Everybody Join My Party
Um. 2? I lose track...
The next weekend there was a rally organized, and all the candidates had stalls. Tyler had put up posters for me and distributed flyers, and had printed out sheets of speeches I'd yet to give, with policies I was planning to promise. I was flat out from the second I got there, talking, nodding, listening, taking notes.
"My position on PDA's on campus between gay couples? I absolutely approve. It's ridiculous that anybody should have a problem with that."
"Do you have a position on positions?" someone asked, when I had my head down.
I looked up with a flash of irritation, to see Party-boy. There were several people standing behind him.
"If you have something specific you'd like me to address, I suggest you fill out this form. I'm sorry I'm not going to have the time to answer your query immediately. Or you could speak to my campaign assistant." With a tilt of my head, I indicated Tyler.
I didn't even know this guy's name, and I didn't want to. He couldn't seem to say anything that wasn't laden with innuendo, and I like men to be a little more subtle and a lot more smart. In the barely-lit black room last weekend I hadn't really been able to see him, and now I saw that he was scruffy, unshaven, and arrogant, which meant his looks fitted his voice and attitude. Some girls might find that whole package attractive, and everything about him suggested that it had worked for him in the past, but it wasn't going to work on me.
"How do you expect me to vote for you if you don't have the time to pay attention to my concerns?" he queried.
"Here's the form. Here's a pen. I'll get around to reading your submission in due course," I answered politely, already looking past him to the next person in the line. When I looked through the papers later, I knew instantly which was his. All bar one had questions and comments about courses, campus, committees, whatever. One had a phone number, and the words, "You need a new publicity shot. Call me. Edward Cullen."
Edward Cullen? I googled him. To my surprise he had a substantial internet profile as a photographer who'd had his first exhibition at the age of eleven. His first book had been published when he was fifteen, his second at seventeen. All portraits. I clicked on to image after image, and saw the work of a truly gifted artist. Perhaps also, a somewhat haunted one. The first book contained pictures of children - big-eyes, smiling, laughing, and sometimes crying, and the captions advised that all these kids were sick. They were all in hospital. The second book was old people - again, all in hospital. What was Edward Cullen doing, roaming wards, taking snaps of the doomed?
He was right though - I could do with a better picture. I wasn't photogenic in the slightest, and Tyler had taken dozens of photos that we'd browsed through with ever-increasing despair.
"Sorry to say this, Bella - you look like an axe-murderer in every single one," Tyler had lamented. "Lucky you've got a nice personality and you're way more attractive in the flesh, because you're not winning anyone over with these posters."
"Thanks so much, Tyler."
I wasn't about to resort to calling Party Boy though.
Then I got the email. There were several attachments, all pictures of me from that day at the rally, speaking on the stage, standing in front of my stall smiling, writing and frowning with concentration, sitting with my chin in my hand staring into the middle distance. They were all flattering, some could even be considered striking. Party-boy had a gift. However, each of them was watermarked straight across my face, and therefore unusable.
"You can have these for a price," the message read. "Contact me and I'll tell you my terms." He had a gift, and it wasn't just artistic. Apparently, he wasn't stupid.
I ignored his message, and the campaign heated up. My chief opponent was Rosalie Hale, a cheerleader with no scruples, no principles, golden hair down to her ass and legs halfway to Venus. Her slogan was, "I'll deliver what you want," and her poster looked like she was about to deliver oral sex. I was campaigning on a platform of integrity, accountability and commitment. Rosalie Hale was competing on a platform of micro-mini skirts, push-up bras, and lip-gloss. According to the polls, she was ahead of me.
Another email arrived a couple of days later, with more photos. Me in the coffee shop, in animated discussion, face lively and sincere. Me leaning against the doorway of the lecture theatre, grinning at a passerby, hair tucked behind my ears. Me crouching down, one leg bent, eye-to-eye with a toddler in the park, handing back a ball the child had dropped.
Rosalie Hale's next run of flyers had her posing with the football team, in her high-heels. Most of them were visibly drooling, gazing up at her ever-open mouth, or blatantly at her chest.
"Don't worry about it, Bella, she's a skank. No-one cares about her," Tyler said, but the polls didn't agree. Rosalie was photographed at a karaoke bar, singing the national anthem, and apparently her voice was awful, but not her performance. She'd hardly worn anything. She'd won the two hundred dollar karaoke prize for the evening.
"Yeah, so some guys look at her. That doesn't mean they'll vote for her. Give us all a break - we're not that shallow!" Tyler said, but the polls weren't agreeing.
A third email from Edward Cullen, with a single picture of me looking directly at the lens, friendly, relaxed and smiling. I don't know how the hell he'd gotten it. It was perfect.
"All right, I want to use your photo. Can I have permission?" I snapped over the phone.
"Certainly. We need to meet to discuss it," he said.
"No, we don't. We're discussing it now."
"We'll discuss it in half an hour." He gave me an address and ended the call, leaving me staring at the phone, annoyed. Who did he think he was? And who did he think he was dealing with?
The address was in a nice part of town, and it was half an hour's drive away. I did a quick google search and it was an apartment in a complex upstairs from a restaurant. I didn't even know if I should go through with this on my own, or get Tyler to come with me. Edward Cullen was a fellow student, a year ahead of me - but what did I actually know about him? Next to nothing. I called him back.
"I'm not meeting you there. I'll meet you somewhere public," I said as soon as he answered. Then I named a cafe, and hung up without giving him the chance to reply. I'd chosen somewhere a little closer, so that I could flee the scene if I needed to. Wearing no make-up, without even brushing my hair, dressed in jeans and a hoodie, I headed out.
.
.
.
Into the wild. No turning back.
