Chapter 14: Someone to Notice

Edward's POV:

There are some things in life that you get a bad feeling about. You never know why, but you just get a bad feeling. Whether it was about how your day was going to be, how you did on a test, whether or not someone likes you, or even if you think some person looks out of the ordinary and you have the feeling that you should cross to the other side of the street instead of walking by them.

This was one of those times.

I didn't like this boy at all. Jacob Black was one boy that I got a bad feeling about. Whether it was the fact that he, of all people, had snagged Bella's heart, or the defensive, crazily-protective look in his eye that claimed her. I couldn't take my eyes away from the boy standing before me. And as I watched as he turned, pulling Bella out the door, she looked back at me with a blank expression.

I knew that something was wrong.

Bella hadn't returned that night. She hadn't returned in the morning, either.

"Not now, Tanya." I muttered to the beautiful strawberry blonde who was crushing her body against my side as we sat at our table in the cafeteria. "I want to hear about the game." She sighed and backed off a bit, putting her elbow on the table and laying her chin on her hand, looking around irritated.

But I really wasn't paying attention to what Derek was telling me about the football game. He could have told me that Owens sprouted wings and a horn and flew across the field, effectively scoring the best touchdown of his life, and I would have nodded and agreed with him, saying "Yea, that was the best part."

If I was being honest with myself, I was looking for Bella.

I was rather irritated with the idea that she had spent the night at his place, probably all snuggled up in his bed with him, kissing each other, having sex...

I sat up straight in my seat, my frustration flaring. And as I quickly raked over the cafeteria, I found that she wasn't there, either. I was only concerned because of that Jacob guy. He was a creep. But why was I concerned for Bella, if I hated her?

I would be concerned for anyone who was with that guy. It wasn't just Bella…right? I looked around the cafeteria again. People were talking animatedly with each other, completely unaware that a murder may have taken place. Completely unaware of the fact that the girl was missing. But why should they notice? I hadn't even noticed that she existed until two days ago. If she was hurt or killed, no one would ever notice.

She had no one to notice.

Bella didn't show up to lunch. She didn't show up to sixth period either.

There was no trace of Bella Swan throughout the entire town.

I left school early. I had finished my Spanish test quickly and handed it to the teacher, and she let me go. These teachers always gave me what I wanted. I could have done a lot of things with my free time—called some girls, get a lil' party together, go to a club in Port Angeles. The list goes on and on with the possibilities of girls. But instead, I surprised myself by driving around town with only one girl on my mind.

I drove by the grocery store, the theatre, the gas station, the park, the forest, I drove by shops—there was no sign of the beautiful girl that was missing. I didn't know if I was making a big deal out of nothing, or if something serious had gone down. For all I knew she could be in a ditch in another city by now. Or she could either be at his house...in his bed...

I pulled into the driveway of the house. School still wasn't out yet, so I was the first person home. Carlisle was at work, but when I walked in the house, the warm smell of sweet cookies hit me as I found Esme busying herself in the kitchen. She really was a great mother. I never gave her enough credit.

The house was pretty quiet. The only noise I could hear were Esme's occasional footsteps and the light bangs of metal pans. I knew she wouldn't be here, but I couldn't kill that tiny speck of hope.

Hope? Hope for what?

Hope that she wasn't in his bed. Sighing, I walked up the stairs, my hand dragging along the shiny, smooth polished wood of the railing. What was I supposed to do? She wasn't business. She wasn't my problem. She was someone else's. What the hell was I doing prying into her business...her safety?

Just the other day we were engaged in a fight, her strangling me from behind as I took out Jasper. I had no right to comment on her safety. Besides, it's not like Jacob is going to hurt her. Right?

As I walked down the hallway of the third floor, I past by her room. I found my footsteps hesitating as I passed, until I they came to a stop. I looked at her closed door. It was quiet. She couldn't possibly be behind that thin piece of wood, could she? My hand reached out slowly, and knocked on the door. It was silent. What if she was with him? What if she was passed out somewhere? What if she was dead? What if she was murdered?

"Come in."

I blinked in surprise. Her voice was quiet and raspy, maybe even a little depressing. Slowly, I turned the door handle and walked inside the room, closing the door behind me. There were a few things different about the room. In the corner of the room, off to the side, sat a guitar on a stand. Although, I couldn't see the guitar. It had a white sheet over it, as if it hadn't been played for years. There was also books laying around the room, and a few sketch pads.

Bella wasn't looking at me.

She was laying on the bed with her arms crossed over her chest, staring out the glass wall window. She wore a sweatshirt and sweatpants, and she looked kinda cute with the big hood down as her deep brown disheveled locks spilled out of the neckline. She didn't say anything to me, and her face was turned away. But from what I could see of part of that face, she looked exhausted. I just stood in the doorway awkwardly, taking in the fact that she was, indeed, alright, and not at his house. I looked around the room for a conversation starter. I could, perhaps, ask about the guitar. The poor thing was covered and was of no use if it wasn't being played. But fait picked it out for me as I looked at my feet, and picked up the book laying on the ground.

"Romeo & Juliet?" I stated, smirking.

"Do you have a problem with that book?" she not really asked, but stated slowly with an empty, dead, uncaring voice. I cringed. It was a stark contrast in comparison to her usually defensive, determined, passionate remarks.

"Just the fact that he'll risk his life over a girl." I said, disgusted over the notion. No girl is worth that.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she snapped, breaking through her mask of blankness. But she still didn't look at me.

"Well, honestly, there are tons of girls in the world. He can just go find a new one. But no, he has to go and off himself." I commented. I opened my mouth to add more, but then a thought popped to the forefront of my mind, and I changed my sentence. "You don't really believe things like that happen, do you?"

She was quiet for a long time. I was starting to wonder if she heard my question. Finally, she answered, "No man in the world would be caring enough to save the girl they love." She whispered. My body tensed. She was taking my opinion and turning it on me. But the conversation seemed to spike familiarity. Not long ago I was contemplating the fact that she had no one to ever save her. It looks like I may just be right.

"It sounds like we're speaking more on the terms of damsel in distress." I commented, leaning against the wall and crossing my arms. She still wasn't looking at me. I wondered idle what was so interesting out the window.

"What if the damsel was risking her life to save the Prince's? Would he rescue her then?" she shot back. I mulled this over for a moment...I didn't have an answer. Besides, it wasn't my question to answer.

"How was the party?" I asked her. Her face scrunched up in a grimace and then disappeared, so quickly that I might have imagined it.

"Um, it was...um, good." She answered, scrunching her eyebrows together.

"Why didn't you return?" I asked lightly, throwing the lasso onto an invisible target. I straightened up from my leaning position against the wall and walked towards her.

"Hangover." She answered. "Stayed at Jake's place." She said so quietly and with such intensity.

"I was..." I said, struggling for the right words as I sat on the edge of the bed. "...concerned."

"Why?" she asked. I could only see the left side of her face.

"I don't like that guy."

"WHAT, SO YOU DON'T LIKE THE ONLY PERSON WHO CARES ABOUT ME?" she exploded, turning her face to look at me, and for the first time I saw the right side of her face. My eyes widened, and I was left speechless. She stared at me with pure fire burning in her eyes and her chest rising and falling with heavy, angry breath. She was now sitting cross legged on the bed in front of me. But I couldn't stop coming back to what had happened to her face.

A long, jagged line of blood ran from the corner of her forehead, down along her temple, and stopping at the beginning of her jaw line. It wasn't dry blood. The wound was large, deep, and blood ran down the side of her face like tears. It wasn't a wound that would heal on its own.

"Bella...your face, it's bleeding!" I said, standing up. Realization crossed her face before she looked away, hiding it.

"It's nothing. I was drunk this morning and walking through the forest to my car and tripped and fell on a rock." She said robotically.

"Come on, we need to take you to the emergency." I said, reaching for her arm, but she cringed away. My arm fell back to my side like I'd been shocked.

"No. No emergency rooms." She said quickly, panicky. I sighed. This girl was so stubborn, it was unbelievable.

"Fine. Carlisle will be home in a couple of minutes. He'll stitch it up." I said.

"It's just a scratch. It will be fine." She said, and muttered something under her breath that I couldn't quite catch. Blood was practically pouring down her face, and she says it's just a scratch?

"You're kidding, right?" I said, on the edge of rage. She was so stubborn! "That thing might have to have surgery!" I screamed, "Why are you so stubborn?" I exploded.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, covering the back of her head with her hands. "Please don't scream, I'm sorry. Please," She begged brokenly. I backed away, feeling bad. I didn't mean to scream at her, but she needs help. I sighed, running out to the hallway and grabbing a towel from the bathroom. I ran back in and walked over to her. I reached out to put the towel against her head, but her she cringed away, and covered her head with her hands. Like I was about to hit her.

I took a step back. Did she really think I would do that? I was speechless. I was sort of hurt.

"Here." I said angrily, throwing the towel down next to her. "Put that to your head."

I walked towards the door, and with one last glance back, I walked out. Must be the hangover of a lifetime.

Emmett's POV:

Shouts and grunts echoed through the air as we collided head-on. Helmets collided with each other with an audible clang! and hot, sweaty muscle crashed against my own. I stretched, reached, trying to escape his grasp as I ran backwards to throw the ball to the receiver—and he tackled me to the ground.

The high-pitched ring of the whistle made us all stop and stretch. Carter got off of me, and I, sore, picked myself up. I sighed, knowing what was coming next. This was how practice was lately.

"McCarty! Get over here!" Coach yelled from the sidelines. I put my hands on my hips, threw my head back and scrunched my eyes closed, letting out a breath. My practice jersey stuck to my sweaty chest and my pants where muddy. I grabbed my helmet off the ground and jogged over to where Coach was standing.

"Yea, Coach?"

"That's the third time this week," he spoke in a calm voice as he watched the other players on the field. The thing about Coach was that he didn't yell. He didn't scream. He didn't snap at you. But when he was mad he got calmer, quieter. It was worse. He wasn't looking at me. I searched for something to say, when finally, he turned to me. "What's up with you?"

"Sorry, Coach—I just, I don't know. I'll try harder."

"Trying isn't what's going to help." He stated sternly, and then looked back out at the other players. "You're on leave of the team for a couple weeks."

"What?" I asked, not entirely sure I heard him right.

"It's just until you get whatever it is that's bothering you straightened out—"

"You're kicking me off the team?"

"Temporary leave—"

"Who's replacing me?"

He didn't reply, but continued to stare out at where the players were practicing, while he flexed his jaw.

"Kramer." He muttered reluctantly.

"KRAMER?" I exploded. "He can barely throw a good toss to anyone! How can he replace me as quarterback!" everyone knew my hate for Kramer. He was the back-up quarterback, although he was never played. To put it lightly, he was a fruit cake. He was always disobeying Coach's orders, always changing the plays at the last second during the game. And he always ended up screwing up.

"He'll do a lot better than what you've been doing." Coach snapped. "Now get out of here, McCarty. Come talk to me in a couple of weeks."

I was shocked. It was like Coach had slapped me in the face, called me useless, and replaced me with Kramer all in one day. I turned around and walked off of the field angrily.

What the hell am I gonna tell Pops?

I thought as I threw the locker room door out of my way and headed down the rows of lockers. As I showered and dressed, I knew I had to try harder. I had to use more. I needed to get back on the team. And there's only one way to do it.