Chapter 2
When you're strange
Faces come out of the rain
When you're strange
No one remembers your name
- "People are Strange", Jim Morrison and The Doors
Shuffle, scuff. Shuffle scuff. Almost. I almost turned to look.
The rumor is, he killed his parents. Or stabbed one of them. Or something.
No one told me specifically since no one talks to me, but that's what I heard Jessica Stanley tell Angela Weber in gym. I was up above them in the bleachers that pull out of the wall, watching the volleyball game my forged doctor's note got me out of when I heard it over the echo of sneakers squeaking on the shiny wood floor.
"Oh yeah, he totally did. The guy's a psychopath," Jessica said, as she flipped her hair and leaned back on the bench behind her. I looked at her perfect, pink manicure laying on the wood in front of me and then at my own, the black polish I'd put on weeks ago clinging to life in the center of each nail.
"He didn't kill them, he stabbed his father," Angela chimed in. She looked around quickly before continuing, her voice lowering so as not to be overheard. "He's just so creepy. Walking around with ratty old clothes all the time. I mean, can't the guy afford a new shirt? He wore that stupid Sex Pistols one twice last week." She shook her head in disgust, her black ponytail bouncing behind her. "His uncle is loaded, I mean, really."
They continued on for a bit about his clothing before moving to the more mundane facets of their life, neither being smart enough to question that if he actually had killed his folks, or even just attacked one, it's highly doubtful he'd be attending our high school. I had laughed quietly at their idiocy, secretly wishing he had been somewhere lurking, listening, ready to pounce and perhaps show these two fuckwits some real violence.
Visions of Angela's and Jessica's heads being smashed together made me smile, and I returned to tuning them out. Their conversation stuck with me over the next few days though, as I hadn't really heard anyone have the balls to talk about him before that moment. Everyone seemed scared of him, wary of his presence and afraid to mention him.
It was possibly due to the fact that he seemed to find pleasure in terrorizing people. No one spoke to Edward Masen, unless you wanted to be growled at before he laughed maniacally and walked away from your stunned, opened mouth. I'd watched from afar as he'd take his hands out of his leather pockets, raised both of them in the air, and punched two middle fingers at a teacher. I revered him as he blatantly smoked in the hallway, fantastically not giving two fucks.
My fascination grew, and that conversation between Jessica and Angela only fed my escalating need. I found myself desperately wanting more information.
I started to move closer to people instead of away, hoping to hear more about this strange, possibly volatile Edward Masen, but I heard nothing. I was thankful no one noticed my sudden nearness, a proximity that could put myself at the mercy of their taunting attention that appeared to have faded in the last few months, settling me into a new unseen existence that I savored. Maybe they'd moved on from me. Maybe the appearance of Edward Masen finally returned things to normal and made people forget that Bella Swine, with her greasy hair and lack of social skills, existed.
I had never minded not having a lot of friends growing up. I liked being alone; I liked not having to talk if I didn't want to. There was a time when Angela Weber and I would play Barbie's at her house while our mothers would eat a crumb cake ring, drink coffee, and smoke in the kitchen. I think she was forced to have me as a play date, because when we played, her Barbie with the shiny, golden fake locks would go out on dates, while mine with the short, choppy hairdo courtesy of Angela's little sister would stay home and have to clean up the clothes she left in her frenzy to go out with Ken. Once we outgrew Barbie, our mothers stopped the forced playdates, but Angela would still say 'hi' to me in the halls, or chat with me in a class we shared.
But once your mother walks into a Wal-Mart with a loaded gun aimed at your former play date's father, you lose whatever lingering friendship had been carried over into your teens pretty quickly.
That being said, I did exist to one person in school, though he'd never approached me in front of anyone.
Mike Newton was kind of nice to me before "the incident". He wouldn't go out of his way to pick on me like the others did, but like everyone else, he made me a pariah after, following but rarely joining the in-crowd in their public harassment. He paid his attention to me in private, and when he'd come knocking, I'd let him in, even though I wasn't fooled into thinking that he thought anything of me other than someone to ease his needs. Mike's steady girlfriend, Jessica, was the head of the school's Devoted Baptists for Abstinence Group. Or as I called them, the D-BAGS.
Mike's interest in me was not reciprocated; in fact, I had no interest in anything. I laughed at the idea of joining any school groups, and thankfully, no one cared that I didn't. Guidance counselors never called me in to discuss college applications, and teachers didn't try to get me to join class discussions. At home, I didn't particularly enjoy reading, but would if I was completely bored, re-reading a dog-eared copy of Wifey my father forgot to pack into a box of Momma's things for Goodwill. I didn't have much interest in TV, as the fake, shiny lives of the actors made me feel uneasy. Mrs. McCarty tried to teach me to knit once, but honestly, what the fuck would I need a scratchy, heavy blanket for in the Florida heat? And I sure as hell wasn't interested in knitting baby booties.
Having never really been interested in something made what was going on inside me extremely confusing. I was never obsessed with boy bands, teen movie stars or anyone, really, but the day I overheard Mrs. Cope talking to Principal Black, saying that Edward Masen might be "violent", "unmanageable", "possibly on drugs", and/or a "sociopath", I found myself starting to become fixated on something that interested me for the first time in a long time.
Shuffle, scuff. Shuffle, scuff. I looked at the boots as they walked by me, and my eyes travelled up a bit to see the same dirty jeans.
He sat alone under one of the big green ash trees for our shared lunch period. This I found out when instead of hiding in the basement bathroom next to the wood shop like I spent most of my tortured days, I ventured out, hoping the climate towards me had continued into one of oblivion. I crept through the smelly old boiler room and up the stairs that led to the open quad wanting to observe from a safe distance. I wasn't sure he'd be out there, but as soon as I picked my head up, I saw him about fifty feet in front of me, so I sat on those gray cement steps and watched him, happy to observe him quietly.
Under my veil of hair and behind a history book I'd never opened, I watched as he used a knife pulled from the pocket of his leather jacket to cut uneven chunks out of an apple. I observed the dull light through the shade of the tree touch upon the metal before he speared the slices and stuck the knife and apple in his mouth. He ate quickly, and I worried he'd cut his lip. I'd sit and wait for the sign of blood to trickle down his chin, but it never did. He didn't strike me as "an apple a day" kind of guy, but the apple never changed into anything else during his meal. I found the contrast of his hellish exterior to the health and freshness of his food intriguing. I kept my stare on his mouth, never venturing up to his eyes; confident he was unaware of my presence.
I took notice of our positions; me separated from him by the hot, cracked parking lot and the weeds that struggled to grow between the fissures, to him in front of me and lying against that rough tree trunk. No one surrounded him for a good fifty feet in any direction; even the picnic tables in the shade near him remained empty, forming a radiant circle that was practically visible, an odd, wavering line like a mirage on hot asphalt. Why he sat there at all made me curious, and I wondered if he perhaps liked knowing he made people uneasy, and sat there as a form of entertainment. I admired his boldness, his confidence. The way he didn't care if he creeped people out.
So I soon altered my regular lunch routine, and sat outside to be near him. Every day, when he was done with his apple, he'd throw the core at someone. Whoever happened to be the closest, unfortunate person on that invisible border. He'd miss sometimes, but other times the apple would land with a thump onto someone's back or leg. No one ever turned to look or complain, and I saw the circle widening with each day that passed. I would smile behind my book and hope Mike Newton would soon cross that line by mistake.
I'd watch, as he would pull out a red pack of cigarettes and a Zippo, clenching one in his mouth while quickly flicking the flame. He'd cup his hand around the end he was lighting, his head always tipped to the right as he did so.
Shuffle, scuff. Shuffle, scuff. His arms were well defined, the veins prominent as he held his hands in tight fists.
He was nineteen, I'd learned from Mrs. McCarty the day I finally had the nerve to ask someone about him. I was helping her throw the twins' bed sheets over the wash line our row of trailers shared, pinning them up and trying not to let them graze the dusty ground as they pulled on the weathered, wilted wire. She was always filling me in on the local gossip, never noticing I didn't care much. Mrs. McCarty knew everything and everyone in town, her job as a cashier down at the Publix made her central in a breeding ground of other people's business.
I wondered if he was held back from whatever school he'd been to before he landed in my miserable neck of the woods, or had he maybe done some juvie time. My mind started wandering; envisioning different fantasies of what Edward Masen might do to land himself in baby prison. I thought of the rumor of him killing his folks or stabbing his father at least. The memory of that glint of the knife in his mouth every day brought a stirring of awe to my body, and I wondered if it perhaps was the knife he used. Mrs. McCarty didn't know the reason when I asked why he was older than the rest of my class. She asked me why I wanted to know, and I shrugged her off, playing that it was just conversation on a hot day to pass the time. My fascination with Edward Masen was not one I was ready to share with anyone.
She went on to say she'd heard his folks were dead, and she mentioned he'd moved here with his aunt and uncle, who owned the major appliance store on the highway, from the other side of Alachua County. He'd been kicked out of the school in Keystone Heights over by the lake, and the only school that would take him in was ours. She hinted at money changing hands, favors offered, and told me that it would be in my best interest if I forgot all about some boy and just got the fuck out of Archer when school ended in two months, lest I get knocked up and left in a trailer park with a belly full of babies. As she said this, she flung the permanently stained crib sheet of her youngest over the line with a grunt, making it sag even more.
Shuffle, scuff. Shuffle, scuff. There was no rip in the neckline of his shirt that day.
Time went on, nothing changed. Life was as stagnant as a puddle attracting mosquitos. Daddy went to work and came home with the twelve-pack of cans under his arm when he wasn't on night shift. I'd try to make him eat something, and sometimes he did. I couldn't really cook, but I'd make him a sandwich or save some of Mrs. McCarty's casserole for him. He'd ask me about my day, I'd grunt 'fine' and when he was done, he'd step out the creaky door. I'd hear the slushing of ice as he dug around in that faded blue cooler and I'd make my way to bed, another night spent staring at the ceiling, wishing for some other life.
Nothing changed with Edward Masen either. It didn't make me want to observe him less. There was something comforting in knowing that he'd be there, day in, day out, under that big tree by himself. He ate his apple and smoked as I watched. People stayed away from both of us, which made me feel close to him. It made me wonder if he had anyone he was close to, and it made me think about aunts and uncles and possibly dead parents.
One day, as I came out of English lagging behind everyone as per usual, I walked directly into a commotion in the hallway. Normally, I'd slink away a little in fear of being taunted for something or other, but once I saw the bronze head of Edward Masen in the distance, taller than those surrounding him, I couldn't make my feet go. I stepped off to the side behind everyone, and craned my neck, trying to see what was going down. I couldn't make out what had happened, but the whispers around me told a tale of a locker search and a knife. My heart started beating in trepidation, and I wondered if they confiscated his knife, how would he eat his lunch?
I felt bad for him. It was the first time in a long time I'd felt empathy towards another human being.
I watched as he got pulled away by the principal, an angry 'fuck you' rising above the crowd as his arm jerked out of the small man's grasp, nearly hitting Mr. Banner in the process. I must've laughed a little, probably an unused, strangled sound, because just then, Mike Newton turned and looked right at me. I became alarmed at his stare, my unease revived as he winked one blue eye. I immediately darted away; confused by the fact that he took the risk of taking notice of me so openly. I hoped for a casserole to appear that night, but knew that my luck was never something to place a bet on.
Later, as I was heading towards my last hated class and sending out mental vibes of tuna fish and breadcrumbs to Mrs. McCarty, the main office door came into view and I slowed, seeing Edward Masen sitting in one of the uncomfortable metal chairs, legs splayed, arms crossed angrily across his chest. I could see who I assumed was the uncle and the principal talking just feet away from him, and I heard the words "punishment", "discount" and then a handshake between the two men. I flattened my back to the wall and looked to my feet as the uncle told Edward to get up, and peeked at the pair as they left the office, watching their backs as they went.
"Edward," the uncle said, seemingly not very angry, "no more knives. I thought we discussed this."
No answer from Edward Masen.
Shuffle, scuff. Shuffle, scuff. His jaw was heavy with stubble, his mouth tense.
The game had been changed.
For the second day in a row, Mike Newton scared the shit out of me. He held back after math to tell me to expect him since I hadn't been home the night prior. He had always just shown up before, usually stoned, his shirt darkened with sweat from having walked through the muggy evening, coming from his development to mine. I had assumed all those months he'd been sniffing around me that he would come on a whim, when the mood struck him and his hand was getting sore. The thought that he planned his visits to me during school hours skeeved me out more than him coming over at all. I did not wish for Mike Newton to give me more thought than time it took him to get hard, and I sure as fuck did not like Mike Newton approaching me in public.
As I'd hoped the day before when he'd startled me with his wink, I had come home to a nice cheese, chicken and potato casserole, freshly baked and smelling divine. I think Mrs. McCarty's dinners tasted so good more so because of what they represented than what was actually in them. I'd watched the door of my trailer that night from her kitchen window, through the cheerful stickers brat one and two had placed there, as Mike Newton tapped and knocked timidly, until at one point, I watched as his foot lashed out irately and kicked my door. His frustration startled me, as I'd watched him out there on other nights, when all he'd do was knock a few times, wait, and then head on back home. He'd never kicked before; he'd never been an angry guy.
When I was home and allowed him in, he'd smile and try to be nice, maybe try to talk to me about something, but I'd make sure it was done quickly. I'd cut the unwanted chitchat and I'd blow him, just to get rid of him. Every once in a while, when he had that look of wanting more, and I wasn't completely opposed to it, I'd let him fuck me while I lay on the old, worn out couch in my trailer, staring at the crack in the vinyl ceiling.
I'd count the flies that circled above, watching as they got caught in the sticky paper my father hung above the kitchen sink.
He'd heave and jerk, coming fast, and I'd just wait for the inevitable "thanks" while he pulled out, throwing the used condom in the kitchen garbage before leaving the trailer with a slap of the screen door. It was what it was.
But now, because he had decided to go batshit and get bold, I couldn't observe Edward Masen at lunch. I had panicked, hating and berating myself simultaneously as I ran and hid like a coward, sitting myself on my perch, the sink way down in the basement bathroom. Back where I belonged. The constant drip, drip from the rusty faucet kept time with my legs as they swung back and forth, my head hanging low in dejection.
I'd let Mike Newton take the only thing I had found a glimmer of hope about in my miserable life on that day.
Watching Edward, his apple, and his knife.
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From the planetblue Archive of Awesome Fic List:
The Education of Professor Cullen by sheviking
College professor Edward Cullen is thoroughly annoyed by his student Ms. Swan. Everything about her bothers him, and he longs for the semester to be over. But what happens when he meets her one night when they aren't in school?
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