Chapter Ten
Gone with the Werewolf
Author's note: Thanks to Cara Mia, a reader who wondered if my Vera character would turn out to be Rosalie Hale's friend from her human life. To others who may have wondered the same, I must confess that I made an error. I chose the name Vera because it was popular when my character would have been born, and I forgot there was already a canon character with that name. Big Oops. My Vera is a new character.
I missed my weekly update goal again and it took me two weeks to complete this chapter. However, it is again twice as long as usual. I hope that makes up for the delay. Same deal: sleepless baby. I think she's teething.
Charlie shoved a bowl of cereal at her when she came downstairs Tuesday morning. While she choked it down under his heavy supervision, he made a show of pulling her boxes of Poptarts out of the cupboard and dropping them in the trashcan, one by one: thud, thud, thud.
"I made you a sandwich," he said, handing her a small paper bag. "And here's a quarter; buy some milk at lunch."
"It costs a dollar ten now, Dad. You graduated when, 1925?"
"Jeez. Inflation. And I was Class of '85, Miss Smarty-Pants." Charlie pulled a dollar bill out his wallet, muttering about the "God-damned Democrats" and their "cows' rights campaign."
Though she had awakened fairly refreshed, by the time Bella wrestled the parking gear into place in the lot behind Forks High, her stomach was churning like a barrel of eels. Through the rain-spattered windshield, she watched students heading into the building. Jocks in their letter jackets with white leather sleeves. Freshmen with their huge, heavy backpacks. People were laughing, running through the puddles, and she felt like she didn't recognize them. Though she'd been here a year, she had been so wrapped up in the presence and absence of Edward that this felt like the first day of school all over again. Would she see a friendly face anywhere?
She slid to the ground and leaned against her truck's door to shut it. In the oversized rectangular mirror, she caught a glimpse of her face: pallid, with limp brown hair and bags under her eyes like purple bananas. Attractive, she groaned to herself. She smoothed her hair over the chunky bandage that covered the stitches on her forehead and, hitching her bag high on her shoulder, she followed the crowd indoors.
Mrs. Goff handed back a quiz in first period Spanish. She'd gotten a D on it. Pretty good, considering she didn't even remember taking this quiz. When a worksheet was passed around, the kid in front her her ignored her outstretched hand and placed on one her desk before reaching around her to the next person. She looked down at the worksheet on her desk. How long had that been going on?
English class was the same. She discovered she'd been assigned to work in a group to give a presentation on elements of the Gothic in Jane Eyre, and three kids dragged their chairs toward hers and then proceeded to talk around and through her. What was her task for this group? It seems they'd not given her one. What were these kids names? They were just carrying her along on the current of their work like a leaf along for the ride in a stream. At one point, she raised her hand to answer a question, but Mr. Berty didn't notice. No one noticed.
In the next class, she watched her Calculus teacher mark her absent.
When the bell rang for lunch, she wasn't nervous anymore. No one would make fun of her since apparently, they couldn't even see her. As she carried her paper bag lunch into the cafeteria where she had first seen the Cullens, the memory of that day felt like a dream she'd had a long, long time ago.
Rain pattered on the roof and dripped down the windows as she stood in line to buy milk. She watched other students weave between the tables, smiling and joking, carrying trays of salad, steaming state-issue pizza squares, cans of Coke, bags of chips, and a few paper bags of lunch from home. The sight was almost overwhelming after so many months of not seeing it. So many people. So many colors, churning and blurring with the movements of the students. Jackets and scarves and hats in shades of brown, black, blue, and gray. Blue jeans and sweaters and hoodies in every color. Dingy white tennis shoes and brown and tan lace-up boots, backpacks in green and brown and even zebra stripes. Above this sea of color were the faces of the students in pink and brown and tan. Unbidden, the words of Ezra Pound's "In a Station of the Metro" came to her mind: The apparition of these faces in the crowd;/ Petals on a wet, black bough. She could almost feel the crush of the subway's throng that must have inspired Pound.
She bought a carton of milk like Charlie had told her to and scanned the room, spotting Angela's shiny dark hair and lumpy magenta scarf with a sigh of relief.
The same old gang sat at the table with Angela: Mike, Jessica, Tyler, and Eric. But there were a couple of girls and another boy she didn't recognize. Lauren, she noted with relief, seemed to be absent. Bella sat beside Angela and kept her eyes on the table as she unpacked her lunch from the paper bag. It rustled so loudly that she wanted to kill the bag for drawing attention to her. In fact, she realized it was rustling loudly because the table had gone silent. She looked up. Everyone was staring at her like she was a feral dog they were hoping to lure into an animal control truck.
Bella froze, one hand in the bag. Then Angela grabbed her free hand under the table and gave it a squeeze, and Mike grinned at her.
"Hey," he said. "You're having lunch with us."
"Like always, I guess."
"No," said Mike. "I mean, you're having lunch with us." He pointed to her food.
Oh. She didn't know what to say to that.
"Careful," said Mike, and she looked down to see she had squished part of her sandwich in her nervous fist.
"Oops," she said.
The conversation started up again, and Bella tried to follow. She made herself munch her sandwich and follow each speaker with her eyes. Everyone was talking about dates for the spring fling dance. She gathered that a couple of the kids she didn't know were called Katie and Connor, and that Ben and Angela had broken up a couple weeks ago because his family had moved to Baltimore.
"I'm thinking of asking Lauren," said Tyler, "but she'll probably shoot me down."
Jessica turned to him with a matter of fact air and said, "No offense, okay, but she totally will."
She explained that she and Lauren had started hanging out with some guys from the community college in Port Angeles. "It's nice to finally meet some sophisticated, adult men who actually know how to treat a girl." These last words and their eye-rolling emphasis seemed directed at Mike, who crushed his can of Sprite in one hand and took his lunch to the trashcan.
"What?" said Tyler. "But just last weekend she and I—"
"Sorry," said Jessica.
"So no more—"
"Oh, I'm sure you're still on her list," Jessica assured him.
This information did not seem to make Tyler feel better. "She has a list?"
Katie's eyes widened, and Eric, who had been whispering to her about the dance, looked a little uncomfortable.
Mike returned then and asked in a loud voice, "So, Bella, what's new?"
Ack! She swallowed a lump of sandwich and tried to think of something to say. Um, I've been crying a lot lately. No. I barfed on my bed and my father took me to the beach to burn... No. I hallucinated an image of my vampire ex-boyfriend while riding a motorcycle and I launched myself into a boulder while my new best friend who has an unrequited crush on me took the blame for my obsessive and self-destructive mental illness. Definitely not. She looked from face to face at the lunch table, noting Katie's curiosity, Mike's encouragement, Angela's compassion, and Jessica's lack of faith that she could have anything to say.
"I, uh..." This was another sign that she needed to get better, right? The fact that she couldn't think of anything socially acceptable to contribute to a lunch conversation. Finally, with relief, she thought of something. "I got a guitar."
"Cool," said Mike, like it hadn't cost her about a month of her life to think of something to say. Then he, Eric, and Tyler started talking about a rock band that they wanted to form, and the conversation stayed on music until the bell rang.
Bella arrived home at dinner time feeling exhausted, but cautiously optimistic. She had made it through the rest of school without incident, and Mrs. Kranz, who turned out to be a plump woman with lots of freckles and faded strawberry blonde hair, actually noticed her when she raised her hand to ask a question. Mrs. Kranz beamed at her like she was a first grader who had learned to tie her shoe, which was a little embarrassing, but it seemed like this teacher actually cared if she showed up and participated. After school at Newton's, Mike's mom seemed surprised to see her show up on time and also gave her a big smile. She caught Mike re-shelving some men's hiking boots she had put in the kid section, and she was able to thank him for cleaning up after her for so long.
That night Charlie showed her a new chord on the guitar, D major. She sat beside him on the couch and rocked her hand back and forth between D and G, practicing the finger positions. Strum, strummmm... She let the sounds resonate. The chords were like a seesaw of happy and happier; it was ridiculous how cheerful they sounded, each brighter than the one before. She played for an hour or so in a kind of musical meditation.
When Charlie went to wash the dishes, she tried singing with the chords—very quietly: "hmm, hmmmmm..." Adding her voice increased that soothing vibration inside her body. She still sounded just as squeaky and goose-like as the other day, but she could hum without embarrassing herself. It felt good.
She went to bed when her fingers started throbbing and slept again without nightmares.
Wednesday was tougher. When Bella entered the cafeteria, she could see Lauren Mallory's blonde head gleaming at the lunch table. Her hair was a new, lighter shade and cut in an edgy bob. Bella steeled herself as she slipped into her chair beside Angela.
Lauren was describing how her mother had taken her to a chic new salon in Port Angeles while she was out sick. She tossed her head with a practiced air that sent her platinum hair fanning across her shoulders. Bella could still smell the chemicals.
"Love it," gushed Jessica.
"I told my mom it made me feel lots better—that, and knowing that I was missing the French test yesterday! I got it rescheduled for Friday, and now I have three more days to study."
"Good one," said Tyler. "Let me hear your cough."
"Ah heh! Ah heh!" feigned Lauren in a wispy voice. "I'm soooo sick, Madame Wells."
The gang cracked up, and the talk turned to college applications. Eric had applied to Hopkins, early decision, and been admitted.
"Way to go, Eric" smiled Katie, as he stood on his chair, bowing to the cafeteria.
"I'm hoping for Stanford," said Jessica.
"UCLA, baby," said Lauren. "My aunt works in admissions."
"Ugh, I just barely got all my stuff in the mail last week," groaned Mike. "Bella, where did you apply?"
"Well..." Everyone was looking at her. "I haven't really, decided, um..." Her heart began to pound as she watched the expressions on their faces change from mild interest to confusion and worry. Except for Lauren. Her face lit up with malicious hilarity.
"Oh my God!" she gasped. "You haven't applied anywhere!"
"Damn," said Tyler. "It's probably too late."
Bella struggled for a response.
"Crazy," said Jessica. "I knew you were crazy. After that stunt in Port Angeles."
"Hah!" spat Lauren. "The zombie movie. I heard about that. And it's so you, the way you've been staggering around here, not even applying to college."
"I thought you were in a coma," said Tyler. "Like on General Hospital."
"People in comas can't walk," snorted Lauren. "But the zombie thing is perfect. You've even got stitches on your head. You're like, Franken-Bella!"
Bella touched her fingers to her bandage as everyone but Angela and Mike laughed. Then Lauren held her arms stiffly in front of her, flexing them up and down from her shoulders in imitation of the classic horror film. "Brains!" she groaned. "I need some brains so I can apply to college."
Lauren and Jessica leaned into one another, giggling.
"No, no!" gasped Jessica. "I got it." She held out her out arms and moaned, "Boobs! I need some boobs for my lumberjack look."
Bella's face burned as she stared down at her shapeless, plaid flannel shirt and jeans.
"No, wait!" Lauren was practically choking on her glee. "Booooobs! I need some boobs for my boyfriend!" Then she cut the goofy voice and said flatly, "Oh wait. You haven't got one anymore."
The table went silent.
Bella's head roared with the pounding of her own blood. Her trembling hands blurred in front of her, then her vision cleared as two fat tears rolled down her cheeks. She pushed her chair back and stood shakily.
Angela put a hand on her arm, but she didn't feel it as she turned and headed toward the door. One, two, three, four... she counted her steps, slow and careful, and she clutched her middle. It felt like the whole school was looking at her. She could hear hushed voices at the table behind her: a "cut it out" from Mike and a "why do you care?" from Jessica.
In the girls' locker room behind the gym, the old one that hadn't been renovated and was only used by freshmen now, Bella locked the door of a bathroom stall and slid down the wall. Crying in bathrooms was beginning to feel all too familiar lately. She rubbed the heels of her hands in her eyes and tried to think of something to soothe herself: Charlie hugging her on the weekend when she had been so sad. The way her guitar felt vibrating against her belly. Jacob flicking peas at her, his promise to drive her around in the Rabbit.
She let the tears come and bitterly congratulated herself on remaining relatively upright. Charlie would be so proud of my progress, she thought. Crying in the bathroom without putting my face on the floor. She reached for some toilet paper and blew her nose. Then she started crying again as she realized she was now so snotty and puffy-faced that if anyone in the cafeteria hadn't caught her blubbering, babyish exit, they'd be able to tell she was a mess as soon as she showed her face in class.
She leaned agains the water tank of the toilet, resting her face on the cool porcelain. It was chilly and refreshing, firm and solid. And it felt soothingly familiar.
"Oh, Edward," she sighed. "Why did you have to go?"
After a while a pair of black ballet flats and white polka-dotted leggings appeared beneath the door of the bathroom stall.
"I've been looking all over for you," said Angela.
Bella sniffed in reply.
"When we were in third grade," continued Angela, "Lauren broke all the green crayons in my Crayola 64 box because I said it was my favorite color. Lime green, yellow green, forest green, teal green, even blue green. Oh, and she broke the pink one called "Watermelon," I guess because the outsides of watermelons are green."
Bella watched Angela shift from side to side on her feet, like she was about to say something that was hard for her. Sure enough: "I don't like to talk bad about people, but I think...well... I think there's something wrong with her."
"You think?" said Bella, but she opened the door and gave Angela a weak smile.
Then she went to the sink and washed her face.
"Why are you still friends with me?"
Angela looked confused.
"I mean, I ignored everyone when Edward was here, and I've barely spoken to anyone since he left. So really, I don't—" Bella drew in a shaky breath as she realized the truth of this "—I don't deserve a friend," she whispered.
"Honestly?" asked Angela.
Bella nodded, and they sat down on one of the varnished pine benches by the old lockers.
Angela picked at her chipped pink fingernail polish. "Before you came here," she said, "I was kind of lonely."
"But you're so nice. Everyone likes you."
"I guess." Angela was looking at the bench. "But I don't have a best friend. Or any close ones, really. I mean, I've known everyone in this town since kindergarten, and I just don't..." She sighed. "I never told anybody this. I feel so weird. But I used to go to slumber parties with them, you know, Jess and Lauren and everyone, and I'd just be thinking the whole time, 'This is so dumb. I hate pajamas. I hate doing my hair. I'd rather be reading.' Lame, right?"
"No," said Bella.
"Then you moved here, and I could tell you were more like me. Quiet. Smart. You like to read. And I hoped we could be friends really bad." Angela picked at the scratched surface of the bench where, years ago, someone had carved a heart. "So, yeah. I'm not being nice to you for no reason. This is totally selfish here." She lifted her head with a cautious smile.
"You want to be friends?" Bella said. "With me?"
"Yeah."
Bella had a sudden urge to hug Angela, but thought it might be too much. So she kicked her little ballet shoe lightly with her own scuzzy Chucks. "That would be good," she said. "Thanks."
"Come on. We have to go."
Bella stood up and looked in the mirror. No worse than usual, she supposed.
Angela held open the heavy door of the locker room and they stepped out into the hall. It was quiet and empty as they walked down the corridor. Angela explained that Bella had already missed Physics and most of gym class. Now they just had to get ready for History.
"What am I going to do?" Bella sighed.
"About what?"
"College. Lauren." My crazy self...
"Well, it might not be too late. And you can always go to Peninsula for a year or two. Or take a gap year. And as for Lauren, just try to ignore her. That's what I do."
Bella could feel her face going hot again as she remembered what Lauren had said in the cafeteria. She wiped the back of her hand across her nose, sniffing.
The bell rang and people thronged in the hallway. They hurried to Mrs. Kranz's classroom, where she was handing out photocopied pages of suggested questions to start their Seniors with Seniors interviews.
"How many of you have already been to Olympic Acres?"
Only Angela raised her hand.
"Not good, people. Now I want all of you to meet your Seniors by the end of the week. If you need directions, write this down."
Mrs. Kranz began scratching out a map on the blackboard. Her wide backside wiggled as she wrote. Some of the guys snickered, and Mrs. Kranz turned around and leaned against the blackboard with her arms folded.
"Is something funny, Mr. Crowley?" she asked.
"No, ma'am."
"I didn't think so."
When she turned around to finish her map, there was chalk dust on her pants. Tyler had to put his head down to muffle his amusement.
"Um," called Lauren, "I was absent. What's this Senior thing?"
Mrs. Kranz waddled to her desk and rustled among papers as she explained. Lauren looked just about as thrilled as Bella at the prospect of spending weeks interviewing some crusty stranger.
"I just need to find the last of those cards," Mrs. Kranz said. A couple of books slid from her desk onto the floor. In bending to retrieve them, the neckline of her shirt dipped low, revealing her overly ample, freckled bosom and a rather industrial-looking wide-strapped white bra. Her flesh jiggled as she reached under the desk for the books.
Mike slapped Tyler's arm, and Tyler lifted his head, took one look, and had to put it down again. His shoulders shook.
Angela looked pained.
Lauren turned around in her seat and sneered at Bella. "You should ask to borrow some," she whispered, lifting her hands in front of her own chest as if she were jiggling an enormous pair of breasts.
Bella flushed.
When the teacher stood up, her hair was awry and one of her earrings looked like it was about to fall out of her ear. "Well, I just can't find those cards!" she said. "Angela, do you still have those extras from Monday?"
Angela gave her a single card, explaining that she and Bella had already chosen their Seniors, so there was just one person left.
Mrs. Kranz took the last index card and held it up to her glasses. "Oh!" she said. Pulling a thick marker from her desk drawer, she blacked out some of the writing. "Here's your partner, Lauren," she said.
Bella and Angela shared a smirk.
Lauren held the index card to the light and tried to read beneath the dark marker. Then she turned in her seat and narrowed her eyes at them.
Home again, Bella dropped her backpack on the floor and trudged upstairs to her room. The stuff Lauren had said at lunch still hurt. Why did she have to be so mean? Maybe I'm just not ready for this. School. Awareness. Almost without thinking, she lifted her guitar and sat down on her bed. Her fingers easily found the position for G major, and her strumming soothed the tightness in her stomach.
Bella practiced switching back and forth between G and D. Maybe her grandma was right. Guitar therapy was helping. Nasty Lauren, she thought as she strummed the G. Mean, dumb girl, she thought as she switched to D. She's so mean she's practically psycho.
Wait a minute. Those chords.
She strummed a D and sang, "Psycho, heartless, high school... " Oh, go on and say it. No one will hear. "...bitch!" Bella whispered. Then she strummed a G. "Mean old..."
Something better...
She grabbed a piece of paper and began scribbling. Then she tried again. "Skanky, slutty, dyed-hair witch." Back to the D: "You try to make my life the pits..." G. "I hope you get a million zits."
Or maybe, "Have fun with Mr. Horowitz." Yeah...
She sat cross-legged on her bed, on her grandma's quilt, with the Swan family church-guitar (she figured her dad had already committed sacrilege by singing his own songs on it), and made up several verses. Rhyming was something she was good at; who knew? And this felt way better than her usual method of dealing with problems. Charlie was gonna save so much money on tissues.
She was trying to find a rhyme for "spoiled whore" when the doorbell rang. Angela.
Bella was really glad she came to the old folks' home with Angela. If she hadn't been able to follow her friend's feet as they walked through the corridors, Bella would have been bumping into the walls; she refused to lift her head in case she saw an old person with a "condition." She really wasn't sure what a "condition" meant, but in the books she read, most of the old characters had one of some sort. As it was, keeping her vision confined to anything knee level or lower, she saw plenty to make her skin crawl: wheelchairs inhabited by scuffed slippered feet, an open cupboard with some bandages inside, a meal cart with half-eaten pasta and steamed vegetables slopping off of trays, with plastic cups of syrupy fruit chunks, and hems of curtains in doorways, which were probably hiding old, wrinkly, naked people. The white linoleum shone with the twin reflected lines of the overhead florescent lights, and she followed Angela's little shoes along this path.
"Albertine and Vera are roommates," Angela said.
Excellent. Now she could stay with her friend the whole time.
At last they turned into one of the many identical chambers and lifted the heavy curtain from the doorway.
"Hello, Albertine!" Angela called. "How are you today?"
Bella hovered in the doorway while Angela bent over a little white-haired lady in a mauve colored armchair and hugged her. Albertine put down a ball of yarn and reached up to pat Angela with skinny white hands. Bella was startled by the brightness of the blue veins that ran across them. Surely this wasn't part of the assignment, letting the old people hug her?
"Hello, Vera!" said Angela, and Bella noticed a second little white-haired lady bundled under a heap of knitted afghans on her bed, which had been raised at the top portion to allow Vera to sit upright. "Let me introduce you to Bella."
Angela took Bella's hand and towed her toward Vera's bedside. As she chattered through the pleasantries of the introduction, Bella kept her eyes on the afghans. Some were lacy; some were thick and heavy-looking. There must have been five or more layered on the bed. Three were mauve, one was a pale reddish violet, and one was what Renee would have called dusty rose.
Angela slid a folding chair across the floor for Bella. "Have fun!" she chirped, trotting back to Albertine's side. Bella listened to her admiring the latest creation from Albertine's knitting needles. It looked like a pillow case, and it was mauve.
Vera was indeed rather quiet, as Angela had mentioned. Sensing that she would have to take the lead in the interview process, Bella took a deep breath and made herself look around the room.
There were two beds, side by side, and some standard-issue wooden furniture: a chest of drawers, two nightstands, a small dining set near a window that looked out on a shady green lawn. But there were also more personal items that must have come from the women's homes before they moved to Olympic Acres: Albertine's mauve armchair, some white wicker bookcases laden with bodice-busting romance novels, framed photos of family members, she supposed, on the wall—lots of grandchildren—and a brown basket that looked like it was meant for a cat, but which was overflowing with skeins of yarn and books full of knitting patterns and craft ideas. In a tiny glass case on the dining table, there were a dozen or so even tinier glass animals that twinkled in the dappled sunlight.
"So," said Bella, pointing to the glass case. "You collect figurines?" She remembered reading that on the index card. When she got no reply, Bella continued with, "That must be—" boring as dirt "—nice."
Vera turned her head and looked at Bella as if she'd just noticed she was there.
"Um, hi," said Bella.
Vera rolled her head away and looked out the window.
I am so going to flunk this interview.
She listened to Angela and Albertine talking about how to avoid dropped stitches. Angela opened her backpack and pulled out a tangled mess of yellow yarn and two small metal spears that looked like lethal shish kebab sticks. The old lady examined Angela's work and asked her to bring one of the books from her basket for a few pointers.
"At school, we're doing this project," Bella began, talking to the tufty white hair on the back of Vera's pink head. It was a little alarming how much she looked like a tortoise that had rolled in wool. Bella took a another deep breath and averted her eyes. She opened her notebook and unfolded Mrs. Kranz's list of suggested questions. "It's about the Great Depression. I just need a pen."
She twisted in her seat to look for a pen on the beside table, and in doing so she elbowed a tray of tiny orange pill bottles. It toppled over, and naturally, half the bottles were uncapped. Medicines of various colors went skittering over the floor and under the beds.
"Oh, no, I'm sorry."
Bella crawled across the linoleum, scooping up pills in her hands. Some were round and white, some oval-shaped and tan. A few were large enough to be cough lozenges. Some were squishy blue gel-caps. All were mixed up in her lap by the time she fished them out from under the furniture. And all were broken, cracked, or dusty.
"Ooh, that's a mess," said Angela, ringing for a nurse.
A tired-looking woman with short, curly black hair arrived. Her name tag read, "Aurelia Tisdale," and she wore turquoise scrubs printed with cats and dogs snuggling together in an incongruous display of love that contrasted sharply with the expression on her face.
"Vera, I told you to keep those caps on," she said.
Vera sighed.
"It was my fault," Bella said. "We're doing this school project, and I—"
"Oh, you're one of those high schoolers. Gonna come back, I suppose." Aurelia frowned at Bella as she took the medicines from her cupped hands. "I hope her insurance is going to cover the replacements," grumbled the nurse as she left.
Angela, Albertine, and Vera looked glumly at Bella.
"Sorry," she said again.
By the time they left, Bella was feeling about two feet tall. She had tried to go through Mrs. Kranz's interview questions with Vera, but the old woman made no response. Once Bella thought she was about to speak, but she was just coughing. Bella tried talking about herself, how she had lived in Arizona, how her father worked here in Forks, but after a few minutes of awkward monologue, Vera fell asleep.
This assignment was hard.
Angela and Albertine were still chattering away, so Bella took out her notebook and wrote down what little she could. Vera Moss. Born January 25, 1920. Collects little glass animals. Plays piano sometimes. That much she knew from the card. She tried to add her own observations. Very quiet. Sleepy. Has several afghans, perhaps knitted by her roommate? Requires lots of pills, which I spilled. Here she drew a frowny face. Has blue eyes and white hair, but not much. Not sure if the pictures on the wall are her grandchildren. Some are probably Albertine's. There are— she counted —eleven kids' pictures on the wall.
When Bella could think of nothing else to write, she doodled a pattern of stars in her notebook, and after a while she doodled on her shoe.
Finally Angela was ready to go. As they walked out to the parking lot, Angela said, "Oh my gosh, I didn't get a single interview question done."
"Me neither."
"She's going to teach me so much about knitting—and if I get good at it, we'll move on to crochet."
Bella could think of little that sounded duller, except maybe watching Vera sleep. Nevertheless, she said, "That's great," and she tried to sound sincere. After all, she reflected, she was lucky to have Angela as her friend after months of ignoring her, and Angela had helped Bella navigate the old folks' home without her having to see any more old folks than was absolutely necessary. She was also thankful that it hadn't been, as she had feared, like looking into a mirror of her own decrepit future; it was just boring. And after nearly getting killed by vampires a few times, having a human friend and a normal human problem like a doomed history project were utterly, blissfully refreshing in their dullness.
"Jake called," said Charlie when she got home. He was straining spaghetti noodles in a colander over the sink. "Better call him back quick because dinner's almost ready."
As she listened to the ringing at the other end of the phone line, Bella prayed that Billy wouldn't answer. Luckily, he didn't.
Jacob said, "Hello?" and just the sound of his voice made her smile. It was getting deeper, she noticed.
They made plans to get together on Thursday afternoon for homework. When he talked about working on the same subjects they had studied on Sunday, she knew he meant the bikes. "I cleaned up that oil in the garage where you slipped, so no more stitches, okay? I borrowed a floor protector for you."
"A floor protector? What's that?"
"You know. It's a thing. That protects the floor." He paused. "For safety."
"Oh! Okay." He must be talking about a helmet. "Good idea," she said. "Billy's listening, isn't he?"
"You're really helping me with that Shakespeare. I got a B on my paper."
"You got a big old B in your living room, I bet. Smooth, Jake. See you tomorrow."
When she hung up, Charlie was taking a jar of supermarket red sauce out of the microwave. He slopped some over the pasta and asked if Jake had said anything about his birthday.
"No. Why?"
"Billy invited us to a little party for him on the weekend. It's a surprise."
"Mums the word," she said.
Despite its appearance and origins, Charlie's spaghetti was decent. She managed to get about half a plate down, and Charlie smiled at her across the table. "Glad you liked it," he said.
Then he explained that he had to take part of an evening shift that night. "I'll be back just after midnight. I know you don't sleep well, and I hate to leave you, but—"
"It's okay," she interrupted. "I've actually slept great the past few nights. And if I have any nightmares, I'll just wait up for you."
Bella carried the dishes to the sink and washed them. She fretted over her Spanish for a while and then bid goodbye to Charlie, who reminded her that she could reach him any time by calling the station.
"I'll be fine," she said.
He gave her one more smile, and she could see that he was proud of her for making an effort. He was looking a lot better than he had a few days ago, too. His skin had returned to a healthy color, and his eyes looked alive again. Had she done that, just by resting well for a couple nights? She felt that tug of responsibility again, a family connection that reminded her of how she could affect others, for better or worse. It was a rope that bound her here, but it didn't feel like a restraint; it felt like a lifeline.
Now that she was putting some effort into school again, it was surprisingly easy to get organized again in the subjects in which she had fallen behind—except for Spanish. That would require some plain old memorization of at least three verb tenses and their irregular forms. She made a few flashcards.
Later, settling under her quilts, she thought about Vera. What was she going to do? Maybe she could get reassigned to someone else. She would ask Mrs. Kranz, who for some crazy reason seemed to like her.
She had not been asleep long before she woke, startled, with the knowledge that she was no longer alone. She lay perfectly still and and prayed for her eyes to adjust to the dim light of a street lamp outside. Someone was near.
Her heart pounded as she ran through the possibilities in her mind: her father home early; a thief; some high school pranksters on the lawn. She lay on her side, facing her closet and not the window, so if it were someone in the house she would...Oh, no. The someone was outside her window.
She was certain of it in the way she would have been able to sense a person standing over her shoulder. A thief. The Swan house was about to get robbed. Should she get up? Scream? Run for the phone? Or lie still and hope to be overlooked? She had heard of relatively benign, non-violent robbers who simply stole things while the inhabitants of houses slept. She lay trembling with fear and indecision, waiting for the sound of breaking glass, until it occurred to her that any normal thief would force his way into a downstairs window. And that meant—
Edward?
Her heart flooded with joy. Edward! She was about to fling off her blankets and run to the window when another thought made her stiffen. It might not be Edward. It might be some other vampire. Any passing nomad could have caught her scent around town and followed her home. Edward had often told her that she smelled particularly appetizing.
Well, there was nothing to do then. She couldn't run or talk her way out of this. She willed her heartbeat to slow, hoping this might diminish the appeal of her fear and stave off the vampire's bloodlust long enough for her to reflect on her short life. I'm glad Charlie's not home, she thought. And I'm glad I got to experience love, even if he left me. Oh, Edward, my last thoughts will be of you...
She waited. And waited. When nothing happened, she opened her eyes and relaxed her muscles. She heard a tiny, scratching sound. No, a sniffing sound. A raccoon, perhaps? She lay perfectly still and strained her ears to listen. And that's when she realized there were two someones at her window.
"Smells like shit," whispered one of them.
"Territory mark," said the other.
"Do you think he pissed on it?"
"Impossible. Drooled, maybe."
What the hell? She had heard those voices before. It was those guys from the beach! Jared and his insane buddy Paul! Were they trying to climb in her window to rape her or something? She flipped over angrily and grabbed her copy of Gone with the Wind from her nightstand. She could see the silhouettes of their heads now through her curtain; they were hanging from the windowsill by their hands and she would smash their stupid fingers with all one thousand, thirty-two hardbound pages.
Before she could reach them, the windowsill cracked right off the side of her house and they dropped to the grass, falling on top of each other with muffled curses.
Bella lifted the window and shouted, "Stay away from me, you creeps!"
They got up and ran into the forest behind her house, shoving each other as they went.
"I'll tell my father, and he'll shoot you!" she screamed after them.
Well, for the love of Christmas cookies! This was just like when she had first moved to Forks and every boy at school wanted to ask her to the dance. What was it that made her so irresistible to vampires and mortals alike? In Phoenix she had been a nobody. And here, she felt like a piece of meat—sometimes literally. Now she had two more not-so-secret admirers to avoid. Stupid boys. She shut the window and locked it.
It would would be several weeks before she would wonder how those guys had reached her windowsill, why they were sniffing it, and why they had run into the woods instead of out to the street and, presumably, to their car.
Instead, she climbed back into bed and hugged her pillow tightly. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, she felt weary and heartsore because it hadn't been Edward returning for her. She felt a great wave of sadness rising up in her with its corresponding undertow of panic and nausea.
She tried desperately to think of something else, and landed on Jacob's birthday. She would get him a present, she decided. He had rebuilt a pair of motorcycles for her, and a small birthday gift seemed only fitting. Something that showed that she really liked him. But not something romantic. Something that said she cared. But not too much. Something personal, but not... She sighed. What would a teenage boy like Jacob want for his birthday?
She blushed in the darkness. Where had that thought come from? Confused, she returned her thoughts to favorite memories of Edward. This was familiar territory, safe territory. And she should be loyal, like Anne Elliot. Or like Scarlett O'Hara, who loved Ashley, that paragon of dreamy virtue. Then she thought a little more about Edward's idea of virtue and felt more confused and a little angry.
Darn it if she could sleep now. She flipped on the lights and picked up her guitar. With tender finger tips, she carefully strummed her two chords, back and forth. She thought about Edward and his restraint. Her love for him and his leaving her. Scarlett O'Hara and Ashley Wilkes. Tell me you love me, Ashley. I'll live on it the rest of my life. Instead he had kissed Scarlett's forehead and said goodbye, maybe forever, going out into the rain and the war. Tell me you love me.
Ashley was an ass, she concluded. She decided to think about Rhett Butler instead.
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