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: You and Me by Plain White Tees

Chapter 3: The Day Masen Borrows a Pencil

It's mid-October, and I'm working on a Macbeth test. Masen hasn't been in school for a few days. There's been a nasty cold going around, though it makes zero sense since it's still a bajillion degrees of sweaty hot outside. Whatever. I just hope he's okay. I've finished all the multiple guess questions and move on to the essay portion when he sits down next to me. He's disheveled, his hair wild. I think he might have a black eye, but I can't be sure. He sets his test down on the table we share and stares blankly.

I wonder what he's doing when I realize he has nothing on him—no ratty backpack, no pencil behind his ear, nothing. I tap my lips, studying him, and do the only thing I can think of: I pull the pencil from my nearly always present bun and place it atop his test booklet. He picks it up and balances it between two index fingers as though weighing it.

He swivels his head in my direction, his eyes catching mine for a second, and my suspicions are confirmed: he does have a black eye. His lips part slightly, as though he's going to speak. I wait patiently, though I'm dying to know what he'll say. In the end, he doesn't say anything—only mouths, "Thank you, Bella," and it's the most sincere thing anyone's ever not said to me.

I sit next to Angela at lunch, who's chatting away about feminine hygiene. She switches the topic to Lipsmakers' flavors when Embry sits beside her. He gives her a hello kiss. They're sweet, but all the PDA makes the loneliness ache in my chest.

Embry argues that strawberry is much better than piña colada. I'm about to mention the fact that lips shouldn't have a flavor when Masen walks in, his shoulders slumped, hands shoved into pockets.

I say my goodbyes and saunter over to him. He doesn't look like he's in the mood to debate lip flavors. I wonder what his lips taste like. I just want to help him in any way I can. Like kissing. Kissing could help.

I jerk my head toward a small table near the window. He sits and folds his arms, resting his head there. I take a bite of my pizza but quickly lose my appetite because he seems so lost, so alone.

"You gonna eat?"

He shakes his head.

"I'm not hungry. I have peet-zah . . ."

He lifts his head, propping his chin on his arms. He grins, and it's the happiest I've seen him all day.

"Really not hungry?" he asks, and I shake my head, pushing my tray toward him, nudging his arms in an annoying way until he sits up.

He folds the pizza in half and opens his mouth, placing as much of it there as possible before speaking around the crust. "Last chance."

I pop his hand with my fist to choke him. He laughs, then bites down, chewing enthusiastically. He must have been starving with the way he's eating. He finishes quickly and then eyes my apple.

"You're gonna have to beg or answer a question for it."

"I don't beg for anyone." There's an edge to his voice I've never heard before.

"Question, then?"

His expression is that of a frightened dog.

I slide my chair around the table and lift my hand slowly, trailing my thumb under his eye. "This is hot. Escape from prison?"

"Yep. *Tent City." He smiles, picks up the apple, and takes a massive bite.

"Nah, too boring. Maybe you got away from the big, tatted dude who wanted to make you his bitch. He got in a swing first though, huh?" I nod in mock seriousness like an old reporter trying to convince my audience that what I'm saying is interesting.

Masen shakes his head with a mouth full of apple. "Answered a question. You'll never know now."

I push my tray into his lap, snatching my apple from his hand and take a large bite before throwing it back.

-MD-

After school, I'm sitting in the bed of my truck reading. I don't want to go home because my dad's not at work yet. He's probably worried about my whereabouts, but I need some space. He's ever-present and hovers, which bugs, so I avoid him. Sometimes I just want to do what I want to do. Mom let me alone. I'm a responsible girl. Mostly. Wish my dad would trust me. He won't, but I suppose that's what happens when you become an active father overnight. I try to be patient with him but find I fail often and get snippy.

The parking lot's dead. When the gravel stirs, I lift my head, making sure the scary, rapist-looking janitor isn't coming my way. He isn't; Masen is. Maybe he could assault my lips. That'd be nice.

He looks kind of pissed. He's hot when he's mad—or shows any emotion, really. He's normally so mellow. Don't get me wrong—mellow Masen is fine, but an emotional Masen is fascinating and a bit sexy in a mysterious way.

He skates to my truck and jumps in the bed. His features soften when he lies at my side.

"Rough day?"

"Apple?" he asks, holding out his hand.

"You ate it." I turn toward him, my arm brushing his in the process. He purses his lips, and I want to lick them. I also want to ask what the hell is going on, but I don't. I wait for him to make a move, for him to say something, anything, but he won't. He never does. I've known him for awhile now, and I feel lucky if I get more than five words out of him. I wait for those choppy sentences with bated breath. It's quite pathetic actually.

"Stomach?"

"Bladder," I reply, thinking we're playing a game. Why not? Maybe I'll get to say nipple and see how he responds.

He props himself up and drops his head, laughing quietly. "You're weird."

"You're in my truck. Uninvited."

"Too bad," he says, maneuvering himself so that we're perpendicular. He rests his head on my stomach and props his feet on the edge of the truck.

"Ah. Stomach."

"Stomach," he repeats and closes his eyes.

I read with one hand and play with his hair with the other. It's soft, the waves springy. I tug at it playfully, and the corners of his lips pull up when I do. He's absolutely stunning when happy. I wonder if he's like this with anyone else. Come to think of it, I don't ever really see him interact with other people. Not really. The guys don't talk much.

I smile at the thought and allow myself to feel special while I get to play with Masen's hair. After an hour he gets up and motions for me to do the same. I do, and he reaches around, twisting my hair and shoving my pencil through it. The sloppy bun comes undone immediately, and he shrugs, adding, "Looks better down anyway."

He teeters his skateboard on the edge of the truck bed, grips its nose, and plummets to the asphalt below, leaving me behind.

A/N: *Tent City is a jail in AZ where prisoners live outside in old military tents. It is hella-hot there, making the jail questionable.

Masen Days will update Mondays. Leave a review and get a glimpse into Masen's mind through his notebook entry: The Day I Start to Give In.

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!

Prereaders make me giggle. Perrymaxed forced me to think about an outtake, and Anglea was rambling in my head for an entire day. Thanks for that. Mac214 continues to eat delicious foods and tweet about it, making me jealous. It's okay, though, 'cause she knows where my commas belong.

Twitter continues to surprise me with its copious amounts of pimps. KellyProvence, my newest pimp, sent some readers my way this week. And Whispered_Rob posted a little sumpin' sumpin' about Masen Days on The Fictionators. Thank you! And thank you all for reviewing, alerting, favoriting, and following me on Twitter.