C H A P T E R T W O – N O R M A L
Phil became my sponsor.
Tiffany bracelets.
Seven jeans.
The only thing my shiny black credit card couldn't buy was a brand spanking new complexion. Pores mocked my new and improved image. Chapped lips lacked moisture to no fault of the copious amounts of gloss smeared over them. Sparkled eyes seemed dim and dull. I had haystack hair.
I was normal. Human… almost.
Fragile.
I haven't felt this way since they left.
I haven't felt this way since Nikoli Wolfe took me out into the forest.
I haven't felt this way since I was partially eviscerated and dumped into the whirlpool.
..
The thing about Forks, WA is that the place is named after two rivers. Well one river actually, that forks, hence the name of the town, down the middle and separates the town from the nearby La Push reservation.
Technically one of these rivers isn't normal. Water flows from the river into this hole and it doesn't come out.
These scientist guys dropped all kinds of things down there, but nothing ever surfaces.
Angela tells me it's another dimension.
I tell her it's probably, you know, just really, really deep.
..
"I heard they're like, heroes or something," Jessica says. Smacking her teeth around a piece of Stride Mandarin Orange.
Lauren clomps down on Five Rain. "Totally, like Superman, only Nikoli Wolfe would look like sooo much better in spandex."
"This is a dark, dark day for Devil's Kettle. And believe me you, I have lived through some pretty heavy stuff," Mr. Molina begins class saying.
Jessica twirls a curly strand between her forefinger. No doubt imagining the abovementioned leader of Indie band Low Shoulder adorned in red and blue.
Me? Well I prefer to imagine all the ways I could impale Nikoli Wolfe. And maybe Jessica and Lauren as well while I'm at it.
"We lost eight precious students, including Tyler from India, several parents, and our beloved Spanish teacher, Señorita Erickson," Mr. Molina says. Droning on and on and on.
"No way. Erickson ate shit?" Lauren asks giggling with Jessica.
I grind my teeth, turning to Angela.
I call her name. Poke her shoulder with a perfectly manicured finger.
"Now more than ever, put aside your teenage concerns, about who's a cool dude, or who's a ho. We can't let that damn fire win."
"It already won," Lauren snarks. Jessica giggles. Gag.
Angela doesn't acknowledge my presence. Angela is shaking like a leaf. Angela is looking at her nails as if they are more important than me. Which they are most certainly not.
Her nails are, however, disgusting to say the least.
"Eww, fuck. You need a mani bad," I tell her as I take out a pen, holding it between my teeth while I search my purse for a piece of paper. I scribble out a note for Angela, admiring the loopy lettering, and slide it over to her. She glances up at me, wide eyed. Still shaking.
"That," I tell her, "is the number of the person who does my nails."
She opens her mouth to protest, and I wave off her unimportant words.
"You need a Chinese chick to buff that situation," I say.
She's looking at me like I'm not really there. She's looking at me like I'm faded into the distance, time and space upholding appearances. She's looking at me like I'll disappear at any moment. And I might.
Because really, I know this is my fault. And I can still taste the black ferromagnetic liquid pooling behind my teeth, even though I have brushed by them twenty three times already, and am nursing a piece of Orbit Positively Pomegranate.
"God bless you kids," Mr. Molina says.
I glance at Angela's crusted black nails, my hands fidgeting. She isn't chewing any gum. I offer her a piece that she declines.
She's back to staring at her nails again. Shaking like a leaf. Pale and colorless. Lifeless. Pathetic. Needy. And talking to herself. Muttering about how it was real. Muttering about how she scrubbed the linoleum all night. Muttering shoot.
The strong person who succeeded in piecing me together when Edward had left and Jacob had chosen his brothers over me, well she's been reduced to this blubbering mess of infectious waste.
Visions gloss my eyes over. Visions of baseball and happiness and hiking and forests and heartache. Visions of Edward and Jacob and Roman.
And looking at Angela. I see myself. My old hair, dull, frizzy, and lifeless. My old lips, chapped and weathered. My old eyes, plain and brown and obscured by a pair of oval lenses. And Angela, in a matter of seconds, she's been reduced to me.
And in an effort to see her as herself again, I stand up.
"Miss Swan," Mr. Molina says. "I suggest you sit down."
He's mad because I've interrupted his speech about the victims of the Melody Lane fire. He's mad because over the summer a bear tore his arm off, and he's been reduced to using a hook in order to sustain right arm movement.
I simply smile at him, a toothy smile. My lips pulling up in a snarl. Utilizing my levator labii muscles. Muscles which I am certain have never been used before.
"Please don't talk to yourself. It's one of your more freakishly needy behaviors and it makes us both look like total gaylords," I tell her. Snarling.
And I simply leave.
..
Just three months ago, me, Angela, and her boyfriend, Ben, were completely normal people. We were our yearbook pictures. Nothing more, nothing less.
That was before I'd transferred back to Forks.
That was before I'd discovered what Edward Cullen was. Before I'd discovered who Edward Cullen was.
People found it hard to believe that a "babe like me," Tyler's words not mine, would associate with a dork like Angela Webber.
But the thing about sandbox love? It never dies.
..
By the time sixth period rolls around "Needy" is the word on everyone's tongue. Mike, who TA's in the office to keep up his GPA, altered Angela's digital transcripts to include her new title. It's like the name Angela doesn't exist. Like it's a taboo subject no one wants to talk about.
Mike corners me after school. Laughing. He wants to know if I've seen Needy anywhere.
Someone carrying a teddy bear, sniffling, barricades past us. It isn't until they leave, and I'm staring at their ass, that I notice the jersey. Big letters spelling out T. Spelling out Y. Spelling out L. Spelling out E. Spelling out R. Spelling out T Y L E R.
Mike's laughter is short lived. Tears coming down his face, he turns to look at me.
Placing a hand on his shoulder, reassuring. I lead him beyond the school. Into the forest.
Telling him how I was there last night, at Melody Lane. Telling him that I was probably the last person to talk to him ever.
Telling him that Tyler, the last thing he ever said was that we would be a totally banging couple.
"He said banging?" Mike wonders.
Deep in the forest, leaves falling around us, I pull down the zipper of my yellow jacket.
A rabbit scurries up to the clearing I've led Mike too. A deer on its tail.
Telling Mike to, "feel my heart." Moving his hand to cover my breast.
Birds fly overhead, chirping.
"I think it's broken" I tell him.
Insects swarm the area.
Sniffing up his neck. Running my tongue along his ear.
A common variety garden snake slithers over.
"Mine too," he says.
And animals surrounding us, I open my mouth wide and take a bite.