A/N Mac makes this story better.
Facebook Status: I've never met Emmett Cullen, but I know he's a douchenozzle. JS JS JS!
This was all kinds of awkward, hanging out with Rose. I couldn't get a good read on her, and I wasn't sure if we had anything in common other than our respective tragedies.
She did have pot though, which made the afternoon infinitely more pleasant than actually attending our last period classes.
My eyes watered and burned as I took a shallow pull off my crudely rolled joint. Rosalie watched me smoke with slow-blinking eyes, stretching languidly on her bedroom floor like a cat. Really, her movements were so feline I considered petting her.
"You're a pussy," I told her, laying beside her. "I'm gonna rub your belly, okay? Don't be freaked out."
"What?" Her eyes closed, and I patted her stomach awkwardly. Actually, I really wanted to stroke her hair, the dark tendrils that sparkled a strange muddy golden in the sunlight, revealing the secret that only her hairdresser should know.
I wonder what colour her pubes are? I bet she dyes them emo too. Can't have sunny pubes. Not that morose pussy.
Wait did I say that aloud?
"Rose," I murmured, still imagining her bush. Since I didn't want to fuck her, I had a minor epiphany. "I'm not even a little bit bi."
She rolled over and blinked a few times. "That's so interesting . . . I think given the right circumstances, I could be."
"Not me. I've got no interest in licking your clam." Only in inspecting your pubic hair.
"You should see what I used to look like. I bet if I was still blonde and perfect you'd totally dive my muff." She giggled, reaching behind her and grabbing a yearbook off the shelf. "Here," she proclaimed, opening it; the spine had split in the centre, dimpling along a well-worn fault line in the binding.
"What's that?"
"Homecoming. My homecoming." She pointed to a Barbie doll wearing a crown and a hideously pink dress. "That was me."
"Was?"
"Yes. Past tense."
"Dude, that's still you . . . only in stupid clothes."
She frowned. Obviously she had expected me to swoon or some shit. "You don't understand," she growled. "That was the life I used to have before I was changed . . ."
"What do you mean? How much weed did you smoke exactly?" I grabbed her face and yanked it closer to mine so I could examine her pupils. I forgot what I was examining them for, though. I mean, they were little black balls. That was normal, yes?
"I didn't smoke anything, bitch. You're bogarting my stash."
"Does our conversation sound like poorly written dialogue from an after school special?" I asked, watching the paper burn out into ash.
Was that where the term "burn out" came from? My fucked-up life fizzled into soot, the spark of potential - youth - wasted.
I'm a wasted burn out.
Wait, what did Rosalie just say?
"Who changed you . . . and from what into what?"
"I don't want to talk about it," she said quickly, opening the small ziplock bag of weed I'd been coveting since I arrived. "You want another one?"
"Yes, and clearly you're lying. You're dying to talk about it." I patted her unnaturally dark hair. "C'mon, kitty cat, tell me your story."
Curiously, she leaned into my hand rather than pushing me away as I'd expected she would. "I was raped by Royce King last year." She coughed out a lungful of smoke and lowered her eyes.
"I'm sorry . . . he has a really stupid name."
"Yeah, well . . . it sucked." Her eyes glistened, but the dam that held back her tears didn't break.
"Um, do you want to talk about what happened?" I really hoped she didn't. Yeah, I know that was selfish of me, but I had enough of my own baggage when it came to that shit. I couldn't handle carrying hers too.
"Not really. I mean, I was drunk, so I don't remember much. Only that it hurt, and I begged him to stop. That's all."
"I'm sorry," I said again because I really was.
"Quit being sorry!" she snapped. "The thing is - and this is going to sound really fucked up - no one knows. The next day Royce is going around the school bragging that he fucked the homecoming queen, and all I can do is nod like an idiot in agreement. He did fuck me." She laughed bitterly. "Fucked me over good and hard."
"Why?" I demanded. "Why would you let him get away with that lie?"
"Because," she shrugged, "it's better to be a slut than a rape victim."
She sounds like me! Oh my fuck, she's me!
"No. Not any fucking more. You're a survivor, not a victim. So buck the fuck up, buttercup. This Gothic chic shtick is getting old." I dragged her off the floor in what was supposed to be grand, sweeping gesture, but I got dizzy and fell on top of her.
"What are you doing?" She asked, her voice raising a shrill octave.
"Going lesbian and then making a difficult decision about going back."
"Get off me!"
"Calm the fuck down, prom queen. I'm kidding. I do that." I smiled to emphasize my hilarity. "I'm trying to get you on back on your feet - literally and figuratively because I'm clever like that. You need to dye your hair back."
"Why?"
"Because we're no longer victims. The assholes will not win."
-({})-
So I was a melodramatic whore, or whatever, but dude - I couldn't let sleeping dogs lie with this. After picking up hair dye and setting Rosalie's hair under the dryer, I called Edward.
"Bella!" he said enthusiastically after only one ring.
"Hi," I replied. "I miss you. Can I have your brother's phone number?"
Hm. Maybe I should have prefaced the request with an explanation. But I couldn't tell him why I needed to speak with Emmett.
"Um . . . sure?" He made a little manly grunt that made me want to cuddle him. "Uh . . . may I ask why?"
"I can't tell you," I apologized, twisting my bedsheets around my feet. "I miss you," I added lamely again, closing my eyes and imagining his face.
"Miss you more," he replied miserably. I doubted it. "Can I see you?"
Yes! Please, yes! "I have to go with my dad to Phoenix this weekend," I said evenly, managing to keep the tremble out of my voice.
"I'll come with you."
"I told you, Charlie's going . . . I'm going to be fine." Part of me even believed it.
"Okay."
Shit, I hurt his feelings.
"I wish it was you going with me, Edward. I really hope you know how hard this is on me too . . . us being apart."
He sighed, a sad, resigned sound. "I'll be waiting for you, pretty girl."
"Me too," I replied lamely.
-({})-
"What did you do?" Dr. Banner chastised me like a naughty puppy.
"Um . . . what do you mean?"
He cocked an eyebrow, waiting for me to speak.
"Is this about Edward?" I dug my teeth into the abused flesh of my lower lip.
"I don't know - is it?" replied Dr. Cryptic.
I pulled my iPhone out of my pocket and loaded my Tweetdeck, evading. Edward's timeline appeared innocuous, linking a piano auction site and an old YouTube video of Mitch Hedberg explaining his apartment was infested by koala bears.
"You really should deal with your Internet addiction. I despise smart phones - they're expensive avoidance mechanisms."
"Blasphemy," I muttered, keeping my eyes glued to the screen.
Splathisdead: In therapy dealing with the elephant in the room #daddyissues
BruceBannerHULK: (at)splathisdead put your phone away and pay attention.
My neck snapped up as if spring loaded. Dr. Banner raised his eyebrows innocently.
BruceBannerHULK: (at)splathisdead I iz in ur interwebz messing ur shit up
"What the fuck are you doing?" I snapped
"Um, messing your shit up?"
"Well, stop it." I jammed my phone in my pocket, and it buzzed, the vibration jolting me out of my chair.
"DM," Dr. Banner explained, a cocky grin spreading over his stupid face.
"Don't ever tweet me again!" I yelled, looking for a blunt object to hurl at his head.
"Why not? You love social network communications." He opened his desk drawer and dropped his stapler and Spider Man paper weight inside. Clever bastard.
"Not like this. I mean, not what we talk about." I couldn't properly articulate my thoughts. Raw panic made my throat tight, and my lungs constricted painfully.
"You're ashamed to broadcast our conversation?"
"No," I said. "It's all about context. You know the deepest, darkest version of me. I don't want my online universe colliding with my shitty real life."
"You don't say anything real on Twitter," he mused.
"No, it's the opposite," I disagreed. "The things I say become too real once I put them out into the universe. I used to blog as a creative outlet, but then it became a cathartic experience. It morphed, though . . ." My nose and eyes burned from suppressing tears. I blinked and let them roll down my cheeks. "Now it's my only means of escape."
"What are you escaping?"
"Me," I whispered.
"I'll bite." He placed his phone on the desk and contemplated it. "How does one escape herself?"
"By pretending to be the narrator of my life rather the person living it." I shrugged.
"You're using an online persona to disassociate yourself from what happened to you." His eyes widened in surprise as if he'd discovered the crux of my problem. I could've told him this shit ages ago.
"SPlathisDead is better than I'll ever be. People love her. I want to be her," I said simply.
"Bella," Dr. Banner replied in a fatherly tone. "You are her."
I shook my head. "Not yet. I'm working on it, though."
-({})-
"Shit, Bella!" Charlie hollered from upstairs when I arrived home. "This doesn't make any sense. Piece of shit computer."
"Dad? Where are you?" I closed the door, dropping my bag in the hall closet.
"Mother fudging shit-licker!" His voice wafted down like a fart, and I followed the sounds of half-coherent cursing to my bedroom. "I borrowed your laptop," he offered by way of explanation, fingering the empty holster on his belt.
"Ah-huh." I rolled the desk chair away from my precious iMac. "What're you trying to do there, Dad?"
"Print these goddamn tickets!" He threw his hands up in surrender, his eyes wide and pleading. "What do I do?"
"Well, first of all, and this is the really important part, buy a printer." I patted him on the shoulder, the bone poking my palm with its sharp edge.
"Oh," he said, mashing his fist into his forehead. "I'm an idiot."
"It runs in the family." I laughed. "I can get the ticket printed at school. Is this a roundtrip to Phoenix?"
"Two," he qualified. "Let's get this over with. We'll go this weekend and meet with the lawyer I told you about."
"Alright, Dad. Get some sleep, okay?"
He nodded, getting up from my chair and lumbering out of my room like a sleep walker. I was pretty sure he didn't sleep very much anymore.
I closed the door and made a call before I could change my mind.
"Hi Emmett. You don't know me. My name's Bella, and I'm kinda in love with your brother. Anyhoo, I need to talk to you about Rose because you made a really dumb mistake. Also? You're an asshole. Call me."
That wasn't too weird, was it?
A/N: Are you still reading Tomato? If you are, thank you! FFn's been such a douchenozzle I know it's been difficult to review and reply to reviews. If you want to contact me with any questions, I'm on gmail - . I'm slow to reply though because I'm disorganized.
Please check my profile for two things: Spanking the Monkey! I'm co-hosting a contest about wank. Read the submissions. They're, um, inspiring. We're accepting entries until July 7th
Also, Stigmata Tomato is nominated for two Gigglesnortawards. Thank you - I have no clue who did that! There's a link to the site on my profile. Vote for your fave funny fics. Some of my favourite people are nominated.
Fic Rec: Soul to Keep by TG81. Bella sells her soul to Andy Griffith (Matlock) to be beautiful. It's a fairy tale with a devil of a twist! Read it!
I spank my monkey to your reviews.