Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.
Prereaders: _ss77_, LuvinJ Betas: Perrymaxed, Mac214
Playlist: Who Knows by Avril Lavigne
Chapter 2: The Day I Stalk Masen
I have a lot of friends in English class, which is nice. I end up sitting next to Masen—Edward Masen. Who knew? He looks like an Edward but seems to prefer Masen, so that's what I call him. He visibly cringes when any teacher or student calls him by his first name. I wonder why.
We don't have any other classes together, but seeing him in English every day is enough to keep my mind buzzing. He's so interesting—from the way he scribbles in his notebook constantly to the way he flips his board around while floating through the air at The Wedge. But the thing that fascinates me most is his silence. Curiosity burns inside me, but I don't pry—not for his sake. I've seen him pull away from those who ask him too many questions. I don't want that, so I stay fairly quiet too.
I want to ask Angela more about him but don't want to give myself away. It's not like I have a crush; I just find him intriguing. He's an enigma. I like that.
I sit with Angela at The Wedge, watching the boys skate. There's a rumor that a skating exhibit will be coming to town. It's only September, but I've heard this four times since I arrived. It's never actually happened.
Nonetheless, if it did all of the local skaters would crash the set up in the middle of the night, trying to prove themselves kings of the local skate scene. The possibility of a turf war makes the boys skate with more gusto—more balls, if you will—and they're really banging themselves up to get into shape. It makes no sense. Well, it does, but come on.
Masen, though one of the better skaters, is even getting a bit roughed up. I gasp in horror as he attempts an aerial and skids on his left arm when he hits concrete.
Angela grips my knee. "He's tough. He takes a skate beating just fine. It's Embry you have to worry about. He's such a big baby, always asking me to kiss his boo boos better. Not that I mind or whatever." She kisses the air, punctuating her words, and I giggle at her silliness. My mind wanders, imagining what it would be like kissing Masen's scraped up arms. Not a bad image at all.
Masen has already mastered the aerial by the time Angela finishes her diatribe about Embry. His smile is satisfied beneath the shock of reddish hair. He should do this for a living. Skating, I mean. He's a quick study and has the tenacity to keep going even when he fails. I admire that. I wish I was more determined and passionate about something—anything.
The boys finish up, and Masen walks me to our corner, a habit that's developed. He still doesn't say much, but I don't mind. His familiarity has made me less nervous, but when I remember how attractive he is, it crops back up and makes me fidget. Today is one of those days, and it doesn't help that I was imagining kissing his forearms earlier.
I stumble on a pebble on the sidewalk, and he grips my bicep to steady me.
"Thanks," I say, looking anywhere but his eyes.
"Mmm hmm."
"How'd you know all about that Frost poem today? You're always drawing in English; I didn't think you were paying attention."
"Read it."
"Yeah, but you knew every nuance of what he was trying to say."
"It's all subjective."
"Did you study it before?"
"Some."
We pass a house with a barking dog, and I jump, shooting my hand out to Masen's, which I pull back immediately. He smiles, and then explains a bit more . . . probably out of pity.
"I like poems. They're . . . freeing." He shrugs.
"I can see that."
We reach our curb, and I don't want to say goodbye. I have to make dinner, and my father's going to ask me all sorts of dumb questions I don't want to answer. It's like he's trying to make up for all the years when I lived with Mom. His questions are exhausting. I'm just not used to it; Mom never hounded me like Dad. In fact, she never asked me anything. She talked so much about herself I could barely get a word in edgewise. Maybe that's why Masen's quiet nature doesn't bother me—it's refreshing, apart from the late nights I spend wondering about him.
He pops his board up and twirls it once, garnering my attention. I crouch and take in the artwork on the underside of the board. I know it's his because of the sketches I've seen. He doesn't use any color—just a black, thick marker.
The board's covered in creatures—androgynous, creepy pixie-like things, a crying unicorn that's been de-horned, and one voluptuous faerie. Swirls and descriptive words surround her curves—aire, heavenly, innocent, ravenous, raging, beautiful liar. There's something sad about it I can't put my finger on; I feel the same way about Masen. He has this intangible sorrow, and I find myself constantly leaning toward him to comfort him. But then I worry I'll inadvertently hold his hand or stroke his hair. I don't, though. He wouldn't like that. He seems to like his space, so I give it to him.
"These are really good," I offer before standing.
He shakes his head, his hair swinging out of his eyes, and looks down at his board. "They're just doodles." He's so modest.
"No, it's art. I like it. I think it says a lot about you."
"Like what?"
"Mmm, you're sort of a tortured artist, but you still have some hope and a love of all things voluptuous."
He grins and points to his chest announcing, "Boy." His expression is flirtatious, and it surprises me, a giggle escaping me before I can hold it back. I'm a dork. I don't care. Masen is cute and just admitted he likes boobs. That calls for laughter.
His eyes crinkle, like he finds me amusing. Well, good, he amuses me too.
I kind of want to ask him to dinner, but I don't know how Dad will take it. Plus, the thought of Dad harassing Masen with questions is painful. Then again, maybe my dad can get something out of him that I can't. It's an interesting idea, but one I'm not ready for.
Masen says a quiet goodbye, and we part.
At night before I fall asleep I think about the first few weeks of school and realize all of my favorite bits involve Masen. I'm fairly certain I was wrong earlier—I do have a crush on Masen.
I try to keep my nerves in check the next day, not giving away my newly acknowledged infatuation. I'd never act on it. I can't believe Masen would be interested. He's too something to have a girlfriend. I suppose I could just obsess over him like every other girl. Sounds good to me.
My stalker-like behavior begins bright and early in the school parking lot where I creepily follow Masen's every move as he skates. I sit in the cab of my truck eating a protein bar, pretending to know him better than I do. He probably has a room covered in his artwork, plays with his dog before going to school, and thinks about important things like politics and world hunger.
I throw my wrapper on the floor mat and decide I need a better view. Sitting in the back of my truck provides that, so I hop into the bed and pull out a notebook in order to look as though I'm studying. I'm not—not even close. Masen skates around, and I watch without being bothered for all of ten minutes before Angela interrupts me.
"Hey, girl," she says, taking a seat beside me.
"Hey."
"You get your response to the reading done last night?"
"Yeah, you?" Where is she going with this? Can't she just leave? I was fine watching Masen before she came. I like her, but I'd rather be ogling him. I knew I should've just stayed a wallflower. Then again, without Angela I wouldn't have met him.
"Not even close. Embry came over." She rummages through her backpack and offers me gum before popping a piece into her mouth. "That boy is like a walking testicle."
I stare blankly at her before she starts laughing. "You should see your face. TMI?"
"No, it's, uh, it's fine. I just . . . don't expect me to reciprocate, okay?"
"Okay. Anyway, he wanted to come over, and I had homework, but he was done with his, and he wanted to see me, and the next thing I knew he was sneaking into my window." She throws her bag behind her and lays her head on it, her arms folding on her chest.
"Angela?"
"What?"
"I don't mean to be rude, but do you have a point?"
"No, just, ya know, 'What'd you do last night?' talk. Why?"
"I didn't know if you were complaining or what? I'm not sure how to respond to that."
"Oh, respond however. It's just sex. It's like talking belts and deodorant to me. I'm not a slut, though. Only Embry. Whatever. No biggie."
"Okay."
She stays where she is, and I go back to pretending to study, though I lose my patience and start watching Masen again when he passes in front of my truck.
"He hasn't had a girlfriend since sophomore year."
"Who?" I ask, playing dumb.
"Masen. He only dated Samantha for about four months. She really liked him, but I don't think she knew what to do with him. He doesn't say much as you've probably already noticed since he walks you home every—"
"To our curb," I say, interrupting.
"You have a curb?"
"I just mean he doesn't walk me home. We just walk together to a curb and then part."
"Anyway." She clicks her toes together rhythmically, the sound of her Docs bugging me. "She kept talking to all of the guys. 'What does he say about me? Does he like Sophia? Does he like my shirt?' It drove everyone nuts."
"That would bug me too. I hate clingy people, and why's she so nosy? Masen likes his privacy."
"I know."
"Does she still go here?"
"Her dad got a job in Philadelphia the summer they broke up, and she moved. I really liked her; she had awesome tee shirts. She wasn't right for Masen, though. He needs someone . . ."
"Different. Someone who just gets him."
"Exactly. I think she's out there. I think there's someone for everyone, you know."
"Maybe." I peek up from my notebook, and Masen's looking at me. He drops his head soon after our eyes meet, and he kicks off again, skating side by side with Alec.
"I like your purple boots. Are they new?"
"Pshh, I've had these since the seventh grade . . ."
Angela rambles about her shoes, and I nod occasionally, but my attention is fixed on Masen. He moves so fast I don't register everything he's doing with his feet. I imagine for a minute what it would be like to be his girlfriend. Would I be like Samantha, constantly worried about what he's not saying? I hope not. I push the thought aside and focus on his movements.
His board runs the length of a curb, and he dives off the end, never losing balance. His lightness of foot and manipulation of his board make me wonder what he'd be like in bed—soft but still in control. That's my hope anyway. Not that it matters, but it's still fun to imagine. I do a lot of imagining throughout the day—about being his girlfriend and about being with him intimately.
I observe him from afar in the science wing and smile when a new expression plants itself on his face. Embry can get a reaction by saying something shocking, although the response rarely involves Masen speaking. I'd like to see him being playful someday.
By the time we're in English, I'm blatantly staring, no longer caring that he may find me out. It's not like he'd say anything about it. He might acknowledge it with some gesture, but I could handle that. It wouldn't be too mortifying.
My eyes rove over his face. His nose is slightly freckled, and his neck is long and lick-able. I follow the seam of his shirt sleeve and smile when it gives way to a firm bicep that I love to see flexed amid skating tricks. I wonder what it would feel like to have his arm draped over me.
Using both hands, he tucks his shaggy hair behind his ears, breaking my concentration. That's when I notice something odd—the top of his right forearm is bruised and scabbed over.
He took quite a few tumbles the day before, but if I were asked where he was injured I would have guessed the underside of his left forearm. It's quite curious because I'm generally very observant, but I guess I was wrong. Maybe he hurt both of his arms. Either way I'd happily kiss his injuries better. I'd happily kiss anything better. I don't think I'll ever get a chance, though, since he doesn't talk to anyone, let alone me.
A/N: Masen Days will update Mondays. Leave a review and get a glimpse into Masen's mind through his notebook entry: The Day She Watches Me.
Masen Days Extras are available on my blog: purelyamuse dot blogspot dot com. Teasers, visuals, and peeks into Masen's notebook will be posted weekly (Wednesdays) as a follow-up or sneak peek of a chapter. You can sign up for email updates or follow the blog. Enjoy!
My prereaders and Betas rock, and they are never mean to me, though sometimes I deserve a kick in the butt. _ss77_ cheers when I send her nonsensical poetry about little red shirts and stolen sandwiches. Her pom poms are awesome. Perry keeps me on track, letting me know when my characters are being stupid, and Mac shows her displeasure of all things cliché and bribes me to makes changes. I do so out of love and because I desperately seek her approval. Don't tell her that! But she did say, get this, "Your work is easy to edit. It's not even in the bottom half of hard edit jobs." Can you believe it? Not even in the bottom half! I love her!
I would be stupid not to thank Twitter peeps who are pimping me out. Jadapattinson, in particular, sent some traffic my way. Thank you! And thank you all for reviewing, alerting, favoriting, and following me on Twitter. I'm having so much fun in Team Edward Land.