"Welcome. And congratulations. I am delighted that you could make it. Getting here wasn't easy, I know. In fact, I suspect it was a little tougher than you realize. To begin with, for you to be here now trillions of drifting atoms had somehow to assemble in an intricate and intriguingly obliging manner to create you. It's an arrangement so specialized and particular that it has never been tried before and will only exist this once. For the next many years (we hope) these tidy particles will uncomplainingly engage in all the billions of deft, cooperative efforts necessary to keep you intact and let you experience the supremely agreeable but generally underappreciated state known as existence." — Bill Bryson, A Short History of Nearly Everything, page 1
: :
Sunday, the 28th of November
09:56 PM. Stretching on my bed and inadvertently listening to an amazing song from Emmett's room. He has taste. Who knew?
You know, I totally get it why so many actresses cut off their hair after ten or so years of having a clause in their contract that establishes exactly the lengths—ahem—to which they are allowed to cut their hair. Must be stifling. If someone told me not to paint my fingernails for ten years, I would surely find the first store that provides said product and paint my nails pitch black. Just because I can, and for no other reason. It's like having a red button on your wall with the sign, "Do not push."
And you know something else? I think Emma Watson looks sexy with short hair. There. I said it. Feel better for it. They claimed that Keri Russell's Felicity ratings dropped after she cut off her hair, but honestly, if the fans are as shallow as to not watch a show for something as trifle as the length of someone's hair, that's kind of low. I mean, I wouldn't stop watching House MD if Mr. Laurie cut off his leg and grew a carrot out of his ear. He's that amazing.
And that girl from Smallville? What's her name? Ah. Kristin Kreuk, she cut off her hair the moment she left that show.
Notice a pattern here?
I can't understand why everyone's so surprised when a gorgeous female cuts off all their hair. Can you imagine how liberating that must be? I'd cut off my hair in a heartbeat if I had features akin to any of the aforementioned women. Anne Hathaway, Michelle Williams, Carey Mulligan, Audrey Tautou; I mean, I just don't get it why anyone would find a problem in their choice to get rid of the curls.
Who finds a problem with it, you ask? Well, Emmett, for sure. He told me once that every guy—and he did emphasise every guy—out there wants a woman with long hair. What the fuck. And they claim that women are shallow.
Huh.
If I had a face with features to back it up, I'd cut off my hair just for the simple joy of annoying Emmett. And on the off-chance that he happens to be right, my chances of finding a prince won't be stifled anyway. (My doorstep swarming with eager hunks and all that, remember.)
: :
Tuesday, the 30th of November
4.55 PM. Listening to the sound of rain pouring on my windows. It rained all night yesterday.
It all starts with the fact that I forget my phone at home. It might seem like a harmless enough thing to do, but remember this for further reference. So, there I am, strolling through the corridors with my phoneless pocket and conversing with some of my Drama peers. It starts out as a day like any other. Edward and I get an A- in our Ozone layer project (we ceremoniously high-five each other), I get an A+ in Advanced Algebra and a very lonely, sad D in PE. Stupid high jump. If I needed to jump higher than three feet, I'd hire a kangaroo.
Yes, I know you can't hire a kangaroo. Whatever. The point is, I am not a high jumper. I cannot jump to save my life. But bleh, D might be my worst grade yet, but it's not a disaster or anything. Charlie doesn't seem to care less if I got As or Xs, anyway.
Ehm, veering off topic again. So, as if to make up for my lack of a phone, Edward seems to be glued to his. And I mean glued. Not that I've known him for a long time, you know I haven't, but I've never seen him so engrossed in a piece of technology. We only sit together in three classes—Biology, AP Chemistry and AP History—but our school is rather little and I still see him in corridors and such.
"Are you okay?" I ask as we wait for our fifth lesson, AP History, to begin. We sit next to each other in all three classes we share, you see, because he doesn't know that many people yet. It's going to be pretty painful when he gets his head up his ass once he gets popular. It's only a matter of time.
He nearly drops his phone but shrugs (only pretending to be nonchalant, trust me).
"I don't know."
"Is there any way I can help you?"
His typing halts to a stop as he, for the first time today, makes eye contact. I notice how incredibly tired he appears to be.
"I appreciate the offer. But no."
I wonder if I should push him or not. If things are serious, I mean, really serious, shouldn't he be with his family?
As gently as I can, I ask, "Has anything happened?"
Taken aback by my caring—or prying—he keeps his eyes locked with mine, probably trying to figure out if he can trust me or not. He doesn't say a word for so long I back off. You know, I am well aware that for many people, I'm a girl too curious for her own good. Or, in Emmett's loving words, 'a curious piece of shit.' He later apologized for that comment, but at that fragile age when so many people gave me hell at school, it was difficult to forget a comment such as that one.
"Sorry." I smile so as to assure him I'm okay with his silence. "I didn't really mean to pry."
It's just that Edward doesn't have many friends here in Seattle (yet), and somebody should care, right? I care.
"No, it's not that at all. It's just a long, messed up story."
"Not to pressure you, but FYI, I'm imagining you have an illegitimate child back in Chicago."
He actually laughs. It's sudden and quite a charming sound that echoes in the classroom. Everyone stops their talking to eye us, and Edward stifles his laughter.
"Thanks," he says, tired but smiling. "I needed that."
"So it's not an illegitimate child back in Chicago," I muse, tapping a finger on my chin, pretending to be calculating the possibilities of his worry. "A girl?"
His lifts one of his shoulders. "Kinda."
Kind of a girl? Now that that's all figured out.
"A transvestite friend going through gender surgery?"
Once again, he laughs, but successfully stifles it not to draw attention. "Jesus, Bella. In the future, if I have any problems at all, which I will, please remind me to simply spend time with you."
He emphasizes you. I pound on my chest and raise my chin all-too-high. "Not to worry, my dear friend, you shall endure your hardships no more."
This time, a few people in the classroom laugh as well. I smile at them.
"Seriously, though." I look back at Edward and let my expression sober. "I know you're pretty new over here, and I dunno why you're so wound up today, but if you need someone to, you know, vent to, I'm here. I know I'm a girl and everything, which is a minus in this kind of a situation, but I'm not the gossiping kind. I swear. Even Emmett can back me up on this one. Due to my lack of caring of my social status, or perhaps because of it, people only get information from me if I want them to. I rarely do, but the point is, it's my choice to make."
"Thanks, Bella." He offers a friendly, completely at ease smile. For the first time, I realize Edward can be pretty smooth sometimes—even after a rant like mine, he doesn't mock me or anything. That, my friends, is an 'aw' moment right there.
"But no-one's died or anything?"
"No." His expression sobers. "Hopefully not by tomorrow, either."
I shut up after that. I tend to make a joke almost in any situation, anywhere, any time, but this is the one situation I flat-out refuse to joke about. If he wants to share, he knows where to find me.
: :
Evening draws closer. Drama draws closer. One oh six, the auditorium, or hall, or the big room with the stage—or whatever—is filled with my Drama peers by four o'clock. I count seventeen souls, overall a good turn-up (the flu season had started after all), and motion for the guys and gals to have a seat at the edge of the stage. They do. Since our teacher Peter Gallaghe is still at the conference in Cleveland, OH, I continue to be their teacher of sorts. None of them seem to mind; in fact, most of them think it's inevitable that I should be their leader in the absence of Mr. Gallaghe. I'm pretty flattered, but I am not about to reveal that to them. Honestly, the teasing I would get.
Now, let me tell you something about Peter Gallaghe. He's been in our school two years, and you know how old he is? He's twenty four. Yes, you heard me right. He is the epitome of a high school girl crush in our school. He's athletic, intelligent, and knows how to have a good laugh. In spite of his appearance—always an appalling-colored vest with a tie—he doesn't take himself seriously at all. I mean, he's only a few years older than us.
Three years ago, with strict and old-fashioned and incredibly talented in the ways of opening us up, the old Mrs. Pope was a good teacher. She really was. But she was visibly tired by our energy and retired at the end of the year. She'd been our school's Drama teacher for nineteen years. And you know how Peter got that job? He's Mrs. Pope's grandson. He was supposed to be a temporary teacher. But I think I speak for all of us when I say we were very glad to see him stay. He's good fun.
Now, Mrs. Pope was great at what she did, but three years ago, there was barely nine of us in the Drama class. Not a whole lot. So, imagine my surprise when I entered one oh six as a freshman. Fifty people—yes, really—turned up for Drama. Now, for a school as tiny as ours, that's phenomenal, and I wondered who the hell had held them at gunpoint for them to enlist in a Drama class.
And then I saw him. Tall, muscly but lean, with a ridiculous-looking pink vest, a silky purple tie, and an eyebrow piercing. You know how many people can pull that combination off? Well, he could, and I could see the reason for that day's phenomenal turn-up. Most of high school's female population was here, after all. That year, we had forty four people in Drama class. We broke the record. But luckily, most of the ladies who were there for the man meat fizzled out. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against any of these girls, but if you're doin' it for the wrong reasons, you're doin' it for the wrong reasons. I didn't quit when Mrs. Pope was temporarily absent four years ago due to her mother's death, and was replaced by an absolute asshole who yelled at us so much we feared to breathe. Eight people quit because of him. Eight of us. I stayed. I was used to being tormented, and being yelled at was nothing out of the ordinary at that time. I could never quit Drama. It probably saved my life.
Oh, I'm being overly dramatic, you know what I mean.
And just to be clear, I do not have a girl crush on Peter Gallaghe. He's harmless fun for all of us, and he's been super supportive getting me out of my shell and making me consider SUNY, Purchase College in Purchase, NY. He doesn't know it, but he's the one who's given me the confidence to try. Whether I get in or not is another matter altogether, but I've made a promise to myself I will try. And I will.
"Glad to see you all here as I continue to pretend I know shit about acting. So for today, we'll try finishing reviewing the first act, and if we're lucky, Edward has agreed to show off his phenomenal guitar skills and sing us a song tonight."
A few girls whoop—yes, whoop—and everyone turns their heads. But Edward? He pales and nervously looks at his guitar next to a lonely chair.
"Um, no, I didn't."
"But you've brought your guitar, so you might as well play something for us. You're gonna sing in the musical regardless, right?" Tanya asks. She's a beautiful, half-Russian with an accent. She moved here a few years ago. She's also a bit shy. It's safe to say I like her.
"Excellent point well made, Tanya."
She smiles.
"Er, I'd rather not. Really. I'm not that good." He wants to tell them they weren't going to hear him play or sing. And with that expression? It's working.
"But you brought your guitar. It defeats the point of having done that."
"It's no big deal."
We stare at each other for a few seconds before I sigh. "Okay. Mr. Cullen is off the hook for now. Let's stop wasting time. We'll pair up and review the dialogue, and it would be cool if each of you could come up with a couple of changes. Honestly, who came up with this shit?"
Laurent, a senior jock, yells, "Mr. Gallaghe did!"
They chuckle.
"Right. Well, too bad, he's gonna suffer. Do you want me to pair you up or are you comfortable doing it yourselves?"
They pair up, and I get the one left behind. You know the one. The one who doesn't quite think they belong yet, who doesn't quite know how to clique works, and in all honesty, the one who doesn't know that nobody gives a shit in our Drama class. Everyone's super cool, and I could pair off the most seemingly arrogant hunk with the shiest girl, and they'd work it out. Because that's the way we do things. (Or maybe because I'd give them so much shit if they didn't.)
Edward ends up with a teeny-tiny girl from the fifth grade, Irina, who speaks in the softest volume possible and blushes every time Edward says his name. It's über cute. I think he got himself another admirer.
So, I get Laurent. He's an African-American, and I am honestly quite puzzled as to why he decided to take Drama this year next to football. He's neither shy nor cocky, but it's obvious he doesn't think he belongs. It's not that he doesn't belong, it's that he thinks he doesn't. And that changes everything.
I let Edward off the hook because I could see how much the horror of having to play in front of his peers distracts him. So I pull him to the side to ask if it would be better if he played only for me, just so I'd know if we could use his skills in the musical or not. He's relieved.
We have so much fun changing the lines we lose track of time. By the time everyone leaves, it's half to seven. We've never rehearsed for that long, and I apologize all I can, but no-one seems to mind. But now, Edward and I sit in the first row, just the two of us. The corridors are silent. It's dark and rainy outside.
"So."
"Don't be so nervous, Edward, it's nothing big. I won't force you to do anything you don't want to do. I'd just like to see if you'd like to be an addition to our musical."
"I'm not that good, really." He unzips his guitar-case. "And before you start to reassure me, I'm not being false-modest. I'm really not that good."
"Let me be the judge of that. I promise not to laugh if you're hideous."
"Thanks. Such a reassurance."
I laugh. He starts to look for something from his pockets and curses as he can't find it. "I guess I can't play for you, I left my pick at home."
"Oh, there's some in the back room."
His smile vanishes.
"Honestly, Edward? Do you have a stage fright? It's just me, friendly neighborhood Bella. I can even play some guitar for you, if you'd like, and that will be hideous. I've never touched a guitar in my life."
"Okay. Where's the back room?"
"It's down there."
The back room is a tiny room in the basement. The door is on the side of the stage, it goes down twenty steps or so, and there's a minuscule room with a few costumes, a few tennis balls and yes, picks. I know there are picks because Mr. Gallaghe plays guitar, too, and he's a prodigy or something. He's that good.
I lead Edward downstairs. It's dim and dingy and if the auditorium is silent then over here it's eerily so. The school could burn down and we wouldn't hear a thing. I'm glad he's not interested in exploring this room because it always creeps me out. Ever since I was little.
We find a silver pick, switch off the lights and climb upstairs. He lifts the guitar in his lap as I curl my feet under myself.
"What would you like to hear?"
"Pretty much anything goes."
He pauses. "Want to hear the truth?"
"Well, I'd always assumed you've been truthful, but alright."
"I actually prefer to strum with my fingers."
I let out a laugh. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You really hate doing this right now, don't you?"
"It's not that I hate it. It's just difficult for me to put myself out there. You know, I've never figured how singers could sing the songs they write for everyone to hear. It's so personal."
I stay silent. He starts strumming, gently, a goofy expression on his face, telling me he's not taking this seriously at all. It's a cool tune but I don't recognize it. He messes up bits and pieces, but he's not tone-deaf, neither is he bad.
The moment he raises his (yes, green) eyes, I smile at him. "What is it?"
"House of the Rising Sun, recorded by The Animals, I believe. The F-Major chord is kinda difficult. Do you like it?"
"It's cool."
"Bella," he says. "Be honest. Am I awful?"
And I know that if I were to think it's horrible, and tell him so, he'd stay away from playing for anyone, probably ever. His expression is so earnest, so naked and open for my criticism, that immediately I know I might be the only one he's ever played his guitar, or one of the only ones. That's a lot of responsibility to have.
If anyone—still talking to you, Emmett—reads this, you'll probably think I'm a prick for not gushing about how amazing he is. But I don't want to lie. He's not bad, not at all, but he does occasionally mess up and he's got a lot to learn. But I can honestly say one thing—he's definitely got a lot of potential.
"That's really good."
I'm not lying. He's good.
"You think so?" He perks up. "I know I mess up some places, but I love playing, so I figure I'll improve."
"Of course you will. And I do. Would you mind strumming a few songs for us in the musical?"
"You really want me to?"
"I'd love it."
"Then sure. But please give me some time to adjust to the Drama class. Don't make me play for them on Thursday."
"Okay."
"Which songs do you want me to play?"
"I'll talk it over with Peter and let you know so you could start practicing early on. Is that okay?"
He starts strumming another song, but looks up. "Sure. Who's Peter?"
"Peter Gallaghe, our Drama teacher."
"You call him by his first name?"
"Edward, when you meet him on Thursday, you will see it's impossible to call him Mr. Gallaghe. He's only a few years older than us. The girls adore him."
"Including you?" he jokes.
"Especially me! Why do you think I'm in Drama?"
He's so startled—probably by my "honesty"—he misses a few chords. I laugh. "Seriously, Edward? I know we haven't known each other for long but—seriously? You think I'd do that?"
"I don't know, would you?"
"God, no!"
He smiles. "You're really good at the whole Drama thing, you know."
"Thanks, Edward. I'm glad you think so."
"The others think so, too, it's obvious."
I smile and stand, wiping imaginary dust off my bottom. "Thanks for playing for me. I know you didn't really want to, so I appreciate it all the more. I guess we should pack our stuff and head home? Everyone else has probably left. Except for the gym teacher. He always here it seems."
He puts his guitar back into the case. I tell him to leave the pick on the piano—I can put that away tomorrow—and we climb upstairs to the back of the room. I turn the doorknob, but the door doesn't move. Thinking I've forgotten the way the door works, I pull, but again, it doesn't move.
It's locked.
"Are there any other doors?" Edward asks.
"Well, shit. It's the only one."
"No emergency exits?"
"There's only one two-glass window, and it's—way up there."
The window is, like, eleven feet above the stage floor. There is no way we're able to climb that high, or even if I could climb on his shoulders, what would he do? I wouldn't leave him here alone.
"Alright. Let's yell for help. My dad's a cop, and he's always emphasized that whenever you need help, don't just yell, 'Help!' but 'Fire!' He claims it way more effective."
"Okay."
"On three."
"One. Two." We pause, looking at each other. "Three."
"Fire!" we both yell. We repeat the numbers, shout with all the capacity our lungs are able to provide, and wait. Nothing. We do it again.
Nothing happens.
"Can you call your parents?"
"Right."
He takes phone from his pocket. It's dead. I'm not surprised, really. He's been using it the entire day. It's an iPhone. That's a clusterfuck of battery death right there.
"What other choices do we have?"
"Sing."
"What?"
"Sing," I repeat. Taking two steps at once, I walk back to the front of the stage and put down my bag. He follows my actions.
"Do you have anything left of your lunch?"
He takes our his lunchbox. "An apple, a granola bar and half a sandwich."
"Anything to drink?"
"Sparkling water," he sighs. "Unopened. I hate sparkling water. I accidentally took that one."
"Good, we can switch. I have a bunch of caramel candies, chocolate, and a bottle of multivitamin drink." I gaze at him, trying to comprehend without asking whether or not he's the type of person who's going to flip out and panic in a situation like this one.
"Good," he says. "At least we have liquids."
I nod.
"Do you want to try to kick off the door?"
"Should I? It looks kind of sturdy."
We look at the door. It really is one of those old-school wooden doors.
"No offense or anything, but a guy thrice the size of you couldn't probably kick off that door."
"Chuck Norris could."
"No, he couldn't. He'd just blow it off its hinges. Or walk straight through it."
He laughs. It's a liberating sound in a situation like this one, so I join. We sit on a long bench in front of the piano, and look at each other.
"Now what? We just wait for the morning?"
"I guess."
He smiles. "I'm glad you're not the type of girl to freak out or cry."
"You know, I was thinking the exact same thing earlier. How much more difficult it would be for me to deal with a guy who starts yelling and blaming me or freaking out. Thanks for not doing that. Although it really might be my fault."
"Why do you think so?"
"I led you to the basement. Someone probably came to lock the room, and we could've prevented this if we'd never gone down there."
"With that logic, I could've just told you I don't like playing with picks."
"So let's agree it's neither of our fault."
"Agreed."
"Do you play the piano as well?" I ask, just to hear music, or a sound, or something other than the drumming of raindrops on the window. I usually adore the sound of raindrops on my window, especially when it's dark and I'm going to sleep, but it's a little eerie to think we're the only ones in this building. I'm not freaking out, but I don't feel safe, either.
"No, do you?"
"I can carry a tune or two," I answer, snickering as I lift the fallboard. "You're not allowed to laugh, though. I'd really appreciate if you didn't."
"Of course," he agrees, clearly eager to hear me play. Now, when I was little, I took piano lessons from the ages of five to twelve. I'm not horrible. I'm not great, either. There is only one song that I am confident in playing.
"I'll play if you sing."
He scrunches up his nose, not looking too eager. "Can't we both sing?"
"Deal."
He's clearly surprised by my compliance, but I start playing, and you know what? It actually feels good to play. I haven't played for so long, and I was so young when I started, it feels kind of natural. I haven't played in years. It's my mom's favorite song, and out of guilt for not loving the piano as much as she did, or perhaps out of my longing to live with dad, I don't know, I've grown to love the song. I could listen to it over and over again, and not tire at all.
I start to sing. Edward joins me and I'm so surprised by the fact that he actually knows this song that I stop playing.
"Silver Thunderbird. It's my s—it's a fantastic song." He stares at my hands. "You're amazing with the piano, Bella. Why didn't you tell me? I feel awkward even thinking about my pathetic attempts with the guitar."
"Thanks," I say, smiling. "You're really nice to me. And your attempts weren't pathetic, Edward. Not at all. How long have you played the guitar?"
"Only a few years." He rubs his neck. "You?"
"Seven years."
"Huh." He sort of huffs and chuckles at the same time. "Wow."
"I literally haven't played for five years."
"Why not? You're really amazing with the piano, Bella, and I'm not kidding or being just polite or anything."
"That's just one song. I suck at the others."
"Just to stop the argument, I'll agree. How about we finish the song?"
I re-start playing, and we sing together. I'm being silly, because I'm not a great singer or anything, but you know what? Yes, I admit Edward's guitar-playing, although decent, is not extraordinary, but his singing? If he made a song devoted to toilet paper, I would totally curl up behind the bathroom door and listen to that voice. It's nice of him to think that I can play (admittedly, he's only heard me play this one song), but he could eat MTV Awards with that voice. At one point, he doesn't realize I stop singing, and it's just him and my piano playing, and at that little moment, I am happy that we're stuck here. He's phenomenal. He really is. I am awed.
I think I'm in love.
Hehe, not really.
I stop, and we just sit there for one tiny moment, listening to the echo of the last chord.
I gently smack him at the back of his head. "Speak for yourself." He stares at me in wonder and starts rubbing the back of his head. I didn't hurt him, God no, but he's just so distracted.
"I'm amazing, huh? Edward? You could shit Grammies with that voice."
"What?"
"I said you could shit Grammies with that voice. Just take a dump and pop out a Grammy."
"Sure," he says, not convinced. I just want to shake him.
"Honestly, I've heard Peter Gallaghe sing, and he got into Julliard. He didn't go because he didn't have the money and his granny got sick, but seriously. You're like a child prodigy. Have you been to competitions or anything?"
I can tell that my reaction threw him out of the loop, and he's so taken aback, he doesn't even know how to react.
"Edward? I'm telling you. You're amazing."
"You think so?"
"I know so. I will personally make sure you get discovered when you've realized your potential."
"You think so?" he repeats, eyes still not focusing on anything.
"Seriously, are you begging for praise? Or are you really that clueless? You've never been to any song competitions or anything?"
"I went to a few when I was in elementary school."
"And?"
"Didn't win a single one of them. I was a bit of an underdog, really."
"Have you considered pursuing music?"
For the first time, I can see fire and enthusiasm and energy beneath his confusion and nerves. "I would like nothing more."
"Then it's settled."
"What is settled?"
"We'll get you to go to a few bars and stuff so you could sing live."
"Oh, hell no," he backs off. "Not in a million years. I'm not good with crowds. I hate speaking in public."
"We'll get you into the debate team. You get to face your fears."
He looks horrified. "Um, no. No."
"But you're brilliant, Edward. You'd definitely have the looks, and the talent, so it's not like anyone's stopping you."
We stare at each other, and I can tell he's getting uncomfortable. I suddenly realize what I sound like—like I'm coming on to him, and suddenly I am equally as horrified as he was when he heard my suggestion about being in the debate team.
"Uh, sorry," I back off, raising my hands as if in surrender. "I didn't mean to sound like—I'm not—I'm not coming on to you or anything, I swear."
"That's too bad," he jokes.
"Yeah, otherwise we could be having wild sex right now."
He sort of freezes before letting out a snorty laugh. "Bella you really are something else. That's a compliment."
"Thank you." I stand and curtsy. My stomach grumbles. "Are you hungry?"
"Starving."
"That's great, because we have a three-course meal waiting for us."
"Fantastic."
We sit in the middle of the stage and share the content of our respective lunch boxes. I get the half of his half-sandwich, and he gets half of my candies and half of my chocolate. We switch drinks. I don't mind. It's a good meal.
"Thanks, Bella. For being so—you know—welcoming. You're a cool girl. I'm glad it was you I got stuck in here with."
"Thanks. Likewise."
"I'm a cool girl?"
"Yes."
We laugh. I chew and swallow and gulp down water, and I suddenly feel like sharing something. Because in all seriousness, I've grown to trust Edward, and he asked, but I didn't answer.
"I haven't seen my mother in five years."
"Why not?"
"I guess, I don't know. I don't hate her, but my parents' break-up wasn't all rainbows and sunshine. She hasn't come to visit us and we've never gone down to visit her and it was kind of hard for the first few years, but I got used to it. Now I wish she were here. Kind of pathetic, isn't it?"
"Bella, you're a teenage girl. It wouldn't make any sense for you to not miss her. Is she happy where she is?"
"I really hope so. I speak to her sometimes on the phone, but perhaps I should make a bigger effort. It just doesn't sound like she's that interested in what's going on in my life."
"I'm sure that's not true."
"Thanks. I appreciate that you think so." I offer a pursed-lips smile, because I've been so wrong about Edward in a sense. When it matters, Edward isn't awkward at all. He's actually really smooth, in a really non-cheesy way. I like it.
We throw away the thrash and sit on the somewhat comfy chairs in the front row. The rain has intensified, and we just sit, listening to the sounds.
"I have a sister," he whispers as if the knowledge were too sacred.
"Really? Jasper never mentioned. What's her name?"
"He doesn't know."
"How?"
"Neither do my parents."
"What? That—that doesn't make any sense."
"You're literally the first person to know, other than me."
I'm awed by the trust he has in me, but I can't comprehend what he's saying. "So you—you're adopted."
He hums, and I figure it's affirmative because he says nothing else for a while.
"I found out a few years ago."
"Did they tell you?"
"No, I—it was an accident. They couldn't get pregnant and… adopted me. I think I was three or four, old enough not to have explicit memories of my own parents."
Frankly, I don't know what to say. I'm a little appalled with myself, thinking that me not seeing my mom for five years was a big deal. And then there are guys like Edward, who, in their teenage years, find out their parents aren't biologically theirs. It's difficult to wrap my head around that kind of knowledge.
"How'd you find out?"
"Facebook. You know, it has face recognition, and I accidentally met with my sister in summer camp. We're in a picture together with twenty other people. She had the picture, put it up, and with that face recognition, she tagged me. She contacted me for some trivial matters and we started to talk. She knew she was adopted all along, she's flip-flopped in and out of families her whole life. Her current family is a nightmare. Can't imagine the shit she must've pulled through." His eyes focus on me. "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to bother you with this knowledge."
"You're not bothering me at all. You can trust me. I'm interested in what you have to say. Sometimes it's good to just… vent."
"She had brain surgery today."
"Oh, shit."
"Yeah."
"Do you know what was wrong with her?"
"She hasn't really elaborated, but it's not cancer."
"I'm sure she'll be okay. Were you talking to one of her friends today?"
"Yeah. Trying to get information."
"Have you let your parents know you're aware of your adoption?"
"No. And I intend to keep it that way. They—they're great people, they really are. I've grown up with the knowledge they're my real parents, so they're still mom and dad for me, but—when I found out, it sort of made sense. They've always been OCD about any signs of sickness I show, and sometimes their worry, it's just… so overwhelming. And they're so desperate to see me succeed academically."
"Do you think they've noticed your absence by now?"
"I'm pretty sure they've got detectives looking for me right now."
"If my dad has a night shift, he's looking for you as well."
"And you?"
"He probably doesn't even know I'm not home, so maybe not."
"What about your brother?"
"If my dad has a night shift, Emmett is embracing the opportunity of getting himself wasted. So there's really no-one there to notice my absence."
"I'm sorry."
I swear, he always looks so earnest saying that. He's such an amazing guy. I hope once he realizes his talent, or once our school's female population hears him sing, he doesn't get too cocky. It would kill me to see his caring nature go down the drain. I wouldn't mind if he grew some confidence, but arrogant asses as friends wouldn't bode well with me. Then again, once he gets popular, he probably wouldn't even pretend to know me. The fact saddens me greatly.
"They're looking for you, though, so we might have a chance of getting out tonight."
"I wouldn't care either way," he says, smiling. "Really. Think of all the stories we get to tell our college friends. We get to spend the night at school, doing whatever we wish."
"Like sleeping?"
"Like sleeping." He chuckles. "Are you tired?"
Neither of us has any idea what time it is, I don't have a phone, Edward's is dead, and there's no clock on the wall. But it feels late. He puts his guitar case in the middle of the stage (we'll use it as a pillow) and we lie down. I'm on the one side, he's on the other, and our bodies create a horizontal line. For a moment, we enjoy the silence. It's getting chilly.
"Edward?"
"Yeah?"
"I like you."
I tilt my head up, making sure to lock eyes with him, and battle my eyelashes for good measure. He's upside-down from my viewpoint, but our heads are next to each other. I wrap arms around my stomach.
He frowns. "Pardon?"
"I like you."
For a few amusing seconds, he keeps staring at me (upside-down), but when I can no longer keep in my laughter, he chuckles.
"Jesus. I thought you were serious for a second."
"Aw, way to kill my buzz." I laugh. "I was just seconds away from admitting my deep, unfathomable love for you."
"You're crazy."
"You know it."
"I don't even know why I spend time with you."
"It's 'cause I'm breathtakingly beautiful, admit it," I reply. "Do you think they'll let us skip school tomorrow?"
"I think your father is the likeliest candidate to get us out before it comes down to spending the night."
"You mean you don't want to sleep with me after all?" I mock-gasp. "That's preposterous!"
This time, he lets out a hearty laugh.
"Edward?"
"Yeah?"
"Aren't you cold?"
"No, not really. Are you?"
"Freezing."
"Oh." He shifts a little. "Okay. Do you want to come to my side?"
"And force you to sleep with me? Of course!"
I snicker, and so does he, but really, if I'm cold now, I'll freeze during the night. I lie down next to him at a reasonable distance and stare at the ceiling.
"I so wish the basement had blankets, or that this carpet wasn't stuck on the floor."
"I know. But you know, when people are losing body heat, and they have no blankets or anything, it's most effective to be next to another body."
"Why, are you suggesting we sleep together, Mr. Cullen?"
"That appears to be true." He raises his arm. "Oh, come on. You'll freeze to death. Come'ere. You know I won't attempt anything, I know you won't, and you're freezing your butt off."
I shift closer to him and face away from him. He wraps an arm around my waist. I smile. The action is completely innocent, nothing sexual at all, but it's still the first time for me to be in boy's arms like that. It isn't exactly his choice to be stuck in here with me, but he's a good friend, and he cares. I find his actions sweet. There's no ulterior motive neither from my part or his. Other than to get warm, I mean.
But I feel very safe in his arms.
"You smell nice."
"Bottles of cologne every morning."
"I could tell."
"That was a complete and total lie."
"I could tell."
"Behind your cool girl shield, you are such a know-it-all."
"I know."
I can feel his chuckle. "And funny, too."
"Are you trying to sweet-talk me into sleeping with you?"
"Why? Is it working?"
"You might as well tickle a potato to make it laugh."
"That bad, huh? I must be losing my mojo."
"You poor, mojoless bastard."
He hums.
"That, and the fact that a guy like you never goes for a girl like me, even if I were interested in you."
"Why do you say that?"
"Oh, just, you know… real life and all that."
"I am that lacking in social skills? Thanks, Bella. Raising my confidence one comment at a time."
"Oh, Jesus. Don't sound so hurt. I am clearly referring to my extraordinary appearance."
"You think all guys want—is a pretty girl?"
"Don't they?"
"I asked you first."
"Honestly? Yes."
"Why do you think so?"
"Edward, have you ever read a book or seen a movie with the female love interest truly lacking in appearance? And I mean, like, really ugly. Not just, oh, she has braces and she's unpopular, she must be ugly."
"Sure I have."
"Oh, really? Name some. Amuse me. And The Beauty and the Beast does not count. He became all pretty and shit in the end. Any movie or book where the ugly gets to magically become pretty doesn't count."
"That's just fiction."
"I understand that. But would you like to name some of these works where the ugly girl stays ugly, and still gets the amazing, handsome man?"
"You think I'm amazing and handsome?"
"I think you're becoming really big-headed as this conversation continues."
"So you think I'm amazing and handsome."
"Now you're already arrogant. Such a turn-off, Edward. Never do that with girls. Now, I asked you a question. Would you like to name the incredible amount of fiction dedicated to girls who don't just think they're ugly, but really are. And do not get to become the swan in the end?"
"You're a swan."
"Now you're also a liar. That's not only a turn-off, it's a deal-breaker. Never do that with girls, either."
"Are you teaching me how to behave with girls, Isabella Swan?"
"Yes, I am. And you better take notes. If you become an arrogant prick after you decide you're too talented for us mere mortals, I will not be pleased."
"Oh, I don't think that's very likely."
"You realizing you're talented or you becoming a prick?"
"Either."
"I beg to differ."
"You don't think very highly of me, do you."
"I do think very highly of you, and that's kind of a problem, because once you realize what a social suicide I am, I'll be a mere memory and you'll probably never even acknowledge me in the corridor. That will not be fun."
"I would never do that."
"We'll see."
"Even if what you think about my talent becomes true, I'd never do that. I promise."
"You promise, huh?"
"I promise."
"Very well, then. You should know that you just gave me full permission to break your nose if you ever decide you are too high and mighty to be my friend."
"I give you my full permission, Bella."
"Huh. That's an interesting turn of events."
"Why?"
"Because I can hold you responsible for becoming a shitty friend, and while you might still ignore my attempts at trying to pick up the pieces of our friendship, I will feel better when I've given my best."
"I'm glad it will never happen."
Even though he couldn't see it, I smile. At least for now, he's down-to-earth, and doesn't immediately write me off as a social suicide. He's such a sweet guy I might re-think not being interested in him. And even if I were, nothing would ever happen for the same reasons we just discussed so thoroughly.
"Your hair smells nice."
"I bathe in strawberries two hours a day."
"Really?"
"I use the cheapest shampoo available. I don't even know what it's supposed to smell like because the label is in Spanish."
"Strawberries. You smell like strawberries."
"I really hope that is not your usual line for girls, because it becomes eerily close."
"My usual? What do you take me for?"
"So you're not even close to being a man-whore?"
"God, no."
"Good. I'd hate so patch up all the hearts you'll break in our school."
"What that a compliment or an insult?"
"I'm not quite sure myself."
After a moment of silence, his grasp tightens around me as he admits, "You're such a weird girl."
"I refuse to take it any other way than as a compliment."
"It is."
"Thank you. I apologize in advance, but I might fall asleep within thirty seconds. And you're right, I'm so much warmer this way. Give your hot bod my thanks."
He laughs, and I feel it reverberate. For the first time in my life, I drift off in boy's arms.
I wake up to an argument, not quite next to me but pretty loud nonetheless. I can't move. Slowly, I come to. I find myself looking at an unusual looking ceiling with pipes or something. Light is coming into the auditorium through the windows. I'm facing Edward's chest. My head is on the ground, just next to his heart. It beats slowly and steadily. I've never been so intimately in a man's arms, and I might never get a repeat performance. I shut my eyes.
You know, Edward is no jock, but it still feels really nice to be curled up next to him like this. He's warm and looks so innocent and I don't really mind that my back is about to kill me for the rest of the day.
But the taste in my mouth is not pleasant.
I can hear someone try to open the door, but it's locked. The argument continues. I realize I recognize these voices and we need to get up as soon as possible. But the door opens and a whole bunch of juniors—our classmates—swarm in. Seniors follow them. The grim-looking principal is in the front along with my angry dad and Edward's exhausted-looking parents. Emmett looks like he won the lottery.
They stop as they see us.
With a rapidly beating heart, I make a tremendous effort to get out from under Edward, but he almost lying on me and only tightens his grip. He's going to get shot by my dad if he continues like this.
"Edward?"
He squeezes me.
"Edward."
I shake his chest to move him. He doesn't.
"M'hmm."
"Your parents are here. As is my dad. The Chief of Police."
As if burnt, he lets go of me. I get up and rub my aching back. Edward, too, grimaces as he gets up. He grabs his guitar case, and together, we jump off the stage. The crowd of students eye us, some amused and some wary, but everyone incredibly interested in what just occurred.
Oh God. We're up for some serious gossip.
"You know, Mr. Kramer, for years I've suggested that this auditorium needs another door next to the stage. But I guess—investing in a blanket wouldn't hurt, either."
The only person looking angrier than Mr. Kramer is my dad.
"So I get to scratch off #74 from my bucket list. I really appreciate that."
"Having sex on the auditorium stage?" a voice I recognize yells from the crowd.
I laugh.
Oh, well. This week is going to be so much fun. My dad is so red he's either going to have a heart attack or kill Edward. Edward, on the other hand, has gone so pale I can almost see through him. The sheer horror on his face is unequaled as he stares at my dad.
Huh.
You'd think they're worried that we've died of hunger and thirst and drowned in our feces, but no. Let's worry about whether or not we had sex.
Jesus. Must be difficult to be a parent of a teenager.
"Mr. Cullen. Miss Swan. My office. Now!"
I make sure to bring dad with me after he's given me a one-armed hug. I don't need him to use his gun on the guy who generously offered me his warmth in the chilly night. Edward's mother, a fragile-looking and beautiful creature, holds on to Edward's face as she emphasizes how worried they've been. Luckily for Edward, this happens after we've left the auditorium, so he isn't that all that embarrassed. His father gives him a hug, a real one. With both arms.
Can you hug me like that, dad? Just once? So I would know what it feels like for someone to care about you more than your own life?
As we sit in the two chairs in the principal's office, staring at his golden name-plate, 'Principal Wallace Kramer,' our parents sit on the chairs under the window, facing Mr. Kramer's table. Edward's mom is leaning forward, holding on to Edward's wrist, and I realize I'm jealous. I've never felt jealous of anyone like that before, but now I am. I want to have a family who isn't afraid to let me know that they care so much they'd stay up all night worrying about me. I want my dad to hug me, really hug me. I want my mom to, well, care.
Is that so much to ask?
"Your parents have been worried sick over you, and you two were breaking and entering the schoolhouse. In addition, after having stolen the laptops, you two decided to spend the night in the auditorium. Explain yourselves."
"Excuse me?" Edward asks.
"What are you talking about? We haven't—we didn't—we were stuck—"
"Start explaining right now before I expel you both."