"...if you were designing an organism to look after life in our lonely cosmos, to monitor where it is going and keep a record of where it has been, you wouldn't choose human beings for the job. But here's an extremely salient point: we have been chosen, by fate or Providence or whatever you wish to call it. As far as we can tell, we are the best there is. We may be all there is. It's an unnerving thought that we may be the living universe's supreme achievement and its worst nightmare simultaneously." ― Bill Bryson, A Short History of Nearly Everything

: :

Jesus, it's 11:23 PM. I've been at this for hours. I should really consider getting myself interests outside of writing my diary.

Or not.

I don't know when I stopped writing because of feeling lonely and actually started to enjoy it a little. It's like free therapy for a confused teenager.

Anyway, it's changed things, knowing I have feelings for Edward but not really knowing how to deal with that knowledge.

Suddenly, each and every one of his casual touches means the world to me, but I don't say anything, and I don't know if I'm going to. And what does 'have feelings for' entail in itself? Do I just like him? I mean, I like him as a person. I think he'd be a fascinating guy to get to know properly, long term. I also admire his ability to put people at ease, it's incredible. I just, I don't know, he's pretty amazing. It would be pretty toe-curling just to kiss him… when he's conscious. I don't daydream about any of it, though, and I don't think anything would ever happen. He kind of confuses me. Despite that, he still clearly cares a lot, and I love it that he does.

Does that mean I like him?

I don't act any differently around him, though, or anyone else—excluding the fact that, in a way, I do act differently around everyone, not just him.

Emmett, aren't you proud of me? I haven't cracked a single joke about my appearance, not even in my diary. I'll try not to.

I can't understand, what was Edward's boring comment about? He's involved in so many things, and he writes poetry. Let me just list the abundant amount of handsome, wholesome, versatile guys I know who write poetry.

Edward.

That was just the longest list ever, huh?

Anyway, I observe Edward in a way I never really have before. Just after Art History, my third class, I pause before approaching him. We were supposed to meet at the lockers because he insisted on giving me back yesterday's lunch money. I'd already forgotten.

Now, he's standing there with a circle of people, Ben and Angela (Ben is behind her with the dopiest grin, his arms wrapped around her waist—they look so sweet it's giving me diabetes), Laurent, Tyler, Emmett, Tanya, Jessica… luckily, most of them are people I consider friends and converse with, but it's just so weird, seeing how casually he's joking with them. He's towering over them, clad in dark jeans and a green sweater. Underneath it, you can see a white collar.

Seriously, he's like some lithe sweater model or something, because he makes a sweater look manly.

I sneak up on Edward, stretching out my palm in front of him. He puts an arm on my shoulder, kisses the top of my head and places a few dollars on my palm.

"What was that for?" Jessica asks.

"Sexual favors." I battle my eyelashes at Edward. Everyone laughs. Tanya eyes me for a second, but I hope I'm not going to be cause for her angst. She has nothing to worry about. Edward's touchy-feely casualness has nothing to do with me.

And I like it, I like it how my group of friends seem to genuinely get along.

Well, most of the time. It's only high school.

During the day, Eric comes to thank me for whatever I said to Michael. I guess he'd still been giving Eric a hard time, and I'm glad I've helped.

After school, I study in the library to pass the time until football practice is over. Coach Black promised to go over the basics of running and fitness with me today, in our school gym, and so, at seven PM, I am dressed in tights and a black T-shirt with the periodic table on it. Emmett once gave it to me for Christmas.

I'm sitting on a bench just inside the gym, so when the door opens, I watch guys come in. There's rustling and shouting and talking, and at one point, Edward stops in the foyer (football attire really, uh, accentuates his finer points), staring at me. So does Emmett, wondering what made Edward stop, and Laurent stops after them. They stare. I stare back. I would've gone to watch their practice, but I wanted to be warm and study today. I'll see them next time. Maybe.

"Is dad okay?" Emmett asks, walking closer. I stand.

"As far as I know."

"Did you need to speak to me or Edward?"

"No. Sorry, not really."

"Then what're you doing here?"

"Miss Swan, just in time," Mr. Black enters the building, offering me a somewhat tired smile. "You can wait for me in the small gym," he adds, entering guy's changing room. Small gym is what we call the second floor with ropes and mattresses and overall exercise equipment.

"I'm here to train."

"For what?"

"A marathon."

"A what?"

"A marathon, you know, 26 miles of running?"

Emmett steps closer. "But you—you don't even like sports."

"People change."

He looks at Edward, at Laurent, and lets out, "Huh."

I laugh. Emmett shakes his head and leaves with Laurent, but Edward steps closer. It's as if he's studying me or seeing me for the first time because he looks intense. It makes me feel cherished. Unnerved. Both.

"You should wear that to school," I say.

He looks down. "This? Why?"

"You look like one hunk of a man. The girls would totally flip out and you couldn't tear them from your bed if you burned your house down."

He lets out a sort of huff-snort, but I can tell he's pleased. "Why, Bella, do you find me attractive?"

"In your dreams, Edward."

He chuckles, ruffles my hair and places a kiss on my forehead.

"Indeed, Bella," he mutters, turning to leave. "Indeed."

How is it that a girl as far from casual touching as I am has found herself a best friend who is so casual about touching he doesn't even think about such things? Only me, I swear.

But before he's in the changing room, he stops and turns, as if he forgot something. He calls after me, and he's wearing a smile a mile wide. He looks both sides before opening his mouth.

"Rosalie contacted me."

"Oh, wow. Is she okay?"

"Yeah," he answers, grinning. "At least that's what she told me."

"Where is she?"

"She wouldn't tell me. She said she's close enough to me but not far enough from her family."

"Edward, that's—that's such great news!"

He beams a smile worthy of a Crest commercial. "I know."

I don't have a gift yet for Edward, but I have an idea. It's insane, and it probably won't work. But what if—what if I could contact Edward's sister myself and convince her to come to our Christmas party? To meet Edward? If she's not in Seattle, hell, I'll pay for her bus or plane ticket. Edward has done so much for me, and he's not worth anything less than the best.

Maybe I could give him this? I really want to.

Anyway.

After finally knowing what I want to "get" for Edward, I walk in the small gym and sit in the middle of a blue mattress. I observe exercise equipment, the wooden (well, maybe fake-wooden) walls and the ropes that hang from the ceiling. I've always hated those ropes. Never in my life have I been able to climb one. Mr. Black joins me not long after I've sat down, and I start to stand, but he motions for me not to. He offers me a greeting, sits on the mattress next to me, puts a book behind him, and without explanation, presses two fingers on my neck.

"What're you doing?"

"Checking your resting heart rate."

He pushes a button on his stopper and starts to count. I stay silent. He pauses the stopper, and lets out a long-ish hum. I'm not sure if that means he's impressed or unimpressed. Then, still without commenting, he looks me straight in the eye.

"If you don't find a better reason for running a marathon than the one you currently have you're going to find yourself another coach."

I try not to look affected by his words. He didn't seem to like Michael, either, so why is it a bad excuse?

"If Michael Newton decides not to run, if he has an injury, if he's unable to run for any reason whatsoever, would you still be driven to run a marathon? I'm impressed that you would want to go to such lengths to prove yourself, but if beating him is your only drive to run, you won't make it. It's not enough."

That is one excellent question. Would I? Do I want this not merely because I need to show Michael I'm capable of being better than him, but because I want this and I've got something to prove to myself, too?

How amazing would it be to successfully finish a marathon? To be fit enough to have a good time? To have a reason to step outside the box?

"Yes, I'd still do it."

"Are you positive?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about your reasoning."

I feel like he's testing me, and I'm sure I'm right. He probably is.

"I started to jog even before he was in the equation and I still want to improve my athletic side. I'd love to make my dad proud. I think it would help me gain self-confidence, and I want to be able to prove to myself that a person who's been as far from sports as I've been would have the diligence to be able to successfully finish a marathon."

Jesus Christ, I sound like such an obedient student. Where is my passion? I want to be passionate about this.

"I want it."

He hums again, and it's the most unnerving sound. Am I disqualified? If Michael doesn't run, it would still be amazing to run a marathon. I'm truthful in my words. I do still want to run.

Mr. Black makes me run on a treadmill. After that, he checks my pulse. I run, he checks my pulse. In the end, I'm running faster. I'm panting, but I don't give up. I sweat a lot. Finally, when it feels like he's gotten me cough my lungs out, he checks my pulse again.

He shows me stretches that I've never even thought of, helps me stretch, and finally, we sit on the mattress again. When I'm no longer panting, he checks my pulse. I hope he's not disappointed by my bad performance because I did my best. I really did.

I drink water.

"Your resting heart rate was 49 beats per minute."

"And that is—good?"

Finally, his face gets out of this limbo of no expression, and he smiles, showing no teeth. "It's slow."

"And that's bad?"

"It's an athlete's heart rate."

"So it's good?"

"Yes." He smiles a real smile, with teeth and all. "Do you know if your brother or father takes any supplements to stay fit?"

"I—I don't know, but I don't think so."

"Do not think that what I will tell you now will immediately help you through everything, it won't. Running a marathon is one hell of a quest. It will be tough, you'll want to give up more than once, and the chances of you beating Michael Newton are slim to none. That's the reality check." He slides his book closer to himself. "However, you're in better physical condition than you probably think. Are you serious about this? Do you want to us to make you a work-out schedule, do you want to spend your mornings or evenings in the gym? Do you really want to put your heart into this? Because if you're serious about this, and if you believe in yourself, you won't be the only one surprised by your results."

"What do I need to do?"

"How tall are you?"

"Five nine."

"How much do you weigh?"

"Honestly? I have no idea."

"Come on, let's weigh you."

I intended to do this, I know I did, but I feel a little uncomfortable because I know—even though I've gained enough for a few pairs of jeans not to fit me (hey, that's great news!), I still won't like what I see. I close my eyes when I step on the scale, and open them as I hear Mr. Black hum next to me.

"106 pounds," he says, still in that hum-like way of his. He takes a calculator. "That's a BMI of 15.7. Clearly underweight." He looks at me. "I won't let you run the actual marathon unless you manage to have BMI of at least 18.5. You'll need to gain at least twenty pounds. Maybe thirty. You'd still be slim by any standards."

"I'm not afraid of getting fat."

"Good, 'cause you'll need to eat a lot, regularly, and properly."

"I already am."

He hums.

"I also need to tell you this—top female athletes often have problems with how regular their menstrual cycle is, so I suggest that if you're not already on the pill, you should consider it."

I would have never thought I'd find myself drawing similarities between two so entirely different people, Jacob and Edward, but I have to say, the extreme lack of any discomfort in his face reminds me of Edward. Kind of.

And I'm aware of that fact. I know that professional female athletes tend to have those problems. I'm glad he reminded me.

"That won't be a problem."

"Great," he says. "Do you run every morning, Isabella?"

"Yes."

"Don't. You need one, if not two, rest days a week. I'll make you a schedule, and you'll start cross-training as well. And a few weeks prior to the marathon, you'll start your taper. Rest is an extremely important part of training."

The huh of the huh of the huh?

Huh?

Er, Isabella Swan, the running enthusiast whose running lingo is non-existent.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Black, I'm not very familiar with the terms yet. Cross-training? Taper?"

He smiles. I swear, the way he never undermines my confidence when he could laugh at me, I'm really starting to appreciate it. "You'll learn. Cross-training is exercising outside of your sport to reduce your chance of injury and balance your muscle groups. You also won't get sick of running that way. Like swimming, skiing, skating, rowing, stuff like that. Taper is simply a period before a competition when you won't train as much." He hands me the book he's been holding. "Here. It's mine, I'd like you to read it."

The book is quite worn, and titled Marathon Running: From Beginner to Elite by Richard Nerurkar. I've never heard of him. I'm starting to realize there's an entire world out there, world I know very little about. The world of athletes. I've always held the belief that, just like my piano-playing, you can't make it without talent, but I'm starting to think… maybe I was wrong? Maybe my piano teacher was wrong?

They wouldn't write books about this stuff if it weren't possible for us, mere mortals, to succeed, too.

Right?

"Thank you. I will."

Together, we work out a work-out schedule for me. Mondays and Thursdays are rest days, at least for now (because I have Drama those days and I don't want to burn out), I'm going run three times a week, one of them long-distance, and do cross-training twice a week. For the first few weeks, he's going to help me a lot, and after that—once I've gotten the knack of working out—I'm more independent. My work-out is going to get longer and more intense every week, but we're starting slow to minimize my risk of injuries.

I never really thought of injuries before, but seeing how many athletes skip competitions because of them, I guess I should be really careful.

Aw, look at me, speaking about myself like I'm becoming a top athlete or something.

Hardy har har.

"Mr. Black?"

"I think it's alright to call me Jacob when not in class. We'll be seeing a lot of each other," he says. "Kind of like you do with Peter."

"Yes, but he's Peter," I answer.

He chuckles.

"So, er, Jacob, I just want to know—do you really think it would be possible for me to achieve a time under three hours?"

He disentangles his hair before tying it into a pony tail again, and he looks at me. "Honestly? Yes. Yes, I do."

"Even though I'm not athletic or talented or anything?"

Please say it doesn't matter. Please, please confirm I was wrong.

"Isabella, I thought I just assured you that you are."

"Athletic? No, I'm not."

"Talented. Athleticism is achievable, talent is where you start before that."

"But I'm not even good!"

"Isabella, your heart rate recovered from exercise faster than some football players'—it doesn't show much, but it shows something. Your brother's is like that, too, and I could only assume your father is athletic as well. I remember that your mother played volleyball on a pretty serious level. You've got it in you. I'm not saying it's a solution to all of your problems, not at all, I'm just saying… you've got more potential than you think. But of course, I could've just given you a blatant lie to make you work that much harder. But I didn't. If you're driven to run and finish and succeed on this marathon, you'll do it regardless of what I say."

"I am. I'm driven."

"I know, Isabella. I know," he replies, smiling in that amiable way of his. "That's why I didn't lie to you. Talented or not, you'll still need to work incredibly hard for this. Your supposed fitness is not going to win the marathon for you."

"I'll do whatever you need me to do to be the best I can be."

"You and your brother are very alike."

"So talent isn't everything?"

"God, no. Of course not. There are plenty of athletes who claim to have no talent. You can make it without it. But talent is good because it makes you susceptible to being interested, which, in return, makes you want to spend doing what you love, and if you do it long enough, if you're determined enough, you'll succeed. Even if the only person you beat is yourself."

Incredible as it is, I find myself agreeing with him.

"And, Isabella? It's not every day I get a seventeen year old student tell me to torture them after they've suffered from such a loss. Some people are born fighters."

I'm baffled.

He couldn't have known how I feel about talent. But I see it now, it's not so much as where do I start off, it's where I want to go from there. It's whether I want to go somewhere from there or not. Talent, in itself, isn't a bad word, it's if and how you use it. And if you don't have it, you just have to work that much harder. If he had told me I didn't have it, I would've believed him. But I'm surprised to admit to myself that I'm flattered he'd think I had it.

Isabella Swan, the ugly duckling who never quite lived up to her name, is good at something without really trying.

Hey, there's a first for everything.

I like Mr. Black, he's sort of amiable but professional. He never makes me feel inadequate, he always explains what he thinks and why, and even when he implies my goals might stay out of my reach, he also says it's up to me.

I like that.

It means my success depends on my dedication and hard work, and nothing else, not even my supposed talent. It's all up to me. No-one and nothing else but my own determination.

In the evening, I stop by Edward's place to use his laptop and send a letter to my employer who sent me a polite threat to fire me if I ever again simply not appear at the workplace (much like I did last weekend). At home, I discover dad is home so I could've just used his work computer. Oh, well. So I use it to contact Rosalie, and cross my fingers for the best. I'll do anything she wants (within the realm of reality) if she'd only agree to meet Edward. If she's healthy enough for that to happen.

Mom's gifts to us—a large box for me, a smaller one for Emmett—are now under a branch of fir tree. We haven't gotten around to having an actual tree, and it doesn't seem to matter. The little branch we do have has nothing on it. Mom wasn't big on the whole Christmas tree decorating thing. She always said she didn't want to cover up the beauty of nature to watch a mindless amount of sparkling plastic and glass.

For once, we all seem to agree. Nobody makes an attempt at decorating our little branch.

: :

Friday, the 17th of December
3:43 PM, laying under my bed, listening to A. L. Webber's Memory and thinking about what? Uh-oh.

Emmett, why do you have A. L. Webber on your iPod?

What did I say about not daydreaming about Edward? I am such a liar. It's like there's a world I didn't know about right in front of me, and all I see is couple-y behavior. Where have I been? Lauren and Tyler are flirting around our lunch table, Angela and Ben lost in each other (nothing new there, actually), Tanya laughing at everything Edward says. Well, he can be fun, and I laugh, too, but I think I see the differences in Tanya's behavior and I find myself discombobulated. Ah, that is such a great word. I'll just use that from now on.

Do I act differently around Edward without even knowing it? Do I? Am I a bad person now, seeing Tanya's intentions and not really liking her for it? Because we like the same guy? I have no business judging anyone's behavior when clearly I can't even handle giving Edward a hint that I've had an epic realization. And I'm not judging anyone, I just feel like I've been wearing pink glasses, never caring who likes who and whatnot, and suddenly, I'm right in the middle of it and I do not know the rules. I don't know this game.

I've never tried to get anyone's attention. No-one's ever caught my own, either.

I've never caught anyone's attention. Still haven't.

Shit, I'm screwed.

Like, girls change themselves to get a guy's attention, right? Start wearing make-up, revealing clothing, all that jazz. It sounds logical, I know, every effing movie about a teenage drama has that one girl who waltzes in at the right moment and knows all the secrets to seducing a guy and does this big make-over on the girl and the guy suddenly realizes he likes her but then she's afraid he only likes her after the change—not before—and then it's blown out of proportion before the guy admits to liking the girl before the change. After that, it's happily ever after.

Well, boo-hoo.

The thing is, I don't want to start wearing tons of make-up for Edward to see me. I don't want to wear clothing more revealing. I don't want to change myself just because of a guy, even if that guy is as incredible as Edward. If he does not like me for who I am, yeah, I'd be sad. Devastated. I don't know, you know?

Well, no, I know Edward likes me for who I am. I know he does. But liking someone as a person and wanting something more with them are two entirely separate concepts.

And I don't mean to say anything bad about those girls who do feel like they should present their very best to the guy. I don't mean that. Everyone is different, right? It's everyone's individual liberty to act however they want and not an inch differently. But do I really have to go through a giant make-over if really, I'd rather just… not?

I don't want to.

So where does that leave me?

I've also come to a rather startling realization—sure, it crossed my mind that Edward might be a little backwards, sparing his touchy-feely behavior to those who don't think anything of it. But—I've noticed the only person who isn't at the receiving end of his casualness is, well, Tanya. He's way more casual with anyone: Lauren, Angela, any of the guys, you name it. But not her. That speaks volumes. Either he likes her a whole lot, or not at all.

Yeah, he's most casual with me, but I'm his best friend, and he doesn't mean anything by it. He's so used to it.

As I said, I'm screwed.

So, we played through our musical yesterday in its entirety, and it wasn't that bad. It's going to work out. I still haven't found my, uh, spark? Spirit? Spunk? By that, I of course mean that I'm fairly silent through it all. Peter does compliment me on what I've done with the choreography, and even though I'm flattered, I feel like it was done by an entirely different person, like a separate identity from myself.

I play Grizabella (originally played by Elaine Paige) "The Glamor Cat" (this is just one big joke waiting to happen, huh?) who wears the most ragged but super-hot costume. Seriously, I thought I was going to die today. It is so hot. If there is any chance of snow on Monday, I'll flee from the stage and jump right into it.

Don't be fooled by the name, though, Glamor Cat is not at all glamorous. I get to wear the goofiest, ugliest make-up, a horrible wig that makes me look like an 80s artist gone wild, and a costume that's about as hot as Scarlett Johansson. She's hot.

It's gonna be awesome.

Edward (he plays Gus, an old ex-actor), fortunately for him, gets to wear brown and shabby pants and a long, furry sweater. There are a few boys who have a head-to-toe costume, and they are not at all pleased.

So, Cats? Let me just rephrase the intricate plot of T.S. Eliot's Cats.

There are cats. Lots of them.

They sing.

The end.

It's all really complex and twisted.

No, actually, it's a story of cats who gather around to prove to Old Deuteronomy (Laurent, in our case) that they are most worthy of a journey up to the Heavy Side Lair. He's going to choose only one cat. So each cat gets to sing a song (when we do sing, we sing together, because we're not exactly world-class singers) and make his/her case on why they should be chosen.

The sad part is, Peter asked me to sing Memory. Alone. Like, with background music, but no other singers.

This is a disaster waiting to happen.

It's a beautiful song. It is. I love it, it has so much emotion. And I'm not afraid of performing, not at all. I don't really care about the audience. I do care about an audience who leaves in the middle of my performance out of fear that their ear will bleed. I'm not horrible, I'm fairly decent, but Peter thinks all I need is to do some vocal exercises with the Music's teacher, Miss Rhodes, and I'll be "fine."

Right.

Sounds likely.

But Peter suggested it in such a frail way, he mentioned it in passing that if I felt like it, he'd really appreciate it if I'd sing it alone. He didn't tell me I had to, but I just had to grab onto his idea and assure him that I can do it. Just to—to throw myself in situations to see how much my perception of myself is changing. So now I'm doing things just to prove something or other to myself.

Sometimes I wonder if I should get an Oscar for being so fake-blasé about things that matter to me.

So, today, we had a dress rehearsal as well, and I realize our musical is kind of funny, so we'll be fine. I hope. I'll be drinking water and eating lemons and singing your ears off, Emmett. Be prepared.

On a brighter note, school is over! Where have I been? I haven't even had time to plan building all those snowmen… sorry, mud-men.

: :

Tuesday, the 21th of December
00:32 AM, listening to A Thousand Miles by Vanessa Carlton (hey, we all have our cheesy moments).

At around half to seven, I'm in my costume and determined not to vomit my guts out. Most of us have changed into furry heat, and we're doing vocal exercises in Math classroom (107) and waiting for the last people to finish changing. Everyone's happy but nervous. I'm usually cool as a cucumber, but today, I just feel… I don't know. I'm not one for stage fright, and I specifically came to school yesterday to sing Memory with Peter. He gave me thumbs up.

Regardless of his digits, I still feel like throwing up. Everyone's nervous, and anyone who has the slightest of problems comes to me. They're so used to my joking, it's familiar and they claim it calms them before performing, so I act all I Don't Care but feel like retching and they're all so happy and relaxed afterwards as if I just gave them the magic antidote.

Seriously, where is my Oscar?

And the thing is, I'm not particularly nervous about my performance. If I screw it up, oh, well. I'll live. I've survived worse.

I'm nervous because, well.

Edward's sister promised to show up after our Christmas compilation to our party.

I'm not even kidding.

It took us quite a few messages back and forth for her to trust me and for us to speak more casually to each other. She hadn't planned on even attempting to meet him before New Year's, and it took a lot of convincing, but once I found out she had come to Seattle for the sole purpose of meeting Edward, I asked her if her health would allow and if she'd need any money (if anyone in the world is in need of help, it's her). She asked me for the time and address.

It's surreal.

I spent the entire weekend trying to make Edward's life work where mine hadn't.

She couldn't be here for the performance, only for our Drama party after it, but it's fine. At least she'll be here. I hope.

I also hope Edward won't think I'm sticking my nose in his business, I just want him to have the perfect Christmas gift. He's been here for me all those times I've broken down at school. He deserves a surprise for caring as much as he does.

Once we're finished with vocal exercises, Laurent says my name and stands next to me in his long gray suit, a beard, a wig and a wide grin. I mirror it. The girls painted my face white, my eyes and nose black, lips dark red. They gave me fake wrinkles. It looks fun.

"How come you're never nervous about these things?"

"I wear a pair of power g-strings," I answer. "They're pink and have Mickey Mouse on them. They work wonders."

"Sounds comfortable."

"Oh, they're lacy, too. Of course they are. I can loan them to you sometime."

"I think I'll skip."

"Too bad. You'll never know what it's like, being cool as a cucumber."

Edward joins us, and he looks pretty funny with grey eyebrows and a goatee. He puts an arm on my shoulder (as he does), and looks at the both of us.

"Who is cool as a cucumber?"

"Bella here. I don't think I've ever seen her nervous."

"But she has no reason to be."

"Speak for yourself, Mr. I Could Cough at Juilliard Main Entrance and Get Accepted."

People around me laugh. How come I never notice how many people hear what I'm saying? Maybe I'd bullshit less and try to act like an actual human being.

Er, no. Not going to happen.

"Maybe I'll loan you my pink Mickey Mouse g-strings and make you wear them at Juilliard main entrance. You'd totally get in."

"Totally," Edward repeats, clearly mocking me. I can tell he's amused, but unlike me, he's not that good at disguising his nerves. At least not from me because I can tell he's nervous. Very much so.

I excuse us from Laurent.

"Any way I could make you less nervous?"

"Yes," he replies and looks down at me. "Kiss me."

I laugh and pull at his goatee. "No, I'm serious. How can I help you?"

He tries to tug at his hair, but it's covered in gel. His hair has to stay up.

"I'll be fine."

"You sound convinced," I reply. "You're not usually anxious around people."

"Being on stage and conversing with friends are two different things."

"Let's say they are. What's the thing you're most afraid of?"

Edward shrugs. "Messing up?"

"And if you do? What's the worst that could happen?"

"I don't know. People would laugh?"

"So let's say they do. Then what?"

"I'd be humiliated."

"Let's say you were. Then what?"

"I'd die of humiliation."

"That's a likely scenario. I like it. What do you think would happen after two weeks of holidays?"

"People would laugh every time they see me?"

"Okay," I reply. "Edward, nobody in high-school is really like that. So they'd laugh for a moment. But high-school is like a perpetual collection of short term memories. People like to have a good laugh. But they'll forget. They have their own problems to think about. And if you mess up like never seen before—which is impossible—yeah, they'd notice. But the play will be over, they'll return to their own lives and forget all about it. Even if they remember it in January, I doubt they'll focus on it." I really like his goatee, it's so much fun, so I play with it a little. "Besides, bad decisions make good stories."

"Have you ever messed up? Badly?"

"Are you kidding me? I mess up every day. All the world's a stage."

"What about on stage?"

"Of course I have. But I'm still here, aren't I? And I'll mess up again and again, ad infinitum."

"So what do you do if you mess up?"

"Fake it til you make it," I answer. "Laugh it off. Laugh at yourself. Continue like nothing happened. Hold your head high and pretend you meant to mess up."

"You have the answers to everything."

"Oh, I'm just a fountain of knowledge," I agree, smiling. I observe him a little and I'm glad to note he doesn't look as nervous. Still nervous, but not as much.

"So when you mess up? Just continue."

"You're saying like it's a given I will."

"A-ha! I got you to argue your case! See? You don't really think you'll mess up, you're just afraid you will."

"Guys," Peter calls. "We're up."

And it's like the old times. It's fun, the audience laughs a lot, we sing, I sing, Peter plays the piano. Our play seems to be accepted very well, and no, Edward doesn't mess up. He's hesitant in one place, but he makes it seem like it was intentional. Fake it til you make it.

That, right there, is my life philosophy.

When our play is over, we bow to the audience and run out. Edward has to change out of his clothes for our "duet", I chose to wear my cat costume (it would take too much time to rub off all that white paint) and we wait for our turn. Our Silver Thunderbird is the last part of our Christmas compilation, and after that, people get to go home to their families. But the turn-up for our school's Christmas party is phenomenal. Even my dad is here.

Do you know how often dad has had the time to see my performances?

This is his third. It's not that he doesn't care, he's just otherwise occupied. He's too nice to refuse any of his employees or colleagues.

But he's here now.

We stand side by side with Edward, watching elementary schoolers' choir from the doorway, and Edward is getting nervous again. He's clad in black jeans, a light blue button-down, and for the first time, I notice that he has a five o'clock shadow. For the amount of attention I give him, you'd think I'd have noticed he's shaving. I mean, most guys in our class do, but Edward's stubble isn't even subtle. It's noticeable.

Seriously, do I ever notice anything in my life? Even with things I pay plenty of attention to I fail to notice a lot.

When the kids have finished singing and the final song is announced, Edward and I enter 106 again, and side by side, walk to the piano. I sit, holding my tail not to sit on it, and I'm surprised to see Edward sit next to me with a microphone in his hand. It's lowered.

"What're you doing?"

"Sitting."

And I don't argue when I see him cast a nervous glance at the crowded seats. Eyes are on us, but a few kids are still leaving the stage. Once again, I look at Edward, and he's got a piece of goatee next to his ear. He freezes when I touch his face to remove it.

"A piece of beard just couldn't bear the thought of being departed from you."

He actually cracks a smile. "Thanks."

"Edward?" I lean closer to him and whisper, "Pretend it's just us. Nobody else in the room, like when we were stuck here. Don't look at them."

He takes a breath, nodding. The crowd is quiet.

"Ready?"

And either I'm a better at putting people at ease than I thought or Edward shows more nerves than he feels or maybe he just doesn't give himself enough credit, but I play, and he starts singing with no problems at all. No, that is an understatement.

I think I witness the entire audience experience a four minute eargasm. I think half of the audience just changed their sexual orientation.

Yeah. That's more like it. Edward makes me join at the chorus, and I do. I'm a little silly (hey, I'm in a cat costume, what do you expect?) but he's fantastic, and if I paid more attention, I think I'd hear the sound of jaws dropping to the floor.

After the final note, a single man stands to give us a standing ovation. It's dad. It was mom's favorite song, of course he's overwhelmed. After he's stood for a few seconds, the rest of the audience follows his example.

Edward gets a standing ovation.

"They love you," I whisper as I lean closer to him, and he smiles at me.

"Us," he mutters, casually takes my hand, we bow together and leave the stage. The senior girl who announces everything wishes everyone a merry Christmas and a safe trip home.

My dad catches Edward and me from the corridor, and he's speechless. Literally, he opens and closes his mouth twice before he pulls me into a hug. Edward leaves to probably give us some space, but he didn't need to because dad wants to go home and cook dinner before I arrive. He says he won't have many chances to do that for a while.

I walk him to the main entrance.

"So you play the piano again?"

"Turns out I do."

He gives me a gentle smile. "I've missed hearing you play."

"Emmett said that, too," I reply. "Why didn't you guys ever say anything?"

"I don't know," he replies. "You were always so determined and conscientious and I never quite got the idea that you actually enjoyed it."

"Well, I seem to have shed my distaste," I reply. "And, uh, dad. Is it okay if we do one little evening in mom's honor? Maybe even tonight? Just to—I don't know, send her away our own way?"

Surprised, he nods. "That—that's a great idea. Will you play?"

"Marc Cohn? Sure, dad. I can play."

We part our ways. I look around, watching people leave and hug and wish each other merry Christmas, watching Edward receive congratulations from every passing person like he's the hero of the night. His parents beam with pride. I receive the occasional kudos, too, before I go and wish all of my friends (outside of Drama) a merry Christmas.

Soon enough, most of the guests and parents and students and teachers have left, and our Drama class returns to 106 to have our own little Christmas party. The room is now dim with blinking lights in every corner and a little table with snacks. It feels festive and joyful. Almost half of us have neglected to change into our own clothes, and I laugh when I see little Irina twirl and wriggle her tail.

It's twenty minutes after seven. Rosalie promised to be here at eight. I can only hope she makes it. If she wants anything at all in return for turning up, I'll gladly grant her wishes.

We exchange gifts. I wait a bit as Laurent gives away his own gift. Like me, he's still wearing the cat costume, and when he looks up, his eyes widen. I curtsy ceremoniously with a toothy grin and give him my gift.

"I thought you didn't get me?"

"I couldn't just reveal myself."

He rips it open, and I'm glad to see he seems to genuinely appreciate the content. "But how'd you know?"

"I paid attention during lunch. I just hoped you hadn't bought the game before I got there."

"But how do you even notice this stuff?"

"All about pink lacy Mickey Mouse g-strings, baby."

He laughs and hugs me briefly. "Thanks."

"No problem."

I turn to leave, but he calls me back.

"Bella?"

"Shoot."

"I've been kind of wondering—would you mind going out with me? Like, catch a movie or something?"

Er, what?

Hello, fifth dimension, long time no see.

It's like I've never seen the guy before, even though he joined our Drama class in September. He's just an inch or two taller than I am (six foot), he's got black short hair and he's built like a truck. I've considered Laurent a friend since spring, but never in a million years would I have guessed that a senior jock would want to ask me out.

Like, seriously, how can I claim to be quite perceptive when I'm blind as fuck?

"Is this a prank? Or a bet or something?"

"No." He laughs.

"Are you for real?"

"Yup. I know we're friends and all, but I just—you're a cool girl, Bella."

"Huh."

"What?" he asks, never letting his mood go down. "Is it a problem that I'm black?"

"God, no! Laurent! You know me better than that."

"I kinda figured, but I had to ask. If that's not a problem, then what is?"

Yeah, Bella, what is the problem? No-one's ever been interested in me, and honestly, I'm flattered. I really am. And I don't know him well, but I know him well enough to know he's pretty cool and wouldn't turn out to be an axe-murderer.

"Hey, Bella, you're not gonna offend me or anything." He shrugs. "You can just tell me."

Suddenly, Edward is by my side, and that makes Laurent quite shy. He no longer pushes me for the answer, and even though Edward greets him, Laurent only shrugs a response. Edward motions for us to move, but I don't.

I'm blown away. There is a young man in this world who would want to ask me out.

"Laurent," I say, and he looks up. He doesn't look at Edward. "Just call me sometimes this week, and I'll give you my answer. Sounds fair?"

"Sure." He grins again, and goes to talk to Peter and Irina.

And I'm just… speechless. Yeah, I never quite understood why he hung out with us or why he joined Drama. Is this it? Did he literally join Drama to gather up the courage to ask me out?

I feel… I don't know how I feel. If that's true, I'm pretty blown away.

"Bella?" Edward waves his hand in front of my face. "Anybody in there?"

"Sorry, but I just discovered America."

"How come?" Edward asks, and he's searching for something in his bag. I sit next to the seat where Edward's bag is sitting. Heh, so much sitting in one sentence.

"Laurent just asked me out."

Edward freezes. Like in slow motion, he turns his head to look at my face, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry at his expression. He straightens his back, his legs are slightly apart, and he's holding a piece of paper. His eyes avert from me to Laurent and back again. He frowns, he looks pained or concerned or frustrated or heck if I knew. Maybe I should stop trying to figure him out.

He does look hell of a lot surprised and—uh, sad? I don't know!

"Jesus, Edward." I feel a little offended. "I know I'm not like a normal girl or anything, but is it really impossible for Laurent to think that the idea of going out with me isn't entirely unappealing? Ouch."

"Of course that's not what I meant. I was just so, uh, surprised." Edward averts his eyes, frowns, and sort of clears his throat. "So what did you tell him?"

Okay, now I'm sure: he looks like he's in pain, in physical pain. Like I ran over his dog or something. Did I cause it? How could I have caused it?

"I told him I'd think about it. He'll call."

"Oh," he says, not elaborating. But now he's hunching a little. I feel like I just sucked the living daylights out of him. But he doesn't even like me! Or does he think if I get a boyfriend he'd be second best or something?

"So what do you think you're going to say?"

"Edward, girls like me, they don't have flocks of guys lined up behind their door. It's not like I have much of a choice in life. So I don't know."

"Bella, stop saying shit like that."

"It's the truth. I didn't make a joke at my own expense—I'm just saying, maybe some of us can't afford to find love in life. So what if I'll have to settle for trust and companionship? Maybe I'll still manage to be happy."

In Pride and Prejudice, there's this character, Charlotte Lucas, the protagonist's best friend, she's quite "old" (for a single woman at that age), she's not considered beautiful, and she has no other choice but to settle. Maybe I'm my own life's Charlotte? What if I am?

Meh, it's not the nineteenth century. I'd probably stay single forever.

"That's bullshit, Bella," Edward says, and he's frustrated. "How can I make you stop being so insecure about this? I know you haven't made any jokes about it, but it's just like you said. It starts with the way you think."

"I know it does."

He lowers his voice. "Then why the fuck would you think you're not worthy of love because of your appearance? Everyone deserves to be loved, Bella. Everyone."

"Even the pedophiles and rapists?"

"Not what I meant."

"I know."

"Then why should you settle for less than what you're worth?" he asks, his eyes locked with mine and filled with intensity. After a moment, his eyes widen, and he's no longer angry. "Wait—going out with Laurent would be like settling for you?"

I stay quiet, it's pretty much self-explanatory. I don't know. I don't know him well enough to judge.

But Edward, his face loses the anguish, and it has the tiniest glimmer of hope in them. "So there's a guy Isabella Swan has his eyes on, but feels too unworthy to approach?"

I blush scarlet, and it's so annoying. No way in hell am I telling him.

"There is, isn't there," he says, and he's much happier than before, teasing me like that.

"Edward, just—don't."

He grins.

"But promise me, whatever you do, you won't settle for someone in life."

"Is this important?"

"Very."

"Alright. I promise."

"And you haven't decided if you want to go out with him?"

"No I haven't."

He lets out a breath, and he's back to normal. Then, he nervously hands me an envelope.

"What're you doing?"

"I'm giving you your gift."

"But we were supposed to share gifts after the party."

"I know, but I got your name."

"No, you didn't."

He pulls out a slip of paper from his back bag, and gives it to me. It reads Isabella Swan.

"But you told me you didn't get me."

"No, I didn't."

He said he wished he'd gotten me, so I assumed he hadn't. But he did.

I stand up next to an uneasy-looking Edward and open the envelope.

my dearest Bella,

I tried to get it out of you, what you would like—what you would really enjoy. but you never let on. you're really difficult to read, you know? so I got you this. it's a hug coupon. I thought of you when I saw it.

use it well.

merry Christmas, Bella. :)

E.

Hug Coupon: The bearer of this coupon is entitled to a warm hug. Please leave everything immediately and hug the coupon bearer in exchange for the coupon.

There was a silly picture of a brown bear on it.

"So, uh, do you like it?" he asks with the most genuine concern. "I mean—I know it's not like something really practical, which I know you would've loved, but I—I just…" he trails off, staring at me. "Oh, shit, you hate it, don't you? I'm so sorry, I really tried to—"

I give him the coupon.

"Oh—shit, I'm sorry," he apologizes with the most heartbreaking expression, but his eyes widen once he's raised them. I step closer.

"What're you doing?"

"I have a hug coupon and I intend to use it well."

He blinks a few times, and when it finally dawns on him what I'm doing, he lets out a long breath. I pull him so close I can almost feel his heartbeat next to mine and raise my chin to the crook of his neck. I hold on. My mouth is just under his ear.

"This is the best gift, and I mean it," I whisper. "But you—you've been here for me when I most needed you and that—that's invaluable. Thank you."

He squeezes me, and I feel his nod. But he doesn't let go. It's a very long hug. Turns out when I put my mind to it, I'm capable of casual human proximity, too. And his arms feel really nice. Like, really, really nice.

"There's two tickets to War Horse in the envelope as well."

I pull back, but only slightly. "The one at The Paramount Theatre? You're kidding me?"

"Nope."

I squeeze him tighter. "That's amazing, Edward—thank you."

After a few minutes (or ten), we pull away and grin at each other. I feel Edward's breath on my forehead. All I want to do is lift my chin and pretend there's a mistletoe so that I had a reason to kiss him. I wish I had the guts. Instead, I raise myself on my tiptoes and give him a kiss on the cheek. He's startled, I can tell. I smile and rub my lipstick off his cheek with my thumb for a second, and he's even more startled. His eyes look quite intense, and I don't know how to interpret it, but he has no time to react or act, because his gaze has fallen on a girl just inside the auditorium.

His mouth falls slightly agape.

His eyes flicker between me and the girl.

"You didn't," he says, and his voice is full of wonder. "You didn't."

"I did."

He locks eyes with me. They're wide. "But how did you—when did you? Why is she—how?"

I grin and motion at Rosalie.

"Go and find out."

And then, Edward beams like I'm the sun, picks me up in a hug so tight he lifts me from the ground and swirls me around. I snicker. He gently holds my head next to his neck while my legs (and tail) fly around him. My world swirls when he stops.

Edward's hands tenderly encase my face, and he lowers his.

"You are so—how did I get so lucky? You're the best friend anyone could want." I can feel his breath on my nose. He's so close. "You're amazing, Isabella Swan," he whispers. I beam. He takes my hand. As much as I cherish it, I really don't think I need to be there with him, not yet.

So I squeeze his hand to let him know I'm not rejecting the idea, just the timing.

"Edward—this is your journey. Go figure things out with your sister. Get to know each other a little."

He lets go of my hand and stares at me for a second, this Edward-like undecipherable intensity in his eyes. Then, after the briefest of nods, he places a wet kiss on my forehead, and grins.

"You're incredible."

I tilt my head toward Rosalie, but Edward stays put, mulling something over. "And you—you'll be here?"

I smile. "I'll be right here, Edward."

He beams and skips every second step as he runs to his sister. I sit at the edge of the stage and watch Edward hug his sister. They wave at me as they leave the room, I nod back and grin. It feels like the end of an era, Christmas music in speakers, Christmas lights blinking in every corner and everyone having fun, laughing or eating chocolate.

I take off the upper part of my costume (the heat is killing me), bounce off the edge of the stage, take a few pieces of chocolate, and join Peter, Laurent, Tanya and little Irina. I have an answer to Laurent.

I cast a little glance at the wooden door, looking for God knows what, a sign perhaps. There is none.

But tonight feels like the beginning of something wonderful.