." I leaned my head a little closer to hers, trying to get a peek at her eyes through her choppy bangs. She was a good four inches shorter than me, and I wasn't exactly supermodel height.

"Thank you for your kindness, but really, I don't need it. I did it to myself, really." She looked up at me, and I was blown away by the immeasurable depth I saw in her bright green eyes. They were lightly lined with black, and her black mascara-ed eyelashes were a mile long. I found myself staring into her eyes, completely unable to stop.

I cleared my throat. "Why do you say that you did it to yourself?" I asked as I sat her down with me on my bench. I found myself wondering why I was so drawn to her and why I immediately let my guard down so completely with her. I figured it had to have been because of her obvious fragility. Everything about her screamed weakness and vulnerability. I couldn't stop myself from wanting to protect her.

"We were talking about savants in AP Psychology. I mentioned that I sometimes have dreams that tell the future. Everyone laughed. And now you probably will, too," she said, dropping her eyes back down and turning her head away from me.

"Hey, now. Don't be like that. I don't think it's weird. I think it's kind of awesome, actually. What have your dreams predicted?" I asked. In truth, I kind of thought she maybe was lying, but I was fascinated by her lilting voice and seeming fearlessness. She had to be fearless, saying something like that in a school filled with high school clichés and rich kids whose parents were all famous.

"I dreamt a year ago that I would be living somewhere new where I was surrounded by flowers. Then my grandmother died last month and left my mom her house. Every inch of her yard space is covered in flower plants: roses, daisies, sunflowers, you name it." She looked up at me again. "I kind of wish my dreams told me to keep my mouth shut, though." She offered me a small smile, and I returned it with a grin.

"What's your schedule like for the rest of the day?" I asked as I removed my arm from around her shoulders. I rummaged through my shoulder bag to find the ripped, crumpled piece of paper that held my own class schedule so I could show it to her. She opened up the textbook closest to her chest – coincidentally, her psychology book – and pulled out a crisp, clean piece of paper.

She took my schedule and examined it. "Oh, wow, we have all the same classes from this point on. English, theatre, and gym." She smiled at me again, this time wide enough to let her teeth show. She had one front tooth that stuck out just a tiny bit in front of the other one, and I found the trait absolutely endearing.

"I can get us out of those so easily it isn't even funny. Let's go hang out somewhere. We can't go to my house, though. Stepmother Number Three will report to Charlie that I skipped school, and I don't want to deal with him right now."

"I'm not quite sure about that," she said hesitantly. "I don't want to start off on the wrong foot here. Well, more than I have already."

"It's okay, we can stick around. Let's go to your place after class is over, though." I stood up, and New Girl followed suit. When I realized I was still calling her New Girl in my head, I asked, "Hey, what's your name?"

She smiled, gave me a bow, and said, "Alice Brandon, at your service."

Alice Brandon stayed glued to my side for the rest of the day. During the English class discussion of The Picture of Dorian Gray, she passed me a note that said, "I've read this book already. Have you read it?" I wrote back to her, telling her that I had, and we had a whole note conversation discussing the book and literature in general. Alice's insights to Dorian's actions, his quest for immortal youth, and his hedonistic qualities were far more intelligent than anything the rest of the class had to offer, and I found myself enjoying my interactions with her. Her theory that Basil was the one most to blame for Dorian's descent into hedonism was practically a breath of fresh air in comparison to everyone else, who took Wilde's words at face value. It was so strange, especially since I hadn't had a real friend since Angela Weber moved away when I was eight.

In theatre, we were still in the middle of our month-long Shakespeare study. The teacher told us to pair off and practice exchanges from Julius Caesar. Of course, Alice immediately grabbed my hand and pleaded with me using her eyes to choose her. In our practice, I found that she actually had a knack for acting even though her voice was so soft. It was something I'd have to work on with her. If she could just assert herself a little bit more, she wouldn't seem so breakable to the outside world. Or I could have been reading too much into things, either one.

After theatre, I turned to Alice and said, "Please, let's skip gym. I really don't feel like huffing and puffing around the track. Let's get out of here."

Alice looked at me, and then looked at the gym doors. "Yes, let's go. I'm horrible at sports," she said.

I grabbed her hand swiftly and led her to the parking lot. Her eyes widened as I stopped in front of Mom's black Porsche Cayman. I laughed and said, "I'll tell you all about why my car's so fancy on the way to your place. Lead the way, Ms. Brandon."


Thanks to Rob, queenofgrey, and izzzyy for their reading and editing love. Double thanks to queenofgrey for the amazing banner.

This chapter is heavily inspired by the book Violet and Claire by Francesca Lia Block. It is one of my favorites.

Thanks to all who are reading. Review if you wish. :)