11
B
I pull into the school parking lot, bright and early on Monday morning, and glare at the spot where a stupid Volvo usually sits.
The entire weekend has been a whirlwind of emotions for me, and I am exhausted. It all started on Friday night in the photo booth. I was nervous when I took the bull by its horns and kissed Edward. Excited when he hesitantly reciprocated said kiss. A mixture of anger and embarrassment when Mike fucking Newton threw open the curtain and told us to get a room. Hurt when Edward all but scrambled out of the booth and took off without so much as a backward glance.
I spent the weekend rotating through a plethora of emotions. One second, I was crying into my cornflakes, and the next, I was in the basement punching my dad's sandbag with my one good hand and picturing Mike's face first and then Edward's. Heartbroken because I might have screwed up any chance of being with Edward.
Completely over his hot and cold attitude. I don't care what Rose said. I'm not a fucking yo-yo, and I refuse to let some dumb boy treat me like one.
I toss my messenger bag over my shoulder and flex my busted knuckles as I make my way inside. Dad yelled at me for not taping up before I took all my pent up aggression out on his punching bag. But hindsight is twenty-twenty and all that jazz.
Making a beeline to my locker, I ignore everyone around me. I don't feel like peopling today, but Dad wouldn't let me stay home. Tried pulling the PMS card because most men get embarrassed around the topic, but not Charlie Swan.
Nah, he's been a single father for ten years. He bought me my first training bra when I was nine and sat outside the bathroom while I figured out how to use pads correctly at thirteen. When I told him it felt like my uterus was trying to crawl its way out of my body, Dad just threw a bottle of Midol at me and told me to get my ass to school.
Dick.
Today is not the day to fuck with Bella Swan.