-| Glitch continues |-
If Charlie is Forks' very own superhero, then drugs are his nemesis.
Drugs are the number one cause of the crimes, car accidents, and domestic disputes that he deals with day in, day out. Drugs are the reason behind the blood he sees pooled on the highway and the blood vessels he sees broken in women's faces. In confessing that I've done drugs, I knew exactly what I was doing. His own daughter. The same little girl he'd bounced on his knee to a "Drugs are for Dummies" ditty. I knew exactly how much it would hurt him. I knew exactly whose blood and guts he'd be picturing smeared on dark asphalt next.
He can't even look at me.
I know it's because he can't bear to see me dead.
I know it, but knowing doesn't make it hurt any less.
The remainder of my winter break is more bleak than the weather. I huddle in my room, swaddled in blankets, and don't do much of anything. Charlie works long hours, leaving earlier and arriving later, no doubt single-handedly trying to rid Clallam County of even a single little red or blue pill.
Renee is naturally empathetic (as bona fide hippies are wont to be on this subject), but she respects Charlie's feelings on the matter. She presents a united front. I'm bitter; they're acting more like a married couple now than when they were actually married.
The start of school—normally the highlight of my year—can't raise my spirits. Day 1, my gaze finds the railing where Alice usually perches in the morning, waiting eagerly for me to arrive. The spot is empty, as forlorn as the leafless trees lining the parking lot. I ascend the steps slowly, like they are sucking sand.
When I do see Alice later in the day, she staunchly ignores me in the halls, in our classes, in the cafeteria. And I let her. I don't protest when she starts eating lunch with Angela, leaving me to fend for myself. I sit with Jessica and Lauren and join in on their fake smiles, fake laughs, fake lives. Despite this miniature musical chairs in the lunchroom, things don't change much for me. I keep lying. When Mike asks me three Fridays in a row if I want to do something with him that weekend, I at last break down and tell him no because—hasn't he heard?—I like girls. He high-tails it into the comfort of Jessica's arms so quick that I can't believe I hadn't thought of it before.
After Easter, I come down from my room early one morning and notice that Charlie's blanket is still draped over the back of the couch, exactly where it had been the night before. And I wake up late one evening from an impromptu nap and could have sworn that I heard more than one person giggling in the shower. As if giggling alone in the shower is not cause enough for concern.
Junior prom inspires hubbubaloo that I mostly ignore. Alice does not make me a prom dress. She makes one for Angela instead, a plum gown that perfectly complements Angela's dark hair and olive complexion.
Nobody bothers to ask me to prom, not even any girls.
I don't bother to attend.
Summer passes in a lazy haze.
I haven't been allowed to read in so long, I make up for it now, challenging myself to read the entire A section at the public library.
By the end of August, I'm halfway through C.
Senior year.
Senior year, people change. They get serious. They realize that, in a few short months, they're no longer going to be big man on campus; they're going to be the littlest minnow in a broad sea. The thought is sobering.
Jessica Stanley stops dressing like a slut and starts campaigning to become valedictorian. Yeah, apparently you can campaign for this. Her tactics involve bribing Daniel Diggory, the front runner for the position and obvious virgin, to fail his next five tests, thereby skewing his average just enough to allow her to take the lead. I don't want to think about how she bribed him. I don't want to think about how she had good enough grades in the first place.
Maybe she's smarter than we all have guessed.
Even more surprising is Yorkie's transformation. One day, he comes to school, and his hair is no longer pink. He's even wearing a tie. A black on black tie, so you can hardly see it, but hey, it's there. Come to think of it, I haven't heard him mention aliens or seen him slinking behind the school in months.
Glad I didn't rat him out to Charlie.
I've never looked forward to senior year, and now that my disaster of a junior year is over, I look forward to being a senior even less. I don't think I can handle another mindless year full of mindless hours of mindless classes.
Everyone's growing, changing, moving on.
Everyone but me.
So I make a plan. This plan involves a packed class schedule and long discussions with the guidance counselor. The plan involves essays being written and applications being filled out and stamps being licked. The plan involves a new place, a new start, a new Bella.
The plan is to graduate from high school a semester early and attend a college far, far away.
Renee and Charlie don't like this plan.
Renee says, "You're still grounded, young lady."
I say, "It's been nearly six months. I've done everything you've asked."
Renee says, "What about your friends? What about prom? What about graduation?"
I tell her that I will make new friends, that dancing isn't my thing, and that walking across a stage in rickety heels merely to collect a piece of paper is dangerous for me even on a good day.
Renee said, "You're too young to go to college."
I say, "You've always said I am responsible beyond my years."
Renee says, "How can we trust you?"
I say, "I promise that I will not drink or smoke or swallow or snort anything. Ever."
Charlie doesn't say anything at all. As always, his silence is far, far worse than Renee's words.
I assume that's the end of it. I assume I'm going to have to stick out my full senior year. I assume that I'm only going to be able to escape after I turn eighteen and am legally able to live on my own.
Then I receive a thick manila envelope from Dartmouth.
From Dartmouth, and Renee stops complaining. Charlie's eyes glisten, though he doesn't smile. He never smiles anymore.
"Ivy League!" Renee gushes to her yoga ladies, her hairdresser, anyone who will listen.
You guessed it.
I'm no longer grounded.
My first and last semester of senior year is a television show in fast forward. I work hard in all my classes and work even harder maintaining my semblance of normalcy. I laugh at the right moments and lie at the right moments. But, unlike in a television show, I never get caught.
I watch Alice grow even quieter, her hair drooping in uncharacteristic brown, clothes becoming muted. I continue ignoring her. I tell myself it's for her own good. She's better off without me.
My final day of high school is just another day for my friends and teachers, who are so distracted by yet another Christmas holiday that they hardly notice it might be the last time they will ever see me. The final bell rings, and I almost sneak out of the building before the sound finishes reverberating throughout the familiar halls.
Almost, but not quite.
"Miss Swan," someone says, and I turn to see Dr. Matthews leaning against the door to her office. The reindeer antlers on her head clash unapologetically with her intricately cross-stitched candy cane sweater. "Might I have a word?"
I haven't spoken to Dr. Matthews in months, not since I had dropped the dreaded d-bomb on my parents. Teenagers on drugs is beneath Dr. Matthews' brand of group therapy.
She gestures me into her office and closes the door behind us.
"Have a seat." I eye the pink yoga ball she's provided as an alternative to the traditional visitor's chair. I remain standing.
Dr. Matthews settles regally onto her ball (you have to keep your back very straight to avoid toppling to the floor). "I understand this is your final day at Forks High."
I'm surprised that Dr. Matthews, of all people, remembered my name, much less the fact that I'm graduating from high school early.
I nod, not sure where she's going with this.
"I just wanted to wish you good luck," she says, "and give you a piece of advice."
My breath is decidedly not baited, but I gamely wait for her final nugget of "wisdom." She looks seriously at me with bleary, magnified eyes.
Wait for it…
"In Forks, there are no spoons."
There it is.
She's informally called "Dr. Crazy" for a reason. I nod politely and wish her a happy holiday. Then I back away slowly, preparing to haul tail.
"Bella," she says, and I stiffen to a stop. "You may have fooled your family, your friends, and Los Tres Amigos at the Forks Medical Center, but your mask can't fool me."
I stare at her, my hand on the doorknob.
"If you ever need to talk, to really talk, I'm here."
Somehow, these simple words delivered by this kooky yet sincere woman tug at something within me. In this moment, I've never wanted to really talk more strongly in my life. I want to have an honest conversation with someone for the first time in months. I want to tell her that I've started lying and I'm afraid that I won't be able to stop. I want to tell her that I'm afraid my daddy will never love me again. I want to tell her that I still believe in Edward.
Despite myself, I smile at her through my mask, the first real smile that I've smiled in nearly 365 days, since last Christmas. Since Charlie. Since Alice.
"Thank you," I say, and I mean it.
And then I flee before my mask comes undone, before I can tell Dr. Matthews any of those things that I want so desperately to tell her. I flee because my mask is all I have left; if I lose it now, I won't recognize the person in the mirror.
School's out, and I have two weeks.
Two weeks until I leave this place.
I'm free to do whatever I want, go wherever I please. The thing about freedom, though, is that it's best enjoyed with someone else. The tree house, a little red garage on the reservation, La Push beach—these places are only places without the people.
Still, I have to do something.
To start, step outside the house. Leave the tank languishing in the driveway because I don't want people to hear me coming. Step onto the dark asphalt road, the one that leads away from people, away from town. Breathe deep the air filtered by a host of trees. Walk until my calves burn.
Think of anything but you-know-who.
The thought of not thinking of him gives me pause, and I stop walking. Even while I'm no longer actively seeking he-who-must-not-be-named, I still feel him. Not to feel him would be not to breathe. He's as omnipresent and essential as oxygen.
Except, of course, when he's not. There are times when I can't feel him watching me. Times when the layer of his presence lifts like a sheet off my face. Times when my skin doesn't prickle faintly and my neck doesn't blush and burn.
Those times are rare, but they do occur.
Like right now.
In these times, I live in a whole new world. I notice all kinds of things that I don't usually. Like how quiet the forest is not and how being alone is both scary and thrilling and how there, directly across from where I'm standing, is a gravel road disappearing into the brush.
I stare. Stare and stare.
Blink, and the road is still there. I have ridden this highway a thousand times, and I have never once seen this gravel path. The woods hold more secrets than we will ever know.
The unknown road beckons because that's what they do. Roads are made to be followed.
Look left.
Look right.
Then cross the main road and step onto its tributary. My adrenaline surges at the thought of adventure. At the thought that I'm truly alone to experience it. But only a few paces in, I discover a clue as to the road's destination—a beautifully appointed mailbox partially obscured by a draping tree limb. I step closer to peer at the elegant script its face…
The mailbox belongs to none other than Dr. and Mrs. Cullen.
I had always heard that they lived out here, out on the edge of town, but I had never known exactly where. I had never known exactly how close.
I hesitate, no longer eager to cross into the territory that the mailbox guards, a lone sentinel. I had merely wanted to see where this path led; I certainly do not want to trespass on someone's private residence. I wonder what that residence looks like. There was lots of talk when they built it, their modern marvel of glass and steel, an anachronism in Forks…
There I stand, my weight evenly distributed between coming and going, when I hear it.
Music.
A faint waft of sound pricks at me like tendrils of wind.
The woods are a-thrum with the sound of music. Low, dark notes draw me, not merely because of their beauty, but because I know this music—it is inexplicably familiar.
Like Dr. Cullen's scent.
Sometimes I hum, and Renee always asks what song.
I've never known.
Now, I do.
I know that the song I hum, the song that is part of my subconscious—it is this song. A song that has been an undercurrent through my childhood, the soundtrack to my dreams.
I follow the music deeper into the woods, away from the road, stepping on the path carefully, like I'm off to see the wizard. The chords swell as I begin to see sun shining off glass. Just a few more paces, and I might be able to make out shapes within the bay window…
I step on a twig.
The piano stops abruptly, notes falling off a cliff.
I stop, too.
The woods around me are eerily silent. Not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse. And I feel…something. It's not Edward, not exactly. But it's like Edward. Stronger than Edward, like staring into the sun when you've only ever seen it reflected in the moon. I take a step forward, intent on the human silhouette I can almost see through the shimmery glass…
Reality slaps me in the face.
So this is what it's come to.
I'm standing here, craning to look into someone's private life because they remind me of Edward. Even if it is Edward, even if he's the one whose fingers have enticed me to this place, this is wrong.
In doing this thing, I'm no better than he.
Ashamed, I turn to flee.
Gravel crunches, and a sleek panther of a car wends through the trunks. I can only watch, frozen, as the vehicle purrs to a stop beside me. A dark window slithers down, and the driver leans over.
"Bella! Very nice to see you." Familiar voice, familiar face, familiar smell.
"Hey, Dr. Cullen," I say, peering into the passenger window with a weak wave, as if it's perfectly normal to be found creeping up the driveway to someone's secluded house.
"I'm just getting home. Is there something you need?"
"No, I was just…" Was just what? Trespassing on your private property? Following elusive, exquisite music? "I was out for a walk and heard someone playing the piano."
The doctor's eyes flick toward the house. "Yes," he says. "That was probably Esme. She's quite the accomplished pianist."
Esme. The lovely, reclusive wife. Dr Cullen just caught me spying on his wife.
"Her playing was lovely." I think I'm going to be sick.
Dr. Cullen appraises me; the engine rumbles. "Won't you come in? Esme would love to meet you."
I shouldn't say yes. They weren't expecting me, he's just getting home, I don't do social engagements, I'm all kinds of sick to my stomach. But there's something in his eyes. There's always something in Dr. Cullen's eyes, like he truly cares about helping people, like he truly cares about me. That honest warmth—it's hard to resist. "Alright. Just for a little while."
We step into the foyer of a whole new world, and my discomfort melts away in lieu of awe. Dr. Cullen is talking, but all I can do is see. Every design piece—from the spare couches to the burnished accents to the lines and planes are designed to capture the eye just so and lead one's gaze to…
A portrait explodes from the otherwise pristine space, drawing my eye like light into a black hole. Dark lines, bold contrasts, I can't not look at it. The piece looks modern, abstract, and ridiculously expensive. Like the music, like the smell, the piece of art dances at the edge of my subconscious.
"I apologize for the mess," Dr. Cullen says, shutting the front door. "We've just redecorated."
Their house looks impeccable.
"Your home is lovely."
The portrait taunts me from my periphery, seeming to writhe.
"Thank you. My wife has quite the eye." He speaks with a glow reserved for her. "Speaking of which, I don't believe you've met my wife, Esme."
A woman in lavender is sitting at a gleaming white piano—white!—on a raised dais in the center of the room. As I follow Dr. Cullen deeper into the living room, thankfully out the portrait's direct gaze, she glides up from the piano bench.
"Hello, Bella," she says, inclining her head with a smile that reminds me of fresh-baked sugar cookies, the quintessential mom smile. Yet something in the way she says my name, with a dash of nostalgia, gives me pause. I don't think this the first time she's said my name.
I hope Dr. Cullen hasn't told her about me, about the night in the woods.
"I really like the song you were playing," I say.
"Why thank you."
"Esme is quite the pianist," Carlisle adds, but his former glow dims. Her sincere smile becomes vague.
I have to ask. "What was the piece?"
Hesitation, the merest of milliseconds. "Chopin's Nocturne in E minor."
For some reason I can't explain, her answer chills me.
"From the movie, The Secret Garden," she adds. "Have you seen it?"
Oh.
"Yes. When I was very young." Perhaps that is why it had seemed so familiar.
"Can I get you something to drink?" Esme asks, angling her body away.
"No, thank you. I don't want to impose..."
"Not at all. I would love an excuse to whip up some hot chocolate. With marshmallows?" She sounds so excited, so wistful. Something hot and chocolate does sound good…
"Alright."
Esme delightfully disappears up the stairs, which apparently lead to the kitchen.
"How are things, Bella?" Carlisle asks, settling us down onto the couches.
"Good. Really good, actually. I've been accepted at Dartmouth." It's the first time I've told someone other than my parents. It feels weird to say the word. Like it's actually a real place. Like I'm actually going there.
"Oh? Your folks must be very proud. Your father is always telling me what a sharp kid you are."
Bet he's not telling people that any more.
We make small talk until Esme descends the stairs, a tray of steaming beverages balanced neatly in her arms. It's small talk, but it doesn't really feel like it. I've spent enough time at his hospital, and he seems to remember my answers to every single question he's ever asked me. And Esme is every bit as open and engaging as he is. Nothing like her reputation.
Before I know it, my mug is empty, and I know that's my cue. I shouldn't take advantage of their hospitality any longer. I tell them that I have to get going or else my parents might worry. They nod, understanding, and we exchange parting pleasantries.
On the porch, I hesitate. Since I'm here, there is one more thing I have to say. I'm leaving soon; I might not get another chance.
"Dr. Cullen?"
"Carlisle," he says firmly.
I nod but don't say it back. Too weird.
"Thanks," I say, "for finding me. That night in the woods." It's thank you and goodbye rolled into one.
His eyes slide slightly to my left, no longer firmly on my face. "You are very welcome. I'm glad that you've recovered from the whole ordeal."
We both know he is talking about more than that night in the woods.
"Goodbye, Bella," Esme says, her hand reaching for my cheek but stopping just short.
They stand on the porch, arms around each other, as I walk away, humming the melody of a secret song.
Two weeks, and I'm off to a new life in New Hampshire.
Renee becomes clingy, as if she'd just gotten used to having her baby girl within arm's reach and doesn't want to let go. She sits cross-legged on the end of my bed and tells me all about her two semesters of college. Her biggest regret is dropping out.
She jokes about moving to New Hampshire.
She doesn't say a word about Phoenix.
Charlie begins to cut back his hours at the station, begins to hover in the kitchen while I'm making dinner. He watches fewer sports and drinks less beer. As a family, we watch movies we haven't seen in years. We play cards. We plan my class schedule, debating the merits of 12 versus 16 hours. They seem proud of me, so genuinely proud of me for the first time in years, that I can't tell them one crucial piece of information.
One itsy bitsy spider of a detail.
See, I'd applied to a lot of colleges in this great country of ours. Big ones, small ones, cheap ones, fancy ones, and all ones in between.
But, um.
I hadn't applied to Dartmouth.