. . . Mental Earthquakes . . .

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Middle school is a lot bigger from elementary. Instead of just one building, there are now three of them to get lost in, with what seems like four times the amount of kids streaming through the hallways. But nothing makes me more painfully aware of my newbie status than when I rush into the restroom and see what looks like a boy facing the wall in front of a teardrop-shaped sink. Nonplussed, I stumble to a stop as I realize his arms are—he looks like—

I must make a sound, because his face turns to me and then we're gaping at each other. I stumble backwards so fast that I drop my books, and now I'm really going to pee my pants. To make matters worse, there's another boy coming in as I'm trying to get out. It's Mike Newton and his stiffly-gelled hair.

"Bella! Babe! This is the guy's restroom," he says like I haven't already figured that out.

When I dart to the left, he darts to the left. When I go right, he and his ugly, smuggy-smug smile, also goes right.

He won't.

Let me.

Out of.

The door.

"Get out of my way!"

"This is too good," he laughs and grabs my wrist. "I need to get a photo of this, hold on."

"Let me go!" I growl. He's aiming his iPhone at me, and I'm playing bumper-bodies with him just inside the boy's restroom.

"Oomph!"

"Hey!"

"Ow!"

"Stop it!"

And I'm panicking, because I just know he'll post these photos of me on Facebook—

"Mike, cut it out," someone says behind me.

—and I've got to get out of here before before my entire life is ruined.

"Oh, Mister Rarrrrssshtopinhaaaaahgen," I say to the imaginary adult in the space behind Mike's head. "I was just leaving!"

Mike releases me instantly, whipping around to face whoever's there, and I'm finally able to escape.

Body aching and heart still racing, I don't exhale until I'm safely behind a stall door in the girl's restroom. Resting my elbows on my knees, I glare down at the top of my shoes. How stupid am I?

"Bella?"

Holy crap, it's Rose.

"Um, yes?" I ask.

"Why is Mike outside saying you were in the boy's restroom?"

"Because he's an a-hole," I growl and bang the stall door open. It crashes against another door and Rose jumps like she's been electrocuted. She's dressed in short leg jean overalls and has braids today.

"You look like you need some Pepto," she says.

"Shut up."

"You didn't know that was the boy's restroom?"

"Obviously. Can we please forget it now?"

"Dunno if that's possible."

I stick my pinky out at her. "C'mon. Swear to me that you'll forget this ever happened."

"No way." She puts both of her hands behind her back. "Mike's already telling everybody he sees."

"Fuck!"

It's the first time I've ever said the F-word out loud.

. . .

My favorite class has always been art. As soon as I enter the classroom for the first time and see that the work desks are grouped in fours that are pushed together to form a big square—which means each group has four people facing each other—I sense a kind of unusual possibility in the air. Of course, I'm sure the huge, golden-painted giraffe arching over my head from the corner plays a small part.

I sit next to a girl in a purple top and a miniskirt, who arches a perfectly sculptured eyebrow at me when she catches me looking. Across from me is Jasper, and a mammoth of a boy who only nods when I said hello.

Our teacher, who's wearing jeans and blue-tinted eyeglasses, tells us that he is Mr. Meyer. He's young. He looks he's having fun as he welcomes us inside. He . . . wants us to draw our names?

"Get creative," he says. "An a, for example, can be in the shape of a mountain, or maybe it's a closed fist with the thumb out—sign language for the letter a. Or maybe your a is tiger-striped, or filled with a fire's flames, or looks like calligraphy."

As he talks, he slowly walks around the room with a drawing in his hands. When he's close enough for me to see it, I gasp. It's his name in the shape of Disney cartoon characters. Mickey Mouse stands with his legs apart, elbows drawn up to create the shape of the M. Pluto is the r as he tries to dive over the next letter M, which is of Dumbo's ears. Nemo is the e, and Olaf, looking like he's trying to catch Pluto, holds his sticks out just so for the letter y.

I'm enthralled. I've never seen such a thing before. "It's amazing," I breathe.

Mr. Meyer grins down at me. Something twists inside my chest, and just like that, I am in love.

"I'm looking for whatever you can imagine on the page, whatever shape or story you can show me, as long as it's clear that it's your name," he tells us. "Any questions?"

"Will we be graded on this?" the girl at my side asks. Her voice sounds weird. All high and breathless.

"Absolutely," Mr. Meyer says. "Have fun. That's the key. What are you interested in? What are your hobbies? Start there. I'll be around to visit with each of you to see if you need any help."

I'm frowning down at the blank page on my desk when the girl beside me leans over. She's got purple eyeshadow on all the way up to her eyebrows, and ugh—way too much perfume. "You're Edward's sister, aren't you?"

I give her a cool look. "Who wants to know?" Then I ruin it by sneezing.

"I do." And she raises her eyebrow at me again.

"Yeah, that's Edward's sister. I'm Jasper, his second best friend," he says. "We do pretty much everything together. Who are you, pretty girl?"

I don't know why Jasper thinks his charm will work on her. Sure, he's cute, but he's short and skinny, and this girl doesn't seem like the type who'd go for him. When she turns back to me without answering him, I feel bad for him.

"I'm Tanya. Your brother is soooo hot. Does he have a girlfriend?"

I gape at her.

"I wanna go out with him."

"Uh," I say. She wants to what?

"Can I have his phone number? Oh, I know! Maybe we can have a sleepover this weekend?"

From the corner of my eye, I see Jasper's hand raise. He's wearing the tan sock puppet he calls Sprock.

"You don't even know her name," Jasper says in Sprock's gritty voice. "Besides, Edward won't be home this weekend. He's going camping with Jasper and Emmett."

Beside Jasper, Mammoth Boy does a double-take.

"What are you, five?" Tanya snorts. "And besides, I know her name. It's Isabella."

"Bella," I growl.

"Sorry," she shrugs, then leans close. "So. How about this weekend?"

Geeze, she's rude, clueless, and reeks.

"I'm only allowed to have a couple of people over at a time. And that'd be Rose and Alice, my friends," I grin widely.

Her purple-lidded glare is fierce.

And that's how I make my first frenemy.

. . .

Emmett is being unbearably smug. "How are you liking middle school, young 'uns?"

We're at lunch, the only period we have together since he, Alice and Edward are are a grade ahead of me, Rose and Jasper.

"Bella walked into the boy's restroom over by Mr. Varner's class," Rose announces, and I shoot her a dark look. She wasn't supposed to say anything.

"It wasn't marked," I say in my defense. "And I had to go really bad."

With a grin, Alice leans across her tray of chicken tenders and fries. "How far inside did you get before you realized it was the boy's bathroom?"

"Too far," I say. My face heats up as I remember the boy who was standing at the urinal.

"Who was it?" Edward wants to know. He's not smiling like everyone else. In fact, he looks kind of sick.

"What does that matter?" Jasper asks. He looks almost as uncomfortable as Edward does. Then he raises his socked hand to give me Sprock's input. "Talk about sixth grade initiation horror. I hope you're not scarred for life."

"I'll think survive," I say.

"Put that thing away," Rose hisses. "People are looking."

"Let 'em," Jasper says. "I'm second-hand embarrassed for Bella."

Rose scoffs. "Be embarrassed for yourself."

"Do you know, two girls have asked me if I was your sister," I say accusingly to Edward. "I didn't know so many girls liked you."

A pink tinge colors his cheekbones. "Shut up, Bella."

Emmett laughs. "This one girl, Tanya Lawrence, has tried to kiss him I don't know how many times. Last year, she cornered him in Social Studies and laid one on him beside the bust of George Washington."

Now I'm laughing with him as Edward throws a balled up napkin at Emmett's head.

"She's got cooties," Edward says. It's such an unexpected thing for him to say that I choke while laughing.

"Tanya has to do sixth grade all over again," Alice says. "She's dumb as a bar of soap."

Edward is even redder now. What does that mean? He's avoiding everyone's eyes by keeping his face down, and just staring at his food. I have the sudden epiphany that he doesn't hate her at all.

"She's nasty, Edward," I tell the table. "Mean and she smells, too."

He still won't look at anyone, though, and I'm suddenly really, really disappointed and angry with him.

"She wants to spend the night with Bella," Jasper says. "But not this weekend, because you won't be there."

Edward's head pops up. "What?"

"You lucky dog. She's mean, yeah, but man. I'd hit that."

"Jasper Hale!" I yelp. I thought he hated her, too.

And then the boys are talking about girls they'd like to hit that way, and I'm disgusted. Obviously I don't know any of them like I thought I did.

. . .

I just finished showering and brushing my teeth before bed, and I'm about to do a mad dash down the hallway in nothing but a towel and—crap! Edward's on the other side of the bathroom door when I open it, startling me so badly that I jump a foot backwards.

"I get wet when drying," he breathes and rubs his hands across his stomach and chest. It looks like he's having a seizure. "I get dirty when wiping. What am I?"

My heart is still lodged in my throat, and while I know that this is our thing—to try and out-riddle the other—I'm freezing and grumpy about being scared, and he won't budge.

"A pain in my butt!"

. . .

One night in mid-October, dinner is especially awful. Dad's been working a lot of nights, so we haven't had many meals together lately. Plus, I absolutely despise smoked sausage. It's greasy and salty and I always end up chewing it 'til Kingdom Come.

Something bumps my foot under the table. It's Edward. His eyebrows are raised at me, but I don't know what's going on any more than he does, so I kick him back. Then he kicks me again. And I go to kick him again, only he's moved out of the way, and my stomach bumps the table.

"What's going on?" Dad barks, and there's no trace of a usual smile in his voice at all.

"Earthquake," I say. He gives me a sour look. "Stomach earthquake. I don't feel good. Can I be excused?"

"Rinse off your plate and put your dishes in the dishwasher," Mom says crisply. Her hair is dull and there are shadows under her eyes, and she's seemed so angry and unapproachable lately. Only barely squeezing me when we hug.

I walk into the kitchen with a sigh of relief. What's wrong with everyone?

"Darn you," Edward says to me later. "You just left me there. Thanks."

I hunch my shoulders. "Sorry."

He sighs and settles beside me on the couch. We're in the basement, which is my favorite room because we can play Nightmare On Elm Street loud as we want, and neither Mom or Dad complain.

"Something's going on," Edward says and pulls at the blanket.

"Hey! I'm freezing."

"Come here." He stretches out on the couch and pats the space in front of him. With a huff, I fall beside him and he covers us both up. "So like I was saying, there's something going on with Mom and Dad. They didn't say two words to each other. They didn't even look at each other."

Yeah, that's why I don't feel so good. "It's just a fight," I say. "They'll get over it like they always do. Watch the movie."

He puts an arm around me, and I'm finally getting warm. "It's getting worse, Bella. I can feel it. Can't you? Or are you still pretending?"

I shake my head, suddenly unable to talk over the lump in my throat. Why can't he just—

"I'm afraid," he whispers, and I squeeze my eyes shut because he's not going to let me hide from this after all. I put my arm over his where it rests against my stomach, and squeeze.

"They'll be okay," I choke out. "Dad's gonna make Mom laugh again by hiding her Jimmy Choo shoes in the oven, and then Mom's gonna put mayonnaise in his doughnuts."

"Shhhh," he says, and he's rocking me as I cry. I don't do it often, so I'm not very good at it.

I remember how Jasper was after his parents got divorced. Months went by, and Jasper hardly said a word. Then Sprock came, the hand puppet he made out of one of his dad's dress socks. That was over two years ago, and Jasper still never goes anywhere without that sock.

If Mom and Dad get divorced, am I going to have to steal one of Dad's socks?

"We've got to help them," I say. "Maybe we can plan dinner tomorrow night, just for them, and you and I can eat down here."

Edward just sighs.

"Or maybe we can insist that they go out to dinner, and we can eat here. I can cook."

Now he's laughing. "No cookies," he says.

Now I'm sighing. One summer when I was maybe ten and Edward was at a sports day camp, I'd been left alone while Mom went across town to run an errand. I'd wanted to surprise her by making cookies on my own, but hadn't realized that the oven would get so hot. I'd been too afraid to take them out, and then had to go next door to ask Mr. Kowalski for help when the inside of the oven had started to smoke.

"Oh, shut up," I say and slap my foot against his shin.

His chuckles die down. "It's . . . an idea," he says slowly, obviously not agreeing with me at all. "I just don't think it's going to work."

"Why not? They have to eat and if we're not with them, they'll have to talk to each other."

Suddenly galvanized with purpose, I sit up to face him. "It's worth a try. Right? Right?"

Even though he's kind of smiling at me, his expression is sad. "Maybe."

"No?"

"Maybe," he repeats. "What would we make?"

"Pasta and meatballs," I say, thinking of Lady and the Tramp and the spaghetti-ball scene. "I'm good at making spaghetti."

"All you have to do is boil the noodles," he snorts.

"And roll the meatballs, and toast the garlic bread," I tell Mr. Knowitall.

His eyes are lighter somehow as he looks at me. I shove his shoulder, then spread my arms in a question.

"Alright. We'll try it. Just don't get your hopes up."

"Alright then."

We trade nods. Then he pulls me back down in front of him and we watch Johnny Depp try to elude Freddie Kruger and death by never falling asleep, until Dad comes and tells us that it's time to go to sleep. Which is awful in and of itself because like Johnny's character, I'm also afraid to fall asleep.

. . .

Riddle answer: a bath towel