Chapter Ten
. . . Ugly Face . . .
.
.
.
My knees are trembling, actually knocking against each other. I was good on the way up to the podium at the front of the auditorium—it felt like I was walking in a water world heavy with silence. Kind of cool, actually. But once I turn to face the entire 7th grade class and realize that I'm not dreaming, that 90-plus faces are all focused on me, life grinds to a halt. My heart stops, then races like I'm running a marathon. I can feel that my face is red, and that my ears are hot and throbbing.
Don't forget to breathe, Mr. Banner's frog-like voice says in my head. If a speaker faints during his speech, it's probably because he wasn't breathing.
I gulp, and air skitters like ice into my lungs. I thought Mr. Banner had been joking about the fainting part. Geeze, I'm sweating, and the air is brittle like I'm breathing outside in winter.
I look at my note cards, but my hands are shaking.
I grw up in a fmihy not that ulibe the frytal wrld of Cnnerlla, yt I crted one fthe scrist mnstrs ofll tme.
I'm supposed to be standing here talking about Mary Shelley, when instead, I feel more like the monster she created—all stiff and awkward and frozen.
"Miss Swan? Okay?"
Mrs. Thexton is the English teacher. She's unusually pretty with thick eyebrows, laser blue eyes, and a blunt, silver white pageboy. But at this moment, I can't help but see her as The Enemy.
"I don't feel so good," I say in an awkward gasp.
A few people snicker. Rose mashes her lips together as her face crumples for me, and now I want to cry. I look away from her, at Jasper, as he draws a finger across his throat.
"Inhale, Miss Swan," Banner barks from the back of the room. "Inhale loud enough that we can hear you."
I'd rather sink through the floor right now, but I do what he says. It's just a gulp, though, not an inhale at all.
His voice comes again. "Exxxxxxhale."
I force air out, but it makes me even more light-headed and I stagger against the wooden podium, which slides against the floor in a screech. I can't see or hear anything other than laughter now. The room is undulating in waves with it and so am I.
Everything goes black.
. . .
At lunch, I rest my head on my arms. I can't eat. Humiliation is still at home in my stomach, and I have a headache from where I knocked it against the podium. My face and knees are also scratched and sore. Turns out it's dangerous if you faint. So now there is a volunteer sitting on stage with you when you give your speech.
You know, just in case.
"It was like her bones just melted or something," Jasper was telling the table. "After she hit her head, I just sat there. I thought it was a joke."
I lift my head to glare at him.
He raises his hand and Sprock sticks his felt tongue out at me. "Jasper says he's sorry."
"Tell Jasper he sucks," I say and drop my head back down.
"Let me see your face," Edward says. He must have left his place at the end of the table. Some stuck-up girl named Lauren is eating lunch with us today. She's Edward's new girlfriend. They never last for more than a couple of weeks, because they're all so mean. I hate them all.
I let him stare at the boo-boos on my face—the little knick on my chin, and the long, pink scratch on my cheek. "Imagining everyone naked didn't work," I tell him.
His touch is light on my cheek, and it makes me feel funny. "Guess not."
"Don't laugh."
"I wasn't."
What a liar. He's trying to look sympathetic, but I can see him fighting not to smile. "I saw your mouth twitch."
"I'm still chewing my food."
"Gross."
"You okay?"
Everyone's looking at us. "Embarrassed. Angry. But other than that, I'm just dandy."
He tousles my hair like Dad does. It pisses me off, so I shove him away, and he walks back to his glaring girlfriend. Doesn't he see her do that?
Rose's speech is after lunch. Our block teachers—our Math, English, and Social Studies class monsters—have all combined their periods into one long chunk for two weeks in order to torture us: everyone has to give a three-minute-long oral speech on an historical figure of note. Several students have gone frozen, given leaden speeches, or cried. I'm the first one who's fainted.
Even worse?
They want me to try again.
I have to, or I'll get a big fat F.
But first, it's Rose's turn. "I'll warm them up for you," she says.
As she walks up to the podium, leaving a powder smell in her wake, I can't stop grinning. She's giving her speech on Florence Nightingale, the lady who founded modern nursing. Because Florence was said to have been pale, Rose patted down her skin—even her forearms—with white face powder. She's dressed in white from head-to-foot, and wearing a nurse's cap she got from who-knows-where.
"The city of Florence, Italy was named after moi," she begins and it's the funniest thing I've ever heard in my life; I am seriously cracking up. "And oui," she continues. "Nightingale is my real last name."
My stomach aches I'm laughing so hard.
The next day, it's my turn again. I still feel like I'm inhaling ice or something, but I'm determined to do this. Rose and Jasper both got through their speeches just fine. Well, Jasper paused for long moments during some of his speech, but Rose knocked it out of the park.
I close my eyes as soon as I get to the podium and innnnnnnnhale.
"You can do it," Rose whispers behind me. If I faint this time, she'll catch me.
"I wrote Frankenstein! Rrrrrrrrr!" I growl.
Everyone's laughing now, but they're laughing with me this time, not at me.
I think.
. . .
"Why is that cheese called Laughing Cow?" I ask Edward as he slathers some of it on a Triscuit. His face contorts as he chews the cheese and the cracker, and I watch him with my chin propped up on my hands.
"Dunno," he says to my look of interest. "Don't care."
"Cows don't laugh. It's a stupid name."
He swallows loudly, then, "You throw away the outside, then eat the inside, then throw away the inside. What am I?"
"Um. An avocado?"
. . .
It's Christmas again. Our first without Mom.
Every time a commercial comes on TV about sappy, happy people surprising other sappy, happy people with gifts, I immediately turn the channel. Even Hershey's Kisses dancing to the sound of bells, or seeing the red M&M faint at the sight of Santa, makes my heart ache. I just don't feel like Christmas this year. Mom was always the one who pulled us into the spirit of it all.
It's okay to hurt, Ms. Evans told me, but don't spend ALL your time feeling bad.
And I'm trying, but it's almost impossible when everywhere I turn, something's happening that makes me feel everything I've lost. It's only when I catch Dad wiping at his eyes after he brings in the mail one day, because there was a women's catalog for Mom, that I'm determined to fill the house with Christmas decorations just like she did.
In the past, Dad always put the tree up, but he's working overtime on a Saturday again. Besides, I want to surprise him. Fortunately, Edward doesn't grumble about helping. We drag the tree post and all of the branches out of the box, then stand back and just kind of look at it all with dread.
"Well," I sigh. "The tree's not going to put itself up."
There are three rings on the post for branches, and the metal tips that go into the tree trunk are color-coded. I've shoved a bunch of blues into the green slots before I realize this, and have to pluck them all back out again.
"This is fun," I tell Edward. "Really gets me into the Christmas spirit!"
"Don't be a Scrooge," he laughs and swats me with one of the loose branches.
It takes a long while, and several tree branch finger cuts, before the tree is finally up and we've strung the lights on.
"We still have the decorations," Edward says with a sigh.
"You first."
He digs out the angel topper.
"No, that's last."
He shrugs. "Well, call me when you're ready."
I bend over and pull out our Lifesaver's Men. Edward's is Win-to-Green and I'm Wild Cherry. We made them maybe three years ago by stuffing yarn down the middle of the roll and tying the ends into arms and feet. The heads are Ping-Pong balls with shiny foil stars for the eyes, nose and mouth. They make me smile.
"Look, it's Bella and Edward," I say to him.
He takes Bella from me and hangs her up high in the tree. So I take Edward and hang him at the bottom.
Dad walks in as we're hanging the last of the ornaments. He can't speak for a few moments, and he's visibly fighting tears.
"It's perfect, kids. Now all we need is a string of popcorn."
Which we've never done before, because Mom always balked at the idea of putting food on the tree. It was a thing we used to argue about with her, because the tree already had candy and noodle decorations.
"But we don't have plain popcorn; it's either buttered or cheddared," I say.
"New tradition," Dad states. "We're gonna put yellow and orange popcorn on the dang tree."
It's messy, and I think we end up eating as much as we string, but I've never had such a good time decorating.
. . .
I'm under the tree late at night again this year. Actually, I fell asleep a while ago and woke up when Edward bent down to lay beside me because his knee cracked.
"You're here again," he says.
"Um hmm."
"Looking for elves?"
"No. An angel."
"I can't reach her without the chair."
"That's just it. He doesn't want to be reachable."
"Ohhhh. A he?"
"That's right. He's been watching over me lately, but he doesn't want me to know."
Edward shifts uncomfortably, finally getting my drift.
I roll over, scoot close, and lay my head on his chest. "He found me, though."
His fingers are warm against my arm. "Do you still miss her?"
"Yes, I think I always will. Don't you? Ever?"
His fingers still. "I wasn't close to her like you were, Bella. And the last year with her? She was a dragon. Not Mom."
I close my eyes and sigh heavily.
"Plus," he continues, "I don't think I'll ever forgive her for what she did to you."
I stiffen. He sounds ominous. "What did she do to me?"
The fingers tighten. "She bullied you until you went to Florida, then tried to make you think that leaving was a bad thing."
"But she didn't mean it."
"But she said it."
And we're back to that again.
"Sometimes when people are mad, they say things they don't mean," I tell him hotly and try to push away, but he holds me fast.
"I know that. But she was good at manipulating people, especially you."
I shake my head against his chest. "I don't even know what that means."
He sighs and kind of shakes my arm. "It means that she was good at making you do what she wanted. She was good at making you feel the way she wanted you to feel."
I think about it, and I know he's right, but . . . "I don't want to talk about Mom," I say. "And I thought you'd forgiven me for what I said."
"I have."
"Then why bring it up again? That's not fair."
"You're right. I'm sorry. I guess it still hurts."
I tighten my arm around his stomach. "It shouldn't. You know I don't feel that way about you."
"I know."
"But the words still hurt."
"They hurt less and less," he admits.
"Good. Then those words should be a distant memory when next year comes. Right?"
He flips me onto my back and starts tickling me.
"Stop," I gasp. "You'll make me wake up Dad."
I'm still out of breath and smiling when he backs away and stares down at me with a puzzled look on his face. I frown back.
"What?"
He shakes his head, then lays back down. He's no longer touching me. "Nothing."
. . .
The next night, Christmas Eve, Edward wakes me up. I've got tears on my face and Mom's voice in my head.
"You were yelling at her," he said and sits on the side of my bed.
I sniff and turn on my side to face him. "She was yelling at me."
"Want to talk about it?"
"No. Will you say with me?"
He hesitates, then climbs under the covers with me. I'm hoping he'll spoon me like he used to do, but he doesn't, so I just curl up against his side.
It's not the first time I've had a bad dream about Mom, but it's the first time Edward's ever come to wake me up from one. But when I ask him why, he says he doesn't know.
. . .
Dad's big Christmas gift for me and Edward is to treat all of us—Alice, Rose, Emmett and Jasper—to front row seats at a Komets hockey game. I've never been a hockey fan, but I have to admit it's exciting. There's just this feeling in the air as we're sitting there. All of the lights, the upbeat music, the smell of food; I'm getting high on it.
Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting is blasting over the speakers as the players begin to scramble on the ice. They knock hard into the protective Plexiglass that surrounds the ice, but then one of them must whack in a puck and score, because an air horn sounds and people are shooting to their feet and cheering.
"Thompson! Thompson! Thompson!"
Then I'm jumping up and down with Rose and Alice to Queen's We Will Rock You. Dad and the boys are watching us and laughing, and we're having a great time. It's turning out to be the best gift ever.
Moves Like Jagger is playing when I notice Edward is all turned around in his seat talking to some girls. One of them has long, curly red hair, and the reddest lips I've ever seen on someone our age. I can't see Edward's face, but if her expression is anything to go by, he's as happy as she is. Suddenly, I feel sick, and I want to tell them to leave him alone.
"Edward," I yell.
He turns to me, and he's still all smiles. The dark green hoody he's wearing really makes his eyes pop. Darn his ugly face. I wave him over to me, and he comes.
"Will you trade seats with Alice? I need someone to explain what's going on," I say.
"Yeah, right," Alice mutters, but she gets up and Edward takes her seat. I was sure he'd complain or fight me about it, but he does it willingly. I hug his arm.
"Who were those girls?"
He gives me a look. "I don't know. They just started talking to me."
There's a fight down on the ice and his attention is snapped away from me. "Whoa, that's going to be a penalty," he says.
I look back the way he came, and have to smile at the red-haired girl, who's glaring daggers at me. But she doesn't give up; she waits for Edward at the end of the game until we've all shuffled down the row to the aisle, and hands him a slip of paper.
"I'm Vickie," she says and tosses her hair over her shoulder in a studied move. "Call me."
I don't know why I'm suddenly uncomfortable with all the attention Edward gets, but I just am. He's my brother.
Behind me, Dad groans. "God help me."
. . .
That night, Rose, Alice and I study ourselves in my full length, sliding mirrored closet doors.
Rose has the best boobs. Alice is still as flat as I am, something we are both unhappy about. Rose also has the best hair; it's silver-blond, long and wavy. But Alice has the best eyes, these hazel, cat-shaped eyes that slant at the corners, giving her an exotic look.
"Doesn't matter. I have to wear padded bras just to get people to look at me," she says with sigh.
It's decided that I have the best legs and skin. I try to see something of Mom in my face, but the only thing I seem to have inherited from her is her mouth; an upper lip that's fuller than the bottom one. I don't know why, but boys are always looking at it.
"You have your dad's doe-brown eyes," Rose says, and I laugh at how Dad would wince if he heard her describe them that way.
"You have your mom's big boobs," I say.
She lifts them in the palm of her hands. "Yep. These babies definitely came from Mom."
"I wonder if I'll ever get my mom's boobs," I say. It's way past time. I bleed and suffer through cramps every month. Where's the second part of the deal?
"You should eat more," Alice says. "You're too skinny. People who eat more have bigger boobs."
"Then we should both eat more," I tell her with a heavy look of emphasis at her skinny little body.
We start by going down to the kitchen and making late-night root beer floats.
. . .
Edward's riddle answer for Bella: corn on the cob. But I think an avocado would work, too!