Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.
Prereaders: _ss77_, LuvinJ, Dinx Betas: Perrymaxed, Mac214
Playlist: Crash Into Me by Dave Matthews, The Little Things by Colbie Caillat
Chapter 7: The Day Masen Writes Vans Poetry
It's mid-morning, and I'm exhausted. I haven't been sleeping well lately. I'm folding laundry on my couch when there's a knock on the door. I'm not wearing a bra, so I pull my hoodie on quickly before answering. I'm so glad I did because Masen stands on my doorstep. It's been a few days since I've seen him. I've been a complete mess since our last encounter: quietly crying at night and hoping he's okay.
"Hey," I say, tipping my head and playing with the doorknob.
"Going to The Wedge . . . thought you might . . ." He throws a thumb over his shoulder, an unspoken invitation to join him.
"Um, I—I need to do laundry, and I haven't showered or eaten or anything."
Masen nods, bows his head, and turns it to the side, eyeing my dad's big ugly chair that sits on the porch.
"Do you wanna, um, come in? I'll make some breakfast, and we can, um, hang?" I really want him to stay, but I don't know if he will.
He drops his board and toes it, thinking it over.
"My dad doesn't get home until lunchtime today," I add, hoping that will convince him.
He looks up with a sad smile on his face. I open the door wide and throw my hand out in a sweeping motion. "You know you want to," I sing-song.
He chuckles, places his board just outside the door like the first time he was here, and enters.
"I'll be right back, and mi casa es su casa." I bolt up the stairs and rush through my routine, sans shower. Masen has either abandoned me or is absolutely silent; I haven't heard a single peep since being up here. Realizing ten minutes has passed, I back downstairs trying to keep my cool, hoping he hasn't left.
I enter the kitchen to the sight of Masen flipping a pancake. My smile is so wide. I'm not sure there's anything better than Masen in my kitchen making pancakes.
I stand behind him, get on tiptoe, and peer over his shoulder to see what he's doing. He swivels his head to the side and laughs through his nose at my goofy expression. "You didn't have to make anything," I say, taking a step to the side so I'm out of the way.
"You didn't have to change," he answers.
"Um, yeah, I did, and I had to brush my teeth."
He leans forward, sniffs, and wrinkles his nose in my face. I swat at him, but he jumps back, brandishing his pancake flipper like a sword.
"You're a dorky pancake pirate."
"So?" he says and, with a shrug, returns to his breakfast duties.
I set the table, and within minutes we sit down to pancakes a la Masen, which incidentally come with peanut butter. I've never tried it that way before, but it's delicious.
After our quick, and mostly silent, breakfast, we clean the kitchen together. I could really get used to this. I love having him around.
Masen dries the last dish and shelves it. I pat my belly and thank him for the breakfast. "You're welcome, but you fed me too," he says as he drapes the towel back over the oven door.
My eyes rove over his face, assessing his injuries from just a few days prior. The swelling has gone down, but the scabs are dark and raw looking. I edge closer to him, staying near the counter. I lift my hand slowly, seeking permission to touch him. He makes no move to pull away, so I continue. I run my thumb over his split bottom lip, then his brow where once a gash bled profusely in this very kitchen. "You're okay," I say, and I don't need confirmation from him. I know he is—for now.
He shrugs, and I drag my hand over his fuzzy head. He smiles and tips his head down so I can reach it better. I add another hand and finish by tugging on both his ears. "Did you give your stylist a good tip? She did a good job."
"Pancakes count?"
"Did they have peanut butter on them?"
"Of course," he says with a jerk of his head, as if he's appalled I would ask such a thing.
"Okay, then."
Masen tucks his hands in his back pockets and searches the room for . . . something. I don't know what. I don't want him to leave, but I have a feeling he will if I don't find a way to keep him here. Then again, I don't necessarily have to have him here. I just want to be with him. "You want to go to The Wedge now? I bet the guys are there already."
"Mmm." He waits a beat, tapping the toe-kick of the cabinet with his foot. "Maybe we could take a walk instead."
"A walk or a ride?" I ask, giving him a playful smirk. It feels like ages since we've flirted. It's so good to do it again, even if it's just through expressions and tone of voice.
"Either," he says, shrugging. I turn to enter the living room, and he follows. I pull on my sweatshirt and grab my keys.
"Well . . ." I say, looking back at him.
He copies my sweeping arm motion from earlier, and I exit ahead of him. He settles behind me with his board as I lock up.
He offers his hand, but I'm confused because we're on the porch, and there are steps. No way in hell am I going down steps on a skateboard. "You said you trusted me," he says, giving me his sad puppy dog eyes. Damn him.
"No knee pads?"
"Don't need 'em."
I twirl my hair into a bun and reach back to get my pen from my back pocket, but Masen beats me to it. He wiggles it in front of my face. I snatch it from him with a scowl and stick it in my hair. "Keep me safe," I say, glaring.
He nods.
"Don't drag me through the mud or whatever."
He nods.
"And don't—"
"Bella, get on the damn skateboard." Oh. Well, I didn't expect that.
I spin around in a huff and place my feet on the board while he steadies me and positions himself. With a hand on my waist and his breath on my neck, he whispers, "I promise not to hurt you," and we're off, and it's exhilarating.
-MD-
School starts back up when winter break ends, and Masen is mostly healed. People assume his injuries occurred at The Wedge. I listen to his responses and realize he never lies, only defers to their misconceptions. Since he's generally sporting bruises, they're not even all that interesting to the masses. It's his shaved head that creates copious amounts of gossip. The girls at school are upset about it, but I kind of think it suits him. Plus, I love being able to see his eyes so clearly. And, it seems, they look at me a lot. I like that.
We're studying persuasive essays right now, which is so elementary. Ms. Robinson seems to think we're all in seventh grade and need to know every facet of the writing style. She drones on and on about nothing of import, so I find something that interests me—Masen.
He writes in his notebook beside me. I've noticed the act so many times but have never seen his words close enough to know what it says. Part of me wishes I were sly enough to steal it, so I could read his deep thoughts. And, truly, they must be deep considering how quiet he is. Maybe that's where he keeps his heart—in his notebook.
I stretch out my right arm and use it as a pillow as I watch him sketch or write or whatever it is he's doing. He doesn't even look at me for a long while, but when he does, he's smiling. It's happy, content, and makes him look adorable.
"What?" he mouths. Clearly he's noticed me staring. Oh, well.
"Nothing," I mouth back, yet I don't change a thing about my behavior or my position. I continue as-is: gawking at Masen, wondering about him, and daydreaming.
Apparently, I daydream too long because I actually fall asleep. Masen wakes me by stroking my arm. I blink lazily and inhale deeply, the dark red fabric of my shirt rising with my expanding lungs. I feel oddly refreshed. I smile at Masen, who's staring at me now.
His position mirrors mine, and we gaze at each other across the table. It's comforting having him look at me this way—like he knows me, like he trusts me.
"Hi," I mouth, and he closes his eyes and smirks, shaking his head against his arm. He opens them, wide with mischief. What on earth is he thinking? I'd love to know, so I ask. "What?" I mouth.
He waits a beat, trying my patience, then mouths, "Nothing."
He's so frustrating, but I wouldn't have him any other way. Or maybe I would. I mean, it's Masen, so . . .
After our boring lecture in English, Masen convinces me to ditch Anatomy and hang out under the bleachers. We sit on the dirt among discarded chip bags and soda cans, watching Tyler and Alec giggle as they light up. I'm surprised Masen refuses when he's offered a joint. I'm glad though. I'm not really a fan of drugs. People who do them become complete idiots.
They're talking about porn and who they would do if they could. The conversation morphs into MILF's. Just great.
"You know who's hot? Edward's mom, especially when she's tipsy," Alec says as Masen grits his teeth. Ouch. A mention of his drunk mother and the name he hates so much. Poor Masen. His mood has surely shifted from his happy-go-lucky one in English.
"Bet she's not hotter than my mom," I offer. They take the bait.
"Yeah, but is she easy?"
"She married a guy in his twenties. She's a cougar."
"She hot?"
"Am I hot?" I say, arching my brow.
"Yeee-ah," Tyler says, laughing. "All right, I'd do her."
I roll my eyes and place my feet in Masen's lap. He accepts them but pulls my pen from my hair before letting me relax. I use my backpack as a makeshift pillow, and Masen begins covering my Vans in ink.
When I return home and toe my shoes off, I remember that Masen had them in his hands. I hold them up and try to make out his work. There are a lot of pictures of eyes, decorative curly cues and dots leading to nowhere, but, mostly, there are words. Lots of words.
One passage, in particular, catches my eye. I read it slowly, taking it in.
Open, authentic, debilitating. On my board, in my head, in my hands. Will she? Will I? Maybe never. Wanting.
I breathe deep and hug my shoes to my chest. This is ridiculous. I just have to tell him how I feel. I have to. It's getting to be too much. Someone has to take a chance, or nothing will ever happen.
I steel myself, pulling my cell from my bag and dial his number. I've had it for ages but have never used it.
"Hello?" his mother's whiny voice answers the phone, and I'm stunned into silence. "Hello? Is this Alice? Listen here, bitch, he's not going to California, okay?"
"Um, hi, Mrs. Masen?" It comes out as a question because I'm terrified of this woman. For all I know, she lets her crazy, drunk, bastard of a husband beat up on her kid.
"Who is this?" she rasps.
"This is Bella. I'm in Masen's English class. Can I talk to him?"
"So stupid. Using his last name. Edward! Phone!" Her scream makes me pull away from the phone, but I'm back on quickly when I hear his voice on the other end.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Masen."
"Hey."
"Listen, I—you wanna go somewhere? The Wedge, maybe?"
He's quiet, not answering. I'm worried about his hesitation and silence. It's exhausting at times waiting for his words.
"Don't really wanna be around people right now."
"Oh, okay. That's fine."
"No, not . . ." He exhales heavily, then speaks again. "You know the golf course on Hayden?"
"Sure."
"Meet me in ten?"
"Okay."
"Okay."
-MD-
We sit beneath a large tree that's out of range, so to speak. Its limbs hang low, giving us some cover, hiding us from anyone who might be playing; though it's late and the course is shut down for the night. We roll a golf ball back and forth. Catch. Release. Catch. Release. Although my mind is always keyed up around Masen, being with him like this is soothing. I hope he feels the same way. He seems to need some peace in his life, and I'd like to offer him some.
"Come here often?"
"Use cheesy lines often?" he quips, and I stick my tongue out at him, then toss the ball instead of rolling it.
"A bit. To get away. Be alone. Think. You know, the usual."
"The usual—seducing girls under trees with your balls."
"If you say so." He smirks and rolls the ball back.
"Your mom's interesting. Accused me of being someone named Alice and trying to bring you to California."
"She's an idiot," he says, and he grasps the ball and pockets it before lying on the grass. Crap. He's pulling away, and I didn't even get any information. Who's an idiot? His mother or Alice? Not that I know who that is. Maybe he'll tell me if I ask, but I'm not going to ask now. He'd up and disappear on his skateboard, leaving me on the green.
He wraps his hands behind his head, using them as a pillow. Suddenly I have a brilliant idea and blurt out, "Stomach?"
"Appendix."
"Dick."
"Ball," he says, pointing out either his ball or his balls.
"Did you have a ballectomy?"
"What?" he asks, laughing.
"You said ball. I just assumed." I make scissor motions with my fingers.
"You know what they say about assumptions."
"I'm not even going to start talking about asses."
"Fine," he waits a beat then adds, "Stomach."
"Stomach." I lower myself, resting my head on his stomach.
Masen pulls the pencil from my bun, saying, "That's not my pen," before throwing it. I smack his stomach, and he oofs but recovers quickly, running his fingers through my hair.
"Masen?"
"Yeah?
"I liked what you wrote today on my Vans."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Do you write poetry often?"
"Yeah."
"In your notebook?"
"Yeah."
"Do you write about me often?"
Masen hesitates, then answers quietly, "Yeah."
"Is it good?" I reach above my head and find the fingers of his free hand. This is nice.
"Yeah."
"Can I see it someday?"
"Yeah."
"Masen?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you any good?"
"Wanna find out?"
I lift my head off his stomach, the ends of my hair brushing my shoulders. There's something about his expression I can't read, so I lean in a little more. Nope. He thinks I can see right through him—he's said as much—but he's still a mystery.
He purses his lips and props himself up. We're inches apart, staring at each other, our eyes sweeping around each other's faces. We both lean in, and when I'm right there, I can't help myself and say, "You were supposed to say yeah."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," I say, and our lips finally touch. They move slowly, back and forth, playing a game of catch and release on their own. Masen startles when I lick his lips open. Our tongues touch, and my stomach hollows out, making me feel like I'm floating. I'm about to wrap myself around him when I'm hit with a stream of water. Masen swears under his breath, and we both laugh, jumping to our feet, running out of the sprinklers.
He walks me home and chooses, for some odd reason, not to kiss me goodnight. I shuffle upstairs in despair but don't let it get the best of me. I decide to confront him before English the next day, but I can't because when he shows, he's nursing a hurt shoulder and some scraped knuckles.
At lunch he pulls my feet into his lap and gets poetic on my Vans again. When I get in my truck after school, I read his words. Worry, fear, mistake. Unraveling world of mine. She must stay sewn together. Forgive me.
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!
Masen Days will be featured on The Lemonade Stand this week because I have the best readers ever! 100 of you voted for Masen Days. Thank you! It is so fun interacting with all of you through fanfiction, facebook, and twitter.
My prereaders and betas keep me honest, and one in particular begs me for outtakes. I love you all. And, Dinx, I'm sorry for the wait. You're a trooper. Thanks for joining the team!
I celebrated my 32nd birthday on Saturday. On a whim I asked Abstract Way, author of Animate Me, what her Edward would put on a coffee cup for me. This is what she said, "Ed would have a sexy pose of you speeding circles around the cup on your skateboard – and Masen chasing after you!" I'm officially in love with her, and if you're not reading Animate Me you should. Super sweet Edward!