Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.

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Playlist: Welcome to My Life by Simple Plan

Chapter 5: The Day Masen Talks to Me

It's my birthday on Sunday. I'm turning eighteen. It makes me feel so old and grown up, though I know I'm not. My dad reminds me of that everyday with his constant checking up. Dad wanted me to have a party, trying to guilt me into it by reminding me of how many he missed. No, thanks. I agreed to a birthday dinner—just me and him. This means he'll order pizza and get me a fancy IBC root beer to drink alongside his beer beer. It'll be fine. I don't want a fuss.

But some people don't care about what I want. Angela showed up at my house yesterday to give me a present—feather extensions for my hair. She made me promise we'd put them on together. It doesn't sound too terrible. Truth be told, the only person I really want to spend my birthday with is Masen, but that's not going to happen.

I'm sitting on the linoleum, my back against the wall in E Hall. Masen sits next to me, quiet as ever. I rifle through my bag, pulling out my protein bars and a pen so I can doodle while I sit. I open my notebook and put pen to paper when Masen sets a pen down in front of me. It's sparkly and silver, and I love it.

"What's this?" I ask, a smile taking over my face.

"Heard you had a birthday coming up. Thought you could . . ." He looks up at my bun.

I pull the pencil from my hair immediately and rearrange it, setting the new pen in the pencil's place.

"I love it. Thank you."

"Happy birthday," he says, shrugging. His eyes look light today. I'm hopeful he'll have a good day. I try to make sure the time he has with me is positive anyway.

Angela and Embry join us on the floor as I hand Masen my extra Clif Bar. It's become a thing with us. There are lots of things between us, really. He took a bite one day and seemed to like it, so I've been bringing an extra ever since. He always devours it greedily, holding it with both hands and taking rather large bites. I wonder what he's eating at home.

His expression is thoughtful as he chows down. I wonder what he's thinking, but then my head is always focused on that. For a change, I voice one of my own questions: "Why don't you talk to anybody?"

"I'm talking to you."

"Yes, but—"

"Hey, Masen, let's go," Tyler interrupts. I'm not a huge fan of his; he always steals Masen to skate.

Masen stands and pops his board up into his hand. He leans over to pick up his ratty bag and says in a quiet voice, "And you're not just anybody."

-MD-

After school Angela and I are in the quad chatting. We have a research paper due before winter break. We've made plans to meet at the library to work on it when Masen and Embry join us.

"You wanna come tonight?"

"Doesn't every guy?" Embry asks, slinging his arm around Angela. She pushes him and rolls her eyes.

"We're gonna be at the library at six-thirty to work on Robinson's paper. Come if you want."

Masen shrugs and looks over at me.

"I'll bring snacks," I say and smile. He smiles in return. Angela gives me a knowing grin, only she doesn't know anything because nothing is going on between Masen and me. Nothing whatsoever, not that I don't want it to. Go on, that is.

When I get home Dad gets his things together for work while giving me the third degree.

"So, when will you be back?"

"Um, about eight-ish? I dunno. We talked about getting a bite to eat after."

"With Angela?"

"Yeah."

"Not . . ." Dad says, wiggling his thumb toward the door where Masen's skateboard once resided.

"Well, maybe."

"Eight."

"Eight what?"

"You'll be home by eight on the dot, and you'll call me when you get home too." He laces up his boots while I try desperately not to say something rude, changing my curfew to five.

I turn and head up the stairs.

"What was that? Yes, Dad. That sounds like a great idea, Dad. Thanks for letting me go out at all, Dad. Why sure, Dear, that's what good fathers do: they create boundaries and expectations, and they love their little girls no matter how bratty their mothers made them."

I shout, "Yes, Dad," back down the stairs before entering my room. I can hear him laughing, low and throaty.

"I'll be home late." His keys jingle, the door creaks open, then a quiet, "Love you, Bells," and he's gone.

-MD-

I've been at the library for an hour watching Angela and Embry make kissy faces across the table, when Masen's checkered Vans come into view. My eyes follow up his loose jeans, spying the chain hanging from the back pocket. My shoulders relax now that he's here. I hadn't realized how tense they were until he arrived.

He drops his bag on the large wooden table and straddles a chair. It's like he wants as much distance from anyone as he can get. I wish he didn't want distance from me. I'd like to be closer to him in many ways.

We all work quietly on our papers. Angela and Embry take a break and return suspiciously happy. Embry's fauxhawk has been maimed. I shoot a look at Masen, and he quirks an eyebrow in response.

"We're done researching, so . . . bye." Angela leaves with Embry in a rush. I can't hold back my laughter, and Masen joins me. We get hysterical, tears streaming down my face as the librarian gives us a reproachful glare.

"She needs to get laid," he says.

"Maybe Embry can take a quick cat nap after Angela. He can do them both." We lose it again, laughing and holding our sides to keep ourselves together. It's the cutest thing watching Masen sigh through his giggles. He's adorable. He shifts in his seat and leans back, searching my eyes. "What is it about you?"

"What is what about me?"

He says nothing, and I tap my pencil impatiently. I've never been a patient person, but he seems to need it. Unconditional patience or secrecy or something. So, for Masen, I manage. There's something about him too.

"My parents are drunks; Dad's worse than Mom," he announces.

"My dad's an overprotective freak, and my mom acts like a selfish teenager."

"I can't wait to get the hell out of here."

"Me too."

For some reason, we both know it's time to leave, though that's not what we were talking about at all. Clearly, we both have ambitions to leave Snobstale. We have to. We'll both be repressed here and die a painful death while living in an HOA, with two point five kids and a dog named Rexy. It would be most tragic.

We gather our things and walk closer than normal. It's nice being beside him, comfortable.

His board makes contact with the concrete immediately after exiting the library. My shoulders slump in defeat, sure he's going to jet off like he always does, but he doesn't. He holds out his hand to me instead.

"Don't skate," I say, tucking my hands in the pockets of my jeans, though I desperately want to hold his hand.

"Don't care."

I bite my lip and look at the road, scared to try, but something tells me I can trust Masen. Apparently I wait too long because he changes tactics, giving me sad puppy dog eyes and pouty lips. I stifle a laugh, which is difficult because this carefree side of his is making me giddy.

I want to give in, but also want to see what else he'll try. When I don't budge, he takes another approach. "I told you my parents are drunks. What else do you want from me?"

"Knee pads."

"I'll keep you safe."

"Promise?"

"Just hold on to me."

"Fine, but just so ya know," I grab his hand—glad that I didn't squeal like a little girl at the contact—put one foot on his skateboard, then the other, "I'm only doing this because you were mean, a sad puppy dog, and then used guilt to coerce me."

He leans in, his hot breath on my neck in the cool December air. "Don't care. You didn't bring any snacks." He places his free hand on my lower back, giving me a gentle shove, and we're off together.

A/N: 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 girls are the bomb, yo. When they're not inserting all of the missing commas and deleting the excessive use of the word 'that', they're busy quoting Flight of the Conchords on Twitter. I heart them hard.

I come from writing wolf-pack, and while I felt very accepted there I've never had quite a response like this. I feel so honored that all of you are enjoying the story, craving it, and telling me so. Thank you, thank you, thank you.