------------| Type O Negative, continued |------------


Edward is not smiling when I see him the next day in the gym foyer. He's standing stiffly by a potted plant. He looks okay. Decent. Passable, even. You don't believe me? You see through my attempted nonchalance?

Fine.

He's standing there, all angles and steel and contrasts, in the type of suit that probably comes with a ridiculously recognizable foreign label. Someone should move the plant before it wilts in his brilliance. Good thing he's not my date. We'd give all the other couples a complex.

Well. We would if perhaps I'd taken this whole prom thing more seriously. But I'd decided in a last-minute fit of classic teenage rebellion that I was going to do my own thing. I mean, I enjoyed the bumblebee fiasco so much that I thought a repeat was in order. (Translation: I couldn't find anything to wear. You know, one of those times when you're sure that dress will work but then you try it on the day of your event and you think you must have been possessed to have brought it home. And why, oh why won't your closet proactively spew forth that perfect outfit from the stuff you have but you'd never thought of putting together?)

Because my closet wouldn't oblige, I took a stab at assembling my own outfit. I grabbed my little black dress and some accessories that I hoped would magically coordinate well enough for me to look put together. On the exterior, at least. Which is, after all, the facet that's all the rage.

And I tried for heels. I really did. After all, what's prom without a few blood blisters at the end of the night? But after taking one step down the stairs in a single, dainty heel and nearly plunging to my death, I thought: Who am I kidding? I went with my classic Converse.

This is the me that Edward now sees:

(1) Little, black knee-length dress
(2) Black shrug covering my shoulders
(3) Black Capri leggings hiding my chicken legs
(4) Classic Converse comfortably and sensibly encasing my feet
(5) Skinny red tie punctuating my neck

The tie was a last-minute addition. I mean, why wait for Halloween when you can do "prom gone wrong" on prom itself? The outfit has more of a kick to it that way. A quirky sidekick kick.

"Very eclectic." Edward smirks at me as I approach. Which, of course, means that I blush and look down at my feet. Edward and I shuffle in the line to enter the gym. I'm still looking at my feet as Edward and I pose for the traditional prom photo. His shiny shoes emphasize the dirt and scuffs on mine.

"Eyes front," he says to me just as the flash explodes in my eyeballs. I keep still. I know how these picture things go.

The lady shakes the Polaroid, takes one look, and says, "Let's do another one, dears." l don't have the heart to tell her that, in this case, repetition won't improve quality. But at least I have my eyes up and am looking at the camera.

Beside me, Edward no doubt does his best impression of an Abercrombie model. He puts a single hand on my lower back. The camera flashes just in time to catch my resulting expression. I snatch the photo out of the lady's hand before she's even finished shaking it out.

"Thanks," I add to offset my rudeness.

I look at the photo in my hand and see an expression on my face that I've never seen before. I'm not grimacing, I don't have my eyes closed, and I don't look my normal degree of photogenically challenged. I turn and slip the photo in the breast pocket of Edward's coat.

"Keep this to remember your magical evening by," I say as I give the pocket a pat.

"Will do," he says solemnly.

Edward and I wander toward the gym door as though we are connected by an invisible four-foot rope. We're not here together, obviously, but there is a tension between us, keeping us in the general vicinity. When I see Angela and Ben, I wave, but I don't head over. Like Edward, I have this thing against third wheels.

I find myself at the punch bowl. Edward eyes the bowls of mixed nuts and mints. I'm shocked when he scoops a couple of almonds and pops them into his mouth. I've never seen him eat before.

"I thought you were manorexic," I say to him over the increasing din. He steps a little closer to me, but not too close.

"What?" He seems startled.

No chance I'm repeating that.

"I said, do you want to go grab a seat?"

Yeah, I couldn't think of a word that rhymes with manorexic. Besides the obvious.

"Uh, sure."

We plant ourselves in a good vantage point where I can see all the late-breaking action that prom affords. By unspoken agreement, we leave one metal folding chair empty between us. After a while, Edward stretches an arm out over the empty chair and crosses a leg. I am not aware that his supple pianist fingers are mere inches from my right arm.

After only a few moments of uncomfortable silence during which I try to focus on not obsessing about how his fingers would feel playing the bumblebee song on my arm, we start joking about the various unlikely prom couples and the stories we've both heard about how people got asked. Edward has amazing insight. He knows that Tommy went into the bathroom and threw up before and after asking Jen. He knows that Clarissa turned down Connor after he subjected her to an elaborate treasure hunt because she wasn't sure who'd be at the end of it.

The later it gets, we watch the entrances become progressively more grand and the dance floor starts to fill.

Now Edward seems on edge, and I know what he's waiting for. A few more minutes, and there it is, ladies and gents: the grand entrance of the future king and queen of Forks High. Rosalie enters, Emmett the perfect accessory in his sharp tuxedo. She's dressed in a sparkling white diamond gown. And you guessed it—the lighting guy even throws an obliging spotlight.

The only thing that mars their entrance is a dark-clad figure who skirts past her to get in the door. It's James. He must have stepped on Rosalie's train (and did I miss the part where this event doubles as her wedding?) because she comes to an abrupt halt and turns to glare at him. James shrugs apologetically and smiles a smile that doesn't travel to his cold, blue eyes.

Beside me, Edward straightens and sits forward in his chair. He is staring at Rosalie. I watch James fade into the woodwork. Rosalie picks up where she left off and continues gliding into the dark gym. Edward is distracted the next time I try to talk to him. Two guesses as to why.

Edward's siblings enter next, and I nearly cackle to myself as their entrance eclipses Rosalie's continued progression to the dance floor. Jasper twirls Alice as they enter, and she spins gracefully, the movement in her dress artfully displayed. Alice looks over at Edward and me, but she and Jasper don't approach. Instead, they follow Rosalie to the dance floor.

We watch his siblings dance circles around the other couples for a while.

When Mr. Greene steps up to announce the prom court, I nearly fake yawn.

"Ten bucks says it's Rose and Em," I say.

Edward doesn't reply immediately.

"Um," is all he says.

I look over at him. He's scowling at Mr. Greene. He looks like he's sending Mr. Greene mind bullets. After much ado about nothing, Mr. Green eventually meanders to the debatable climax of his little speech.

"This year's Prom Queen is…Rosalie Hale!"

I applaud politely with one finger against my palm as she gushes to the front. And oh look, the crown complements her dress perfectly.

"And this year's Prom King is…"

Dramatic pause.

"Edward Cullen!" Mr. Greene states with false enthusiasm. You can tell that he'd rather be home on a Saturday night rather than chaperoning a group of kids playing at being adults.

Edward receives significantly more than polite applause. There may be screaming involved. And some crying. And at least one instance of fainting.

I don't scream. Or clap.

I had forgotten that students vote. I don't even remember seeing the ballot this year. Oh, that's right. Angela filled mine out for me. I asked her to read off the male/female candidates she thought least likely to win.

"Lauren and James," she answered immediately.

I remember thinking it weird that James made the list.

"Put me down for them," I said.

This is why I missed the fact that Edward was nominated. This is why I was not aware that I am technically, going to be stag by myself after all once he is crowned.

To her credit, Rosalie takes this development in stride. Edward less so, but he does at least stride toward this development. Rosalie gives Emmett a kiss on the cheek and steps over to take the traditional king and queen pictures with Edward. We all watch as they don the customary prom court regalia.

Edward looks uncomfortable. The crown is cocked oddly on his head because of his hair. He doesn't know what to do with the scepter. And the little red velvet cape looks cheap against his suit. Rosalie, of course, takes to the regalia like it was made for her. Come to think of it, it probably was.

I notice that Edward does not wrap an arm around Rosalie. He does not even put a hand at the small of her back. She makes up for it by wrapping herself around him like strands of ivy. I notice that Emmett looks just as uncomfortable as Edward. I also notice that the king and queen look absolutely stunning together.

As soon as picture time is over, Edward divests himself of the finery. He places his crown back on its blue satin pillow. I feel sorry for the crown because its debut is cut unexpectedly short this year. That's okay. Rosalie's use of her crown will more than make up for it.

I think for a second that Edward is coming back to me. He looks over the crowd and seems satisfied that I'm still sitting here. He starts in my general direction. Then he freezes with a look of concentration on his face. I've seen it before, usually right before he does something weird.

He doesn't disappoint. Edward walks right up to Rosalie, whom Emmett is escorting back to the dance floor, and whispers something in her ear. She flashes Edward a radiant smile and offers him her arm. Emmett looks stoic, but the type of stoic you might see after a guy gets kicked in the balls. It's almost painful to watch him try not to crumble. Edward escorts Rosalie to the dance floor. They start to dance.

And yes, there's a spotlight.

Not like Edward even needs it. Every eye in the gym is on him as he dances with Rosalie. Everyone holds his or her breath as Edward twirls her and dips her and makes her even more beautiful. Edward has this effect on people. Rosalie basks in his reflected glory. The crystals in her gown and crown catch the light just so. You can just see girls throughout the gym mentally crawl into a little hole.

The chair beside me scrapes unexpectedly. I look up to see Emmett in his sharp tuxedo stealing Edward's chair. I find this only fair since Edward is stealing something of his.

Emmett has not spoken to me since elementary school. In a few minutes, we're chatting like old friends. After all, we have something very much in common right now. After asking me how I've been (super), what I'm thinking so far about prom (little), and how I feel about the level of homework distributed by the Forks High teachers (ambivalent), Emmett gets down to business.

"Is it just me, or is that dude trying to steal my girlfriend?"

I think: It's not just you.

I say, "Rosalie is crazy about you."

She'd be crazy not to be. He ponders this for a bit. I didn't really answer his question, which is, in and of itself, an answer.

"Do you think I could take him?"

I look Emmett up and down. I size him up. On the one hand, you have your iron-pumping sports superstar. On the other hand, you have your car-stopping creepy superhero. As much as I'd like to see Edward receive a good pummeling right now, Emmett's not the guy I would send in there.

"No, probably not."

His face falls.

"You're probably right. There's something about him. I can't quite put my finger on it. It's like he's…"

"Creepy? Fiendish? Sociopathic?"

Emmett stares. "Uh, I was going to say 'dangerous.' But yeah, that works. I think."

He looks speculative as he continues watching his girlfriend shine in the arms of another man. Edward and Rosalie do a particularly elaborate dip move. As Emmett leans forward to get a better view, I glance at the watch on his left wrist. Would you look at the time? Time to go.

"I forgot I have some laundry to do," I mumble to Emmett and quickly make my escape. It's a testament to how despondent he is that he merely mumbles, "Yeah, I probably do, too" and waves me a feeble goodbye. Perhaps he thinks laundry is the new euphemism for homework.

I tell myself that I'm not leaving because I'm uncomfortable. That I'm glad Edward is happy. That I'm glad he and his heroine are enjoying their moment in the sun.

Fine, I'm lying. Let's face it. I'm leaving because I never asked to know Edward's secrets. I didn't ask him to save me. I didn't ask him to show me the man behind the mask. But he did, he's saved me, he's let me really see him, and now that I've felt his touch and seen this much, I need to feel and see more.

Clearly, there's something wrong with me; I'm obsessing about a boy who can barely stand to be in the same room with me, a boy who I didn't even know existed two months ago and who acted like I didn't exist up until two weeks ago. Now that I know some of his secrets, I want to know them all. I want to scrape off his mask entirely and look into his true face and have him look into mine and get inside his head and see what thoughts are lurking behind those dangerous, beautiful eyes.

And I want him to explain what he's done to make me care so much and why I wish more than ever to be Rosalie so I that I could capture his gaze. So that I would know what his arms feel like.

What his skin feels like.

Instead, I flee like the world's biggest coward through the dark school halls toward Nellie, my salvation. Just as the neon exit sign beckons, my exodus is interrupted by a sound, a rather violent sound that resonates so well with my current mental state that I stop. I look over to see James punching a locker.

He seems…perturbed. I know exactly how he feels. Some of his blonde hair has escaped his pony tail and is fanning erratically around his face. He turns his head, and his cold blue eyes stare me down. I think: That's what you get for nominating yourself Prom King. I want to tell him that he got at least one vote. I want to stand here and pound some lockers with him.

But I don't.

His expression is not what you'd call inviting. You'd call it creepy, fiendish, or sociopathic. If you were really looking and weren't too wrapped up in your own small life.

Tomorrow, I would wish that my thoughts hadn't been so focused on freaky yellow eyes that I failed to see the fiendish gleam in blue ones.

But tonight, any unease I feel is trumped by the need to flee.


Sunday morning, I wake up late, the sun already having asserted its dominance in the sky. It probably has something to do with the fact that my dreams were plagued with freaky eyes of both the cold-blue and golden-yellow variety and of people leaving handprints in shiny red lockers.

By the time I get up, Charlie is already gone. He goes fishing very early every Sunday because fish are apparently early risers. I get up because someone is knocking at the front door. I can't imagine who this might be. I shuffle downstairs in my frayed bathrobe and pink bunny slippers and stifle a yawn. I look out the peep hole. I see a single freaky yellow eye grossly magnified and distorted.

Crap.

Edward is standing on my front porch.

"Give me a minute," I say and nearly fall over myself racing back up the stairs. I take one look in the bathroom mirror and decide that one minute simply isn't going to cut it. That's okay. The owner of the freakishly distorted yellow eye can most certainly wait. I brush my teeth and hair, put on real clothes, and wash my face. I look in the mirror again and decide that this will have to do.

When I open the front door, Edward is standing at the edge of the porch looking out at the empty lot across the street. The increasing wind is ruffling his hair. From the ominous look of the sky behind him, I'd say a storm is in order. He turns to face me.

"I'm sorry to bother you," he says with that formal diction of his, "but we need to talk."

I'm thinking: I don't have anything to say.

But I reply, "Okay."

"Would you walk with me?" he says.

I look pointedly over his shoulder at the sky. When he continues to await my response, I shrug and nod. A little Forks rain never hurt anyone. If it did, no one would live here. We start on a path into the nearby woods.

"Something happened at prom last night," he starts.

A lot of things happened at prom last night.

"Can you be more specific?"

He doesn't respond immediately. I can see that he's uncomfortable. I can see that he doesn't know how to spit out whatever is bothering him. I want him to talk to me so badly I can almost taste it. We come to a fallen log and he stops there. This is probably as good a place as any for a knock-down drag-out, so I sit on the log and wait.

"Something that someone was thinking is concerning."

Ooh, can we possibly be more cryptic and vague?

Let's try.

"And how do you know what that certain someone thought?"

Edward closes his eyes for a second. He lets out a shaky breath as though he's decided to tell me something important. I wonder if this is it. I wonder if Edward and Rosalie are finally together. I wonder if he has stopped by to make sure I don't have the wrong idea after our non-date at prom.

This is what I'm sitting here thinking as I stare at Edward being indecisive.

This is what I'm thinking when Edward drops the bomb.

"I don't expect you to believe me, but I know what everyone in the school thinks. About themselves and everyone else."

I think: Freaky yellow eyes.

I think: Well, sock me sideways. Not telekinesis after all like that book I read. It was telepathy the whole time.

This is not the way I imagined this conversation going in my head last night. The conversation in my head had a lot more name-calling. Down-putting. You know. The stuff I'm great at writing in my head.

I don't think I could have imagined this.

I stare at his freaky yellow eyes. Eyes that, by the way, aren't staring at me back. As usual, they are looking at the ground, at the log, at the sky, at his feet. But he seems sincere. He doesn't seem to be joking.

Let's get our facts straight, shall we?

"You know what everyone thinks."

"Yes."

"Their private thoughts."

"Right."

"Their utmost dreams."

"Correct."

"Their deepest desires."

"If they think about them."

"Was your mom exposed to a weird chemical when pregnant with you?"

"Uh…not that I know of."

I pause for a second to contemplate.

"Then I don't believe you."

He cocks his head. "That's fair. Ask me something you don't think I should know."

Is this a trick question? I can think of a lot of things, but I'm certainly not going to clue him in on those things if he doesn't already know them.

Let's try something…tricksie.

"Surprise me," I say. "Tell me something you don't think I know. About our peers. About any of them."

About me.

Edward looks down at his feet for a second. He takes a deep breath.

"Jessica has had a crush on Mike Newton for forever but has held off making her move because she thinks he's in love with you. Lauren would do almost anything to be head cheerleader next year. Tyler was looking down at his cell phone when he nearly hit you with his car."

"That's easy stuff," I scoff. "You could find out that stuff without reading minds."

Edward's face hardens. Yeah, that's right, pretty boy. I already know about your façade. You can't just flutter your golden eyes at me and expect me to buy this cockamamie bull story. This is probably the most elaborate, misguided, and confusing apology/rejection that I've ever heard. If that's where you're even going with this. I can't tell anymore. Edward takes another breath.

"Jessica's parents have been secretly separated for over a year. She's being more rude than usual in the hope that no one will find out.

"Lauren has mild dyslexia. She's hidden it from her friends all these years but gets tripped up every so often, particularly when making those extra-large cheerleading signs.

"Tyler is on steroids to try and get huge before football season. He's determined to beat out Mike for starting wide receiver."

He pauses for a beat.

"James is planning to kill Rosalie."

Inside, I'm reeling.

"How do you know all this?" I whisper.

I'm thinking: Freaky yellow eyes.

"I told you. I know all this," he says, "because I can read minds." His voice is patient, as though he's explaining something to a small child. "These things that most of your peers think and feel are normal."

I notice how he says my peers.

"But James' mind is not normal."

Define normal.

"He's become obsessed with Rosalie over the years, ever since he went on one date with her in ninth grade while she and Emmett were on a brief hiatus. He's dedicated himself to winning her back."

Edward paces. His arms are very stiff by his side.

"He has a shrine to her in his locker. He had this fantasy of the perfect prom. Him wearing the finest tux. Her wearing a beautiful white dress.

"He would ask her to dance. If she said yes out of pity, he would pull out his grandfather's silver hunting knife and would stab her through the heart."

In my mind, I see bloodstains spreading across a beautiful white dress. I see nearby students screaming and crying. I see Rosalie's pale white face, her mouth open in a small 'o'. I see Lauren crying in the girl's bathroom after a pep rally because everyone made fun of her backwards sign. I see Jessica alienating her former friends (myself included) in an effort to prevent them from finding out about the parents she's ashamed of.

"I couldn't let Rosalie say yes. I had to ask her to dance instead."

Edward turns to me. His yellow eyes gleam.

"I foiled his plan. My action caused a chain reaction in his brain."

That led all the way to James savagely punching lockers, apparently. I remember the cold, blue eyes in my nightmares, and I shudder. I hug my arms close to my body to warm myself against the sudden chill.

"He wants to punish me. He plans to kill Rosalie. If he can't have her, no one can. I may have to stop him."

Edward is tortured. Edward may resort to desperate means to prevent James from hurting his precious Rosalie. This sounds menacing. And dangerous. I'm thinking that the hands that left handprints in Tyler Crowley's van could do wonders with fragile flesh.

I'm thinking: I can't believe I thought he'd come to apologize.

I'm thinking: Why are you telling me this?

"We have to tell the police."

Edward scoffs. "I have no proof."

"We could leave an anonymous tip about the shrine in James' locker."

"Shrines aren't a crime. Open up the lockers of half the girls in school, and you'll see shrines to boy bands or the latest 'it' boy."

Himself included, I'm sure.

"We have to do something."

"I've been down this road before. Humans will not heed my warning if I don't have proof."

I stare at him. He said "humans" as though he is not one. It would be like me saying "Girls are stupid." I'm thinking that a lot of things are finally starting to make sense. I'm thinking: Twilight Zone. I'm thinking about speed, strength, and cold skin. I'm thinking capes and costumes and plastic teeth with incisor fangs. And freaky yellow eyes. There's always something about those freaky yellow eyes…

I'm thinking: Can you read my mind?

I'm thinking: If you can, would shooting me now be too much to ask?

I'm thinking: My dad will help. He is the Chief of Police. I'm his daughter; he'll listen to me. But Edward does not look encouraged. His expression does not change. Almost as though he can't hear me.

This makes me doubt his story. This makes him seem crazier than I already think he is. This is me trying mentally to get a rise out of Edward.

Still no change in Edward's expression.

"I will have to stop him myself," Edward muses, more to himself now than to me. "It will be very easy."

Either Edward has ignored my internal monologue or there's something he's not telling me.

"Is there something you're not telling me?"


What Edward is not telling me is that, out of all the minds in the world, mine is the only one that is not an open book. When he tells me this, I reply that it's likely because my train of thought never left the station. My mind is a blank slate. I'm the mental equivalent of a dull-eyed cow chewing its cud.

He doesn't buy it.

"You think enough for the both of us," he mutters.

Did I mention that I suck at compliments? Did I mention I'm relieved? It's one thing to be obsessed with someone and quite another thing to have them know you are.

Behind us, someone approaches. Edward is not surprised.

"I hear you're thinking of killing someone," Alice Cullen says. I have never seen her up close before. I don't know what she's doing here.

"Killing." I look between her and Edward. I'm confused. "Who said anything about killing?"

"Edward is planning his attack now," Alice says breezily. She's looking at her cuticles, clearly unconcerned.

"Do you read minds, too?"

Really, I'm numb to surprise at this moment.

"Oh no," Alice laughs. "I see the future."

Scratch that.

I boggle at this for a while.

"Let me get this straight," I say. "Between a mind-reader and a fortune-teller, we can't figure out a better way to save Rosalie than killing someone?"

"Well," Alice says doubtfully. "Killing is Edward's modus operandi. Didn't he tell you?"

"Alice," Edward frowns. "You're jumping ahead. We're not even close to getting to that part yet."

"Ah. Sorry."

My mind spins at the implication of their words. But I'm on to something that won't involve killing.

"My dad is the Chief of Police."

This gets their attention.

"I'm listening," Edward says.

"I'm looking," Alice says. Her eyes are unfocused.

"Yes," she says. "It might work."


It almost doesn't work. We almost don't get there in time. James acts much more quickly than Edward and Alice expected. As the rain drops start to fall, Edward says, "Let's go." He takes my hand, and we run back to his car. I can feel the tension in his arm as he helps me stay upright. We jump in his silver Volvo just as the rain starts to fall in earnest.

Edward calls Rosalie's house, and her mom answers that Rosalie is not there. Some boy with a pony tail came by a few minutes ago, and they went for a drive.

"Why didn't you see this coming?" Edward bites at Alice when he hangs up the phone.

"Psychotic people are hard to predict," she says. "I don't think he knew what he was going to do until he actually did it."

When freaky yellow powers fail, it's time for some good, old-fashioned daddy's girl charm. Edward shoves his phone at me.

"Call your dad."

Charlie picks up on the fourth ring. We are lucky that he remembered to bring his cell phone fishing. Sometimes, after a week of work has been particularly difficult, he doesn't always remember.

I quickly convince Charlie that fiendish plots are afoot. He's my dad, he listens to me. I tell him about James' shrine to Rosalie that I happened to see one day. I tell him about the look on James' face when he punched Rosalie's locker last night.

Charlie shifts into cop mode and asks me a series of questions. As I'm talking to him, I can hear him packing up his gear and getting into his truck. Charlie won't wait until Rosalie has been missing for 24 hours. He and his team will act immediately. But will it be soon enough?

Alice shakes her head at the unspoken question in Edward's eyes.

"Where is James taking her?" Edward growls.

"I can't be sure," she says. "A warehouse. With mirrors. I think some type of gymnastic equipment."

"The Cheer House," I say, and they both turn to look at me. "Rosalie takes cheerleading classes there."

Edward shifts his car into gear. The engine revs.

"Can you tell me how to get there?"

Edward's driving on the way to Port Angeles? Nothing. Edward's driving in the rain down muddy side roads to rescue Rosalie from a psychotic killer? Something. I close my eyes and trust in the powers behind his freaky yellow eyes. I trust that we won't get there too late.

Faster than I could have imagined, we're pulling up in front of a slightly dilapidated old barn that someone has painted in bright reds and yellows to make it look cheerful. The Volvo barely skids to a stop before Edward and Alice have their doors open.

"Stay here," Edward growls.

Of course, as soon as he and Alice are out of sight, I open my car door and follow them into the darkness of the Cheer House. It's not open on Sundays.

When I round the corner of the main entrance, I hear crying and yelling and snarling. I see Rosalie hanging upside down from the rings, her feet and hands tied. A flash of lightning illuminates her tomato face for a second, then she fades back to gloom.

A flash, and I see two figures locked together in front of her. One of them is holding a knife. I'm terrified, my heart is beating out of my chest, but I can't stop scanning the darkness for movement.

Scuffling.

Another flash, and the figures have moved, impossibly fast, up against one of the nearby walls covered in mirror.

Crunching.

Flash: Edward grabs the hair on the top of James' scalp and shoves his head against the mirror. Hard enough to shatter the glass in a halo around the point of impact.

Cracking.

Flash: Alice cuts Rosalie down from the rings. I think she used her teeth to bite through the rope.

Falling.

Flash: Rosalie stares at James with tears streaming down her cheeks.

Sobbing.

Flash: Edward presses James up against the wall. I can see the reflection of his expression even though his back is to me. His eyes are dark, and they meet mine for a moment. His face is twisted in a snarl. For a second, I think he's going to do more to James than merely smash his head up against the mirror.

James is not helping.

"What are you waiting for? Coward," he sneers. He's practically begging for Edward to kill him.

Edward doesn't look at James. He keeps staring at me in the mirror with his freaky dark eyes.

He's looking at me. Not at Rosalie, not at Alice, at me.

And I don't have a clue what he sees.

In the distance, I hear the sound of Charlie's sirens. In one swift movement, Edward pushes James to the ground. He beckons Alice over to come stand guard. When James tries to stand, dainty little Alice snarls at him and presses a dainty little foot against his back. James' cheek slams back into the tumbling mat. He doesn't try to move again.

As I stand looking at the shattered glass wall in front of me, I think that the three of us make a good team. Even though I lack freaky yellow eyes.

Apparently, Edward doesn't think so.

I look across the room and see him and Rosalie kissing.

Her arms are locked around his neck. He's probably giving her the opportunity to express her gratitude. No matter which way I look, I can see their reflection in a different mirror. I bet Edward is the best kisser ever. After all, he knows exactly what you want. Or at least what Rosalie wants.

Lucky Rosalie. I'm sure they'll be very happy together.

Lucky me. As always, the sidekick remains on the sidelines.

Charlie and his team swarm the Cheer House. Charlie asks me if I'm okay. When I nod, he hurries over to Alice and James.

As I turn to leave, I hear Alice call out to me. But I keep walking.

The police will need my statement.

I see Emmett's truck arrive. It skids in the mud. I think: This could get messy. To his credit, Emmett doesn't merely barrel past me. He stops and really looks at me.

"Are you okay?"

My eyes brim with tears, but the rain running down my face serves as the perfect mask to prevent him from seeing me cry.

"I'm fine, actually. Everything is fine."

Where's my "I'm fine" shirt when I need it? He's torn. I make it easy for him.

"Rosalie's waiting for you inside."

I hope this is true, for his sake. I know how hurtful a kiss can be.

I give Charlie's deputy my statement. I lie through my teeth when he asks how we knew where James and Rosalie would be. Then I walk over to open the passenger side of Charlie's police cruiser. Normally I'm uncomfortable riding in his car. But right now, it feels like the only place I have left. I sit in the car, shivering, until the deputy finishes taking everyone's statements.

Charlie slides into the driver's seat. He gives my hand a squeeze before starting the car. I look in the rear view mirror and see that Edward and Alice are watching us drive away.