North Star

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter Eight:

Paul

I proceed through the remainder of my week on auto-pilot, detached and disinterested in everything but Naomi. Jared's too busy to notice, rapt up in a new volunteering gig he's got with the tribal council, and both of my grandparents are reluctant to overstep my boundaries, or perhaps their own. I'm not too sure which, but I can't bring myself to care, either way, and instead, I wear my apathy like an old, favoured sweater, and the days pass me by in a mindless haze of school, work, and sleep.

Depression is a terrible, insidious friend. I'm aware it's there, aware it's what causes my present state of being, but it also inspires a complete lack of motivation to do anything about it. I keep on, anyway, because Naomi needs me, and I'd also made a promise to move on with my life, to never give up. I have no intentions of reneging on it now. Not when it's one of the last things Mom ever asked of me.

"Are you all right, Paul?" Mr Clearwater asks. He wears a concerned frown on his face, and it seems as though he can see right through me. "You don't seem yourself, son."

"I'm fine, Mr C," I answer. I fidget with the fries accompanying my burger. What dregs of appetite I've stubbornly clung onto through my downward spiral, thus far, are lost. "Ready for the weekend. You know how it is."

Mr Clearwater nods his head, though he frowns still, and he is unconvinced. He doesn't prod, however, and instead attempts a smile. "The Council's hosting a bonfire on Saturday. Everyone's welcome, of course. I believe your grandmother intends to make an appearance?"

"Yeah," I confirm, and pray he ends this conversation soon, "She mentioned it."

"Well," Mr Clearwater says, claps his hands on his thighs, and lifts himself from the table in the break room, "Hope to see you there, son. I'd love to see more of the next generation interested in our culture."

"I'll think about it," I say, noncommittal, and Mr Clearwater nods his acknowledgement as he leaves.

I'd said the same thing to Grams, and she's since stopped asking me to confirm or deny, either way. She expects I'll say 'no', no doubt, and whether or not it's because she's resigned herself to the fact, or she's opted to spare herself the disappointment, I'm selfishly glad I don't have to (verbally) let her down. Again.

I've gotten far too good at it, already.

Begrudgingly, I choke down the remainder of my dinner, and return to the dining area to complete the rest of my shift. Emma keeps me company, with her anecdotes about her son, with her caustic commentary about the night's patrons, and before long, it's closing time, and there's a full tip jar with my name on it.

"Plans for the weekend?" Emma asks.

"Not really," I shrug, "You?"

"Same old," Emma answers, "Work, chores, Eli. I've got Sunday off though, so that'll be nice."

"You deserve it," I acknowledge.

She smiles fondly, and pats my cheek. "You're a good kid, Paul. I'm sorry life sucks for you right now. I hope it gets better soon."

"Yeah," I sigh, inexplicably weary, "Me too."

I help Emma clean and lock up the diner, and once we've both clocked off, she offers me a lift home. I'd intended just to walk, certain the fresh air would do me some good, but it's started raining at some point during my shift, and the downpour shows no indication of stopping. As such, I accept Emma's offer gratefully, and squeeze myself into the passenger seat of her beat up little Camry.

"Sorry about the mess," Emma says, chagrined.

"Not a problem," I assure her, "My car looks the same."

It's not a lie, either. There are child-sized shoes and clothes, toys, assorted books, pencils, and crayons strewn about the back seat of my car, finger prints on my windows, and the sticky residue of juice, and whatever else, on the leather seats. Mom would have an apoplexy if she could see it, and I've been putting off cleaning it out for weeks.

Emma smiles wryly. "Kids, right?"

"Kids," I agree, and I've never felt more like a parent. It's jarring.

-!- -#-

Jared

When I wake on Friday morning, it's to the knowledge that I've got a quiz in Pre-Calculus I've barely studied for, and to the sound of my younger sisters, Jennifer and Jessica, squabbling over which of them ought to get first dibs on the bathroom. Outside the house, it's pouring, and in the kitchen, my parents are talking in low, murmured conversation about me, my change in behaviour, the supposed change in my priorities, the changes in my physical appearance, and all the rest of it. Mom wonders out loud if I'm on drugs, Dad refuses to hear it, and all in all, it's an inauspicious start to an altogether unpleasant day.

All the same, I begrudgingly haul myself out of bed, get ready for school, and blearily stumble into the kitchen in search of sustenance.

"Morning, Jay," Mom greets. I fill up a mixing bowl with cereal, add milk, and make myself comfortable at the breakfast table. Dad glances at my meal, nonplused, but refrains from commenting.

"Hey," I acknowledge.

"Hungry?" Mom asks. She attempts to pull off 'casual' as she does so, but she mostly comes off as judgemental.

I try not to begrudge her for it. Mom's just concerned, and it's not as though I can give her the answers she wants. Sam and the Tribal Council have stymied me in that regard, and although I can't fathom why on Earth I can't tell my parents (both of whom are Quileute) the truth, I'm in no place to change anyone's mind.

"Starving," I answer. Dad ruffles his newspaper.

At the back of the house, Jess and Jenny start arguing again. This time, it's about their respective outfits for school, and Mom wanders off to make sure there is no bloodshed involved.

As she does, Dad reads his newspaper, unfazed. I sigh, eat my breakfast, and resign myself to a long, arduous day.

I'm already eager for it to be over.

I trudge through my day as though I'm wading through molasses; slowly, arduously, exhaustively. My morning classes are a mindless blur, for the most part, but I somehow manage to stay afloat in my Maths test, and it's enough to leave me optimistic for the afternoon ahead.

As such, I smile as I gather up my things to leave the classroom, and beside me, Kimberley Carter drops her pencil on the floor between us.

I hunch over to pick it up, and glance at her as I return it. She's a thin, willowy girl with her hair in a braid and square-framed glasses on her face, and I've never spoken a word to her. It's a little weird, because, since grade school, we've sat next to each other in every class we share (those with alphabetised seating, anyway),, but I suppose we've both been far too rapt up in our own lives, and our own plans, to consider it.

That's what I tell myself, at least.

"Here you go," I tell her, and she accepts the pencil with a sheepish laugh. Her smile's pretty, and as I meet her gaze, I note - absently, that her eyes are, too. For the most part, however, I'm preoccupied by the influx of everything else I'm flooded with as the eye contact lingers; the surreal sensation of gravity giving way for the girl beside me, and an unequivocal, inexplicable sense of completion - of wholeness - I'd not realised I had been lacking.

I wrench my gaze away from hers, utterly floored, and try to remember how to breathe. As I do, I wander out of class on autopilot, and in front of me, Kimberly Carter reunites - quite passionately - with the same boyfriend she's had for the last three years.

I comb my hand through my cropped hair as I turn away, frustrated, exasperated, displeased. I'm sure the girl's nice and all, but I'd not wanted to imprint - I still don't, in fact - but if Sam's experience is anything to go by, I doubt I'll have much of a choice (re: none at all) in the matter.

Evidently, the Spirits hate us. That's all right though, because gods know, I think I'm beginning to hate them, too.

-!- -#-

Author's Note: There's supposed to be a Sam POV in this chapter, but Sam didn't want to cooperate with me. Guess he's being shy. Hope you're satisfied with Paul and Jared, at least. Let me know in a review?

Thanks for reading. Until next time, -t.