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: How Far We've Come by Matchbox Twenty, Under Control by Parachute
Chapter 9: The Day Masen Babbles
It's Monday, and spring break is officially over. So is my life, or so it seems.
I'm eating cereal when wheels grinding on asphalt make my heartbeat pick up. Really? It's so early. I can't deal with this. Not now.
Before I finish my cereal, there's a faint knock on the door. The blinds clang against the window, and I can only imagine Dad's expression when he sees who it is. He clomps to the kitchen, saying, "That porch guy do something to you?" He's so annoyed; I can't blame him. I'm annoyed too.
"No," I say around a mouth full of food. It's true—he's done nothing to me . . . except rip my heart to shreds.
"He clearly wants something. Persistent little bugger."
"I don't know what he wants." So true. I groan like a brat as I drag myself to answer the door. My dad retreats to his bedroom. The thing about my dad—even though he's strict, he gives me privacy. Mom did too, but for totally different reasons. Dad's being thoughtful, and I like that. Maybe I've been too harsh and should spend more time with him.
I open the door slowly because facing Masen is the last thing I want to do this morning. He's standing on my porch. He seems to be doing that a lot lately. At least this time he's not stoned. "Hi," he says, his smile forced.
"Hi, Edward." I'm such a bitch.
His posture crumbles; he bows his head and chews on his lip while nodding.
"Want to walk with me to school?" he asks, all nerves and downward cast eyes.
"I'm taking my truck," I say, reinforcing that I am, indeed, a bitch.
A shadow of a frown crosses his face before he responds. "'Kay. Wanted to . . ." He swings his backpack around the front and drags out my Vans, fumbling with the laces and getting them caught on the zipper of his bag. It's so pathetic, but I'm kind of enjoying it. A little bit.
He hands them to me. They are absolutely covered in ink, way more than before. Even the soles have writing on them. I throw them on the floor without looking at the words. I can't. Not yet. I'm capable of a quick bye before shutting the door in his face. I'm actually surprised I'm so civil. What I really want to do is scream and yell and push. But I'd never. Not to him, anyway.
During the rest of my morning ritual, Masen hovers close to my house. On the sidewalk. In the street. On the neighbor's driveway. He's just there . . . waiting. For what? And do I care? Not really. Not unless he has something to say about Alice. But he never has anything to say about anything, so today I don't care. I'm choosing not to care. Except that I sort of do. Only sort of.
He waves goodbye when I come out and begins the steady push of his right foot, skating toward school. I pass him quickly in my truck, but at a stoplight he gets ahead of me. In the end, I beat him to school, feeling stupidly smug for my accomplishment. When I saunter by him on the way to class and he's sitting on the floor—his head leaned back against the wall, eyes closed—I'm reminded of the night I cut his hair, and my heart aches. Suddenly, I don't feel accomplished at all.
At lunch he asks if I read my shoes, and I shake my head. He doesn't try to talk to me for the rest of the day, but he watches. His eyes are weary, like a deep green chasm of sorrow. I'm haunted by his sadness, but I feel justified in my behavior. I have the right to be pissed.
I drive by him on the way home. He sits at a bus stop, his head in his hands, his board underfoot. Where's he going? I didn't even know he rode the bus. My lack of knowledge as to why he rides or where he's going grates on my nerves the whole drive home.
Once there, all the things I don't know about Masen flood my brain, and I can't get past the feeling I don't know him at all. I thought I did. I guess not, but maybe I do. I have no idea. I don't know anything anymore except treating Masen like garbage for one day feels terrible, so I vow to do better—at least not be blatantly bitchy—but not give in. He has to meet me half way, a quarter of the way, in some Masen way because I can't figure out his intimacy issues for him. No matter how much I wish I could, I can't, but I think we could solve this problem together.
After a lonely dinner, I buck up and call Angela. Dad'll be home soon, but I need the company. Plus, I refuse to be one of those girls. I'm not the lay-around-all-depressed-listening-to-sappy-music type. I can be sad, disappointed. Hell, I can be angry, but it's not going to ruin my life. So when she comes over to put my feather extension in, I make the most of it.
As she works on my hair, Angela regales me with a hysterical tale of Embry trying to toilet paper the house of his nemesis—Mr. Baldwin, his math teacher. It involves kids' dinosaur-shaped flashlights, hopping over fences, and someone peeing their pants. I'm holding my stomach, belly laughing when she brings up the fact that Masen was the one who saved the day. When Mr. Baldwin caught them, Masen took off the opposite direction on his skateboard, so Mr. Baldwin would follow. That sounds just like Masen. He'd do whatever it took to protect those he loves.
But why can't he protect my heart? Why can't he rescue me?
I sober up and switch with Angela, so that I can put in her feather. I work quietly, but Angela doesn't seem to mind. She's very sweet and gives me my space. She chats a lot about other people, but she doesn't get into my business. She's respectful in that sense, but for some reason tonight I kind of want her to get nosy. I need someone to talk to, yet I know I won't broach the subject. I shift and hum a sad tune while I try to affix the extension.
"Did you get to meet Alice?" Angela says. Oh, boy. Not who I want to talk about. Or do I?
"Yeah, Masen introduced us."
"She was nice. Wonder what her story is."
"I don't know. A friend of Masen's, I guess."
"They seemed kind of chummy. She was a bit, er, touchy around him, and she never stopped talking. It was kind of shocking."
"Hmm."
"Didn't she seem kind of old? And what was with her skirt? Do you think they're together now?" she says, sounding truly curious while twirling a brush between her hands.
"I don't know." Age, skirt, together? I know nothing.
"I thought he liked you." You and me both.
I can't think of anything to say, so I nod.
"When Embry and I were in the kitchen, we saw them fighting in the hallway. I think Masen's voice was even raised. So weird. And then they just ran outside, and the next thing I know they're giggling in the backyard, totally baked. I didn't even know Masen smoked pot. The things you don't know about people." She shakes her head, and I lose my grip on the feather. I have to start over. What else is new? "Oops, sorry."
"It's okay." I really want to change the topic of conversation, but the desperate girl in me clings on, wanting to know more. "So, you've never seen her before? And Masen's never mentioned her before?"
"Not at all. I've known Masen since the third grade. I had no idea this girl existed. Maybe he lives a secret life like Cody Banks." Her eyes are bright, and she's delighted with her comparison. It makes me laugh. Only Angela.
"Well, what were they fighting about?"
"No idea. Embry was paying more attention than I was. He acts all tough, but he's such a girl. A big ol' gossipy girl. The other day . . ."
The conversation shifts to all things Embry. Part of me is relieved she doesn't know anything about Alice, but another part wishes she did. I'm dying to know who she is—more importantly who she is to Masen.
We call it a night when Dad gets nosy and comes upstairs. He sits on my bed, asking Angela about school and her family. So much for privacy.
I spend the rest of my evening tossing and turning, trying to figure out what to do, if anything. Up until that stupid party, I've been so good to Masen. I've been patient and kind and have treated him the way he needs to be treated. At least, I think I have. I hope I have. Now it's time for some reciprocation. I deserve better. And I'm going to get it, or I'm done. My mother taught me never to settle. I won't, but I will compromise if necessary. If Masen can just share a little bit with me about his life, about Alice, about his feelings, then we can move on. I hope it happens soon, but with his track record, I think I'm in for a long stretch of frustration. I plan to be patient like before, but now that I've snapped I worry it'll be harder to reach that level of Zen again. I'm willing to try though.
The rest of the week flies by, and my dad was so right. Masen's persistent. He greets me Tuesday through Friday at my home and then skates to school while I drive.
He asks me if I've read my Vans every day, and every day I tell him no. I'm such a liar, but I have to be. I'm not going to be the one to start a potential relationship-changing conversation. He needs to do it, so I lie. I say that I haven't read them though each day I read a bit more than the day before . . .
Repentant, drowning in my shame, seeking solace in the palm of your hand. You open me wide, igniting my nerves, placing your virtue in the hole in my heart, healing my soul.
. . .and I know for certain I'm in love with him.
His words leave me breathless and hopeful, but he can't just say sorry on my shoes. And he still has so much to explain. He has to talk to me. I can't be with someone who can't talk. Communication is the key, isn't it?
Another week passes, and I've essentially cut him off. I give him yes or no responses when he asks me a question, but that's about it. It's the best I can do, and it keeps me safe just in case he doesn't come to his senses.
One day during English he addresses me, trying desperately to get me to talk. He's sharing a lot lately, only it's all arbitrary information. It's not enough.
"Remember when we had to write those sonnets?"
"Mmm."
"Ms. Robinson really liked mine. She wants to read it at some teachers' conference. She invited me to go. I probably won't, though."
"Mmm."
"It was all about you." He looks up, his expression pitiful yet somehow enticing. He's so difficult to resist. But, really, what am I supposed to say to that?
I don't really want to know what the thing says. I can't read anymore of his poetry. A Shakespearean sonnet by Masen would throw me over the edge, and I'd absolutely cave. It's bad enough I see his sad eyes and feel guilty. But that's not my problem. He turned me down and paraded her around. He chose this; he has to fix it. I need him to say something to me—something real and tangible. I'm tired of these superficial conversations. They're all meaningless if they get us nowhere. I can't have a relationship based on nothingness.
I want him to stop babbling and start communicating, but he won't. Or maybe he can't. Maybe he doesn't know how. Regardless, I wish he'd answer all of my unasked questions. I wish he'd just be open and honest. I wish he'd let me love him and love me in return.
Masen is staring, begging for my attention, begging me to engage. I can't. I refuse and turn my head to the front of the class where Ms. Robinson is setting up a writing prompt.
I pull out my notebook, pluck the pencil from my hair, and begin the assignment, leaving him hanging.
All through my Masen boycott, I spend my time with Angela and Embry. Embry is a total riot. I'm always laughing when he's around. I completely understand why Angela fell for him. Humor and lightness go a long way. And they've come a long way themselves, having been together for almost three years. They must have some fun history.
I wish Masen and I had a history. I suppose we do; it's just a bit sad and pathetic. Maybe he could write a sonnet about our failed attempt at a relationship and have Ms. Robinson read that. It'd be a hit. After all, Shakespeare's most famous for his tragedies.
Over lunch Embry tells us about his younger brother who's recently become a klepto. Apparently his father brought him back to Safeway to return the Z-Bars he stole. During Embry's anecdote, Masen's foot bonks mine under the table repeatedly. Clearly, he's agitated. I'm not quite sure why, but it's probably because I refuse to talk to him. I still sit by him at lunch, though—why should I have to change my routine? He needs to make the next move, not me. I simply scoot over and return my attention to Embry. He goes on and on about the ridiculousness of hijacking something so banal when Masen adds his two cents. "Maybe he was hungry. You never know why people do the things they do. There's no way to really know what's going on in their heads."
Everyone turns to look at Masen; he's rolling a pen back and forth atop the table, avoiding eye contact.
"Dude, my brother eats all the time. I bet he was just pissed my mom wouldn't let him have one, so he just took it," Embry says.
Masen shrugs. "Whatever you say." His expression is solemn as he excuses himself from the lunch table. He scurries to the exit, his hands stuffed into his pockets, head down. That seems to be his permanent stance as of late. I fear I'm to blame for that.
"That dude is depressed or whatever," Embry offers.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
Angela studies me, and I wonder what she's trying to figure out. I haven't divulged anything about Masen and me—not even when we had our girls' night—though I suspect she knows.
"I've never seen Masen talk so much in his whole damn life. Well, the last five years that I've been friends with him anyway."
"He is talking a lot lately," Angela agrees.
"He's babbling," I mutter.
"Babbling or not, something's going down. I mean, at The Wedge he's all business and skates and whatnot, but here—around you, really—he's all blah, blah, blah, opinions and stuff. S'weird." Embry's expression is one of bafflement. He catches my eye, and I try not to look suspicious by checking out my water bottle. I fail miserably. Yeah, they both know something's up.
The last bell rings, and I round a corner into the math wing where my locker resides. I stop for a moment and take in the scene before me. Masen sits on his skateboard in front of my locker; his feet are off the floor. He rolls back and forth, looking like a little boy—playing and carefree. My heart breaks for him, knowing he may never have had that. I want to talk to him about why that may be. I wish he'd put us both out of our misery and just speak up already.
I'm so tired of this and not doing a great job at being neutral about our relationship. Some days I'm depressed and longing to hold his hand, so I'm friendly and smile way too much. Other days I'm just irritated at how incapable he is at basic conversation. I do my best to hold strong, but it takes so much energy to keep someone at arms length. I don't know how Masen did it for so long, how he continues to do it. I miss how things were between us; I miss our silly dynamic. I miss him. At this point I'm searching for any reason to forgive him and move on. I drag my feet toward him, foolishly hoping that when I get there he'll say something profound.
"Hi."
Yeah, I'm a fool. I wave anyway. Hi is better than nothing, I suppose.
"I ditched PE. I hoped maybe you'd ditch your last class, too, so we could," he stands and rolls the board back and forth with his foot, keeping it at his side, "talk or something about . . . whatever." He shrugs, and I'm dying to hug him. I don't. I play with the straps of my backpack instead.
"Too bad you didn't tell me you were ditching. Then I could've told you I would've ditched too. I would've gone to the bleachers with you or wherever." I'll do anything to get back what we had, but he has to communicate with me.
His eyes widen in surprise. It's like he doesn't even know I like him, that I care for him. I do! Why can't he see that?
"I was thinking earlier about . . . when I was little, my mom—she—she had long hair like yours, and she used to let me braid it. Well, forced me to anyway. Used to say I'd have little girls with crazy hair like mine that'd need to be tamed. Anyway, she–I–your hair . . . it reminds me of my childhood—when I was happy. You remind me of happiness, and I–I–you know . . . like it when I'm around it, around you."
This awkward boy is pouring his heart out, rambling and babbling like a loon, but I get it, I do. Beneath all that, he's saying, I'm sorry, I miss you, you make me happy, but all without actually saying those things.
I try to smile, but all I manage is a bit of a frown and a hand on his shoulder with a squeeze. He tilts his head to the side to rest it on my hand; the contact is the first we've made in a long time. He closes his eyes, looking serene.
I flip my hand, effectively lifting his face and cupping his cheek. When I lower my hand, he raises his own. He runs his thumb beneath my ear then reaches around, slowly drawing the pencil from my hair. He runs it under his nose, inhaling deeply. He pockets it and smiles sweetly. His hopeful expression and the intensity of his sea greens chip away at my hardened heart.
He's making more of an effort than he has before. My body floods with relief, relaxing me. I'm ready now. I want to talk. I'm hoping now is the time, so I take the initiative. "Do you wanna—"
"Masen, let's go!" Tyler. Ugh! How does he even know Masen's in here—both their lockers are in the science building. I want to chuck something at Tyler to make him go away.
Masen turns and holds up a finger, signaling for a minute. A minute? That's what I deserve after all of this drama? One minute? I don't think so.
I wrench my locker open, making a ruckus as I deposit books and withdraw what I need for my homework. I hear his board slap the linoleum once; Masen's most likely carrying it now, but I wouldn't know since my back is to him.
"See you later, Bella," he says, his tone timid.
He disappears down the hall with Tyler as I drop tears and all the hope I harbored for us just one minute ago.
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!
A quick thanks to MsJaxTeller for prereading this chapter in a pinch. Also thank you to BellaFlan who beta'd the Shakespearean sonnet. She told me many things were wrong but to leave them as they were. I love her! Thanks to modernsafari1 and aidanmamma for prereading Masen's sonnet.
My prereaders and betas are so generous with their time. They keep me on my toes and always teach me something new. I have an affair with 'that'. Did you know? Now you do. Did you know THAT Perrymaxed is writing a twific? I'm a glorified prereader, and it's good. Go read Unrequited by Perrymaxed.