When I was six, I ran out of ballet class into the street and caused a car crash. A man driving a 1978 Chevy Truck swerved left to avoid a girl in a pink tutu and hit a 1991 minivan with a mom and three kids inside. Fortunately, I was fine. Mostly. The police and my mother found me, still running, three blocks away. My ballet shoes had been discarded by the accident and my feet were bloody from the pavement. The only thing I remember was a voice in my head whisperings, "Run, Bella, run." I assume that was thanks to watching Forrest Gump with my dad the summer before.
As for the man in the truck and the mom and kids in the minivan, I don't know. My mother never told me and I never could find the police records or anything on the news. I tried to remember, I used to stay up some nights with my eyes opened wide as if I could make the lost memory play in the dark.
I never could.
But some nights, when I'm almost asleep I feel like I can remember seeing torn skin and falling flesh and blood shining under the Arizona sun. I feel like I can remember a man's eyes staring dead at the ground or a child's arm hanging limply out of a window. It isn't real though. It can't be, or I would remember it.
When I convince myself it's just my imagination, I can still hear that voice just before I drift off into sleep.
"Run, Bella, run."
And I've never stopped running since.
"I think Mike wanted to try tennis for some reason this year, which I told him was stupid because we always all do track together, and why would he do one year of tennis? One? It doesn't make sense," Jessica scoffs as we walk to lunch.
"Yeah," I say, only half paying attention. "That's very weird." I usually listen to her rambles about Mike for about three minutes before I start to tune them out. She's been upset at Mike about the tennis situation for a week now.
Jess sits down at our usual table; we're the first ones here today. "You're still trying out right Bella?"
"I think so." I should say yes, I should be sure. I've always ran track and when I moved to Forks last year that was one of the only things in my life that had stayed the same. When Coach Clapp, saw me, Isabella Swan, the clumsy girl from gym class who couldn't catch a basketball, he had almost not even let me try out for the team. But, when he saw how I could run… I'm not one to brag but I have never once tripped when I was running.
"You have to," Jess says, eyes wide. "I can't be alone on the team. Plus, you're like, really good. You set a school record and everything and your mile time is to die for."
Praise usually embarresses me, but not when it comes to track. "I guess I think about it," I tease. "If I can find the time in my schedule." If I can bring myself to face my ex, more like it.
Jess is infuriated, her dark curly head visibly shaking. Maybe it's wrong, but I love making her angry. Getting her to that tipping point where her eyes narrow and her hands start to ball into fists, eager to punch me in the stomach… I love making people angry. It's wrong, but the way I see it, there's no harm in it if it doesn't go too far.
Mike sits down next to us, swinging his arm over Jess's shoulder which instantly calms her. Bummer.
"Hey pretty ladies," he says, grinning, "How is it going?"
Jess kisses him on the mouth, all angry thoughts about the tennis situation apparently dissipating. Unfortunately for me, I can actually see their tongues. Forks High School has an unwritten code of laws, one of them being that only seniors are allowed to show PDA. Ever since the first day of school, Jess has been all over Mike every day at lunch. I think it's disturbing and a little too much for public school, but I'm in the minority. At least Angela and Ben have the decency to eat lunch outside behind a tree where no one can see him slide his hands up her skirt.
"That's enough," I try to say lightly. They both look at me and Jess giggles, a high and breathy sound. "Why are you in such a good mood today, Mike?" I ask.
In response, he starts to fondle Jess's-
"I meant before you saw Jess in that tight turtleneck."
He smiles, tilting his head toward the corner. "Oh, I beat up Cullen a couple minutes ago." Jess plays with his hair, rolling her eyes.
"What did I tell you about beating up the weirdos, babe? They can't help it."
"And his brothers are only a quick call away," I add, "You couldn't take both of them." I sigh, Mike was such a typical stupid teenage boy sometimes. I look over at the poor kid in the corner.
Mike shrugged. "He deserved it."
Knowing Edward Cullen, he probably did.
Every school has one: a greasy boy obsessed with WWI or WWII or some other historical time period when there were a shortage of men in the United States so girls were desperate enough to fuck them. At least, that's my logic for it. It was Anthony Farmer in my old school in Arizona, and Edward Cullen in Forks. Cullen was tall and skinny with this messy copper-colored hair that looked like it hadn't been washed or brushed in weeks. He was pale because all he ever did was stay indoors researching vikings and ninjas, according to Mike, who said that he was trying to figure out how to become hot or athletic. I guess I should feel sorry for Cullen. I should feel sorry that for reasons unknown, he doesn't care about personal hygiene. I should feel sorry that Mike kicks his ass once a week. But I should do a lot of things that I don't do, and, to be honest, hating Cullen is much easier than trying to make excuses for him.
Also, he's an asshole.
"He called me a plebeian caveboy jock and he can't wait to blast me to bits with his antique gun from the Vietnam war," Mike explains, laughing at the last part. He runs his hair through his spiky blonde hair as if it hadn't bothered him at all, and knowing Mike, it didn't. I doubt he knew what plebeian meant anyways.
A typical Cullen insult, the masses don't typically understand it or know why they received one in the first place. Most of my friend group was used to receiving them often. Except for me.
"Bella you really should tell poor Mike how to get on Cullen's good side," Jess says, now sitting on Mike's lap checking him for wounds from the fight. There's really no reason for her to, Mike looks perfectly unharmed, whereas Cullen… well, he's facing the wall but I can see a deep purple bruise starting to form on his skinny arm.
"I guess he doesn't really notice me; I moved here last year and he hasn't said a word to me."
Jess sighs, and goes back to kissing Mike and I know the routine well enough by now to know that they'll probably be at it for the rest of lunch. I pick up my backpack and throw away my lunch, pausing just for a second before I leave the cafeteria.
Cullen is glaring at me, disheveled hair and all, like I am the disgusting one between us. As if he knows that I just lied. As if he knows all my secrets.
Of course he doesn't though. Isabella Swan keeps her secrets well-guarded and no one, not even a greasy loner who's bone structure is too good to be wasted on him, can ever learn them.
I just smile, pretending that I have no clue what he is glaring about. Smile and leave, that's my routine for the end of lunch time at Forks High School.
But today, for Mike, I flip Cullen off before I go. I swear I can feel his green eyes glaring at me for the rest of the day.
It's March 17, St. Patrick's Day as well as the day for track tryouts. I see no issue with the two dates clashing, but Jess does because usually she goes with Mike, Lauren, and Tyler to skip school and get flat out drunk in wine coolers in her mom's basement to celebrate the holiday. A yearly tradition, in honor of their combined 8% Irish heritage, she says.
I'm not one for drinking myself. I'm scared of what would happen if I got too unhinged.
"I can't believe they're doing it without me," she says as we make our way to the track.
"You probably aren't missing much."
Probably missing Mike singing karaoke naked or Lauren and Tyler licking ice cream off each other's stomachs. A good show, yes, but something you could see almost every other weekend.
Jess nods. "And I can always stop by after school, and you can come too," saying the final bit as if it's an afterthought.
"Not really my thing but thanks," I laugh. If I were drunk I'd probably kill their asses or do some other crazy shit. I shouldn't be allowed near other people when I drink.
We walk in silence the rest of the way to the field, the sun shining down. Sunshine is rare for Forks so I try to make the most of it, memorizing the feel of warm and yellow and honey. It's not as brutal as the sun in Phoenix. Back during freshman year, I actually tried to bake cookies in Renee's car; they didn't turn out half-bad. I miss it though, the fire and red and intense heavy sunlight that filled you up and made you so angry sometimes. Bright red sunburns on the back of my neck, burnt feet from pavement- all just a memory now.
"Uh oh, he's here," Jess says as we step onto the track.
She definitely means Jacob, my ex-boyfriend. It doesn't take me long to find him, he's ridiculously tall and tan and good looking. His long black hair is in a bun and he has a new tattoo on his arm, and, damn, usually I'm not into tattoos, but Jacob could make anything my type. He doesn't notice me, but he will soon.
I throw my hair into a high ponytail, knowing the rare sun will bring out the natural red highlights, and adjust my sports bra. My boobs are pretty small but they have a nice shape, so I'd say they look alright. The extra padding helps though. I'm pretty skinny from all the years of track and tendency to only eat half my lunch before getting sick of Jess and Mike's antics, but my ass isn't too flat which I am thankful for every day. All in all, my revenge body is kind of a success.
Jess smiles in confirmation. I take a deep breath and walk over to the group.
Make him regret cheating on you Bella.
And, as we get closer, I notice something. Nessa Wolf, a fucking freshmen, has her arms around his waist.
I lightly grab hold of Jess's arm. "Holy fu-"
"Fucking freshmen" Jess cuts me off. "God, I thought he couldn't stoop lower than Courtney but here he goes."
My face flushes red and I hope everything thinks it's just from the sun. Heat exhaustion, I'll say.
I started dating Jacob a few weeks after I moved here last year. He'd approached me after our first track meet and asked if I wanted to go down to the beach with him that weekend. I said yes, and when we came back to school the next Monday, we were official. For a few months, everything was perfect: I liked him, he liked me, my dad liked him, and the sex was constant and hard. Alas, he was a fuckboy, I knew that from the start, but I had been stupid enough to think the I could "change him." I was wrong, of course. He had cheated on me with Courtney Beckett, a doe-eyed sophomore who fell under his charms. I don't blame her at all, she's incredibly sweet, but so aloof to school news and probably didn't even know Jacob was dating anyone. But Jacob… after that, let's just say I broke his hand. An even payment for breaking my poor old heart.
And now, here he was, with Nessa Wolf, a 14 year old freshmen half his size. It's almost pedophilic.
"She looks like a literal child next to him," Jess whispers, echoing my thoughts.
I shush her because people can hear us now. They can hear how Bella Swan's ex boyfriend is now fucking around with a freshman. Poor girl, they think, must be heartbreaking. Screw Jacob's ass though, I haven't cared about him in months. It's more of the blow to my dignity, my pride. That hurts worse.
Jacob gives me a lazy grin, his teeth white against his russet skin. His eyes glance down at my breasts, and part of me hates that he notices but another part is thrumming with excitement. Shit. I wish I could flip him off but Coach Clapp is right behind him now, clipboard and stopwatch in hand. Instead I make due with a nonchalant smile of my own, crossing my arms in front of my stomach. There, he can think what he wants about that.
"Is this everyone?" Coach says, his watery blue eyes peering around the group behind silver-rimmed glasses. Most people from last year are here, minus the seniors who graduated, but they are made up for by the ten or so freshmen milling about. They don't look like too much competition though, and I'm pleased. Seth, a sophomore and son of one of my father's only friends, smiles and waves. I wave back; Seth's sweet and it's nice to have one person not blatantly pitying me today.
"Seems like it, coach," Jacob says, Nessa nodding in agreement. He runs his hand through her hair, long and slow. My stomach tightens; he used to do that with me and now no one has touched me like that in far too long. Forks doesn't have many options.
Coach catches my eye and smiles. He looks almost surprised I returned, and to be honest, I am too. I take things too close to heart sometimes. But I'm not going to let a cheater and his new child-bride keep me away from what I'm best at. Once I can just run and close my eyes and not look at anyone and not think-
"Actually," a voice from behind everyone says. And wait a damn minute. An indescribable feeling of fear whips through me in a heartbeat, leaving me almost breathless as I turn around with the rest of the group.
And, on the track, his pale skinny legs in shorts and his coppery hair practically glowing in the sun, stands Edward Cullen.
"I want to try out."
Then, he looks directly at me, green eyes laced with venom and jungle-craziness. Everyone glances around at their neighbors, confused and surprised murmuring about the boy who has never shown any interest in athletics. Jessica snorts, muttering something like "Mike should've whooped his ass harder."
Coach quiets them all down, preaching something about equal opportunity for all students regardless of experience. There's no point in listening to that particular ramble, I've heard it before.
I feel staring at the back of my head, and try to ignore it for as long as possible. But after only moments, the stare's almost burning me.I give into what I've brought upon myself, and turn around.
Cullen quickly and discreetly flips me off with a wide smile. He mouths a single word, one I'm familiar with:
"Run."
And now I have more than enough incentive to go running to the hills.