Chapta four, peeps. (I really need to get some new openers, don't I?)

{--Inky--}


Chapter Four: The Ducati Implies What, Now?

BPOV

I am in deep shit.

Charlie is going to kill me when he hears about this.

But at least I have a free period to work on my free-form sketch for Art.

I'm still in deep shit, though.

I snuck my way across the quad, avoiding any student monitors that might be lurking around the many benches and picnic tables scattered across the grass. My destination was an unknown, but I wanted to be somewhere with a nice view of the parking lot. There was an extremely nice Ducati parked a few rows down from where Rosalie left her ostentatious red BMW, and I had already promised Rose I'd get her a new car sketch to replace the one I did a few years ago of a Mercedes I saw in Phoenix.

Phoenix. Pah. The teachers here were so much more fun to mess with.

I managed to get myself across the lawn undetected, and I settled down under a rather large oak perched next to the designated area for student parking, which was way too small, if you asked me.

But no one did, much to my dismay.

From where I was perched, I had a perfect view of the sleek, black and grey bike and I smiled in anticipation. There was nothing better than a well placed, well lit subject and a blank white canvas. In my case, it was a kick-ass bike and a piece of white paper, but the same thrill was there.

I put my charcoal to the page and gave my hand free reign, not even paying attention to what I was doing. I stared blankly at the air in front of my face and allowed my mind to wander.

And wander it did. Somehow, a boy's face kept surfacing in front of my eyes, no matter how many times I pushed it back into the masses. Finally I relented, and allowed it to take centre stage.

I had first seen him that day in detention, scrunched down in his desk, hood up as though he could just fade into the background. I will admit I felt a small connection upon seeing that. I understood that want, and I knew how much it blew to know that it was impossible.

Honestly, I never thought I'd have to see him again. Those green eyes had haunted me in the short moments of silence I got sporadically throughout the day. They were a jade color, and I could tell that there was no way a person would ever be able to concoct a shade of paint to match that intensity or be able to recreate the golden flecks that dotted the green. It was disconcerting how well I knew his eyes, and yet still didn't know his name.

No one was as surprised as I when he sat next to me in Banner's room. Of course, I hadn't known it was him at first, but there was an almost magnetic pull that wanted me to look up and meet his eyes. I was stubborn, though, and I was determined to appear unconcerned to him.

And I didn't want to admit to myself that I was a teensy bit preoccupied with wondering how that green would look up close.

He looked much different from what I'd imagined. I had caught a glimpse of him in an open compact some girl was holding, and I was surprised at what I saw.

Coppery-bronze hair tumbling into those one-of-a-kind green eyes, messy and yet still perfect. Pale skin, maybe even paler than mine. Possibly the longest eyelashes I have ever seen on a guy, but they didn't seem feminine at all. A strong, chiselled jaw and defined cheekbones that effectively dispelled and thought one might have concerning boyishness. You could tell he was tall, even sitting down, and he had a lean, but not skinny, build you could see even under the baggy sweater he wore.

And he looked really, really good in black.

But the most shocking thing of all is that I had wanted to talk to him, to unravel the secrets that hid behind the emerald green irises. I had never taken an interest in boys before, and it was like hitting a semi dead-on.

I must say, realizations like that are life-altering and sucky.

I lounged under the tree, sketching anything and everything that I saw, until the bell rang and people started pouring out of the doors. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked the time, realizing that I had skipped my next class too, and I was instantly upset. Art was one of the greatest things at this school, and I had missed it to sit on the cold ground and draw a bike.

But it was a Ducati, so it wasn't as bad. It was still pretty bad, though.

I closed my sketchbook, stashing it in my bag and pulled out an apple I had swiped out of the lunchroom before class and hadn't eaten yet. I watched the groups of giggling girls and nerds and jocks move across the quad, most of them lining up to get on the bus, but a small portion heading towards the parking lot and their cars. Scanning the crowds for the familiar blond head, I wondered if Rosalie was going to murder me for my little performance today. According to her, she can't have anything remotely black-mail-able against her and I'm guessing having a crazy, messed-up sister might fall into that category.

She was walking along beside Emmett, giggling into her hand about something he had said to her. There was a huge, shit-eating grin plastered across Emmett's face and he looked like he was glowing. Rosalie flipped her hair out of her ice blue eyes and smiled up at him and I could tell that she was glowing too. Emmett stopped her before she passed by me and leaned down to kiss her, then he jogged off down the rows to a humongous red Jeep that towered above every other vehicle in the lot.

Figures. Only the biggest for Emmett.

I quickly stood and grabbed my bag, catching up alongside with Rosalie as she strode through the cars towards her BMW. She glanced my way once, and abruptly turned her face in the opposite direction.

Definitely mad.

I sighed, and dove in, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her around to face me. I thought it would be better to do this where there were witnesses so she couldn't kill me outright. She met my eyes easily, without flinching, and I was shocked to find they were empty. Glassy. Completely blank of any emotion whatsoever.

We stared at each other for a while, and she shook her head, breaking eye contact.

"I wonder how you and I are related sometimes. Only you would lip off to a teacher on your second day in a new school," she sighed and pushed past me to unlock her car. I refused to move, frozen to the concrete, mulling over her words in my head.

"So, you're not going to murder me cold-blood?" I asked, and she laughed.

"Nope. You wouldn't be Bella if you didn't pull stupid-ass stunts like that. Get in," she smacked me on the shoulder with her purse and I unfroze. I threw my bag into the miniscule backseat and climbed into the passenger seat next to her.

"You rock, Rose," I admitted, and she turned the key, the engine roaring to life underneath us.

"I know," she replied smugly, tearing out of the parking lot and leaving skid marks on the pavement, and I had to be proud. I was rubbing off on her, just a little, and that wasn't always a bad thing.

EPOV

Nessie met me outside the doors, and stared at me expectantly. When I didn't automatically gush out a play-by-play of my day, she elbowed me in the ribs.

"Well?" she prompted and I ignored her.

"I heard that that Swan girl totally schooled Banner today," she continued, reaching up to anxiously pull on the end of her ponytail, which was the exact same color as mine.

"Must've made your day, huh?" I looked over at her pointedly, and she just smiled angelically back.

"So, are you in looove?" she crooned, and I playfully reached over to ruffle her hair. She shrieked and danced out of my range, grinning.

"Seems like I've hit a nerve," she taunted, and I rolled my eyes at her, which she saw and huffed at.

"You're so antisocial." Then she seemed to get an idea. Her brown eyes, from our mother, lit up and she turned to me excitedly.

"Want to know the scoop on her? I know almost all there is to know about her." I thought about it for a second. It would give me an upper hand in the delinquent game to know her secrets, but she could also find her own sources, my little sister as an obvious one. Nessie is a little too friendly sometimes, and she wouldn't think twice about spilling everything there is to know about me to whoever asked.

"Why not?" I finally decided to answer, "You'll probably tell me anyway."

"Well, she's Rosalie Hale's sister, for one. She moved here from Phoenix, Arizona where she used to live with her mother, Renée, and her dad is Charlie Swan, the police chief. She has a massive school record in the files, almost as big as yours, and she isn't much of a people person. I heard that she got kicked out of her last school for starting the entire building on fire, on purpose!" Her voice dropped down to a whisper. "She sounds totally psycho, if you ask me, and she's somehow made friends with Alice Brandon, captain of the pep squad, and Emmett McCarty, which is surprising, and she's hardly ever seen without her iPod in her ears, but she still maintains a perfect GPA," Nessie finished, smirking proudly at her gossiping skills.

"Huh." Was my brilliant response.

"Whatever. I'm catching a ride with Aimee, see you at home!"She waved and jogged off to catch her ride, ponytail swaying as she ran, leaving me to ponder what she had told me.

How was it that she was related to Rosalie Hale—the pure definition of preppy, goody-two shoes Rosalie Hale—and yet was still able to be such a badass? And have her sister actually own up to her?

Isabella Swan was a mystery, a challenge, and I was up to my elbows in curiosity for the solution.

*********************

BPOV

I watched carefully as Rosalie inspected every pencil line and shaded area of my sketch, trying to pin some imperfection on me. Finally, she sighed and lowered it, a frown on her perfect face. I smiled triumphantly, and cocked an eyebrow at her.

"It's good," she grumbled, being a poor loser. We had this game that every drawing I did, I would show to her and if she could spot any flaw, I would buy her an expensive present of her choice. If she found none, she bought me one. Recently, though, we had modified it a little, seeing as we were miles away from a good mall and living under the same roof. Now, we were betting a week's worth of chores, which she just got suckered into doing mine and her own. I sat back in her rocking chair, courtesy of Renée from when we were still in diapers, and put my hands behind my head, gloating.

But only just a little bit.

"You know what I think?" she asked, staring at my drawing of the Ducati I had done this afternoon. I immediately sensed her "I have an idea" mood, and I sat forward, hands automatically falling to my lap and twisting together anxiously. Generally, Rosalie's ideas end with either me getting held against my will and thrown into a miniskirt, looking like a messed-up model, or the two of us standing outside in the rain wearing only a bra and a pair of sweatpants, screaming at the top of our lungs about MTV.

Don't ask. We were twelve and not all that bright.

"Is it stupid?" I quipped, attempting to alleviate the sense of dread I was emanating because I knew Rosalie would never keep it to herself and I was bound to hear it sooner or later. She was honest like that and usually it didn't bother me. Usually. She scoffed at me, never once taking her eyes off my picture.

"I think the effort you unconsciously put into this means something." She tapped the paper with the back of her hand and I groaned, falling back into the chair, both hands coming up to run through my hair. Rosalie was going back to her Dr. Phil stage. A few years ago, when I was visiting for the summer, Rosalie and I had dedicated a whole day to staying inside and watching Dr. Phil re-runs because –shocker-- it was pouring rain outside. I fell asleep after about the third episode, but Rosalie had dutifully stayed conscious for the entire day, 7:00 in the morning to 6:00 that night. After, she had spouted so much advice and crackpot wisdom that didn't even make sense most of the time that even Charlie couldn't handle her. He was lucky; he could call in to work and take extra shifts. I didn't know anyone else in town, so I was stuck with my psychiatrist wanna-be sister. I had begun to doubt her sanity when I left, and I was worried to come back. But she was as normal and un-crazy as ever the next time I stayed there, so I pushed the scary memories to the back of my head.

Every once in a while she has relapses, and I've discovered that it's easier to just let them run their course and hope your ears don't start bleeding before that happens.

"I think the flawless detail you put into this bike symbolizes your need for speed and attention because of the lack of affection you got from your mother in your early-developing years," she stated, smiling proudly at her advice. I was about to tell her that she really needed to quit popping unnecessary Advil when her words registered in my brain.

"What?!"

"The bike symbolizes your need for—"she began again, but I cut her off.

"I heard you. I mean 'what' as in 'What are you smoking?' That's quite possibly the most retarded thing I've ever heard! And trust me, I've heard a lot of crazy shit," I muttered the last part.

"Whatever. You're in denial; I can see that. I won't bring it up again," she conceded, but I wasn't satisfied. I slowly sat back, a frown sketched onto my face.

"Where did you get that from?" I asked, morbid curiosity making me do it.

"There was this special a couple weeks ago on KTLA where Dr. Phil was talking to this girl who—"she started excitedly, but I stopped her before she could get going. I leapt out of the chair, hands in the air in a surrender gesture and she frowned at me.

"Never mind. I don't want to know. I'm going to my room," I told her, backing out of her doorway and turning down the hallway and into my room.

I have to admit, my room here in Forks is a million times better than my one in Arizona. Since Renée and I moved around a lot, I never had much decoration on my walls. It took too much time to pack and too much space to haul around. But here was a permanent fixture, so I could do whatever I wanted to my walls. Recently, I had painted them a deep, navy blue and splattered gold and silver paint across all four walls. Rosalie and I had a blast doing it, and I swear we got more paint on each other than we did the actual walls. My bed was made of mahogany, with a blue bedspread matching the walls, and I had at least two bookcases backed up against the west wall, also mahogany. My vanity was on the east wall, and only there because Rosalie had insisted I had one. I was lucky enough to get the room with a loft up top, and that's where I spend most of my day.

There's a set of incredibly steep stairs that spiral upwards to the top, and I had wound strings of white twinkle lights up the thin banister, making it glow at night. With the help of Charlie, we had lugged two low-to-the-ground, black plush chairs and a small glass end-table up, along with a beanbag chair and my stereo system Rose had given me for my fourteenth birthday. Most of my drawings were pinned up on the walls up there, and there was a tall window placed into the wall facing the forest behind our yard, and a small window seat underneath it.

I slipped off my shoes and padded up the hardwood stairs in my sock feet, one hand trailing along the banister. I curled up in the window seat and stared out the window, dreaming of what could be going on behind the barrier of trees lining the edge of our property. I etched every leaf into my mind, storing it away as useless information. My laptop was sitting on the table, so I uncoiled myself and reached over to get it. Before I could boot it up, I heard Charlie's deep voice calling me to dinner. I set it back where I had grabbed it from.

Instead of walking back down, I slid down the banister, and landed on the hardwood floor, stumbling only a little. When I looked up, I saw Rosalie leaning on my doorframe, laughing lightly at me.

"Was that necessary?" she asked breathlessly. I grinned.

"Absolutely necessary." I responded heartily, flipping my hair over my shoulder as I passed her.

She laughed, louder this time, and followed me.

*****************

Apparently, Forks, Washington is the smallest town in history, yet it still has a pizza delivery place. I never would've guessed.

After the three of us had scarfed down two large pizza's, Rose and I retreated to her room, where we currently laying across her bed, painting our nails. I had opposed the idea at first, but I caved horribly once I saw the wonders that girl could work with a nail file. She was currently painting my left hand, and I was flipping channels on her big screen TV with my right, looking for something remotely good to watch. I settled for Gossip Girl and waited for Rosalie to finish. She did, and then moved on to paint her own a soft pink. I flipped over onto my back, and stared at her ceiling, which still had those glow-in-the-dark stickers that second-graders think are the bomb stuck to it. I had to laugh at that.

"What are you, seven?" I mocked her, pointing up to her ceiling, laughing out loud when she scowled at me.

"I like them! They look cool," she defended, glaring at me over her French manicure.

"Yeah, if you're in elementary school," I scoffed, reaching under her bed and pulling out her latest edition of Car and Driver. Rosalie and her weird obsession with cars. I threw it aside and reached under again, this time having better luck and finding a Cosmo. I flipped through the pages, skipping over the skirts and heels, and settling myself on the make-up tips and inspecting the techniques for smoky eyes.

Rosalie looked over my shoulder, and raising an eyebrow.

"You planning on learning that?" she questioned. I rolled my eyes at her and turned back to her magazine.

"I'll help you, don't worry," she promised, and I rolled my eyes at her again.

******************

"Bella, get the fuck UP!" Someone screamed right next to my ear, and I shrieked and rolled over, falling off the edge of the bed and landing face down on the hardwood. I groaned, too tired to remove my face from the floor, but I did turn it and caught a glimpse of red wedges.

Rosalie. Rosalie.

I felt my lips pucker into an angry pout, and I rolled over, shielding my eyes with my arm from the light streaming through my curtains. My sister stood there, hands on her hips, glaring down at me, and I pulled myself out of my cocoon of blankets, with a lot of difficulty. I stood, death-glaring up at her, getting increasingly frustrated at my short stature. My eyes were narrowed dangerously, and if I had laser vision, Rosalie would have had two holes through her forehead. Literally.

"Bite me, Rosalie." So what if I'm not a morning person? I hold no pity for the person who wakes me up. And Rosalie knows this.

She just laughed at my empty threat. She tugged on the little green camisole I had worn to bed, and I slapped her hand away. She was not going to dress me today. Not a chance.

"I'm going for a shower. Don't even think about touching my closet," I growled, running one hand through my knotted hair, giving up when my fingers snared a particularly nasty knot. She smiled innocently, and I didn't believe her for a second. I turned away from her, grabbing an old pair of sweats and a tank top and slipped out my door and into the bathroom.

I was towelling my hair when I came back in, and screamed.

There were clothes everywhere. Hanging off my dresser, slung over my stairs, piled on the floor and spilling off my bed. It looked like a department store exploded and rained down all over. And Rosalie was standing in the middle of the mess, hands on her hips again and frowning like she was angry at my closet, for some reason. Probably because of my lack of pink and purple.

Suddenly, my door flew open behind me and I jumped, turning, to see a very freaked out Charlie gasping for air and supporting himself with the doorframe. He looked right at me, a wild look in his eyes.

"You okay? I heard you scream," he sounded genuinely concerned as he straightened, adjusting his uniform. Then his eyes drifted over my shoulder and saw my room, which is when they widened to epic proportions. "What happened?" he asked.

"Don't ask," I replied in a monotone, trying to convey my un-sisterly feelings toward Rosalie so that she would catch on. He shook his head, and disappeared down the hallway, muttering the whole way. I wanted to follow him so badly it hurt. But I couldn't, because Rosalie would shave my eyebrows off in my sleep, and I rather like my eyebrows on my face. She did that once to a poor guy in junior high when he dumped her in front of the entire student body. Which is only like, two hundred people, but still. The embarrassment is still there.

I slowly turned, dreading whatever Rosalie was going to do to me, and surveyed the total damage to my room. She had managed to snag a shirt on the cymbals of my drum set, and I was shattered. I rushed over, flung the blue fabric off my baby, and straightened the crooked sheet of musical metal. Behind me, Rose snorted at my meticulous love for my drums but I let it go. She just didn't understand. I noticed that my favourite leather jacket that I had lost years ago was hanging off the lamp sitting on the desk, so I grabbed it. I knew what I was wearing today, and Rosalie Hale was not getting any input whatsoever.

"How do you function with this wardrobe?" Rosalie draped herself dramatically across my unmade bed, and looked up at me through her eyelashes. I ignored her and dug through one of the piles near the foot of my bed, occasionally tossing some into a pile to keep on hand for later.

I allowed Rosalie to critique my outfit. Dark, almost black, skinny jeans, tucked into medium-tall, black faux suede boot; a bright blue ruched-side tee and a black vest over it, with a long silver chain and silver dangly earrings.

"Not bad. Kinda boyish, but not that bad. It suits you, I suppose," she allowed. "But," she continued," your hair is a disaster. And you need make-up." I shrugged, not bothering to argue. I had the worst case of bed head ever, and I was planning on doing my face up today anyways. Might as well let Rose handle it because I knew I wasn't awake enough yet to even attempt handling a mascara brush without taking my eye out.

Rosalie sat me down at my hardly ever used vanity, and plugged in her flat iron, detangling my knots while it heated. I closed my eyes and let her work her magic, not even caring whether she painted my entire face blue. I could've cared less. She moved on to my hair, after blow-drying it, and I kept my eyes closed as she tugged on and shaped my choppy layers around my face. It took her God-knows-how-long to finish, and when she did, I vowed never to doubt Rosalie's beautification skills again.

I was, quite literally, glowing, somehow, and my wide dark chocolate brown eyes looked even bigger and more prominent with the layers of dark eyeliner and longer lashes, obviously a product of mascara. She had put a tiny bit of color into my cheeks, but not a lot because, knowing me, I'll blush enough to make it look good. My lips were a soft pink and glossed.

My hair was straightened completely, falling around my face in soft layers and my bangs were angled across my forehead, straight and covering one eye. The light landed on it and it shone, the tints of red peeking out from under all the brown as an undertone, emphasizing my pale, ivory skin.

I had to hand it to Rosalie. She knew what she was doing.

"Very nice," I commented, twirling a strand of hair around one finger. I stood and glided over to my closet, rummaging around in the top shelf before finally pulling out a black fedora. I cradled it in my hands for a moment and then flipped it onto my head.

"Now it's perfect." I carefully tipped my hat at Rosalie as I passed her on my way out the door.

I snatched my woollen scarf and mitts off of their hook in the porch, stuffing them into my bag and breezed out the front door. Rose grabbed her purse behind me and tucked her Calc book unceremoniously under her arm. The surprisingly warm wind whipped the ends of my hair around, dumping the hat off my head. I chased it and snatched it out of the air, then bolted for Rose's BMW. Once we were safely in the car, I attempted to smooth out the tangles in my hair, courtesy of the wind, while Rose made faces at every car that passed us, scaring the crap out of most of the drivers.

The ride down was quiet. I was utterly engrossed with playing around on Rose's iPod, flicking through her playlists, with my feet on the dash even after she had swatted them down twice already. I thought once briefly about cracking out the Pop Tarts I had stashed in my pocket, but decided it was too early and I wouldn't enjoy them.

No need to waste a perfectly good Pop Tart.

Today went by with no disturbances, and I wasn't at all surprised to learn that I had after-school detention for a week, starting on Monday, for "back-talking the honourable Mr. Banner". I refrained from expressing how wrong that opinion was to Mr. Patterson, in an effort to avoid an extra week of unnecessary detentions, and accepted my punishment quietly. It wouldn't be the last time I would end up in the Detention Hall.

I took the liberty of skipping Biology, saving myself and everyone else present some grief. I was heading out to one of the more secluded benches on the far side of campus when he caught up with me. My ear buds were in my ears, so I didn't hear the crunching of the dying grass under his feet, and when he tapped me on the shoulder, I screamed. Loudly. And, to add to my embarrassment, whipped around, stumbled, and fell right on my ass.

I was now sitting on the cold, damp, hard ground, staring up at him. He looked just like he did yesterday: that unusual messy bronze hair, dark hoodie, light-wash jeans, and dirty Chucks. His lips were twisted up into an amused smirk, and a blush rose to my cheeks. He stuck out a large hand to help me up and I took it, marvelling at his long fingers. He pulled me upright easily, almost as though I weighed nothing. The top of my head barely reached his chin. I had to tilt my head back to see his face.

"Thanks," I told him, my mind frantically memorizing how his green eyes were that much better up close.

"No problem. Edward Cullen," he offered, holding out my bag that had fallen off in my little tumble. I took them gratefully, but I still didn't trust him. Guys with features like that are generally full of themselves and total asses. Some would classify them as players. I reached up and ran a hand through my thick hair, mussing it up and most likely earning me a lecture from Rose when she sees it.

"Isabella Swan," I responded almost sullenly, refusing to give him any headway, and also noticing that he still had a hold of my hand in his, and that my palms fit almost perfectly into his. I was getting so sappy.

"Oh, I know." He smiled, stunning me for a moment, and I had to remind my lungs to inhale.

"What?"

"Your name; I already know it." He shrugged under my critical stare.

Realization dawned on me. "Banner." It was a statement, rather than a question. "Let me guess: I was the example for the don'ts of the classroom."

He laughed. It stopped my breath. Again. Damn. "Not exactly. More like, he cursed you to the fiery pits of hell."

It was my turn to laugh.

"He doesn't like you much," Edward observed. I realized we had started walking again, back towards the parking lot again.

"He's had a vendetta against me since day one," I scoffed, waving a hand dismissively in the air.

"It's nice to know he hates people other than me." I turned to look at him. He shrugged. "Banner doesn't appreciate my input during class. I've gotten many detentions from him, but its fun to watch him turn purple."

"Does he actually turn purple?" I couldn't help my curiosity, and I barely even noticed how at ease I felt around this strange boy, nor did I care.

"Yeah."

I was silent for a minute, then I said," Cool." That made him turn to look at me with a strange expression.

"You're not like the rest of the girls here, are you?" he asked.

"Nope. See you around, Edward!" I chirped, turned on my heel and jogged lightly back to the library doors, leaving him there to stare after me.


I'm running out of clever ideas to say this, so I'll just go old school.

Reveiw.

There, that was easy.