Author Note: Thanks for the great response to the last chapter! Several of you were able to guess this chapter's title: galaxy69uk, MIRosebud, crazy4r-k, OWT, KDMCAM, DICATAKADD, valentinesgenie, MissyDy, 0 BASIA 0, Ninkita and Monroe88.

Thanks again to moosals for pre-reading. Stephenie Meyer owns all characters.

Chapter 2 – Beat It

Twenty minutes away from my house, I find myself walking surreptitiously down the aisle of a CVS pharmacy, looking for the pregnancy tests. The number of different varieties is dizzying, but I choose one that says it can detect pregnancy up to six days before your missed period.

I pay for the test, ignoring the disapproving look from the cashier, a gray-haired man who looks like he should be enjoying retirement instead of working there.

Once I get back home, I rush up the stairs to my bathroom, locking the door even though Dad's at work for a few more hours. I sit on the toilet lid, then start reading the instructions included with the package. When I'm satisfied that I know what I'm doing, I follow the instructions to the letter.

Setting the re-capped stick on the counter, I flush the toilet and wash my hands, then sit nervously while I wait for my phone to say three minutes have passed.

I know I shouldn't think too far ahead. There's no use getting upset, no use planning out what I'll do if it's positive before I actually know the result.

Who the fuck am I kidding? What the fuck am I going to do if I'm pregnant with Mr. Cullen's baby?

For just a brief moment, I picture myself telling him I'm pregnant and him agreeing to leave his wife for me. And then I remember that I'm royally pissed off at him. He's a cheater, and that's the worst kind of scum. I don't want him anymore, even if he agrees to leave his wife.

I'm not a praying person, but when the three minutes are up, I say a brief prayer, then pick up the test stick.

There's a pink line. Fuck.

Wait — the instructions said that's negative, right? I quickly read over the paper again, breathing a sigh of relief when I confirm that one line is definitely negative. I stare at the test again, making sure there's not even a faint trace of a second line.

Setting the test stick back on the counter, I bury my face in my hands. I'm sweating and my heart is beating a mile a minute. I hadn't even realized how nervous I was.

Wrapping the test stick in a few tissues, I toss it into the trash. The box came with two tests, so I fold the instructions as best I can and put them back in the box, then stash it in the back of the cabinet behind my tampons. Dad never goes in there.

Walking back to my room, I flop onto my back on the bed, willing my heartrate to slow. It's OK, I'm not pregnant. I skipped two pills, but I'm OK. Everything's gonna be OK.

Except it's not, because I still have to face Mr. Cullen next week.

When my alarm goes off on Monday morning, I roll over and turn it off. Reluctantly, I get out of bed, knowing I can't use the "I'm not feeling well" excuse anymore. I have to go back to school sometime.

I spend my entire third period Spanish class dreading seeing Mr. Cullen again, unable to keep myself from watching the clock. When the final bell rings, I take my time putting my books away and walking out of the classroom.

When I reach the doorway to Mr. Cullen's class, I pause, taking a deep breath, before stepping into the room.

"Welcome back, Miss Swan," his velvet voice calls. I ignore him, not even looking toward his desk.

Flopping onto my chair, I make a long process of pulling out my copy of the book that we're currently reading, Heart of Darkness. And then I stare down at my desk, waiting for today's discussion to begin.

Once upon a time, I was active in class discussions, but instead of even listening, I spend the entire class trying not to look at Mr. Cullen's cheating face. Thankfully, he never calls on me.

This time when the bell rings, I put my things away much more quickly, just wanting to get the hell out of there.

"Miss Swan, please stick around so we can discuss what you missed."

Fuck. I should've expected him to pull something like that.

I know I could just leave, but it'd look really strange to any lingering classmates if I disobeyed his request. And so I step closer to his desk, staring down at the floor.

"Look at me," he orders, and my head snaps up, despite myself. "We need to talk, Bella."

"I have nothing to say to you," I grit out through clenched teeth.

"Fine, then I just need you to listen. Let me explain. Please," he implores.

"There's really nothing to explain!" I almost yell, forgetting that I need to keep my voice down. "You have a wife – that's all that matters."

Feeling tears pricking at my eyes, I rush out of the classroom. I don't want him to see me cry, and I'm pissed off that I even want to. He's not worth any more of my tears.

I dart into the girls' restroom, splashing some water on my face as I try to calm down before heading to the cafeteria. How many more days until Winter Break?

The next few weeks seem to drag by. Mr. Cullen doesn't try to talk to me alone again, though he does occasionally call on me in class. I'm usually an A student, but I feel like all of my grades are suffering a bit from the stress of worrying about dealing with him day in and day out.

Angela can tell that something is up with me, but I can't confide in her. I can't tell anyone, unless I'm prepared for the fallout. I could get Mr. Cullen fired — and I'm almost feeling vindictive enough to want to do just that — but it'd likely ruin my reputation. Maybe I'm stupid for worrying so much about that, when I'll be graduating in five months, but I'd be setting myself up for five months of hell if the other students find out I had sex with my teacher.

On the last day before Winter Break, I'm counting down the minutes until I have two and half weeks free from having to sit in Mr. Cullen's class and pretend like I don't want to punch his pretty face. I walk into his classroom with my head down, avoiding looking at him as I make my way to my seat.

Once the late bell has rung, Mr. Cullen asks us to get out a sheet of paper. There's a collective groan from the class. He's got to be kidding! Other teachers let us have a pretty easy day for our last class before the break, and he assigns an essay?

"As we've seen, in Crime and Punishment, Raskolnikov commits what could be the perfect crime. He could get away with murder, if not for his conscience and the effect of keeping the secret on his psyche. I want you to think about something immoral or illegal that you've done — and I'm sure you're all guilty of something, no matter how small. Were you caught, or did you get away with it? How does it make you feel when you think about it? Or do you never think about it?"

As he speaks, I slide down in my seat. He's giving this assignment to the entire class, but I feel like he's directing it at me, and at what we did. What is he trying to get at? Is he afraid that I'll feel guilty and tell someone?

There's no way I'm going to write about us. I won't give him the satisfaction. Sighing, I pick up my pen and begin to write.

Over the next hour, Mr. Cullen periodically calls out the time left. I finish just after he gives a five-minute warning, then sit back in my chair, rolling my neck. I inadvertently look in Mr. Cullen's direction as he leans casually against the front of his desk, my eyes widening when I notice he's wearing the blue pants.

Without my permission, my eyes drift downward. He may be an asshole, but he still fills out a pair of pants. I can't help remembering how that big dick made me feel.

Fuck! What am I doing? I quickly snap my eyes back up, nearly jumping in my seat when I see Mr. Cullen watching me. He totally caught me ogling his crotch, as confirmed by his little smirk.

When the bell rings, we're instructed to leave our essays on the corner of our teacher's desk. I drop mine off and head for the doorway before I stop, lingering until the last of my classmates has left.

Mr. Cullen raises an eyebrow, a tiny smirk still on his lips.

"What the hell was that assignment about?" I ask angrily. "Are you afraid I'm gonna tell someone and cost you this job you don't even want?"

"Maybe it wasn't about your feelings at all, Ms. Swan."

I start to reply, then close my mouth. Is he trying to say that he feels guilty over what happened between us?

"Look, Bella," he sighs, "I really just wish you'd give me the chance to explain."

"There's nothing to explain!" I whisper-yell. "For whatever reason, you kept your marriage a secret. You never talked about your wife, never brought her to any school functions, and you never wear a fucking wedding ring."

"I can't!" he says indignantly, holding up his left hand. I stare at his fingers, unable to figure out what he's trying to tell me.

"When I was a kid, I broke my finger and it never healed right. The knuckle is much larger than normal," he explains. "I have a wedding ring, but I took it off within the first month because it annoyed me so much. Any ring large enough to slip over my knuckle is too big for my finger."

Bringing his left hand down, he runs his other hand through his hair, sighing again. "I know you're angry, but… if you'd just let me explain, maybe you'll see things differently."

He sounds almost contrite, and for just a moment I wonder about giving him this chance he wants. Maybe… maybe there is an explanation, something that won't make me feel quite so used.

And then I want to kick myself for even considering giving in to him.

"No," I reply, turning and storming out of the classroom before I can change my mind.

My parents divorced when I was two years old. My mom, Renee, was awarded custody, as usually happens. She lived a nomadic lifestyle, to say the least. It was fun and exciting until I was old enough to go to school. When I spent Christmas with my dad in third grade and he found out that I'd already attended seven different schools, he immediately threatened to sue her for custody.

Since coming to live with my dad, I've usually just visited Renee for a couple of weeks over the summer, and sometimes for Thanksgiving or Christmas. After dating what seemed like dozens of guys in 15 years, she finally got remarried about a year ago.

My new stepfather, Phil, is the CFO of a large financial services company in St. Louis. What exactly he sees in my flighty mother, I have no idea, but to each his own.

This year Mom and Phil have invited me to spend Christmas with them. I leave on the Monday after our Winter Break starts, flying to St. Louis since no one seems to trust an 18-year-old to drive six hours on a busy interstate.

To say I'm impressed with Phil's large newish home in a western St. Louis suburb would be an understatement. It's gorgeous, with soaring ceilings, and seems to have been professionally decorated.

I've been in St. Louis for four days when Renee gets the bright idea that she and I should bake Christmas cookies together. I've never known my mother to bake.

"What's going on with you, Isabella?" she asks as we scoop the dough onto Silpat-lined cookie sheets.

"What do you mean?"

"You seem… not my happy, outgoing little girl."

"I'm an adult now," I reply, rolling my eyes. I've hardly spent any time with her in the last 10 years, so she doesn't really know me.

Mom sticks the full pan in the oven, setting the timer, then turns to me. "It just seems like you have a lot on your mind. Is it… boy troubles?"

Much as I try not to think of Mr. Cullen, I can't help it, and I can feel my cheeks darkening.

I nod in response. "There was this guy, and… he turned out not to be the guy I thought he was," I reply vaguely.

"Oh honey, we all have to kiss a few frogs before we find our prince."

"Yeah, but what sucks is that I have to see him almost every day," I whine. It's first-world problems, I know.

"He goes to your school?" she smiles sympathetically, and I nod since I can't tell her the whole truth.

"It's only one class, but it's almost all I can think about — having to face him every day, hoping he doesn't try to talk to me," I complain. "I know that's entirely my issue, but I don't know how to just move on when I have to deal with him all the time. It's even starting to affect my grades!"

Mom leans against the counter, hand on her hip. "If you really want to get away from him, you can move in with Phil and me and finish up your senior year here."

My eyes widen. "Leave Chicago?"

"You were planning to leave Chicago next August anyway, right? I'm sure Phil wouldn't mind. In fact, he's been asking if you've looked at any of the local universities."

"I—"

"The school district we're in is rated one of the best in the state. It'd better be, for as much as we pay in property taxes," she adds with a grimace.

"But I'd have to leave all of my friends, most of whom I've known since third grade," I reply quietly. Other than that aspect — and worrying about how Dad will take it — her idea has some merit.

"You'll leave them anyway after graduation, won't you?" she asks, and I know she's right. It'd just be a few months sooner than planned. She pats my shoulder, reaching for a potholder when the oven timer beeps. "You certainly don't have to decide now, but give it some thought, all right?"

A/N: Most of you should be happy that Bella was just a panicky teenager and not actually pregnant! She's sticking to her guns and refusing to listen to Mr. Cullen, but can she hang on for five more months? Or should she accept her mother's offer to finish out the school year in St. Louis?

Next update on Monday.

For a teaser: The next chapter title from a punk band describes Bella's dilemma!