Chapter 11

. . . Puberty Blues . . .

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Halfway through Freshman year, Edward gets a Learner's Permit, and is like a dog with a bone bugging Dad about driving . . . so much so, that my Saturday grocery shopping trips with Dad are nixed in favor of twice-a-weeknight trips with all three of us. Two of the female cashiers know us by name; well, they know Edward's.

"The family that shops together, stays together," I quip.

"And the guy who drives, thrives," Edward adds.

Dad huffs and folds his arms. "I don't remember signing up for a show," he says.

As time goes on, Dad says that since he's spending more money on gas and food, Edward should get a job, and if he does, Dad'll help pay for a car if Edward maintains his grades. Edward's ecstatic, and comes home not even 24 hours later with a barista's job at Starbucks, because Carmen and Heidi already work there, so they got me in.

I'm not as ecstatic. In fact, I'm something way less—something like two breaths away from feeling absolutely horrible. I always suspected Edward was cooler than me, but now it's like I'm losing him, too, because he's hardly ever home anymore. It's not the same sitting down to just supper for two, because Dad never tells me if I overcook the meat; not the same when watching one of the Harry Potter movies without arguing about how Dumbledore's death is more heartbreaking than Severus Snape's; not the same when he's never around to make me laugh anymore.

By August, he's working four days a week at Starbucks, and has a savings and a checking account. If he comes up with a $2000 down payment for Rose's mom's old Honda Civic by December, Dad's promised that he can start driving it in January. Edward brings home around $140 a week, so it should be a piece of cake. From that point on, Edward's all about the car. All about the job. And all about girls. The days when it used to be us just hanging out dwindle to almost nothing.

So it's just Alice, Rose and me who are catching rays at the McCarty's pool on Saturday. Jasper's at an artist's retreat, which is really only a hotel downtown, and Emmett is out looking for his own job. And as usual, I'm feeling down and out of sorts because it's not the same anymore. Why do people have to grow up anyway? Seems like a drag to me, except for the car thing. And maybe the more-freedom thing.

"You're not gonna tan if you don't use some Hawaiian Tropic," Rose tells me, and she makes a stupid sexy-face as she slicks some on exaggeratedly.

I give her a barf-face. "Oh yes, I will. I'm just doing it without getting icky-oily."

"Whatever. Will you do my back?"

She flips over, and I dutifully rub some of the icky-oil on her, even though she's already two shades darker than me and Alice put together. Of course, that's mostly because Alice wears SPF 30 and that floppy sun hat she got during their spring vacation trip to Cabo San Lucas. Sometimes she forgets that it's still on her head when she jumps into the pool.

After I wipe my hands off, I lie back in my chair and smile admiringly at my chest. I'm trying out a bikini for the first time ever; a black one with a zipper front. I still don't have boobs, so I ordered some silicone bra inserts with an Amazon gift card from Grandma Swan. Neither Alice nor Rose has said anything about them, which makes me think they're too small, or that I have two of the most unobservant friends ever, and I'm about to say something when Alice speaks.

"Mike and Erik are coming over," she says. "And Emmett should be back soon, so it'll almost be like having everyone here."

I bite my tongue—in no way will it ever be the same—as Rose groans. Erik has a crush on her, and Mike's an awful flirt who says the grossest things ever. "Allie, why? It's just supposed to be us today, remember?"

Alice shakes her head and heaves a sigh. "Erik overheard me talking to Mike about our pool, and thought I'd asked Mike over. He was acting all hurt, and saying things about how it felt to be left out and stuff, so I had to ask him. And then Mike wanted to come because he thought Erik was coming. What was I supposed to do?"

"Grow a backbone?"

"Stop it," I tell Rose.

Then I look at Alice, who seems both excited and embarrassed now. "You still like Erik, don't you?" He's a year younger than her, but Alice has a soft spot for blond boys with curly hair.

"Maybe," she shrugs. "Maybe not. Anyway, it doesn't matter because he likes Rose."

"I am not interested in Erik," Rose says.

I think she likes Emmett. He's grown at least a foot in the last few months, and is now taller than Edward. He's hoping he'll be able to move from the reserve football team to the real team in September, so he's been working out too. Rose has noticed, although she's careful about showing it. But I don't think that matters, either, because all Edward and Emmett seem to care about lately are other girls and money.

When Erik and Mike show up, we're ready to get in the water. Erik's wearing green swim trunks and sporting a silver necklace that gleams against his tanned chest. Alice gives me woo-woo eyebrows in appreciation. On the opposite end of the spectrum, there's Mike.

"Pillsbury Dough Boy meets The Gingerbread Man," Rose whispers, and we laugh at that until Mike scowls at us. Somehow, he knows we're talking smack about him.

"Yo, those Elmer Fudds must keep you floatin' like inner tubes in the water," he says.

Elmer? What?

"Boobs," Rose says and crosses her arms under hers. Both Mike's and Tyler's eyes pop.

"Hey, me and Tyler can make a bigger splash than the the three of you. Wanna bet?"

Then me and Alice fold our arms across our chests and glare as he and Tyler crack up.

"You're an idiot," Rose says.

The biggest.

"Is that a yes?"

Rose shifts with exaggeration from one foot to the next. "Think you'll win?"

He just snorts. "Whoever loses has to twerk." And then he looks at me and Alice. "That means all three of you. One at a time; not all at once."

"Or it means you two idiots," Alice scoffs. "Both at once."

"Oh, it's on," Tyler yells. "It is SO on!"

I'm horrified. "I do not want to see them twerk."

"Suck it up, because ain't no way we're losing," Alice tells me, then calls her mom out to be the judge.

Mrs. McCarty has no idea what's at stake, though. If she did, she'd be beating the boys with Alice's floppy sun hat, not putting it on the top of her head. "Boys first," she says.

Mike and Erik make a big to-do of backing up. "We're gonna bring a tidal wave," Mike brags. "Ya'll better stand back."

Me, Alice and Rose scoff in unison.

"One. Two. Three," Mrs. McCarty yells.

Erik does a perfect cannonball, but Mike slips and falls backwards instead. I snort. We can beat that without breaking a sweat.

"Okay, girls, show 'em what you got," Mrs. McCarty cries. "I have to warn you, boys! These girls have been cannonballing in this pool for years."

Rose, Alice and I hold hands and then on the count of three, we're off. I'm not sure how Rose and Alice did, but my cannonball was perfect, tilted just-so for maximum splash, because there's no way I'm twerking for those idiots, not in this life or the next.

Mike and Erik can tell by Mrs. McCarty's laughter that they lost big. They concede by turning around to shake their butts at us, which makes everyone scream and laugh, then they splash into the water with us. We're taking turns dunking each other when Erik squints at something behind me.

"What the hell's that?"

My left boob is gaily bobbing along in the water.

. . .

Mrs. McCarty gives me a hug. "Ohhhh, Bella. It'll be alright, honey."

How can I ever face Mike and Erik again? This is the worst, most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to me, and I want to die. I am never going out there again. Or anywhere, really. There's just no way.

"It's not fair," I wail. "Boys don't have to worry about not having boobs, or their hair, or the way they look! They don't have to hurt and bleed every month. It's not fair," I finish in a whisper, and she hugs even me tighter, which makes me cry even harder.

I miss my mom. I miss her so much.

She lets me cry myself out—which takes more than a minute—then, she sits me down at the kitchen table and hands me some Kleenex. I blow my nose as she pours me a glass of lemonade, then wrap both hands around the glass and squeeze hard as I can. If I was The Hulk, it would burst into pieces.

"It's not fair," she tells me, and I look up to see eyes like Alice's gaze gently at me. "But you know what? Boys have to go through their own embarrassing moments."

I exhale shakily. What do boys have to go through?

"This is just between you and me, okay?"

I nod solemnly. At this moment, I'd promise my soul. Maybe even walk across burning coals.

"Nocturnal emissions," she whispers. "Wet dreams."

Oh boy, am I disappointed. "But those happen at night. Nobody sees them. How is that embarrassing?"

She gives me a look heavy with significance. "Stained sheets."

My face, my brain, my body, is kind of . . . blank. I totally don't . . . get it?

And then, "Sheets that Mom sees?" she finishes with a slam dunk.

Heat suddenly fills me from the inside out. Seeing this, she laughs and taps my hand.

"So, uh, all," I stutter and clear my throat. "All boys go through this?"

"Every one of them, I assure you. No one gets to escape puberty, honey."

. . .

It's the last Monday morning before school begins, and I'm on my hands and knees scouring the bathtub that me and Edward share upstairs. I'm panting and grumbling through every minute, too, because this is hard work and my muscles can't take it. Edward should be doing this, he should be doing the bathroom scrubbing because he's stronger than me, but nooooo. He got kitchen and living room duty because he works at Star-freaking-bucks, so the major household duties have fallen to me. All he has to do is dust, wipe up counter-tops, and sweep the floor. Oh, and take out the trash. Big whoop.

"You done yet, Grumbleasaurus? I have to use the john."

"No," I growl. What's he doing up here? "There's another john in Dad's room, or downstairs. Use one of those. Urgh!"

He's laughing, which just pisses me off more. "No, really, Bella, I have to go. I want to use this one."

"No, really, Edward, you can use one of the other ones."

He grabs me by the arms and hauls me up from the tub, then pushes me out of the bathroom.

"Hey!" I bang on the closed door. What the heck? "Don't you dare take a dump!"

I hurl the scrubbie in my hand at the floor, then poke my hands under my armpits and slide down the closed door with a huff, waiting for him to be done. Why's he so intent on using the one bathroom I'm cleaning? He's probably going to take a day and a ha—

Suddenly I'm on the floor looking up at Edward's upside down face. He's still way too jolly for me. "What are you doing down there?"

I push myself up and join him at the sink, where he's washing his hands. As soon as I have the thought, my hands are cupped under the water and then I flick them at his face. Water goes everywhere, and now I'm laughing at Edward's startled, wet face as he takes the cup at the sink and begins to fill it.

"No way," I say and back up. "That's not fair."

"You started it," he says with a wicked grin. "Now I'm going to finish it."

I dive for him, grabbing his wrist with both hands to shove the cup away as he moves it from under the tap, and water splashes up and out on both of us, and across the mirror. I jump, knocking his hand back so even more spills out on him, and now the top of his head is wet. Then so is mine, and Edward's back at the sink getting more water.

Oh, no he doesn't!

Gasping, I race for the tub and the detachable shower head. A whoosh of cold water climbs up my back, making me scream as my fingers twist at one of the shower knobs, but then I'm turning with the shower head in hand and aiming it at his face. Seeing what I'm about to do, he lunges forward, yanks it out of my grip, then sprays me with it.

"Better get in the shower," he yells over my screams. "Or say I'm sorry."

The water is freezing! He's got me trapped against the shower door with nowhere to go, and my socks and the floor is getting wet, so I'm sliding against the linoleum. Because he's aiming the water at my face, I can't see hardly anything.

"Edwarrrrrrrd! Stop!"

He lowers the spray from my head to my chest. Jesus, it's cold! "Say I'm sorry."

I fall back, crossing my arms over my chest, huddling and doing some kind of stomping dance; I'm not wearing a bra! And Jesus, it's fucking cold!

"I'm sorry!" I yell. "Dammit! I'm sorry!"

When the sound of water stops, all I can hear are my damp gasps and his laughter echoing off the walls. I take a step away from the shower wall, slide, and crash to my butt with all limbs flailing, and I am so pissed that I could exhale and start a fire right now. And then, through wet eyelashes, I see him bent over at the waist with his hands on his knees because he's laughing so hard, and seeing him that way steals all the discomfort and anger I feel. I don't think I've ever seen him let go like this.

Eventually he stops laughing, and he's pushing himself up straight and we're all breathless and shaking our heads at each other, but then he's staring at me all funny. At my chest. I look down to see my nipples poking at my shirt, and gasp. My fingers scrabble at my shirt, and jerk it away from my skin with a squelch.

But his dark eyes are like lasers. Still pinning me.

"Stop looking!"

"Wear a bra next time!"

"Get out!"

"Make me!"

I'm afraid to stand, though. It's slippery, plus I'd have to let go of my shirt.

"Just go, Edward."

"Fine. I'm done anyway," he says, suddenly moody. He slams the door on the way out, and it makes me feel like crying, which doesn't make sense.

"What stinks while living, but smells good when dead?!" I yell after him.

. . .

It's after ten-thirty on Friday night, and Dad is worried because Edward isn't home yet. He got off work at nine, so he was supposed to be here over an hour ago. Plus, he's not answering his phone, so Dad is starting to get angry, too. This isn't like Edward. Responsible is his middle name, for crying out loud.

"You go on to bed," Dad says at midnight.

There's a horde of butterflies in my stomach, and a tightness in my throat. I'm pretty sure I won't be able sleep unless someone knocks me out with a frying pan, but the look on Dad's face, the tone of his voice, tells me to do exactly what he says or else.

My legs are heavy as I climb the stairs, my ears straining for the sound of Edward's bike on the driveway. Everything in me is hoping that he's okay. If he's not—no. I can't think of that. Dad would've heard something, so he must be just . . . what, out partying?

No. He wouldn't do this.

Why can't he'd just come home and put me and Dad out of this misery? Why wouldn't he at least call? Or answer my texts?

But there's nothing.

. . .

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I hear are footsteps stomping up the stairs, and the door across the hallway slam shut. Turning to look at the clock on my nightstand, I see it's after one o'clock. I'm about to get up to investigate when I hear a second set of footsteps. These steps pause outside my door and I hear a knock.

"Yes?" I say around my furiously beating heart.

Dad pokes his head in my door. "He's home. Everything's fine. Go back to sleep."

But I don't. I can't.

I don't want Dad to hear us, so I wait a good hour before I go to Edward's room and knock softly on his door. If he's awake, he'll hear it.

A few moments later, his door opens. He's shirtless, and wearing PJ bottoms that sit low on his hips. I don't know if I'm more taken aback by all of the skin on display, or the scowl he's giving me under those thick eyebrows.

"What?" He's belligerent.

I swallow hard. "Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

I step back. Why is he so angry? "Where were you?"

"Out."

"I know that. Why? We were worried."

"Didn't need to be."

What a grump. Why is he still glaring at me that way? "Why did you even bother answering your door if you don't feel like talking?"

"Didn't want you to just walk in."

I make a sound of disgust, but think it sounds like distress. I would never just walk in his room! "Sorry I bothered you," I say and make a hasty retreat.

"Yeah, me too."

I'm not back in my bed for two minutes before the door opens. It's the grump, who didn't bother to knock. I guess it's okay if he just walks in.

"Look, I'm sorry," he says as he sits just behind me, and my butt sinks back to rest against his thigh. "I'm just in a bad place right now."

"And you don't care about anyone else's bad place," I sniff. I hate that I'm crying; I'm supposed to be angry.

"Bella," he sighs and pulls my hair.

My neck arches, but I don't look at him, especially after my words come out on a hard sob. "Mom didn't come home that time. What if you didn't, either?"

There's a long moment of silence, and then warmth as he presses against my back. "God. I didn't even think . . . I'm sorry, Bella."

It makes me angry, and the tears come harder because this night is just another sign that we're not as close as we used to be. "Where were you?"

"At a party. With a guy I work with."

I laugh a little. "So you were out having fun, ignoring us while we worried. That's just great, Edward."

He slides his fingers on top of my hip, then squeezes, but I won't turn over. "Hey, I already got the third degree from Dad. I don't need it from you."

I shove back against him hard. "Then go back to your room and leave me alone."

"You came to me first," he gritted.

"Yeah? Well, obviously that was a mistake, so you can go to bed with a clear conscience now."

In answer, he pulls my hair . . . and keeps pulling it, pulling me back, until I tell him to stop.

Then he leaves, and I cry myself to sleep again.

. . .

Things are tense between the three of us for the next few days. I'm not talking to Edward, and Edward's not talking to me or Dad.

"I packed your lunch, Dad. Made you a double-decker meatloaf sandwich."

"Thanks, Bells. Any chocolate chip cookies left?"

I grin at him. "I might've packed a few of those, too."

Edward makes a face at me after Dad leaves. "What a perfect little daughter you are."

I scoff; these are the first words he's going to say me after two days of nothing?

"I'm no different than I was yesterday. And I'm not the perfect anything. That's more you than me, mister top-of-your-class: fencing champ, responsible kid with a job and a car. You asshole," I say. I can't believe I'm calling him that, so I whisper it, but he has to know. "You're the one who screwed up, and feels bad about it."

He's quiet for so long that I glance over at him, and see a weird look on his face. His eyes are closed, the corners of his mouth dipped down, but he's usually so good at hiding pain, so I must be imagining it.

"It's okay to screw up," I say. "Just tell him you're sorry, Edward. And mean it."

His eyes snap up to mine. "How'd you get so smart?"

I flinch, and then I feel a sense of relief, because he looks like someone I know again. "I watched you," I say.

Then I push up from the table, turn away from that look in his eyes. I'm at the sink, rinsing dishes and rambling at him, because my thoughts and feelings never seem to come out the same way when I try to say them.

"I always watched how you handle things: good things, sad things, awful things . . . you think you're weak like Dad, but he's not, and you aren't, either. I don't know how I know, I just do, it's just a feeling I have when I'm with you or Dad. Like everything's gonna be alright?" I hitch a shoulder to wipe at my chin. I sound stupid, I know I sound stupid, but he asked. "Anyway, all that . . . . stuff with Mom and Dad happened, and then Mom—" Crap, have to breathe, "—and we had deal with it. Have to keep dealing with it. Everything else just seems kind of . . . tame, you know?"

I feel his warmth first; his chest against my back as he hugs me from behind. I keep scrubbing dishes, trying to hide how just a simple touch from him so easily takes away the hurt inside. He rests his chin on my shoulder, and it's nice.

"I really am sorry, Bell. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," I say, and he slides his hands around my waist and squeezes me tight. "But, could you not scare me like that again?"

We're so close that I feel his inhale and exhale all along my body. "I promise," he says, and I want to collapse in tears and do a jig at the same time.

"Seal it by loading the dishwasher," I tell him.

In answer, he laughs and presses a kiss against the bare skin at my shoulder, and I'm breathless as goosebumps raise all along my skin.

Weird.

. . .

Bella's angry riddle answer for Edward: a pig.