For the rest of the week, I remained in everyone's peripheral.

Everyone's except the Cullens'.

You know, Edward in particular is kind of a jerk. It sounds like an obvious fact at this point, but I'd like to reiterate how true it is.

The first day, as a thank-you, I brought in one of my succulent drawings—my second favorite, with pastel greens and blues. Wrote a note on the back. Set it down on his spot. When he found it, he stared at it for a while, and then put it in his folder. Nothing more. No "thanks." Since the accident, he sat as far away from me as possible. Talked out of necessity. That was it.

Who does that? Seriously. It's not like I did anything wrong.

Everyone knew the accident involved me, of course, because everyone knew I had a truck that was old enough to have its own AARP card. So they asked me things: What happened out there? Were you with Edward? What'd he say?

In my story, he was the hero. He had valiantly pulled me out of the way and had nearly been crushed himself. I mean, the whole school thought they were freaks; why not give them a bit of positive publicity?

And truthfully, I didn't mention Alice. No one asked about her. And with her...freaky prediction, premonition, whatever, I wouldn't know what to say, how to justify her being there.

Not only that, but if lunch period was any indication, Alice was not in school anymore.

So I kept their secrets and made him a hero and thanked him profusely — and I got silence. No words, no glances, no nothing. Great.

I greeted him in Bio, as usual, and got a curt nod in return. I slapped my books down and opened my mouth to speak. Instead of taking off his headphones, Edward turned up his music: Elvis Presley, "Return to Sender."

Presley fan? Wow. Surprising. For a jerk, his taste in music's not bad.

Eric made a beeline for me, dumping his stuff at the table. He hovered around my table for a while, talking about weather and other dumb things I didn't care about. And just when he could tell that the light in my eyes had gone dead, he looked down at his fidgeting hands and let me know what was up.

"So, Jessica asked me to the spring dance."

"Oh. Neat. That's great," I told him. "You'll have a lot of fun with Jessica. She's fun."

"Yeah, well, same. I-I mean, I feel the same." He paused. "I mean. I'm fun. Too. —Haha. —Um...yeah, so, I told her I had to think about it."

"What? Why? You shouldn't keep her on the hook."

His ears flared red, and he stared at the science wing doors. "W-well, I, y'know, I. You're new here, maybe you don't, um, know a lot of people, so I thought like since I was your guide-person, uh, if you wanted someone to go to the dance with, maybe. Uh. I would give you, uh, the opportunity. To ask me. To be your— guide-person. Hah. —T-to the dance. Since, y'know. Sadie-hawkins. A-and feminism. And stuff."

"Oh." I didn't know he'd liked me. There were probably signs I misinterpreted or forgot. I guess now that I thought about it, it made sense. He texted every day. Laughed at my jokes. Asked me if I needed his jacket or an extra soda at lunch.

...Oh god.

Oh god. He really liked me?

"Uh." Edward's head tilted, causing me to regain my train of thought. "Eric, that's— thoughtful. I appreciate the offer. But you should really go with Jessica. Honestly, I think you'd have a great time."

"Oh. Yeah. Cool, okay, good. Just wanted to make sure. And so uh, did — did you already, y'know, ask someone? Or something? By chance?" Did Edward notice how Eric's eyes flickered in his direction?

"No. I'm just not going to the dance."

"Oh, why?"

"Because dances are—" My rant had already been wasted on Jessica. And clearly people here liked sweating and tripping over their own limbs. "They're not for me. Plus I'm...going to Seattle. So."

"Oh."

"So tell Jessica yes. Preferably immediately. It'd be lame to keep her waiting."

"Y-yeah. Yeah, you're right," he mumbled. "Yeah. Cool. Thanks."

After he'd left in a flustered haze, I put my head in my hands and muffled a scream into this supersonic exhale too quiet to be heard in white noise. So brutal.

Meanwhile, Edward looked at me. His headphones dangled around his neck. When I caught his eyes, he didn't break away. Just stared. "What?"

"Nothing."

I breathed in. Do not scream. "You know, I could argue how obviously not true that is, but I don't even want to expend the effort."

My sharp tone made him smirk. "I never thanked you," he murmured, "for the picture you drew."

I blinked, disarmed. "Oh."

"You've got a magnificent eye for color."

I melted. "Oh. Thank you."

"You're welcome. I thought the compliment might help. You look...distressed."

"You know why."

"Rejection is unfortunate for everyone."

"Sounds like a talk you should be giving to Eric."

Edward chuckled. "Probably." He hesitated. "And— I'm sorry."

I snorted an incredulous laugh. "For what?"

"For not being able to be more cordial with you." Though his tone still held the frost, he didn't have that intense eye-gazing thing going on, which made his apology seem more genuine. More soft.

So maybe that's why I couldn't help my own tepid tone. "We're here to learn and work. So. If you don't want to be friends, so be it."

"I don't not want to be friends."

What sort of game was this guy playing?

My heart pounded, but I sucked in a breath. "Okay. Why don't you come down to La Push this weekend? A bunch of us are going. You can tell me about yourself and how you and—" I whispered "—Alice managed to cross the entire parking lot and pull me out of the way in less than five seconds."

As Mr. Banner called everyone to attention, Edward's face twisted in a disgusted glare. Since the class silenced immediately, Banner delved in, launching into your standard teach-to-the-test lecture about something I had memorized eons ago. Even still, it took several minutes before he turned his back to squeak out a mnemonic on the chalkboard.

Edward hesitated, turned to me. Murmured. "I can't. Not that I wouldn't like to. Emmett and I are camping. At Goat Rocks."

Emmett, the lobster-in-Jell-O guy?

I couldn't help breaking into a snicker. "Okay."

"What's so funny?" His eyebrows furrowed.

"Edward. Bella. Something funny?" Mr. Banner had turned to arch his eyebrow at me, slinked his eyes downward to my lips, downward to my chest…

"Oh. Just — nothing," I said to the both of them, unable to help the deep blush blooming over my face.

Banner snapped back to the board just like that. Edward took this silence between us as an opportunity to glare at the back of Banner's head.

"If I could just—" He paused to wrangle his frustration. Turned to me. "I'd give anything to know what you're thinking sometimes."

I smirked. "I'm thinking you're thinking you don't want to be friends with me, but you're just trying to find some polite excuses to justify it. You really don't have to. I don't need you to like me."

"It's not that I have— Well— it's just, it's better this way, you know." I smirked at him. "No, truly. If I had my choice…."

I waited. "If you had your choice, what?"

"If I had my choice…" His eyes drifted away, he's doing it again "—well, I would at least compliment you on the music you listen to between class because Debussy is my favorite composer and I respect Metallica as a driving force in the metal genre." I frowned, not understanding how he knew what I listened to... "But, Isabella, I can't— fulfill your request. I can't tell you what happened that day. It would require us to be friends. And I can't be friends. For your sake. I'm sorry."

Blood rushed to my face. His eyebrows twisted; he looked pained. I could only hear my blank expression over the sound of my heart thumping wildly. I couldn't tell if I was angry or just sad. Why the hell did it matter to me that this guy liked me?

"Yeah. Well that's a shame. Because if we were friends, I would tell you that I really love Elvis Presley's 'Return to Sender' even though Girls! Girls! Girls! is one of the worst albums he's ever recorded."

That threw him for a loop. "What? Worse than Having Fun with Elvis on Stage?"

"Edward." Mr. Banner's voice boomed. "Can I finish?"

The whole class craned their necks backward.

Edward's brow just arched.

Since Banner had already caught us twice and the ball was now in my court, I had to wait several minutes until Banner returned to the chalkboard so I could lean in and breathe, "Everything after That's the Way It Is is trash. But Girls! is the worst part of the best part of his career. So uninspired."

Edward exhaled through his nostrils. "If we were friends, I would tell you that I think you're awfully misguided."

"If we were friends, maybe I'd care what you think."

"A teenage girl in Seattle." Charlie nodded slowly but didn't look up from eating. I scrutinized his face under the warm glow of the hooded kitchen light that hung down low from the ceiling. Searching for any nonverbal answers. Then: "Nope. No way."

My shoulders collapsed; I melted down into the dining room table. "What? No. Dad, c'mon. I'm a legal adult."

"And this 'trip to Seattle'— are you coming back at some point?"

I guffawed. "Probably not." This man was really playing the 'strict father' card right now.

"Bella."

"What? I thought you were joking."

"You need to ask permission for these things," Charlie said. "You're eighteen, but you're still my teenage daughter and still under my roof. Now I know it might've been more go-with-the-flow with your mother, but things are different here."

During his speech, I chewed up a salty, overcooked steak. Part of it crunched; probably crusted-on brown bits. He may not know how to deglaze a pan, but at least he was trying. Trying to try. "I gave you two weeks' notice. I thought I was being courteous. You didn't freak out when I told you I was going to La Push this weekend."

"That's with other people."

"I'll only be there for the day."

"Meeting anyone there?"

"No."

"So a teenager is going to drive up to Seattle by herself because, what, why not?"

"What's with the third-degree?" Charlie stopped eating just to grunt disapprovingly. "If it really matters to you, I'm avoiding the school dance. That's why."

He glanced up. Now he looks up? "How come?"

"I hate dances."

"You sound like fun."

"Dad."

"What, we only joke when you want to?"

"Fun is subjective. Maybe you find gross high school dances fun. I think they're shitty."

"Isabella Marie."

"Yeah, language, I know. My bad."

"I don't even know if you can make the trip," he said. "Gas mileage on that thing sucks."

"What? The Thing is a trooper." We exchanged a look. I rolled my eyes, sliding off the dining room chair with my empty plate in hand. "Hey, it tries its best, okay? Don't worry about it. I'll stop in Montesano. And Olympia." Dishes clattered in the sink.

"City's big."

"Phoenix is like five times the size of Seattle. I've got a GPS."

"And if you don't get cell service?"

"In Seattle?"

"If your phone dies," he huffed. "What then?— Don't worry about it, Bella; I'll wash them."

Not before they "soaked" in the sink for several hours. Charlie and Rene both seemed to have clutter seemed to hate cleaning.

I started rinsing my plate. And the other dishes. "I'll bring my charger. I'll pick up a map at the gas station."

"Can you read a map?"

"Dad."

After several moments of silence, the acquiesce came in the form of: "You sure you don't want me to come?"

"You know that wouldn't be fun for either of us."

"I'd have fun."

"Uh. 'Kay, well, you'd be waiting for me outside dressing rooms."

He looked down at his plate, chewing. Long pause. "Yeah, that doesn't sound like fun."

"Look, if I find someone to go with me, would that make a difference?" He shifted like there were stones in his back pocket. But he didn't say no. So I considered it progress. What was it with Charlie and Rene going through phases of being 'parental'?

After dinner, we went to our usual routines; him, retreating into the living room to watch sports (or HGTV, if some renovation show was on); and me, retreating to my room to listen to music and sketch in my notebook.

Every day, before I drew, I looked around at my walls. Baby blue. Blank. I always dreamed of what I'd do to this room with a couple cans of spray paint and a green light from Charlie.

As I flipped through the sketchbook pages, I saw my sketches go from colorful patterns to dreary, drooping flowers and gray, rainy days. My current drawing was a forest scene. All shadowed and dark. I picked up my charcoal and began to draw, letting my mind wander.

Darkness grew, and the black across the page. In the shower I scrubbed my stained hands raw and thought about all the comebacks I could've made to Edward Cullen. By the end, charcoal still stained the underside of my fingernails. I couldn't wash them clean.

I had another nightmare that night.