Chp. 8: Clementines

I run my hands across his leather seats, the tears and imperfections rough under my skin. Crusted over spots of old ketchup, mustard, or some other sort of condiment mar the smooth black upholstery. I'm up to my ankles in old fast food debris, hence the condiment assumption over the source of the crust.

Years ago there was a rickety taco stand down in La Push that got shut down by the health department; people still talk about their taquitos as if they are things of legend. Apart from that there has never been any McDonalds, Burger Kings, or Wendy's within three zip codes.

Edward has lived in Forks for a month now.

Put this time line together in your mind and really think about it. Only then will you begin to understand the funk I smell in this instant. Funk is really the only word for it.

I feel sealed in, like a Ziploc bag, stuck with the heavy aroma of putrid leftover fries. I imagine a hint of rotting tomato in the fumes. Edward seems like the type to pull the tomatoes off his burgers.

Moments ago, I was worried he'd be one of those boys that freaks over their car; the type to wash and polish their treasured item as if it were his phallus. Jasper has these tendencies. While his Vega is undeniably a beater car, the shimmer it brings to his eyes would appear to make it worthy of being dipped in bronze for a keepsake.

He wouldn't let me smoke in it for the first six months we were friends. That was back when I was a pack a day person, and he eventually got sick of pulling over to the side of the road for me to steal a quick cigarette. While his prohibition has ebbed, he still has a window-all-the-way-down policy, even in the winter.

I have this one frozen moment to be alone in Edward's Volvo, and I'm spending it wishing for one of those convenient tree shaped air fresheners to hang from his rear view mirror like a talisman against the bugs I know are crawling around in here.

Retreating from the bedroom of sexual immorality was an impulsive decision. Now, Edward will be joining me in approximately ten seconds. I will have to make an attempt to be normal and socially appropriate.

This may have been a poor choice.

Jasper once teased that I should keep an index card tucked in my pocket for situations just like this. At the time, I told him that if I couldn't just talk to someone it wasn't worth the effort of forcing a topic. Silence is more my style, I wear it like an old friend.

Now, however, I find myself wishing he had pulled through on the concept and supplied me with a list of conversation starters.

Edward is leaning outside of his door and texting someone at an alarming rate on his phone, his thumb taps on the keypad in sync with my racing heart rate over the impending isolation for two.

Already, the adrenaline of escape has fled, leaving me empty and tense in its wake.

Edward cracks his door and slides into his seat, glancing down at my feet to belatedly notice the mess.

"Your car smells like death. I'm pretty sure there is something alive crawling on my foot," why the comment comes out in almost a whisper, I'm not quite sure. My brain told my voice to be light and humorous, but my body is operating in panic mode and prone to disobey.

"Sorry 'bout that," he mumbles as he grabs the trash and relocates it to the backseat. I peek behind us to see what he has collected in here. Newspapers, slushy cups, and an assortment of jeans and black t-shirts make up the discernable contents; a motley assemblage of effects that affirm his status as a teenage male.

While he moves the garbage my mind is trying to form an explanation as to why I want to go to Jasper's house when he won't be there. Concern is brewing over how far in depth I'll have to go with my codependent situation and how much divulgence is necessary about why I don't want to go home.

"So, where to? Is anywhere open around here after eight o'clock?"

I was expecting him to ask for directions to my house.

I'm left speechless, stunned that Edward wants to go anywhere with me besides dropping me off at the curb of my house.

Edward starts his car and I'm staring at the ignition as if the running engine could now apply its power to spark my tongue into a response.

"Umm, Bella?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry," I glance to the neon glow on the dash, the numbers alerting me that there is only one place open this late in Forks for the under twenty-one crowd. "I guess our options are limited to the diner."

"Diner it is than."

Now, the humming of the tires takes over. Its only accompaniment is music playing so softly through the blown speakers I can't even discern the genre. We sit in the quiet, and I begin to squirm.

I'm jealous of his ability to drive in this moment, purely because the action gives him a steering wheel to hold and knobs to fidget with at his leisure while I am sitting stock still with hands folded in lap.

In an attempt to impede the inevitable slide into silence, I pluck up some courage and make my tongue formulate words.

"Do you like living here?" I question, envisioning the topic on my imaginary 3x5 card in Jasper's writing.

"Too soon to tell. It's the smallest place I've ever lived, but I haven't decided how I feel about that yet," he speaks smoothly, as if he doesn't feel the tension filling the car and choking me. "What about you, do you like Forks?"

A slur for this town forms in my mouth; nearly tangible as it wraps itself around my teeth, vying for vocalization. It wants to taint this moment, to tarnish Edward's still forming view of life in Forks. I am aware enough of my own bias perceptions to know that my negativity stems more from sour personal experience rather than the locale.

Forks has merely been the backdrop of my life's pitiful occurrences. It dose not deserve my scorn as though it were an active participant in my fate.

So I swallow down my slander, wanting to regain the elation of escape that coursed through me when I took Edward's hand on the stairs.

The skeletons in my closet rattle, but those, too, I silence.

"I haven't lived anywhere else. This is all the experience I have," thinking on my lack of travels has made me feel uncultured and ignorant.

"I guess I take it for granted that we moved so much. It seems weird to me that most people here have always been here, you know?"

"No one comes back who leaves; the town is full of people who can't wait to get out and people who never found the balls to run. But people are people no matter where you go. Seems like if someone is unhappy here, they'd be unhappy anywhere. Just a different set of problems to complain about."

If you want to be miserable you will; you are your own self fulfilling prophecy. This is the lesson I have learned form a lifetime with Charlie, the king of discontent. He has imparted the only wisdom he has to offer in this one statement, even this insight garnished only by watching his life as an outsider.

While I see the importance in positive thinking, my habitual patterns of pessimism are hard to break. I'm at the mercy of my bad habits and inherited negative viewpoint, even though I see them as poison.

The silence returns. Once again not the companionable quiet that I would like. Rather, it falls heavy over us as if awkward air is being forced from every vent, compelling any ease through the cracks of our steel cage.


In my opinion, Sally Wakefield is a professional waitress. Born and raised in Forks, she has chosen to stay in this miniscule town, leaving her with few career options. There are only so many doctors and lawyers needed to support a town of three thousand; you need to set your sights a little lower if unwilling to make a lengthy commute.

Sally has been employed at Fork's one and only diner for the last decade and if they hand an employee of the month plaque her name would be etched repeatedly into the tacky brass plating.

I try to classify the citizens of Forks with two small specifics that make them unique. This is how I keep track of the peripheral individuals with which I share the town.

For Sally, in my mind she is equally known for her cheerful gingham printed blouses in a plethora of colors and her competency in ambidextrous pouring no matter what liquid or vessel she is faced with.

I've just finished explaining my classification system to Edward, who seems intrigued to my surprise.

"So, you're saying your head is like one giant spreadsheet? Do another one for me," he points subtly towards a man at the counter a few feet away. I pull my eyes away from his graceful, yet somehow masculine, fingers to direct my view towards a gruff plaid covered retiree from the forestry industry.

"That's Mr. McKenzie. He is an expert at building bird houses and prefers fruity flavors over chocolate."

"Did you just make those up based on a guess and his choice of cherry pie?" Edward questions, as he draws the ketchup bottle closer and begins to peel off the label with ragged nails.

"No, but I will admit that most of these tags of mine were formed while sitting in this diner. A little over a year ago I spent a lot of time in here. I swear if you sit in one of these booths long enough the entire population will pass you by."

I don't explain why I became so familiar with these brown vinyl booths. I remember sitting in here while I still had bandages covering my stitched up arms. I laid them for the world to see atop the dark resin table; peeling the label off the ketchup bottles myself. I'm surprised there is a bottle left for Edward to fidget with now that hasn't fallen pray to my own restless hands.

At first no one knew why I was in the hospital, most assumed some sort of accident brought about by my clumsy nature. Some even sent flowers and cards; hollow gestures meant more for my father's position than for me. However, despite the HIPAA laws protecting my privacy the truth spread like a virus around the town. Everyone was whispering once the facts came out about my attempt.

This should have upset me, having my problems laid out for public perusal. Yet, it became empowering to have the reality of my inner anguish out in the open for the world to see. I found myself wanting to flaunt it. Yeah I'm fucked up, how could you not have noticed before.

So rather than hole up in my bleak barren bedroom and watch the few penetrating beams of sunlight make their way across the ceiling day after day, I went to the diner and sat in a booth on display.

People stared, as is only to be expected. They looked at my arms, my poorly concealed wounds, and then inevitably looked at my face. I felt like it was the first time anyone had really ever looked at me, seen me passed the quiet police chief's daughter. I became addicted to it.

In a strange way, I've been fond of the diner ever since that time. As if sitting here in a booth I began to ripen, like a winter Clementine, only able to come of age in the cold. While I'm still on the branch, at least I've acknowledge to process.

Edward catches my elbow where it rests on the table, obviously aware of my sudden darkening mood as I roll my past diner experiences through my mind.

Thankfully he doesn't push for the why, instead renewing our discussion, "I like this system of yours. How would I fit, what two things would you use for me?"

Shifting my thoughts to Edward lightens my countenance. I have bee exploring him in my thoughts since he first appeared. I could list for him things I've noticed during class and our dinners, fragments of character and habit.

You can be haughty when you think you're smarter than someone.

You prefer your meat cooked medium rare and extra butter on your potatoes.

You may or may not be a pyromaniac, but you are definitely prone to overreaction.

You doodle comic strips staring a stickman ninja across you biology notes with little artistic talent, but much originality in storyline.

However, it just seems off. How I could pick only two to highlight and sum him up when I am constantly ravenous to learn additional morsels of his nature.

"This is for people on the outside edges. You hardly seem to be on the outskirts, I'd say the whole porn party experience has thrown you right in the mix. I don't think this method can apply to you."

Slowly, a smirk spreads across his face. I can't tell if he is smug with the knowledge that he makes the short list of people I actually speak to, or if he is merely amused with the cataloging technique in general.

"Than go off my first impression, as if we had just met."

At this moment Edward must be too focused on dragging his two tidbits out of me to recall our first encounter. I debate between letting the opening slide and taking my chance to provoke.

"Alright. I would say violently loyal to a fault and has one hell of a right hook even when slightly inebriated."

Edward's eyes widen and he leans back against his booth, withdrawing as if I had smacked him.

"Umm…..just kidding. Have we still not reached the point where that's okay to joke about?" I never meant him to take my words so seriously.

The easy exchange of words we had gained once again shuts down. I feel my whole body tense with the loss, and one more round of anxiety is about all I'll be able to take this evening. My relations with Edward sway like a pendulum, swinging to heights of connection and depths of discomfort I never would have thought possible with someone I've only know for a few weeks.

"No, I deserve that. It's alright," he murmurs, and twists his lips into a false smile. This tells me that it is not in fact, alright.

We sit in the quiet, letting the clink of silverware and hiss of the fryer take over where our words won't.

The tide of anxiety that has repeatedly risen and receded in the past hour finally breaks, washing over me until sitting still in this booth is impossible.

I slide out, passing Edward with, "I'll be right back," as I make my way to the restroom.


On the way back I shake off the lingering fog from my unsuccessful attempt at a self pep talk in the bathroom. Pressing my still damp palm to my cheek, I am greeted by a disturbing scene when I round the corner.

The new occupant of my dinner table is classified as an unintelligent yet surprisingly devious bitch with a penchant for covering her inner evil with designer labels. At the moment though, I feel revisions are necessary to convey the true depth of my loathing.

Lauren Mallory is tucked in my booth, in my seat, playing with the cherry stem I left next to my rapidly melting milkshake.

She's leaning across the table, closing in on Edward's personal space with a confidence that masks her intrusiveness. She's angled to provide an eyeful of sun kissed cleavage as she bats her lashes in a cliché, yet effective, flirtatious spectacle.

I want to choke her with her Tiffany necklace.

From here, only the rear of Edward's mane is visible over the back of the booth. I am unable to gleam any indication of his reaction to the newly acquired dinner guest from the tousled dark auburn mess.

Her blonde hair cascades like a river down her shoulders. A few of the golden ends are caught between her thumb and pointer, rolling between the fingers with a practiced rhythm. She flirts with ease, while I can barely turn a phrase with sufficiency.

Just like that my feet become captured by the stained carpet beneath my shoes. As if the horrible green professional grade carpet has grown to knot and detain my boney ankles.

If it were Jasper stuck there with the walking STD, I would know an immediate rescue attempt would be warranted. I could waltz casually over; drawing my confidence from the assured response my best friend would give, and reclaim my place. Or perhaps offer him escape with a snarky back handed statement directed towards Flashy Tits McGee.

Actually, if it were Jasper he would have extracted himself from her wicked gaze using his magical charm and disarming way with words. We would have been in the parking lot five minuets ago trading witty commentary about Lauren's cankles and future carcinoma.

But it's not Jasper.

It's Edward, and we're practically strangers. For all I know he could have arranged for her to meet him here after Emmett's party, using me to fill time before a date. He could be thankful to finally have a proper companion at the table and relieved at my absence; thankful to shed the broken girl.

My feet have snapped to action at last, deciding for me that I am not returning to the booth, sparing myself another round of embarrassment this night. Instead, they carry me to the counter where I fish a crumpled five out of the pocket of my jeans and slip it Sally's way.

With a directive to keep the change and a quick offering of thanks, I'm headed for the door. The jingling bells in place on the handle offer a twisted postlude to accompany my escape into the night.

Maybe I don't like the public exposure of the diner after all.


A/N: What is your favorite diner food?