"August Mayer, a professor at the University of Bonn and a man of influence, insisted that the bones were merely those of a Mongolian Cossack soldier who had been wounded while fighting in Germany in 1814 and had crawled into the cave to die. Hearing this, T. H. Huxley in England drily observed how remarkable it was that the soldier, though mortally wounded, had climbed sixty feet up a cliff, divested himself of his clothing and personal effects, sealed the cave opening, and buried himself under two feet of soil." — Bill Bryson, A Short History of Nearly Everything, page 435

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Sunday, the 5th December
5:56 PM, watching my new twinkling (orange!) Christmas lights and listening to Winter Song by Ronan Keating — it's beautiful. It hasn't snowed this year, and hasn't promised to do so, but I almost feel like Christmas.

This time, I really do have too much to say. And that's not a lie. Alright, I'll try to make this somewhat orderly. Four days' worth of information—and not the usual kind—to be covered with one go. My hand is going to hurt. But it'll be worth it. When I'm fifty years old and have nine cats and the chimney sweeper is the most exciting part of my life, I shall look back at my wild days with a smile.

I said 'wild'. That's totally a word to describe me. Haha.

Thursday morning, I felt—er—not-so-good when I woke up. Like I'd been squished under a caterpillar tractor and left to drown in a mud puddle. Every movement hurt like a bitch. So painful.

I guess I should start stretching after my morning jogs, huh? Lesson well learnt.

So, I've been continuing my morning jogs. Sure, they're more like a mixture of snail-style running and walking, but I've only just started. I'll improve. And the feeling of lactic acid in my muscles—I have them?!—is so completely foreign to me I'm surprised anyone at all in this planet enjoys this kind of torture. But I still get up insanely early to run in the empty, wet, dark streets. Go figure.

And it was Emmett's turn to make breakfast (sic). Uh-oh. Sure, he poured some boiling water on instant oatmeal and tossed some salt on it, but it's an effort. It counts. I've made it clear to him that while I might enjoy making dinner some days, I am neither his mother nor girlfriend that I should cook and clean and polish and vacuum and shit. He can drown in his pile of dirty clothes for all I care, he's going to do them himself.

Yeah, I'm a big bad wolf, boo-hoo. He's cool and all, but I am not his servant.

Also, I've encountered our coach, Mr. Black, three times out of the three times I've been jogging. We've developed this curt (but polite) nod toward each other before heading off to our respective directions. What I cannot understand is—for how long does he jog if I've seen him at 4.30...ish AM as well as 6.40…ish. Does he jog for three hours? Insanity. Nothing but insanity.

Anyway. I'm glad to say that people's eagerness to discuss what Edward and I did or did not do has lessened. Our little lunch act probably helped, and although more people think we're involved, less people seem to care. Sure, what imaginary sex takes from a high school girl's—er, how do I put it?—status, it's gives to a guy's. (Nothing but discriminating and unfair, if you ask me. Why should men's sexual prowess—imagined or not—be a source of admiration and women's a source of scolding? Like, pardon my language, but who gives a shit. If a woman wants to be sexually active, that's her business and hers alone. Like, really.)

And you know, Edward's reactions to any of those times I've caught him off guard have always been sharp and witty, so I'm not at all surprised that he's now pretty well known in our school. If at first he was known for the sheer fact that he was new, now it's different. He's still awkward, sure, but it's the charming kind, you know? He doesn't look or seem or act arrogant at all (so far), and that makes him…wanted? Yeah, I guess that's the word I should use.

Haha, where's your mind? No, not like that.

Or probably like that as well, but it's more like…a lot of people seek out his company, and it will take a while for me to get used to. I'm not jealous or anything (well…maybe a little), but mostly it's just strange. Very strange. The girls don't know what to make of us, so they don't flirt with him too blatantly or anything. (Not when I'm around, at least, haha.) I'm amused. I guess I should apologize to Edward or make it clear that in no way, shape or form are we together, but I'm not really bothered. I don't care much.

Oh, remember my dad's little intention to have another talk with us? He's avoiding both me and Emmett in a way never seen before. We cannot even properly step into the house before dad has to go grocery shopping (which he hates) or eat dinner with Billy or go to the vehicle inspection. It's funny. I just wish he'd show us some respect, sat down and told us he has a girlfriend. But nope. Dad excels at beating around the bush. Or, in this case, running around the forest and pretending there's no bush. Not a single one.

Okay then.

So, just like Peter told us, he wanted to hear me play. In front of everybody. Yay. I could feel the incredible excitement running through my veins.

Not.

And yes, Peter was back from his conference (did I tell you what it was for? his PhD, apparently), but I still had to "open" the Drama class because the teachers had a meeting of some sorts. I guess Mr. Kramer is trying to make everyone behave properly in this new celeb status our school is getting. The incident of me and Edward locked in the auditorium has now raised some "serious safety issues" all over Seattle, and they're all about "what ifs" these days. What if these two students got injured? What if they got sick? What if they panicked? Couldn't get help? Yada-yada.

Want to hear something amusing?

They did both of the things I thought they'd do. They put a spare key into the basement, and they're now going to officially break down a wall for the auditorium to have a second door. All because Edward and I got to spend a night in an unorthodox place. And on Wednesday, just after lunch, the IT guy—Mr. Frank Hendrikson—personally came to apologize to me and Edward. He was so stressed. For about ten minutes, he went on and on about how sorry he was before the bell saved us. I mean, we tried to convince him it wasn't a big deal, but really. He's pretty anxious.

Why's everyone so afraid that we'll sue them? Ah, right. America.

Again, I've distracted myself with useless babble. Oh, well. At least, Emmett—you're asleep by now. Now I can talk about having wild sex with Edward on the kitchen counter.

Just kidding! Hahaha. Maybe I should ask Edward. Now that I've slept with him more than once. Um, no. Not like that. But that's a longer story—a heartbreaking one—which I will get to right away. You know, for two people who are only starting to build the foundations for their friendship (that sounded way fancy) we sure do end up sleeping together a lot. But it's not what you think. It really isn't. I promise.

Huh. Where was I? Oh, yeah, Drama on Thursday. Peter, of course, only notified me that he'd be late, and mentioned that I start the class without him. It would be fun if he at least pretended I had a choice. Not that I mind starting the class, but a little bit of pretend-choice would be excellent. So I could pretend to think about it, and pretend that denying him is an actual thought.

I happen to like choice, you know? Make me feel like I have no choice, and I'll refuse everything.

Anyway. I asked Tanya to put down all our names—including the ones who weren't here—so that we could draw out names for Christmas gifts. Despite the lack of snow, it was already the 2nd of December, and we usually draw names out of a hat for gift exchange and hand them over on our Christmas party on the 20th of December. It's nothing fancy. We have fun and sing and act goofy all night. It's tons of silly and super fun.

When all the names were in, I gave the old (almost wizardly-looking) hat an exaggerated shake, and one by one, everyone got a name. Some groaned—usually girls who got a boy's name, because teenage boys seem to be the toughest to please—and Laurent and Irina got their own name, so they put theirs back and took another.

"Now, remember, whoever gets my name needs to dedicate it to 'the most gorgeous girl Bella'—and I will accept nothing but a pink screwdriver."

"And chocolate," Tanya added, laughing.

"Yes. And that."

I noticed Edward hadn't moved an inch from his place at the edge of the stage.

"Ahoi! Fake boyfriend of mine! Come'n'pick a slip."

Without looking up from his new iPhone, in a low voice, he said, "Patience, my love."

There was something about the way he said it, so confident and fake-charming, that everyone immediately burst into fits of giggles. I'm telling you, inside that often uncomfortable-looking man is a confident charmer waiting to come out. Like, really. He can be so smooth. Just because of that I am already jealous of the beauty he's going to snatch up. Ah, you know. He's just such a cool guy.

"You're only excused if you're writing me a love letter," I replied, walking next to him. "Just pick a slip and you can continue with my love letter and I can continue being the boss."

"Like a boss," he said, taking a slip with an exaggerated sigh.

"Bella, who'd you get?" Laurent yelled.

"You!"

"For real?"

"Not being sarcastic at all."

"Damn."

"Why? Did you get me?"

"Already working on the dedication, baby."

"I'm glad you've seen the light and it has my pretty face on it."

Some rolled their eyes and most laughed. They're all so used to me making fun of my appearance no-one really initiates it. Well, some do, but it's all in good fun and they're just teasing.

Half an hour later, as we were repeating the lines in groups and waited for a few choir members to join us, Peter did just that. Without a word, he strolled to the hat and picked a name. He grinned and slipped it into his pocket.

"Why so mysterious?" Tanya asked, smiling.

"Let me have my fun," he replied, clapping his hands a few times. "I see Bella's been busy. That's great. Now if I could have your attention for a moment, that'd be great."

"Am I in trouble?"

"Very much so."

"What did I do?"

"You're more popular than I am. You know how much I can't stand that."

"Ah, shoot. I'll try to contain my prettiness."

"Yes, you do that."

"It will be difficult, you know, but I'd do anything for you."

He smiled. "Anything? Now that's what I like to hear. Hey, everyone, who's up to listening Bella play the piano and Edward sing, huh?"

Edward turned pale. I don't think even I am capable of turning a shade as white as he was at the moment.

"I didn't know you played the piano!"

"Just as long as I don't have to sing!"

"Just as long as I get the thinnest costume. I don't want to be baked by the end of the night!"

I motioned for Edward to join me as I walked over to Peter. "Hey, you know, can we do it later without a bunch of spectators? Edward's not very good with crowds and I'm not too eager to play, either. Is that okay?"

He leaned on the edge of the stage. "It's just, what, fourteen of us? That's barely one tenth of how many of us there will be in the audience during Christmas." He took a breath, locking eyes with the both of us. "I'd really appreciate it."

"But if I'm awful at the piano, you're not to comment, okay?"

"Deal."

"C'mon, Edward." I take his wrist in mine and give it a gentle squeeze before I sit down next to the piano and raise the fallboard. I look up to Edward, letting him know it's his call when we start, and he nods. He's still pale—but determined. I slid my hands on the keys, and start Silver Thunderbird. It really is the one song I feel confident in playing, and Edward sung it so well on Monday. He starts hesitantly, but when I goofily join in at the chorus (he takes this singing assignment way too seriously), he gains confidence and finishes boldly. Brilliantly. Not once does he look away from my fingers or face. I guess he was searching for my cues as well as trying not to be so freaked out. I empathize.

"Well, fuck me," Peter says after an awkward silence.

"You're kind of a teacher, you know? If that's not fraternization, I don't know what is."

He laughs, and when he starts to clap, the others join in. I stand, and do an exaggerated curtsy while Edward beams and bows. He's back to himself.

We get off the stage as soon as we can, though.

Little Irina comes up to us and taps on my black jeans. "Are you gonna be on American Idol next year? Like a duet? 'Cause I would vote for you two."

"You know, Irina, that's a very good question," Peter says, grinning. "How about you sing that as a part of our Christmas compilation?"

I see Edward modestly shaking his head, and for once, I agree with him.

"It's a song about son's love for his father, nothing to do with Christmas," I answer. "Not to mention, it's about the only thing I can play somewhat decently."

"Yeah, yeah, let's all pity the talentless Bella," Peter says as he motions for us to sit in a circle to rehearse the (musical's) songs and repeat lines. "And who cares, it's a great song." He pauses. "Alright, here's what we'll do. We'll vote for it—who thinks Bella and Edward sound awesome together and should sing during the school's Christmas party?"

Not the great majority, but the absolute majority (everyone) raised their hands. I groaned.

"Well, shit, shouldn't it be our decision? Like mine? Edward's? Ours?"

"Tsk, tsk, foul language in front of a teacher, what would your father say?"

"Shit, shit, shit—fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckidy fuck! Shit. Fuck." I took a breath. "Want to go to Mr. Kramer? I'm waiting."

"You're no fun at all," Peter fake-scoffed. "And you might've noticed that while I don't really care, we have some, er, younger audience here as well."

I looked at the four elementary schoolers, and flushed. Well, I, uh, really had forgotten. Jesus, I'm such a bad role model. I was just trying to tease him. Oh, well.

"I'm sure they've heard worse from Discovery channel."

He huffed a chuckle. "Probably."

See? Peter Gallaghe is actually cool. He's pretty chill about everything, and we've never had to go to the principal with any of our problems.

That evening, as we leave, Peter is extra careful with locking the door. Yes, there's another door being made, but it's in the process of measurements and red graffiti-looking signs on the wall. Nothing has been taken down yet.

In silence, Edward and I start to walk home together in the relative darkness. He's kind of pensive, looking at streetlights and kicking pebbles.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah."

"And your sister?"

"She's stable, which is about as good as it can be."

"Are you mad at me that I let Peter watch us perform together? Because if you really don't think you can sing in front of so many people, we can speak to Peter. He won't be happy, but he'll understand."

"Mad? No. Of course not. It's not that."

"Then what?"

"I guess I'm just, I don't know. Trying to figure you out."

"You make it sound like I'm this mysterious labyrinth that doesn't make any sense."

"Aren't you?" he asks, and he's sort of smiling. I'm not quite sure if he's teasing me or not.

"Unfortunately not. Nothing mysterious or glamorous or secretive about me at all, I'm afraid. Everything there is to see is out there for everyone to see. Including the gangly awkwardness and incredible talent."

"You own them, you know."

"I own them? Own them? Wow. Are we speaking of thraldom here?" I joked. "Should I be worried?"

"No, I mean—think about it. Everyone in Drama looks, I don't know, up to you. Like, they follow your assignments no questions asked. And did you notice you're the only one who actually talks back at Peter Gallaghe? Yes, I know that because we're talking about him, technically anyone could do that, but you're the only one who actually does. You treat him like an equal, and not only that, but he treats you like an equal, too."

I've never thought about it that way. It's never even crossed my mind.

"Um, and you concluded all of that from just one Drama class with him?"

"Yes."

"I appreciate the thought, but I think you're reading too much into a simple banter. We're just being silly."

"It's not just that, though," he continues. "It's, like, everyone sees you differently than you think they do. I don't think you see yourself—"

"If your next word is 'clearly,' please shut up. I'm serious. I hate that sentence. With passion."

He stopped to stare at me for a moment, probably to see if I was being serious, and I was. I couldn't be more serious. All that shit about not seeing yourself clearly? Well, fuck, if he's even going to suggest I'm actually pretty and it's all in my head, I'll go and jump off a cliff.

"Alright. Listen me out, okay? I wasn't about to say anything about your appearance. I wasn't even thinking about it. Happy?"

"So happy." I managed a grin, but I didn't feel the emotion. "Elated!"

"Fuck, Bella, that's exactly what I'm talking about!" he burst out, and I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I've never seen him so agitated, and about what? My perception of myself? Who gives a flying fuck how I see myself? Nobody.

"You always do that! You don't think you're pretty, I get it, who cares. It's all a matter of opinion and taste anyway, and I'm not talking about that. You just—you're awesome, Bella, and I love your sarcasm, don't get me wrong, but as far as joking about yourself, your sarcasm runs so deep it's almost a shield, and you're one step away from needing a therapist. Whatever. That's not what I wanted to say, anyway."

He takes a breath. "Sorry. I didn't mean to get so worked up. I just want you to consider a point of view, okay? So. The problem with you is that you treat and see everyone as such equals, and do you see how much people appreciate it? Like, you're not petty with girls, you don't gossip, you keep secrets, you're an individual. And I'm not hitting on you or anything."

"I didn't think that," I mutter, wondering where he's going with this. "So the problem is that I see everyone as equals?"

"No. Let me finish. The problem is that while you see everyone else as such equals, you have such a deeply rooted misapprehension of yourself, it's painful to see. Like, everyone else deserves a pedestal, and you're sitting in a hole, working up to it but not feeling worthy of being there. That's the problem."

"What are you, a psychologist?" I ask, more harshly than I intended. I don't know where the anger is coming from, and I try to take breaths. "Who cares, anyway?"

"I do!" he says, clearly upset.

"Why now? Why does it suddenly bother you now?"

"Because it's not fair. You're not being fair to yourself and I can't wait for you to realize in five years that you deserve better than what you have."

"I don't think I deserve less than others."

"Then why do you always undermine your self-confidence with your comments? Do you really think appearance is everything? Like, who gives a fuck? I'm not particularly muscular, do you see my every comment about that? I'm fighting with dandruff, again, who gives a fuck? It's like you have double standards, everyone looks alright except when it's you, it's the end of the world."

I don't think his comments could've hurt me more if he pressed a dagger into my heart. I absolutely hate the fact that my voice wavers, but Edward has become a great friend, and his opinion matters. "So basically you're saying I'm selfish."

"No. I'm saying you're hypocritical, not selfish."

"How is that any better?"

The thing is—it isn't.

"Bella," he says softly, pursing his lips together. "Look, I'm not trying to hurt you."

You managed that without trying, thank you very much.

"I'm just saying these things because I want you to realize that appearance is not the end of the world."

"Wait—so you're saying I'm ugly?" I manage a wilted smile.

"There is no way for me to answer that without pissing you off," he says, and he's so right it already pisses me off. "If I say there's nothing particularly off-putting about your appearance, or that you look beautiful once people get to know you, you'll think I actually mean you're ugly. If I say you're beautiful just the way you are, you'll think I'm lying. So how should I answer? What is the correct answer? Please enlighten me."

I don't say a word.

"So eventually, still, appearance can't matter."

"I know that," I almost whisper.

"Yes, but do you feel like you can't reach something merely because of your appearance?" he says, waiting for my answer. "Well, do you?"

I absolutely hate the fact that he's right, and I feel so shallow. I've never felt like such absolute shit in my life. Am I really about to cry? Holy fuck. I will not cry. I refuse to cry. He doesn't need to see that.

I nod, avoiding his eyes. I wonder how we got to this point. We had such an awesome day, and not even during my lowest point could Michael Newton make me feel like such scum. Sure, that was because he's not someone whose opinion I value, but still.

"What I'm wondering is how you got that way. So, okay, you're not Megan Fox or Charlize Theron. Why do you think it matters? You set such different standards for others than you do for yourself. Why? What's made you think your appearance is what defines you? Sure, you pretend you don't give a fuck, but you're scared that you do, and I'm curious. What happened? Why?"

"Because!" I find myself shouting, and we both stop. I'm so angry and hurt and I'm on the verge of crying. I'm shaking. Why does he care? Why now? I just don't want to talk about this. "Just because, okay?! Because it matters! Because when I grew up, my mom always loved pretty girls! Because she's one of them, and now we have nothing in common! Because my dad's so eager to lie when it comes up! Because I was bullied for so long because of it! Because when I was in eighth grade, Michael Newton, he—"

There is no denying it. I'm crying. I hiccup. Very glamorous, Bella. Very.

"He what, Bella?" he asks, so tenderly I consider looking up at him. I don't. I'm so embarrassed to cry in front of him. I haven't cried for two years, and now Edward—of all people—is the cause. Not because he has cruel intentions, but because of the opposite. No-one's really cared for so long about how I think and feel and act and say and why. I'm scared shitless.

"What'd he do?" he whispers.

I take a deep, shaky breath, and stand there in silence. I continue to hiccup, and my throat hurts so much. I'm not going down that road, even if it's Edward.

"Thanks for, you know, walking home with me," I murmur, my voice breaking. "I'm sorry I'm so shallow."

I start toward my driveway, but Edward grabs onto my sleeve and doesn't let go. "Please tell me that's not what you registered from this conversation."

"No—I, uh, I get it, you know. It makes—sense. I never thought of it that way, but it makes perfect sense. It's both hypocritical and, uh, shallow of me to be how I am, but I can't change myself overnight, you know? Why—why do you think I act the way I do?" I sniff and try to avoid stammering, but it's unavoidable. "This, this might sound so—so, you know, inconsequential to you, but I really have been trying to—to let go of it, and not feel hurt, and not be scared or prejudiced—not want revenge for what was done to, to me for years. But it—it doesn't go overnight. It doesn't. If it did, I wouldn't be crying over a few simple words right now."

That's it. I've poured my soul out for him to see. It's liberating, but it hurts so much. I take a shaky breath.

"Bella," he whispers. "I don't judge you half as much as you think I do. I wasn't judging you. I was just trying to understand you. I only wanted to know why you would think so highly of others when your own self-esteem is at the bottom of a hole."

I nod in understanding. He glances at my house, and it's unlit except for the porch light. Edward wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me to his side. I find comfort in the action.

"You're in no condition to be home alone. Is it okay if I come in for a while? Just until you calm down."

"Your parents wouldn't mind?"

"I'll send them a message."

"Please don't tell them that I'm—I'm, you know, a mess."

"I'll just tell them I'm with the Swans. They won't mind."

I take a breath so deep my lungs hurt. "If you could—just for a while."

"I'll stay as long as you want me to."

Yeah. Probably not.

"Thank you."

We enter the house, and it's quite chilly and empty and dark. I heat up yesterday's pasta and chicken for the both of us, and we eat it in silence in my bed. Slowly but surely, I calm down. I'm still trying to wrap my head around what he said. I do not resent him for caring. I do not resent him for making me cry. I just hate the fact that it's so easy for me to get worked up over something that shouldn't matter at all.

"You know, I got the best night's sleep back in one oh six," Edward admits, smiling. He's being really careful with me, and I don't like it. I want him to always feel comfortable around me.

"Me, too," I reply, and dear God, I feel myself blushing. I did not walk in on anyone having sex, why am I blushing? Annoying.

We lay on my single bed, side by side, staring at the ceiling. My desk lamp is switched on, but the rest of the house is dark. I kick my door closed.

"If I'd known it's such a—you know—sore spot, I wouldn't have pried, I swear. I just thought the answer would be simple, but it never really is, is it?"

I hum in reply.

"And Bella, you're not shallow. I wasn't trying to imply you were."

"I know. You don't have to apologize for anything," I reply. "Really. I think I'm more upset by the fact that everything you mentioned, I felt, and it's unfair that I thought I was over everything when clearly my wounds run deeper than that." I took a breath. "I didn't mean to yell at you."

"I'm glad you did. You were honest, and I like honesty. Inconvenient truth over reassuring lies anytime."

"How deep."

"Oh, I am very deep."

"I know, you just ate, like, half a pot of pasta."

He laughs. "I think I did. But you ate the other half, so you must be deep, too."

"We're so deep," I huff, snickering before we both burst out laughing. "Hey, want to play a game of bullshit?"

"What's that?"

"It's a card game."

"Sure. Explain the rules, and be prepared to get your ass kicked."

"Don't be so confident. I happen to have master skills at the game."

"We'll see."

I get up, take a deck of cards from my drawer, and we sit in front of each other, cross-legged. I shuffle the cards and explain the rules. We play three times, and I win them all. He huffs and puffs, but I can tell he's just teasing and doesn't really mind. In the end, we lay on my bed again, staring at the ceiling. It's funny, I've never really thought about being comfortable around a guy friend, but Edward and I, we don't actually have to fill the silence with trifle words. And, it strikes me that the difference between an acquaintance and a friend is the need to fill the silence. We don't have that need. He's really my friend.

I absentmindedly stare at his hair before I realize. "Hey—you don't have dandruff!"

"Yes I do," he answers, turning his head toward me. I lean closer and feel like a monkey when I flip through his hair.

"I can't see a single scale."

"Maybe you need glasses. I do have them."

I continue to flip through his hair. "Ah! I see one. That little bugger!"

"See? I do have dandruff."

"One scale is hardly considered dandruff."

"Maybe I've managed to heal my scalp. I dunno. I did have it."

"Maybe you should join a shampoo commercial."

"Maybe I will." He scrunched is face, yawned really noisily and looked at me. "What would happen if I fell asleep right here? I don't want to face my parents."

"Why not?"

"They're just…so overwhelming. I wish I had five siblings to draw their attention elsewhere. They're so worried all the time."

"Feel free to sleep with me anytime. I won't complain."

He lets out a laugh. "You are so absurd."

"Why thank you." I smile. "What's the time anyway?"

"Late," he answers, turning toward me. "Now, turn. Someone promised to sleep with me."

"Ego." But I turn toward the wall, and he wraps his arm around my waist. Just like he wondered what made me the way I am, I now wonder the same. How come he's always so casual about touching? Not that I mind. Not at all. But in my world, men aren't casual about these things. Like, in romcom stories and shit, brothers are always super caring and hugging and kissing foreheads and such. Mine? Never. Mine beats up the semi-popular scumbag of the school, so I know he cares, but he doesn't just randomly hug me. And kissing my forehead? Are you kidding me? He'd rather go to school naked. Awkward.

Jesus, maybe I'm one of those traumatic cases of attention deprivation? Like I received so little affection in my childhood I now starve for it? Like I feel special whenever anyone shows any signs of affection? That's just sad.

So I decide to ask. "Edward?"

He hums back at me.

"How come you're so casual about touching?"

"What?"

"I asked—how come you're so casual about touching? I'm just wondering about the male species here."

I feel him shrug. "Does it bother you?"

"Not at all. I'm just wondering if it's, like, how you were raised or it's something that's just belongs to the person that is Edward Cullen?"

"Both, maybe. My parents are very touchy-feely, if you noticed, and I guess that's why I regard it as natural."

"Huh."

"Why? Your parents weren't?"

"No. I never remember them acting like your parents. I was just thinking if that's why I noticed something like this. Like I starve for affection or something," I said, and then grinned. "But don't worry, you won't see my Facebook status tomorrow, saying I've hugged Edward Cullen. Although the girls at school would trollify with envy."

He laughs. "Trollify?"

"You know, turn into trolls."

"You are so weird."

"So you keep telling me."

He sighs, and I do, too.

"Bella?"

"Hm?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you're probably my best friend."

I feel all warm and fuzzy, but instead of awing, I laugh, and impolitely at that. "'Take this the wrong way?' What's that supposed to mean? Like, don't be flattered, I think you're a pretty cool guy?"

He shrugs. "No idea. I don't think half as much as you seem to. Let's just shut up and pretend we have no homework."

"I like that idea."