He closes the dark room behind us. They can't see our interaction due to our secret-keeping black paper covering the window. He crosses his arms.
"You want to tell me what that was about?"
I shrug.
His voice falls to a whisper. "Bella, we can't do this at school. I know you're upset about Saturday, and I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do about it right now. We have to leave this shit at the door. This animosity can't exist here. You can't say things like that, challenging my authority, not in front of a full class of your peers."
"Then don't talk to me like you didn't have your mouth on mine a couple of days ago."
"What was I supposed to do when you simply walked out like that? If I let that slip then everybody will be doing it."
"You hurt me," I say with a strong mouth, my voice down. "You hurt me more than anyone has ever hurt me. I've thought of nothing else all weekend. I destroyed my pillow thinking of you."
His brows push together.
A click-clatter sounds down the hall, and Ms. Johnson, a math teacher from my freshman year is rounding the corner and making her way towards us, carrying a stack of papers. Our conversation is cut short. We can't be seen like this.
"We'll talk later," he says, and opens the door, letting me in first so I may take my seat. He asks to see me after class once we're dismissed, but I don't stay. I mix myself among the other students, walking out the door. One of them. Never any different. Leaving him to suffer the fall of third to fourth alone and without conclusion.
At lunch Jessica is flipping through the pages of some magazine. An assortment of dresses situated on the shoulders of women with unachievable beauty. They're all in their twenties. Unrealistic models. Angela is leaning over her lunch, pointing at some dress when I sit with my Pepsi and pizza. Jess places a quick star next to it and creates a dogear in the corner. I think of being a star on Edward's schedule. I wonder if he's put me there today, in between his important tasks.
"What kind of dress did you have in mind?" Jess asks.
"Me?"
"Duh. Yeah. What's your body shape?"
"What?" Do I look as confused as I am?
"Like," Angela says, her eyes gently touching the ceiling before floating back down on some wave of information. "Are you an apple, pear, hourglass?"
"I know my bra size," I say.
"Not helpful. You don't know your shape?" Jess says. They stare at me for a moment.
"Average?"
She makes this sigh-fed-up noise. "For instance, Angela is petite, which I hate you for by the way, so she can wear basically anything she wants." Jessica points her pen with nonchalance while gnawing on a baby carrot.
"I'm thinking of this short, off-the shoulder," Ang says, flipping back a few pages. Her happiness is bruising my unhappy mood. "Not that one in particular, but something like it. I think it will look really good. And it shouldn't be that expensive."
"And I'm a pear. So I'm thinking anything with a big skirt will work. Lots of beading on top."
"I'm just going to try them on and whatever I like is what I'll get," I say.
But I'm lectured on how it's a bad idea, and I must have a game plan.
I am thinking of a game plan, but it has nothing to do with dresses and everything to do with securing my date for the prom. Edward appears from his hall, hands on hips, and I make it a point to ignore him, though I feel his eyes. The way my chest expands with breath tells me he's looking at me. It's like his touch, only this time there's dissonance between us. It's heavy. It hurts. Practice today is going to be hard.
But I try not to think of him. I try not to think of Saturday, bent against him on that blanket, looking up to the clouds. His laughter floating in the breeze, against the grass wall surrounding us.
I try not to think of him when school dismisses and I'm hauling the equipment to the field in my skirt that I wore for him. That I wore to make him feel my pain. It seems now I'm the only one feeling it. Stupid.
I set up the bats and pull out my history book and study notes. One by one the boy army enters the field. When I see Emmett I smile. He has the water in his arms, muscles flexing under his shirt. If he asks me, I'll say yes. I silently beg him to pop that question so I can wave it around in Edward's face. He sits the heavy jug on the bench and smiles at me. Dimple cheeks and bright eyes. Sweat already pierced through his skin in the mild air. "Thanks," I say.
"No problemo," he says tugging on his ball cap to adjust the curls hanging there. "Seen coach?"
I shake my head.
"Something's been up with him lately," he says allowing water to fall into a cup.
I sit forward. "What do you mean?"
He pulls the water from his lips, catching the drops lingering on his lips with his wrist. "I don't know. He's not acting like himself." He finishes it off in a large gulp. I wonder if he ever goes to parties and drinks like that. That area of Emmett I don't know about. I don't even know if he drinks. I'm not privy to know such information. I'm not exactly in with the in-crowd. He's an exception. "Hey, do you have a pen?"
I dig in my bag, pulling it from my front pocket. He hands me his cup. "Write my name on that, would you?"
I nod with a smile.
"Cheer me on." He winks. I feel blood rush to my face. I'm dizzy and there is an uncontrollable smile on my cheeks. Foolish girl.
The sudden clapping causes me to drop my books for my quick start. They land in the soft dust. "Stop flirting and get out there, McCarty!"
Emmett is off, leaving me with Edward.
Mr. Horrible.
Mr. No Good For Me.
Mr. All In Black.
Sunglasses. Spartan ballcap.
He stops in front of me, bends to recover my book and notes. "Sorry about that," he says. God, he smells good. I hate him. We hate him, remember? "Let me get that for you."
He sets the book next to me, the notes on top, and sits on the other side of them. Visibly I relax. Inside I'm a coil of unsaid words and unexpressed emotion. I write Emmett's name in my neatest handwriting and even draw a smiley face next to it. I take my time, making sure Edward sees it. I set it on my right. If Emmett wants water, he has to come through me. I back against the concrete and cross my legs. I pick up my book and prop it so I can read it easily.
"Are we going to talk or are you going to continue giving me the silent treatment?" he asks.
"We're not supposed to bring our relationship to school, remember, Mr. Cullen?"
"I don't think we have a choice now. That remark you made today in class sort-of threw that out the window."
"Nobody knew. They just thought I was being a bitch."
"But you're not."
"Just your whore then?"
"Did I say that? I'd appreciate it if you didn't put words into my mouth."
He notices all the players have arrived and he has them skirmish. Normal teams. He blows his whistle. They commence. "Besides," he says, "we'd have to have sex for that. And we haven't."
My jaw falls. My mouth is open and I'm looking at him like he's just cussed Jesus. "So you're saying if we had...then I would be…"
His jaw firms. Anger whispers against his words. "No! Bella, I have never thought that about you. Ever!" His jaw relaxes. Elbows on his knees he sways away from me, forward. For the moment he sits there I wish I could take back all I've said to make this situation worse. I know my faults. "I've told you how I feel about you," he says leaning back. "If you're mad at me for telling you something you wanted to know then I can't help that. If you have no more interest in me then tell me now before this gets too out of hand."
He's turned my words around on me. Our sight is broken, giving his attention toward his players while I die beside him. How can I tell him I want him so bad, but I don't at the same time? How is that expressed into words? I shake my head, feeling my throat swell. My tears form and I'm paralyzed by what comes out of my mouth. "I don't think I can tell you how you make me feel." I tremble. This confession is real. "When I'm not with you, I think about you. I have drawings under my bed of your hands because I think they're the most beautiful hands in the world."
I swallow and watch as he leans back, his fixation before us. I look away and shake my head. I swipe the new damp from my cheeks. "Knowing I can't have you hurts more than anything I can imagine."
His fingers peel the glasses from his face, folding them up. I cry with such softness. My tears are invisible then he looks at me. His brow folds with an exhale. Truly, his Washington green is the most beautiful I've ever seen. If I were lost in the night, they would call me home. My chest clears of the resentment which balances my breath.
"Bella," he whispers, "you do have me. Nothing will change this." Inhale. "Maybe right now isn't the right time. If you give me a few weeks, I can sort out any reservations you have, okay? Just...let me hope."
My resolve is still steady, and I can't fully give him myself if I wanted to, but I show a light smile against my sadness.
There is hope.