March 21, 1996

Two weeks later, I decide that you're my most favorite person in the world. I was right. You're pretty much perfect. Except you like Oasis and hate pizza and watch Friends. I'm willing to overlook those things because, well, you're you. Our time together so far has been limited to our shared lunch period, trips to and from school, and occasional phone calls. Calling your house makes me nervous, though. Your dad always sounds suspicious when he answers the phone.

Lately, I like walking to and from school rather than driving. It gives me more time with you.

"Can I try it?" you ask, nodding to my skateboard on the walk to school one morning.

"Uh, okay," I say stupidly. "Have you ever ridden one before?"

You shake your head but reach for it anyway. Instead of showing you what to do, I watch as I walk alongside you, giving you hints, because I know you like figuring things out for yourself. Seeing you on my board turns me on in an embarrassing and unexplainable way. When you wobble and nearly fall forward, it scares the living shit out of me. You just giggle and grab my hand tight.

"Jesus, Bella," I mutter and bend down to grab the board. You start to object, but I cut you off. "If you fell and got hurt, it'd kill me."

You blink up at me me with this surprised look, but then you smile and say, "That's hyperbole."

"Someone's been paying attention in English class." I'm not worried by your sort-of change of subject. You'll come around on your own terms.

"You say that a lot. Jesus, Bella," you mimic, lowering your voice in a ridiculous imitation of mine.

When I think about it, I guess I do say it a lot. "I guess you just amaze me on a daily basis." It comes out like sarcasm, but it's sort of the truth. Instead of answering, you just grin back at me.

I don't get to walk you home this afternoon because you're going out of town for a long weekend with your parents. They're picking you up right after lunch, and you'll be gone for three days, and I'm sort of sad about that.

"Hey," you say, bumping me with your shoulder. "I'm gonna miss you this weekend."

Sometimes I wonder how you see through me so easily. But this time, it gives me an excuse to tell you. "Yeah, me too. I like…talking to you and stuff."

"Yeah," you agree. "Me too."

I sigh like a girl on the inside.

March 23, 1996

"What's with this Bella chick?" Jasper asks Saturday afternoon. We're sitting on the floor of my bedroom, antsy for my parents to leave so we can spark up.

"Huh?" I was only half-listening to whatever he was yammering on about, distracted by thoughts of you.

"Bella? I was talking to Alice because, you know, you've been AWOL at lunch for the past week. She told me you were off with her somewhere. Gettin' lucky behind the bleachers?" He cracks up at his own lameness.

"Fuck off," I mumble, but he's one of my best friends, so I guess I sort of do owe him an explanation. "We eat down by the English building. We just…talk. I dunno."

"So are you going out or whatever?"

I shrug, and since I don't really know how to answer that question, I'm relieved when my mom comes in with a plate of her famous cookies. The ones Alice calls crack. I love when Mom goes all Suzy Homemaker. She just got some promotion at the law firm where she works, so she's not home for more than a handful of hours at a time. Her firm just won a big case or something, so she's taken a few days off. The baked goods have been delivered to my room in a steady stream. There's a stay-at-home-mom in there somewhere, but she tried that whole thing. Didn't work out.

My dad's an E.R. doc, so his work isn't exactly predictable either. He tries to keep a fixed schedule, but it doesn't always work out. And the hours are always different. I appreciate it. I really do. We live in this nice house with nice things, and I've never wanted for anything. But as much as most would deny it, sometimes a kid just wants his family around.

While I wouldn't say it's rare for both of my parents to be home at the same time, it's not exactly a common occurrence.

"Who's going out or whatever?" Mom asks, mocking Jasper's drawl. He moved to Seattle from Texas just a few years ago and hasn't dropped the hint of an accent he came with.

I glare at Jasper, but he's too busy (molesting) the plate of cookies to notice. "No one."

"Oh, come on. Indulge me," she says. "Let your poor old mom live vicariously."

"You're not old, Mrs. Cullen," Jasper says around a mouthful of chocolate.

"Anyway," I say. "You wouldn't know her."

Despite my best attempt to derail this conversation, my mom grabs a cookie for herself and sits down in my desk chair. "So not Tanya, then."

I drop my head into my hand and groan.

"Keep up, girlfriend," Jasper teases her. "E kicked Tanya to the curb weeks ago." He snaps his fingers in a Z shape like he's on Maury Povich or some shit.

"Christ, Jasper," I say under my breath.

"Nah, it's just Jasper," he says, stuffing another cookie into his big mouth. "Plus, ever heard of irony?"

"Well, if you don't want to talk about it, I won't force you." Mom stands and bends down to kiss me on top of my head. "Just…be careful. You know."

Heat floods my face, but I nod once to placate her.