"Among Haldane's many specific preoccupations was nitrogen intoxication. For reasons that are still poorly understood, beneath the depths of about a hundred feet nitrogen becomes a powerful intoxicant. Under its influence divers are known to offer their air hoses to passing fish or decide to try to have a smoke break." — Bill Bryson, A Short History of Nearly Everything, page 245

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Friday, the 26th November
10:44 PM. Lying in my blanket-castle and listening to A Rush of Blood to the Head by Coldplay.

You know how there are all these banal stories and television shows and films and books about a complete makeover of an insecure girl who is incredibly repulsive (notice my sarcasm?) and whom no-one likes because she's just such a weirdo (the preferred plot including—but not limited to—the heroine who "doesn't realize her beauty" and "has a low self-esteem due to whatnot in her traumatic past"). And then suddenly, the hottest guy in school is dared to date her, and then she gets this complete makeover and everybody loves her and at the end of the movie, there's this big revelation how you should remain yourself and shit?

My point is, every time a makeover movie—She's All That, Mean Girls, The Princess Diaries, Miss Congeniality; only to name a few—starts so promising, with such a great idea about the lack of confidence and how it affects our way of thinking and acting, these films always end up disappointing me even if the movies happen to be better than average. Always. And you know why?

You guessed it.

Because, for Christ's sake—the "ugly" and "insecure" protagonist is never really ugly. Never do they actually put an ugly girl to play the ugly part. It's always just, 'Oh, let's give her braces and bushy eyebrows and make her fall a lot.' These things are fixable. You don't fix missing limbs, or a bumpy nose and a giant forehead unless you star in your very own Nip-Tuck, and I'd rather just avoid that. I might scare away the scalpels.

The stars in these films always have a jealous-worthy body, a tiny nose, beautifully shaped eyebrows and a smile to die for. They don't have a missing limb. They're not blind or overweight, nor do they usually have anything actually wrong with them. They don't. And don't tell me that lack of fashion sense is a deep problem; it's commonly only a lack of interest, not a lack of sense. If you have interest, you'll find the sense. No interest, no sense.

Now, I'm not insanely jealous of beautiful people. Well, no, don't listen to me, of course I am. But only to a point, because for all that it's worth, I don't think being prejudiced against a girl who's fortunate to have a pretty face and curves in the right places is going to help anything. I actually think being beautiful is a responsibility, just like being smart is. Not that I'd know anything of either of those. Not really.

Okay, enough of this sappy stuff.

So a week ago on Thursday, after Edward's third time to join us in Acting, he decides our weirdness isn't enough of an excuse to be "excluded from our awesomeness" (and yes, these are his words, not mine), so he'll "attempt to, um, add his reasonable amount of bad guitar-playing" if only "we're up for a horrible music-raping." Needless to add, everyone gets along with Edward's awkwardness really well, so we kind of throw him a party. Kind of, because instead of booze, we have sickeningly sweet syrup from the cafeteria, and instead of a cake, we find a cupcake freakishly similar to a certain naked part of a female reproductive organ. I don't think anyone other than me and Edward notices, thank God. They ask why I suddenly changed colors (they've already learned the Swans' tendency to change colors with the speed of light), but I make a lame joke about having ADD — Attention Deficit Disorder — and desperately needing the attention. And the cake. And to top off my invalid point, I hiccup. Everyone laughs. Edward does, too.

Have I already written about my brilliant hiccupping at the most suitable moments?

I can already see my wedding day—that is, if I ever find myself a man. Anyway, at the altar, when I'm going to be asked whether I would love my man forever and yada-yada, can you imagine if I go just, "Huck!"

"Will you, Isabella Marie Swan—"

"Huck!"

"Take this man—"

"Huck!"

"To be your lawfully wedded—"

"Huck!"

It would be epic.

After the party, we practice the songs for the musical—with the addition of a few choir members who can, y'know, actually sing, and agree that Edward bring his guitar to school on Monday. He doesn't look too happy, but he's already made the mistake of telling us about his, um, guitar attempts, so it's only inevitable that he'd add his instrument to the piano.

I've gotten to know him a little better, too, because on the same eighteenth of November, we leave the wardrobe (yes, we have that in our school) together, and he actually asks if it's okay for us to walk together. I know! I can't believe I've met a guy as humble as Edward, and so passively straight-forward. It's like he actually thinks I'd be all, "No, ew, you're a boy!"

That would be kind of awesome, wouldn't it?

But of course I don't say that—as I already might have mentioned, I think it would be amazing to have a guy best friend. Think of all the questions I could get answers to! I'd love that. I want to know if all men want is actually sex. (So that I could buy myself a chastity belt and join the nearest celibacy club.) Not that I'd ever have that problem, because millions of guys are lining up behind my door, har-har. They'd feel like pedophiles with my size-A cup and hipless structure. Maybe I should aim for pedophiles right away? That's a thought.

Err, no. No way. Sorry, eager pedophiles out there.

Other than being a tad obsessed with films, I'm kinda fascinated by gestures, so Edward's occasional hand through his comb?-is-that-new-brand-of-coffee? hair and shrug with his right shoulder get registered and put away for further use in understanding characters.

"Do you sometimes wonder why we're here?" I kick yet another pebble that gets on my way. We've been walking for a few minutes.

"Are you high?"

"I'm always high, Edward. Always."

He chuckles. "On what?"

I make a mock-gooey face and battle my eyelashes. "You, Edward, who else?" Before he could answer, I burst into laughter and nudge him. "Dream on."

"Gee, thanks. I'm really that good-looking, huh?" His rhetorical question doesn't serve its purpose, and before I can help myself, I roll my eyes.

"Yeah," I agree. "Disgusting to look at, especially compared to me. Your ugliness blinds me, Edward!" I place palms on my eyes. "You're so ugly you made me blind!"

"Uh, thanks, Bella. Always boosting my confidence."

"You're very welcome."

We stop in front of red light, and simultaneously shove our hands in our pockets (away from the cold). I kind of enjoy how he doesn't seem to mind my strange ways.

"But really. What are your theories about why we're here?"

"Um, because there's a red light and we can't cross the street?"

"Edwa-ard! I'm serious."

"So am I."

We watch the animated red stickman as an unsuccessful hand with a pointing finger enlarges and vanishes after covering the black screen. Halfway in, the palm looks like an excited part of male anatomy.

"Look at that! I've never realized they're encouraging men to have an erection while waiting for the green light."

Edward snorts a laugh I've never heard before. He struggles to breathe even when we've crossed the street. The tips of his ears are a little red when he speaks.

"Only you, I swear."

"Only I—what?"

"You know." Edward lifts his right shoulder before finding the words. His eyes, somewhat cautious-looking, flicker from my face to the ground. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't think I've ever met a girl like you."

I fake-pout and battle my eyelashes. "What—a perfect combination of stunningly gorgeous and tactful seriousness?"

He lets out a good-hearted laugh, but as if realizing what he was laughing at, stops and averts his eyes. "Sorry. I, um, didn't mean to…"

"Oh my God, Edward!" I shake my head, smiling as I take a moment to try and be serious. "Please stop doing that. I don't mind that you think I'm ugly. I know I am. You don't have to be so cautious around me."

"You're not ugly," Edward mutters, embarrassed, as if saying it will make me prettier. His intentions are good, and I respect that, but he has to realize he doesn't need to sweet talk me into anything.

"Unsightly? Appalling? Repulsive? Take a pick, it ain't gonna make my face any prettier."

"How can you be like that?"

"Like what?"

"You know, like you don't care."

"Do you want me to lock up in my room and never show my giant forehead to any living creature? Are you worried they'll have a heart attack? 'cause I certainly am."

"Of course not," Edward denies. "But as I said, I've never met a girl like you, and please take that as a compliment. It's like—you don't care about looking strange or making faces or laughing at yourself. That's a good thing."

"Millions and millions of men are out there, dreaming of the ugly duck who never became the swan!" I gesture at an elderly man who almost stumbles on his cane. I make sure he's okay before we continue our walk. "And I have the worst name in the world." I laugh. "What an utter mockery. Oh my God."

"What—Swan?"

"And Bella. Someone up there really hates me." I pause. "No, actually—someone in Arizona really hates me. Namely my mom."

The tips of Edward's ears grow pink. "I kinda like your name."

"No, no, no. I'm not complaining about the name, don't get me wrong. I'm just pointing out the mockery in the situation. As soon as I get home and break into Emmett's room, I'll google how to say 'ugly' in Italian, and 'duck.' And when that's done, I'm ready to officially change my name." I proudly raise my chin. "At least I'll be able to live up to it."

He still looks embarrassed to be discussing my ugliness, but I'm sure I can make him feel at ease joking about my appearance. Or lack thereof.

"Why'd you need to break into Emmett's room for that?"

"I don't have a computer in my room. It's tragic. For a while, I was certain I'd done something to make dad mad at me, but then I asked him and he said it was because he's older. But I think." I lower my voice. "I think he's afraid I'll find pornography on the Internet. He doesn't want his little girl to know where babies come from."

The pinkish color at the tips of his ears doesn't fade. "Sounds like you've figured it out by yourself."

"Oh, yeah, it took real detective skills to figure that one out."

Sadly, my block arrives what feels like a second later, and soon we stand in front of my house, both of our hands still in our pockets. Because I didn't want him to go, I inhale to gather the courage and ask him inside to watch a movie. Or something.

"Hey, would you—"

"I guess I'll see you—"

I mentally throw my brain onto the pavement, jump on it and squish the jiggling mass into pieces so tiny it should evaporate and vanish. Ta-da! Sadly, all my body is capable of is a shade of beetroot red on my face. Great.

"Sorry, you were saying?"

I shrug. "Ah, nothing. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Of course. Bye." He eyes me before turning around and crossing the street. Seconds later, he disappears from my point of view. Yes, I watch. But the moment he's gone, I place my bag on the pavement, step next to the oaken tree in front of our house, and bang my head against it, groaning. Way to go, Bella, way to go.

As soon as I step into the house and put down my bag, I see Emmett lean on the doorframe, observing me with a smirk. Every sister in every corner of the world recognizes that smirk, and I am no different.

"Aww, did Eddie reject little Belly-poo?"

"Aww, did Emmett lose the brain cells that told him not to care?"

"So you like Edward, huh?"

I muffle a groan. "Just because we walk home together doesn't mean I like him."

"Sure it doesn't. Su-ure."

"Is there a pact we can make to make you stop talking?"

Emmett rubs his chin, a mocking or an unconscious habit he's gotten from our father. I haven't figured out which yet. "Do my homework for a week, and I promise not to tease you about anything. For the week, that is."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

"Keep dreaming."

"Would you like Edward to mysteriously find out a girl named Bella fancies him?"

"How much repetition gets through your thick skull? I do not like him!"

"Su-ure. And even if that's the case, he doesn't have to know that."

I have two choices. I could either make Emmett feel bad about mocking my appearance—he obviously thinks Edward would be disgusted, with which I wholeheartedly agree—or I could let him know two could play this game. Like a true guy, I go with the latter.

"Would you like dad to see your porn collection?"

His face pales, but only a little, and he recovers quickly—for a Swan, anyway. "You—you don't know my passwords."

"Wanna try me?"

"I—I…" He hesitates! Twice, my brother challenged me to guess his password. Need I say how many times I've succeeded with fewer than four guesses? Twice. Emmett is utterly predictable, and he knows it.

"Next time you want to corner me, make sure you'd have more to gain than to lose. Also, those magazines in the garage on the top shelf under a box of screwdrivers?" He's pale, very, very pale. "Yes, those. Might wanna find those a better place."

I can almost hear Queen's We Are the Champions in the background as I leap upstairs. I spend the evening studying and reading Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen. I'm overall in an inexplicably happy mood before a knock on my door makes me drop my book and jump from the bed. Emmett does not knock, and that only leaves one option. And dad barely ever invades my space.

No, scratch that. He never invades my space.

"It's open!" I yell unnecessarily. My door has no lock. (Woo-hoo for privacy!)

Hesitating, dad steps in my room and closes the door after him. Uh-oh. I pick up my book, sit cross-legged in the middle of the bed, and wait as he observes my clattered walls filled with posters, poems, comics, newspaper cut-outs and self-made scribbles. It's the first time in about a month or so I've given a glance at it. I realize how out-dated the wall is. I should really spend one evening taking down the old stuff and rearranging my wall.

"Damn. I didn't make supper tonight! I'm so sorry, dad, I completely forgot—"

Dad waves his hand, motioning he doesn't care, and slides the uncomfortable chair closer to the bed, facing me. He scratches his wicked mustache and eyes my book, probably as eager to postpone the conversation (I guess he wants to have) as I am.

"What're you reading?"

I pick it up, going along with his beat-around-the-bush strategy. He's completely different from me in that sense. I'm blunt. He isn't, at least not with me.

"Oh, it's a great book. Lots of gore and kinky sex scenes. I'm learning a lot from this."

Dad blushes such a deep shade of beetroot pink he actually makes me concerned for his health.

"Dad." I squeeze his hand. "Just kidding. It's a joke, you know, har har."

He's not amused. "Why've you been doing that lately?"

Because I figured good actors chose roles they feared they couldn't deliver. I used to be evasive and terrified when sex was mentioned, or, you know when a person came to school to talk about that stuff and some students would avert their eyes and pretend to be completely cool about it? I was one of them. I listened to the guys in our class make fun of the bananas, and pretended not to. So I guess it was kind of a real life experiment. I really, really wish I could be as cool about it as my sarcasm showed.

"I guess I want you to be cooler about it."

Not knowing how to answer, he looks at my wall and takes several breaths. After smoothing his moustache to a point it must show my precise reflection, he says, "Bella, you know I'm no good at this."

"Good! Neither am I. Can we skip the conversation and pretend it never happened?"

"No," he states firmly albeit awkwardly. "Listen me out here."

"Sorry."

"You know how much I care about you, right?"

"Of course I do."

"And I… I heard you've had a tough time at school, and I just wanted to make sure you knew I'm here for you."

I'm relieved—I'd feared a much more awkward conversation with the topic of boys and safety. If you catch my drift.

"Of course I do."

He leans a little closer yet averts his eyes. "If anyone ever gives you a hard time again, tell them they'll have to deal with me."

Su-ure, dad. I can already imagine it.

"Bella, your forehead looks particularly huge today, are there any elephants in your ancestry?"

"My daddy is a policeman!"

Su-ure.

"Don't worry, dad, I'm not being bullied. I get along with everyone."

"Good, good," he continues absent-mindedly. "I also wanted to say—at a certain age, you know, you might become interested in, you know, what happens when…"

I muffle my laughter.

"Sorry, continue."

He fiddles with the edge of my blanket. "I just want you to be safe when, you know."

Do tell me more.

"Dad, I know you mean well, and I know you're concerned, but just so you know—in order to have sex, you usually have to have a partner. So even if I had the sudden urge to have wild animalistic sex in our front yard, I'd have to find a willing partner. Neither of which are my priorities right now."

He looks so utterly relieved I'm almost offended. "So, there's no one…"

"And probably never will be anyone. And if I suddenly find a blind man, I assure you I have no intention of having children before I've graduated from college."

"Good, good." He stands. "Wait—what do you mean by a blind man?"

"Nothing, dad." I offer a smile. "Just kidding."

"Oh. But if you ever have questions about, you know."

"Sex?"

"Well, yeah. You can always ask me, okay?"

Dad, is it true that when a man blows into a woman's vagina, the air bubble can find a way to her heart and become fatal?

Su-ure.

"Duly noted."

"Well, if you're hungry, Emmett made some fried potatoes. I think they're still warm."

Emmett?

Potatoes?

Wow, I am still in the alternate universe.

I skip every second step in my urge to escape from the conversation. I throw myself some potatoes and land right next to a munching Emmett in no time. He takes a moment to chew and swallow before asking, "So?"

"Since when do you cook?"

"Since I became hungry and you weren't around," he replies. "So?"

"What do you expect me to say?"

"I dunno, what did dad talk about?"

I let out a semi-groan/semi-chuckle and try not to choke on the rather edible potatoes. (I think I'll make Emmett cook every day from now on.)

"Guess."

He puts down his plate. "No way."

"Way."

"Shit. I've never had that conversation with him."

"Yeah, wasn't exactly the best moment of my life, especially considering I've never actually had sex. Jeez, I've never even kissed anyone, and now dad's acting like I'm going to jump into bed with the first male-prostitute I find. Or something."

Emmett blinks rapidly, stares at me, and cocks his head back in one of the most boisterous laughing fits.

"What?"

He gives me a friendly nudge. "I don't really know you that well after all, huh? I always thought I did."

"What do you mean? Are you suggesting that you thought—" I snort a laugh. "Seriously, Emmett? With who?"

"No, not that. It's just that I never thought we could be having this conversation. I didn't think you were capable of even saying the word."

"Sex?"

"Yeah."

I shift in my seat. "Have you ever—You know what? Don't."

Emmett puts down his plate. We both watch as dad descends from the staircase, asks us why we're suddenly so quiet and mutters something about groceries. A little awkwardly, Emmett turns to me. "I know you don't go gossiping around about this. And I'm pretty sure you're risking dad's health if you start talking about this with him, so—I'm here, y'know."

"Thanks."

With feigned negligence, he observes his plate and says, "I'll deny this if my opinion of you is off and this information gets out of this room, but… I haven't, y'know."

I nearly swallow potatoes down the wrong tube. With a face that could not be any redder, I choke, "You're kidding me." I think my entire perception of high school jocks just went down the drain. It's not like I imagine him having a sex life, but, well, I knew for a fact some girls are high over heels for my brother. (Two even so much so that they attempted to become my friends to visit (me and ogle at) Emmett.) And, I'd heard rumors that claimed otherwise.

So, really? My big brother hasn't done it yet.

Huh.

"But… why?"

Emmett chokes a laugh, looking almost as embarrassed as I feel. But not quite. "It's not like I haven't done things. I've… well, done stuff. But I haven't gone the whole way." He glanced over at me and frowns in all his redness. "Why so surprised?"

"But you're—I don't understand. I've heard girls who've claimed to, er, well…"

He shrugs as if we were talking about football scores. "Well, I haven't."

"Would you tell me if you did?"

"Probably not."

I breathe a sigh of relief. "Good. I don't want to hear it."

He laughs. We resume to our potato eating before I feel Emmett's eyes on me. "Would you tell me if you…"

"Jesus! Emmett, please." I choke a laugh. "Please don't. Not only am I not attractive enough to find a guy before the age of eighty seven, I'm also not having this conversation with you."

"But if someone hurts you, you know you can threaten them with me, right?"

I smile at my plate. "I didn't know you cared so much, Emmett."

"I don't. I just keep you around to cook for me."

"You're a jerk."

"Just admit it, I'm the best brother you have."

"You're the only brother I have."

"My point exactly."