ten
Jasper tastes like orange juice and tequila. It is the after party of a Homecoming we didn't bother to attend. Most girls are still in their dresses; a huge conglomerate of varying shades of pastel, frills, and ruffles. I'm the only one in jeans and a T-shirt. I also happen to be the only one here that doesn't attend PAHS.
Fortunately, everyone is too far gone to care.
After the spiked punch during the actual dance and the little flasks sipped from on the way to the party, the most anyone here is thinking about is where the next hit is going to come from.
Jasper is pulling me up the stairs and into a room that clearly belongs to someone's parents. There are pictures here and there on the desk and dresser, striped wallpaper, and one large window that overlooks the dark woods beyond. He pulls me down onto the bedspread—also striped—and towers over me on bent arms.
"This is so much better than Homecoming would've been."
I nod in agreement, but really I have no sort of comparison. I've never been to a school dance, not here or in Arizona. I suppose I've never bothered. There's something sort of ethereal about it to me. Something staged. Perhaps it is because I've only ever witnessed them via television shows and exorbitantly large Facebook albums.
Either way, all of the dresses are ugly anyway.
Jasper pulls at the hem of my frayed T-shirt and licks his way up my stomach. His fingers brush the hem of my bra, over the cup, under. He throws off his own shirt as well. It lands somewhere on the impeccably vacuumed carpet.
I stare over his shoulder at the ceiling. It's one of those ceilings with the stucco sort of pattern. The kind I used to have in Arizona, in a bedroom with purple walls and white, flowing curtains. I used to find shapes and pictures in that ceiling. An artificial sky of clouds.
He obscures my vision with a sloppy kiss to the lips.
"I don't want to right now," I say, feeling annoyed for some reason. He stops, shrugs, and rolls off. He's drunker than I am, but never inconsiderate.
"What's wrong?" he asks, robotic.
"Nothing. I'm just not drunk enough."
He shrugs again.
"Kay."
He takes my hand and we go back downstairs, where the music is loud and throbbing. All around us are couples—dedicated or impromptu—grinding into each other on couches and up against walls. We weave our way to the kitchen.
Half-empty bottles are everywhere, covering the countertops and kitchen table and floors. But, otherwise, the place is impeccable. There are stainless steel appliances and cutlery, all put away in their proper places. All of the cabinets match down to the handles, which are little replicas of forks and spoons. I run my finger over the curved edge of a teaspoon.
"Im gonna smoke a j," Jasper says, fishing a lighter from his pocket. "Wanna come?"
"Nah. Not now, anyway."
"Kay."
I pour myself two shots of vodka and down them both while staring at a porcelain cookie container.
I sit down at the kitchen table next two three or four bottles of liquor. I alternate. Outside, people are beginning to trickle away. It's onto the early hours of the morning, nearing the hazy time in-between pitch black and sunrise. Out of the small kitchen window I see Jasper and a few other boys standing in a circle of smoke.
I don't feel like joining. I don't feel like anything.
Maybe I'm depressed. Maybe I don't deserve to be depressed.
After a long time, I stand up. My vision grows spotty and dark, blurred on the edges. I'm either drunk or hungry or tired or just plain broken. I stumble over to the counter, catching myself on its edge. One of the handle fork things stabs into my side.
I hardly feel it.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Jasper is calling from somewhere nearby, I'm sure. I silence it. Instead, I scroll through my embarrassingly short list of contacts. My finger freezes on Cullen residence. The home phone number was actually given to me by Angela for emergency use (or something like that). I've never actually called it.
I press send.
It rings three times.
"Hello?" It's Angela's groggy voice. I hang up.
I pace the length of kitchen, then hit send again.
"Hello?" Angela again. Sharper now. I hang up.
Five more minutes pass and I call a third time.
"Who the hell is this?" It's Edward. Angry.
I don't expect him to be angry. My thoughts are hazy, my tongue feels numb.
"Edward?"
There's a pause. A shuffling. I hear Angela in the background, muted and muffled.
"Bella?" His voice is quieter now.
"Can you come get me?"
I'm crying now. I'm crazy. I'm falling apart.
"What happened? Where are you?"
I don't answer.
"Bella? Are you still there?"
I almost hang up.
"I'm in Port Angeles."
"What? Christ."
"Edward?"
"Bella, I'm here."
"I think I'm falling apart. I think I'm going crazy."
My face contorts. Jasper shows up in the kitchen. His eyes are red and dilated. He walks over, his face concerned. I turn around.
"I'm coming to get you. Do you have an address?"
"No."
"Christ. It's going to take me an hour or so, at least."
"I know. I'm going to hang up. Jasper's here."
"No! No, don't hang up. Stay on the line."
I hear movement on the other end. Thumps. The faint jingle of keys. Jasper wraps his arms around my waist, his chin on my shoulder. I feel split apart, half of me in Forks with Edward and half of me in Port Angeles with Jasper.
"Bella," Jasper whispers, his voice sultry and smooth. Vanilla. "I saved some for you."
He pulls the joint from his pocket. There's about an inch and a half left. I put the phone down on the table.
"Do you think I'm crazy?" I ask Jasper as he lights it. My voice leaks insecurity.
"Of course. The very best kind." His speaks slow and steady. One hand on the back of my neck and one hand holding the joint to my lips as I inhale. Hold it in. My lungs are squeezing tight tight tighter. Release.
"Another?" he asks. I nod.
And again.
We go outside. My phone is inside.
It is still dark, or maybe that's just me. I lay down, detached. The grass is cold and damp on the back of my neck. The stars are bright. Shining and heavy. They balance on strings from the invisible puppeteer, dangling precariously in the sky.
They strain against their wire, growing fat with light. They're going to fall down on me. I know it. I cower.
"We're gonna go back to my house now, Bella." It's Jasper. He's close but his voice is far. In a tunnel.
"I want to stay here."
He laughs.
"This isn't even your house."
"I want to stay. I don't want to go. You can't make me go."
"Bella."
"Go away Jasper I don't even fucking like you!" I'm screaming into the grass and I don't even know what I'm saying I'm just speaking and speaking and speaking because I'm crazy crazy crazy.
"Bitch," he mutters and then he's gone and it's just me and the heavy stars.
I don't know how much time passes before he shows up. I'm counting the blades of grass before me. I watch as each exhale moves them slightly, little waves of manufactured wind. Enraptured.
In the back of my mind, I hear the car stop. I feel the headlights. The door opens and closes.
I clutch at the back of his neck as he lifts me up. His arms are around my back and underneath me, and it's disgusting how I know him just by his smell.
I've faded into a neutral oblivion, where all I register is the feel of the fabric beneath me and the smudge on the upper right corner of the windshield.
"You're freezing," he says, hand on my hands. He blasts the heater and points the vents at my face. Numb.
I rest my forehead against the window as he drives, eyes closed. Exhausted.
"How did you find me?" I ask. My exhales fog the glass.
"I got lucky. I drove around the neighborhoods until I saw you."
No, he doesn't understand.
"How do you always find me?"
"What?"
"Pull over."
"Bella . . ."
"Pull over," I repeat, and because it's Edward and I know he will, he does.
He stares out the window.
We're silent.
"You're not crazy," he finally says, but he doesn't look at me. I smile but I hardly feel it. I unbuckle my seatbelt and turn toward him. He continues to stare out the windshield, both hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.
"Yes, I am." I almost laugh. "The very best kind."
And then I lean over and kiss him.
fragment (consider revising)