Sixteen/Eighteen
Friday
Isabella loved Math, though she would never admit it out loud. Where everything else was complicated, Math had an elegant simplicity to it, which meant that Isabella enjoyed it enormously. In fact, Isabella was so naturally talented that she was the only junior taking AP Calculus with seniors. That's how she had ended up taking Calc with Edward.
"And the limit as X approaches infinity is…?"
The class blinked at Mrs. Norman for a solid two minutes. Isabella counted the beats of her wrist watch and sank into her chair, hoping for Mrs. Norman to pick on anybody else. From the corner of his eye, Edward looks at her and smirks.
"Isabella, you wanna give it a go?"
Blushing, Isabella peeked up at Mrs. Norman from underneath her thick, black eyelashes.
"You're the only one that's not looking at me like I'm speaking in Sanskrit." Like adults often did, Mrs. Norman chuckles at her own joke. Isabella was fairly sure she was the only person in the class that even knew what Sanskrit was. She smiled widely, politely, at Mrs. Norman.
Next to her, Edward snickered.
"Um..Uh. It's uh…It's zero." She blushed.
"Right!" Mrs. Norman boomed excitedly. Next to Isabella and Edward's table, Lauren Mallory awoke from a nap. "Right. How d'you figure that out?"
"Well, algebraically, the…uh, the denominator is infinity and the numerator is a constant. So the quotient is gonna get tinier and tinier as x gets larger, almost approaching thero. And eh…Visually, mmh…"
Adding insult to all kinds of injuries, if she was particularly nervous, Isabella sometimes lisped.
"You don't have to play dumb, Bee," Edward mumbled next to her, sounding irritated.
The feeling of his breath on his ear lit a spark that ran from the edge of her jaw and into the pit of her stomach. Edward always smelled faintly of leather and apples. Just thinking about it made Isabella's blush deepened.
If she could, she would have kicked him under the table. Instead, she elbowed him in the ribs.
"You can tell that the Y-asymptote is going up into infinity," Isabella continued, more confidently.
"Ten points for Gryffindor!" Norman said excitedly. "Perfect answer."
Again, Mrs. Norman looks excitedly at the class, waiting for signs of life. A deafening silence ensued. Isabella grinned at Mrs. Norman, but she was the only one to do so in a class of twenty-plus kids.
"Really? None of you are Harry Potter fans?"
"You love those damn books," Edward said peevishly. "Don't lie."
Isabella treasured her original set - incidentally a gift from Edward's mother - more than most of her possessions and kept it faithfully by her bedside table. Isabella had read her favorite one, Half-Blood Prince, so often that the spine had fallen apart.
"Ssh," Isabella hissed.
Shyly, Isabella raised her hand. No one else did.
Resigned, Mrs. Norman tried to get someone else to answer the following question about limits. Again, the teacher was met with deafening silence. Isabella sank into her chair as if wanting to make herself smaller. She untucked her hair from behind her ear and let fall across her face, as if the tendrils of hair could hide her. She could practically feel Edward roll his eyes.
"Bee," he says, exasperatedly. "If you know the fucking answer, you should just -"
"Well, then," Mrs. Norman sighs, conceding defeat. "Since most of you are half asleep already, it's time to call it a day. It's almost 3:15 anyway."
Immediately, the classroom began to buzz with excitement. Zippers opened and closed; chairs scraped against the floor; people began chattering.
As per usual, Bella waited for her classmates to file out of the classroom, reminding her vaguely of both herding cattle and a stampede. Her classmates weren't exactly patient with her. To avoid them, she made a show of slowly gathering her books and of sticking an assortment of pencils into their case.
"You don't have to wait," she mumbled, peeking at Edward from underneath her eyelashes. His attentiveness during senior year was a brand new phenomenon. He had spent the vast majority of his two years at Prep School pretending she didn't exist, and Bella hadn't known how to cope with the change.
A flash of irritation flashed across Edward's face. Like so many of his facial gestures, the frown vanished quickly.
"Don't be silly, Bee," he said. "Of course I'll wait."
He propped by her desk, glaring at their passing classmates as they left the classroom.
"Do you want to come to the game tomorrow?" Edward asked casually, while they were waiting, twirling a pencil in his hand.
For the past year or so, in part thanks to Isabella's forceful nudging, Edward had joined the soccer team and gotten his act together. Even then, he wouldn't abandon that bad boy persona. He always sported a leather jacket school authorities hadn't been able to ban. When she did go to games and happened to go to his practices, Edward wrapped her up in that jacket. Invariably, the inside pocket had a pack of Marlboro lights and a pair of aviators.
Isabella was convinced he could not let go of the bad boy act, and in any case, did not want him to. (That, too, was one of those things that she rarely admitted to herself, except in her most self-deprecating moments). No matter what Edward ever did, he did it with an air of indifferent nonchalance.
"Uh…"
Isabella always has a hard time answering that question. The gravel made it so difficult for her to navigate the stadium. A part of her — a tiny, tiny part of her that she regularly quashed down — loved the feeling of being wrapped up in his jacket, perched on the bleachers, while a gaggle of other girls glared at her from down below. She also hated it.
"I don't think I'll be able to make it," she answered sheepishly.
"Are you doing something tonight, then?" Edward asked, indifferently, cocking an eyebrow. Edward had a tendency to overestimate the excitement of her social life.
She shrugged. What was she supposed to do? Admit she had no plans while he was received like a hero in a kegger?
Edward's face darkened immediately. "You're playing Guns, Bombs and Dragons," he said flatly.
"Dungeons and dragons," Isabella corrected, and then blushed. She was so dorky.
"With fucking Yorkie?"
Purported beauty notwithstanding, Isabella ranked as high in the social hierarchy as the borderline-Amish son of their High School's authoritarian principal. Eric Yorkie. She loved him dearly.
"I don't know why you care so much, if its a lot less cool cool than…" she countered acidly. "I…I don't know trying to snort…you know, coke."
Isabella's voice grew squeakier and squeakier as she wrapped up her statement. She turned a shade darker than the pale pink cashmere sweater she wore.
Despite himself, Edward laughed.
"These fuckers wish they were cool enough to get their hands on coke."
The joke broke the tension and distracted her while her classmates filed out. All but one.
With her stomach dropping, Isabella noticed that the last girl to file out was Lauren Mallory. Lauren lingered by the doorway, ankles crossed. Isabella's stomach dropped. She didn't particularly like Edward's latest friend-with-benefits and she was almost entirely certain the feeling was mutual.
Lauren was one of hundreds of people that spoke to her as if she were three years old. Though Edward had barked at her for it later, Lauren had patted Bella on the head. Bella was used to being accosted by strangers and acquaintances alike every day and had grown grudgingly tolerant of people's relentless gaffes. That did not mean she enjoyed them.
"Are we waiting for Isabella?" Lauren demanded of Edward.
"I am," he responded acidly. "You probably shouldn't."
Hurt flashed across Lauren's face before she stalked off, shooting Isabella a dirty look.
Isabella didn't hear their exchange. She was too intensely focused on the task ahead of her. No matter how much Daddy barked at the various administrative offices, the desks were too narrowly packed together. Keeping her bag in her lap, Isabella grabbed the push rims of her wheelchair. Rolling backwards, she expertly executed a three-point turn to maneuver out of the desk. Once she was out of the desk, she turned in her chair to hang her bag from her chair handles. Careful not to ram into any desk legs, she was relieved to cross the threshold out into the hallway.
Isabella Swan was the only student in a wheelchair.
The first days of school, especially after summer break, everyone stared. Within days, however, she became invisible, and was frequently rammed into, nearly knocked over, smacked across the face or hit by wayward backpacks.
Having Edward by her side made it slightly easier to wheel past hoards of High Schoolers. They parted like the red sea to let them through, because Edward elicited attention for an entirely different reason.
Edward… well…Edward had grown up gorgeous, with sharp cheekbones covered with stubble. ("You 'forget' to shave just to prove that you can," she had teased him once, touching her fingers gingerly. Edward caught her hand on his cheek before she pulled it away).
Isabella tried hard not to think about how attractive Edward was. It made her stomach churn unpleasantly with a mix of muted sadness and intense embarrassment. She hadn't been the only one to notice, and in the past four years, he had dilligently worked his way through the female population of their High School. H
They approached her locker, located on the bottom row. Eric Yorkie, Isabella's best friend, was propped in front of Isabella's locker, knees bent to his chest.
As little kids, the two of them had been drawn together by their mutual shyness and unusually small height. Isabella's wheelchair had turned her into a class pariah. The soft-spoken boy had become her best friend. Eric had remained stalwartly by her side ever since. Cratered and still marred by severe acne, Eric's face was rounded and pudgy. In Middle School, Isabella had blossomed from an unusually pretty little girl to a strikingly delicate beauty, and - as Edward had noticed - Eric couldn't believe his good fortune.
"Move, cocksucker," Edward barked, with a tinge of malicious glee as they approached Isabella's locker.
"Edward!" Isabella snapped, as Eric spat a "Fuck you." Eric stood up.
Eric's words, however frigid, did not have the desired effect: Edward lurched forward, towering menacingly over Eric.
"You'd probably like that," Edward sneered cruelly.
Eric shoved Edward, to little or no avail. A foot shorter, Eric barely reached the later's shoulder. The taller, stronger of the boys snorted.
"Why are you such an ass?" Isabella demanded, angrily and (mostly) rhetorically. Most of the time, she willfully ignored how many girls he fucked in broom closets, how many people he punched, how he squandered money left and right.
"Yorkie here annoys the fuck out of us all," he said evily.
"Stop it, Edward," Bella snapped.
He ignored her, instead pinning Eric's neck with his much larger forearm.
Isabella let out a frustrated groan. She smacked him. It obviously didn't hurt — under her palm, his stomach felt like a washboard— but his face fell as if it had. Edward looked at her like a puppy, releasing Yorkie as if he was but an afterthought. She wheeled towards her locker. Angry, she opened the lock.
"I think you should go," Isabella finally said, coldly. "Please."
"Who's gonna drive you home?"
"I'll call Esme," Bella said simply, pretending she wasn't too muddled to pick out her books.
Isabella's anger finally struck Edward. From the corner of his eye, he leered at Eric, who smirked with poorly concealed delight.
Edward dropped to his haunches.
"Bella," Edward said softly, almost pleadingly. "Bella, I was only kidding."
"Go away."
"Bee, look at me," Edward said softly, in a voice that made a tremor run up her spine. "Bee."
Edward had crouched down in front of her chair. Gently, with roughened fingers, he tucked her hair behind her ear.
Eric's eyes narrow with poorly-concealed jealousy. He wanted to touch her the way Cullen did, but couldn't imagine pulling it off. He noticed the rose-colored blush that spread through her cheeks.
Angry at herself for blushing, Isabella bristled. Biting the inside of her cheek, Isabella wheeled backwards and closed her locker door. "I really think you should go."
Her gaze softened as she looked up at Eric. While still leering at Edward through her eyelashes, she gave Eric's hand a squeeze.
"Yeah, Cullen," Eric interjected, raising his index finger. "Fuck off."
Though she found Eric's glee almost endearing, Bella had to resist the urge to slam her hand against her forehead.
Ignoring Eric completely, Edward sighed. Bella was still gnawing on her bottom lip, intent on ignoring him. Without a second thought, he groaned, then stalked off angrily.
"Are you OK?" Bella asked Eric gingerly once Edward was out of earshot. She offered him a sympathetic smile.
"Yeah," he said quickly, clearing his throat phlegmatically. Bella looked at him worriedly. "He's just a..." He clenched his fist.
"He's just a fucking retarded Neanderthal," he spat aggressively, his whole body convulsing with dislike.
Isabella found the comment both virulently hateful and in bad taste. Hurt and angry, she shook her head. She sat back in her chair and huffed exasperatedly, peering up at Eric. Edward always made it a point to get down to her eye-level as much as possible. "For starters," she began acidly, "You shouldn't use the R word. And second, Edward is incredibly smart."
Eric shook his head desperately, trembling, drawing the attention of a group of passerbyers, with a kind of angry intensity that Bella found deeply unsettling. "He's just a fucking dumb -"
"Stop it," Bella snapped. She resisted the urge to point out Edward's GPA was substantially above Eric's."Just stop it."
"I don't understand why you can't see it," Eric said agitatedly.
Isabella pursed her lips. "I need to call my Mom and then go to the bathroom," she said, lying about the second part. She didn't want Eric hanging out with her while she waited.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
Bella fished her phone out of her backpack and pressed Speed Dial 1. It took Esme but two rings to pick up.
"Mom," Bella started quickly. "Do you think you could come - "
"Pick you up?" she guessed quickly. It was increasingly rare for Esme to pick Isabella up. Edward had been driving her home virtually every day since the start of his senior year. "Everything OK with you two kiddos?"
"Mmmh," Bella said noncomittantly. She and Edward didn't technically fight, but it had taken them months to start getting along, long before a couple of seismic changes in Edward after he turned eighteen in June. She didn't elaborate further.
"I'll be there a little late, sweetheart," Esme said apologetically. "But I'll be there."
"No, no, no worries," Bella said softly. "It was totally my bad."
Isabella was barely a month old when her biological mother, who was referred to as She, had fled her marriage and a very premature baby. When Isabella was two and a half, her father Charlie - a rising star and increasingly famous prosecutor - had married Esme Masen. Me me had quickly become Mama.
Esme was Isabella's mother in every way that counted.
"Love you."
"Love you, too, Mama."
Sighing, Isabella picked out her textbooks more pointedly and stuffed them in her back pack. She hung her backpack from the back of her wheelchair, skilfully spinning the chair. The crowds were thinning and she had a relatively easy time making it to the first floor bathroom. She grumbled to herself as she fought with the heavy bathroom door, but was glad to find the handicapped stall empty. Carefully, she swung the door open before squeezing inside, turning awkwardly in her chair to shut the door behind her.
She had barely gotten out of the chair when she heard the commotion.
"I asked him if he could take me out somewhere after we did it," Lauren said sniffily, before sobbing again.
Isabella felt as if she'd been punched. Bella knew. She knew that he worked his way meticulously and apparently diligently through classmates, friend's sisters, and even French exchange students. Each rumor, each tirade, and especially each confirmation felt like a blow to her self-esteem. The latest scandalous story had been particularly devastating. Edward Cullen had received a blow job during a class field trip to the State Museum of Modern himself never spoke of, or even admitted to anything. Confirmations came by way of grey hairs on Edward Sr.'s hair and long screaming matches.
It was certainly very different to hear it straight from Lauren. Lauren was the one that sat with Edward at lunchtime and cheered him on at games. Lauren clumsily danced with him at High School parties, rubbing against his crotch; Lauren kissed him in broom closets. And before Lauren, there had been a Tanya, a Kate, an Irina, a Heather, and a Victoria - that Bella knew.
Bella could not blame anybody, really, for succumbing to his charm — with each passing day, he looked more and more like he belonged in a magazine. An old Hollywood movie. A young Marlon Brando's hotter younger brother.
"He drove us through the McDonald's drive-thru in that old BMW and then asked me to pay for my own fries," Lauren continued, growing hysterical. She finished with a devastated sob. The noise that came out of Isabella, something between a whimper and a snort, was lost by Lauren's ensuing wails.
Isabella's emotions were a maelstrom. What kind of prick did that? Despite everything, despite that thought, she wanted to burst out laughing.
"And I had just - had just," Lauren continued tearfully, "He's...I know he can be so sweet. He is very sweet. Look at him with…with that cripple —"
Isabella felt as if she'd been punched.
There were soft titters and gasps. How many girls were out there with Lauren?"She is crippled," Irina Winters pointed out. "Badly. Can't barely walk."
Lest she cry, Isabella dorkily focused on the right grammar - and then she hugged her stomach.
"She's is pretty," Katie Marshall piped. "Ya know. Reverse butter face."
"Maybe. But he's probably disgusted by the thought of fucking her," Irina echoed. "Who'd want to fuck a cripple?"
Katie snorted and Lauren let out a shaky laugh. Isabella bit down on her lip to keep from sobbing.
Having her deepest insecurity said out loud cut her deeply. She couldn't help it; tears stung her eyes almost immediately. She felt them well hotly in her eyes, then trickle quickly into her collarbones. She prayed desperately that none of them would try the handicapped stall, that none of them would notice the conspicious wheels.
Fortunately for her, she just heard the sound of paper towels ripping - probably so Lauren could dab her eyes. Within minutes, the girls were out of the bathroom. Bella followed suit, literally having counted to 150. The counting distracted her from the ache she felt, bone-deep. Once she was certain they weren't coming back, she grabbed fistfulls of toilet paper and blew her nose noisily.
She rolled out of the bathroom carefully.
It would be obvious to Esme she'd been weeping. There were tear tracks running down her cheeks, the tip of her nose was violently red, and her eyes were bloodshot, looking almost like honey. She wondered if she could claim it was allergies; on top of everything else, Isabella had bad asthma and was hyper-sensitive to dust.
All very sexy things, she thought darkly.
She dabbed at the tear tracks in her eyes and then wheeled underneath the sink. She was thankful this bathroom had a lowered sink as she doused her face in ice-cold water.
Oddly, it worked. She was almost certain that, if asked,
Esme was parked in the handicapped spot when Isabella made it to the parking lot - Edward had left or moved his car. He had a sticky thing for his rearview mirror and used it often, given that he drove her home.
Bella felt a pang of sadness.
"Sweetheart?" Esme asked her, almost immediately. She bristled. "Is everything OK? Did Edward -"
"No, no," she said vigorously, shaking her head. "Just some... just some girls."
"Oh, baby."
Next thing she knew, she was pressed up against Esme's cashmere sweater, against her bosom. It felt so comforting that she almost burst into tears again. She felt her mother's fingers threading through her hair. Bella squeezed her back lovingly, nuzzling her tummy like a cat.
"Let's go home," Bella sniffed in a small voice, feeling six instead of sixteen.
Expertly, Esme helped her transfer her body into the car and then broke down her chair quickly.
"Do you want to talk about it, sweetheart?"
Bella shook her head.
Lovingly, she tucked some hair behind Bella's ear. "Whatever it was, they're probably jealous - "
Bella snorted violently. "Jealous of what, mother?"
Esme's eyes twinkled, but she settled for rattling a list that was familiar to Bella.
"You're smart, you're funny, you're kind," Esme all but glowed.
Unfuckable, Bella's mind supplied darkly.
"You're supposed to say that, Mom," she half-growled.
"- so much braver than these other girls - " Esme continued, completely ignoring her.
Despite herself, Bella smiled. "Yadda, yadda, yadda. Spare me the inspiration porn," she mumbled under her breath.
Esme rolled her eyes, ignoring that, too. "And you are so gorgeous," she finished gloatingly. "I'm not the only one that's noticed, you know."
Bella turned scarlet. The part of her that was willing to believe it had been crushed in a bathrooom stall by three teenage girls. As opposed to the mild ego boost she usually got from that kind of speech, she felt a swell of violent irritation.
She was quiet the rest of the trip.
"Don't you like your asparagus, Bell? I can make us something different, darling," Esme offered.
The three of them were having dinner.
"No, no, Mom," she says, snapping out of her trance. She'd been using her fork to eviscerate the salmon under it, twirling it distractedly with her hand. She grabbed her knife and, rather clumsily, split a green spear in two. Isabella'd never been a hearty eater, in no small measure because she seemed to be allergic to breathing, let alone most food.
She popped it in her mouth. Esme watched her chew, a mildly amused look on her face.
"I noticed that Edward wasn't around today," Esme said carefully. She had seen the relationship evolving under her nose. They spent hours hanging out while Edward fixed up his grandfather's old Mercedes; he gently propped her up on a tall table top. Hours doing homework together. His head in her lap. Her head on his chest while she read. Napping, curled around each other, her back tucked against his chest, his hand chastely on her hip.
Bella shrugged noncomittantly, not looking up.
Charlie looked up from his own fish, eyeing his wife and daughter as if approaching a witness stand. Charlie had noticed the relationship evolve, too, and didn't fucking like it one bit.
Charlie didn't just dislike Edward Cullen, Esme's half-orphaned nephew. Charlie almost hated him. As early as their wedding rehearsal dinner, Charlie had been suspicious of the little shit, a terror. He salted the tomatoe bisque and made Isabella cry after the ceremony was over by throwing ice down her back. After his mother Elizabeth's death, the boy — the only son of Elizabeth Cullen née Masen — had virtually moved in with his Aunt Esme. Charlie had no choice but to welcome the boy into their home. Carlisle had been a wreck, in no place to raise a teenager.
Of course, that hadn't lasted very long. Barely a week in his new home, Edward started getting into trouble - a shit storm of it. Drug consumption. Punches, broken bones, fights, stitches. Charlie was also privy to the fact that some poor, unsuspecting girl had serviced the little shit in a broom closet during school hours, earning them both suspension. Apparently, he liked to return the favor to the fairer sex, as a scandalous affair with a substitute Spanish teacher had proven.
Charlie had kicked the boy out of the house several times, until Esme had forbidden it. It was her house, too, and Edward was her nephew. But the little shit ended up bouncing from home to home - between his father, Carlisle, and his maternal grandfather. Edward Masen Sr. was a former senator, a lawyer, and the scariest fucking person Charlie had met in his life.
Esme had wanted to avoid that for her nephew, but relented when it was evident the boy needed a firmer hand. More to the point, Edward had been a little jackass to Isabella. It broke her heart.
"Edward - " Charlie coughed out the name, the way one might if forced to say vagina in polite company - "has a football game."
"I was so sure you'd forgotten his name," Isabella quipped sarcastically, eager to avoid the subject. When his wife wasn't around, Charlie referred to the boy as little shit.
"I choose not to use it. He is a little shit," Charlie countered. Isabella rolled her eyes. Esme pursed her lips and glared at him.
"Charlie," she scolded. "Edward's really turned around lately."
Isabella stuffed an entire asparagus stick into her mouth, happy to chew the stem for an hour if need be.
Charlie heartily disagreed, but he was sure if he made one more comment to contradict his wife, he wouldn't sleep in his room that night. He grunted noncomittantly.
He was a good prosecutor because, contrary to what his wife and daughter believed, he could be extremely observant. He had noticed the changes in Edward. The boy had slowly - painfully slowly - started to straighten out, in tandem with his growing friendship with Charlie's daughter. Now, the boy had a relationship with Isabella that Charlie found disgusting for a plethora of often conflicting reasons. If he was so in love with Isabella, as Esme claimed, then what was he doing, transmitting herpes to the senior class of their High School?
Mimicking his daughter, Charlie tabbed a large piece of salmon and stuck it in his mouth. He hummed as he ate, much preferring his eating noises to discussing the little shit. As they ate, Isabella eyed him peculiarly with her enormous doe eyes, half-expecting some tactless barb.
"Edward got an Early Decision acceptance letter. For Cornell pre-med," Esme told them both, eager to talk up her nephew. Neither Swan realized she was trying to argue Edward's case for both their sakes, if for very different reasons.
Charlie processed the information quickly. He was hesitant to give the boy a lick of credit, but he was also delighted to get the Little Shit away from his baby.
"That's wonderful!" Charlie boomed.
"I knew," Bella finally said, obviously fiercely proud. "But he says he's going to stay in-state because they might give him a full-ride for football."
Charlie sat on this information for a beat, then decided to take it to his advantage.
"In-state would be a great option for you, sweetheart," Charlie interjected, hoping to steer her towards staying close. Isabella was brilliant and kind. She could go to the Ivies if she wanted, and Charlie would delightedly pay. But Isabella was so fragile. Charlie wanted her to stay at home for college.
Isabella groaned. "I actually really would love to go to college in the East Coast."
With Edward, her traitorous mind supplied.
Charlie froze. "That's a discussion for another time, sweetheart. And look at that," he cooed, as if she were seven and not seventeen, "You finished your plate. That calls for dessert. Wouldn't you like some dessert, dear?"
Isabella rolled her eyes tiredly. "I'm not really hungry, Daddy."
She dropped her cutlery and pushed her chair back, using her hands. With that, she used her hands to shift her legs sideways. She reached for her crutches and threaded her arms through the handles.
At home, and occasionally at school, Bella used hand crutches. Walking was awkward and in lots of ways, made her feel clumsier than the wheelchair. Both doctors and therapists insisted that she try, and she did. She wore leg braces that supported every muscle, from the tip of her orthopedic shoes to her hip bones. Even with the orthotics and crutches to help, she couldn't walk well. Though neither of her legs responded well to commands, her right leg was particularly stubborn, and it dragged behind her. A metallic dragging and clicking offered a soundtrack to her new ability. Click, thump, click.
As soon as she had risen to her feet, she wobbled towards her mother. "Thanks for dinner, Mama," she said softly, arching to press a kiss to Esme's cheek.
Bella threaded through the hallways of the spacious, yet cozy home, she shared with her parents. Her bedroom, on the ground floor for obvious reasons, was a little girl's dream. Esme had decorated her it in soft pink and white. The soft white panelling of the furniture matched the ivory wood panelling on the floor. A massive Winnie the Pooh. Next to Pooh, sat an enormous, stuffed elephant with Googly-eyes. Next to the elephant, an Eeyore. Next to Pooh, Piglet. Presents from Edward, the last two took up the entire dresser.
She plopped down in bed and started stripping, undoing the half-updo Esme had lovingly coiffed earlier that morning. She let her crutches rest on the edge of the bed and covered her wheelchair with a terrycloth towel. Expertly, she undid the clasps around her braces, relishing the sensation as they came off. She couldn't really walk without the help of her braces. She wobbled to her wheelchair like fucking Bambi, relying on the grab bar lest she nosedive.
She wheeled to her bathroom and turned on the water. Expertly, she shifted from her chair to the marble benchtop, gripping a stainless steel grab bar. She groaned as she sat underneath the jet of piping hot water, feeling it beat the stress away from her muscles. She lifted her head towards the stream, relishing the sensation.
A part of her wanted to cry. She hadn't let herself cry over Edward fucking Cullen since age 14, and wouldn't start now.
Lauren had left that bathroom certain that Edward wasn't into Isabella Swan. Bella had, too. She had reached the conclusion that Edward was either embarrassed to date someone with a severe disability or was sexually repulsed by her. He never even brought up the subject of sex, acting as if she were some kind of... asexual blob. Bella wasn't...Her legs were covered in scars, especially her right leg. She's had so much surgery to help her walk that she had scars running down her waist to her ankle. The ugliest one, on her right ankle, was a keloid scar.
The hot water ran out, dousing her with cold water.
The next day was beautiful, and sun streamed down through mahogany and orange leaves. Edward was waiting silently, perched on some tree by the school entrance. As per usual, he looked unintentionally, nonchalantly rebellious in a way that could probably make girls literally swoon. He wore aviators and a rusted leather jacket. If he had not been in such deep shit with school authorities, Isabella thought, he would probably be smoking.
When his eyes fell on her, he smiled that crooked grin of his. As he walked towards her, Edward raised his eyebrows at a crowd that was not-so-discreetly gawping at Isabella. Some days, she took her crutches, and others, she took her wheelchair. It depended on how tight her legs felt that day, or how tired she was. Edward, privy to the decision-making process, never commented on it.
At his glare, the crowd dispersed. He waved at his Aunt from a distance; Esme, smiling wryly, drove away.
"Xavier Barrows needs to start tucking his boxers into his pants," he started to tell her, tongue-in-cheek. "He looks like a fucking baboon with his ass hanging out his jeans."
Bella bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
Bending slightly at the knees, Edward stooped down in front of her to quickly peck her cheek. Bella half-averted it.
In a well-practiced routine, Edward offered his arm as she dropped her left crutch, allowing him to take her school bag into his shoulder. She gripped onto his thick forearm until her bag was safely on his shoulder. Edward was one of a handful of people that knew how to support her without coddling her. He kept a safe distance from the crutches and supported her back with a warm, calloused palm.
They walked to the school entrance in silence; Edward knew, intuitively, where she was likely to slip and fall. Expertly, he kept her steady over an ice-patch.
"Bee?" Edward asked her gently. "You OK?" Many years earlier, Edward had started calling her Bee after a long Easter of refusing to take off her Spring-themed bee costume. As with all of her other childhood nicknames, including Bee, the nickname Bee was weaponized for Edward's amusement.
Bella's reply was curt and sour. "Why wouldn't I be?" she asked, especially herself.
Edward didn't want to admit it hurt when she acted...cold.
Instead, he rushed ahead to hold the door open for her and to glare daggers at the kids that, invariably, lined up behind Isabella with impatience. Once she was through, he escorted her to her locker. In her case, there was no way to win with lockers. She couldn't use the top ones with her chair, and could not use either of the two with easily, anyway.
In a hushed tone, she reminded him that her combination was 21-09. He rolled his eyes."I know your birthday is your locker combination, Bella. You should probably change it."
She scoffed, more biting than usual. "I don't need to change it because I'm not storing weed."
Usually, she would've said playfully and Edward would've laughed.
Edward looked hurt at her little barb. He opened her locker more forcefully than usual, and peered inside as if looking into a long-abandoned fridge. "You have English first period, right? Then Bio?" He stuffed her green and brown notebooks, and looked hesitantly at the fatter textbook before stuffing it in.
"Where's your English novel?" he asked her. He rolled his eyes and peered into her schoolbag, finding The Tempest immediately. "You're such a geek, Bell. Literally the only person in the entire school that reads the English homework."
"Geeks are people that are really into their fandoms," she corrected. "The right word is nerd."
Despite himself, he looked at her with that strange frown on his face. Tender, indulgent, almost frustrated, like he wanted to hug her. His eyes swirled. When emotions flashed across his face so quickly she wished she could photograph each frame.
"I stand corrected," he said sarcastically.
His tone shifted when he stood back up, pulling her book bag over his shoulder."Can I walk you to Bio? You shouldn't be hauling that big ass Bio textbook everywhere."
"I can do it," she said. It came out more snappish than she intended. She regretted it instantly — not because she couldn't, technically, but because it really would tire her out.
"I wasn't implying that you couldn't." His tone was cutting, but he offered his forearm before gently placing the book bag on her shoulder. He looked her over to make sure she wouldn't fall, and then sighed.
"See you later, or whatever," he said dryly.
Bella wished she could have seen his face.
At lunch time, Edward invariably sat with his football team... and a whole cadre of girls that didn't understand the concept of personal space. She.. she was having lunch with Eric, and technically, had no right to feel possessive.
Upon walking into the cafeteria, her eyes zeroed in on Edward; for a split second, his piercing stare was clear against a blurred backdrop. He narrowed his eyes. Pointedly in response, Bella smiled beautifully at Eric. The two squeezed into the lunch line. The lunch line was very narrow and Bella had to be careful. She literally could barely walk. Normally, Eric made her nervous. With his tiny hand, Eric dragged her, half-tugging at her shirt.
As best she could, Bella tried to keep up. She took a tentative step and lifted her left crutch, placing it ham-handedly in front of her, trying to maintain a narrower square of personal space. She took another step. Unsteadily, she lifted her right arm. Uselessly, her right leg didn't follow along. In the split second that it bore all her weight, her left leg buckled despite the support from the braces.
She cried out as she fell, knocking the person in front of her over. She felll flatly against the stainless steel countertop and knocked over the stanchion that marked the line. She sounded like a pig being flayed. Her crutches fell loudly against the floor, clattering. A defeaning silence befell the cafeteria. It stretched, taunting, ringing in her ears. Tears stung her eyes, more out of embarrassment than pain.
In front of her, Eric had tripped up and his uniform Oxford shirt was covered in marinara. "Eric?" she croaked stupidly. "Are you OK? I'm so sorry!"
Her questions fell on deaf ears.
A pair of warm hands encased her little shoulders, and suddenly she felt safe. "Bella?"
"Is that blood? Is she bleeding?" A girl's voice rang out, almost hysterical.
"I think she just bruised it. Same with her palms."
Her face felt hotter than Siracha. "I'm okay, I'm okay," Bella was quick to call, even though her palms and shins felt like they were on fire. "Just clumsy."
Edward's fingers swept over her leg from the knee down, which made her turn tomato red. Her hands were trembling hard. Her whole body was shaking, mostly out of embarassment.
Then Edward turned to look at her face. Her eyes were glassy with tears; one slipped down her cheek. He brushed it away with his fingers.
"It's OK" he said softly, following that with a gentle ssh. "It's OK. It's OK, darling. Are you OK to try to get up...?"
He'd seen her try to get up from the floor before. It wasn't easy for her; her legs were too weak. At that very moment, that was more comforting than embarassing.
She shook her head vigorously, eyes wide. She inched towards him, clinging to his neck.
He pressed his lips to Bella's brow.
"Up we go," he said gently, almost playfully. He tucked a hand under her knees and another under her back, carying her bridal style. He stood, bringing her with him. He plopped her down on the closest empty table and knelt down to study both her palms. He winced when he touched her knee. Her small hands were still trembling; when he looked up at her, her eyes were stinging with tears.
"Hey, hey, hey," he said gently. "There's no reason to be embarassed around these fucknuts. This cafeteria has seen a lot worse by a lot dumber."
Despite herself, Bella laughed. She tried not to cling to his shirt when he started to move away, but he had to.
Edward ran off to fish out her crutches, then studiously wiped the marinara off both the handles. Feeling vulnerable for the split second he was gone, Bella studied the white sweater she wore, which was stained. She felt the stares of half the school; the conversation around her was muted, the air thick with pity. The side of her leg was aching from the fall. The more she tried to dab at it with a napkin, the more it turned into an ugly pink. With every swipe, her face turned hotter.
Edward came back quickly and plopped down next to her. Noticing she was still shaking, he changed his position in invitation. She practically crawled into his lap, comforted when he wrapped an arm around her. Soothingly, he rocked her back and forth.
They stayed like that for what could have easily been an eternity.
"I'm going to look like Carrie," she mumbled wetly against his neck.
"Carrie from the horror movie? That Carrie?"
Despite herself, Bella laughed. "No, Carrie Bradshaw."
"Same fucking difference," Edward muttered.
Bella laughed, too, and he burried his face in her hair. He wrapped an arm around her and threaded his fingers through hers.
"I can lend you this," Edward offered, pinching his white Oxford, at the worried look on her face.
She looked at him uncertainly with her big, doe eyes. "And then what will you do?"
"I have one of my football shirts," he said with a shrug. "Just, ya know, spray it with Axe or something."
In that moment, she loved him so impossibly much she wanted to cry.
"You're going to smell like a thirteen-year-old boy," she pointed out, but gave his hand a grateful squeeze.
Laughing, Edward hugged her tighter. They waited until well after everybody had left the cafeteria - until the second bell had rung, to try to walk her to class. Edward offered her her crutches and supported her gingerly, wincing with every step. "Are you sure we don't need to go see the nurse?"
Before long, Edward was patrolling the handicapped bathroom by Bella's US government class. He'd changed before her into a Football jersey, dousing himself with an unholy amount of Axe bodyspray to hide the stench. She was right. He smelled like a prepubescent boy.
She re-emerged from the bathroom. Hers wasn't the most graceful-looking walk, but he barely noticed anymore. He was just so fucking proud of her - she had worked so hard to get to the crutches. Endured so much. Since they were small.
"See? Now you look like Carrie Bradshaw."
She raised her eyebrows. "If you can reference Sex and the City like that, you've seen it too many times," she teased him.
"Fuck you," he said. His lips curved into a smile, and hers did, too.
Yet another of the things they'd been subjected too, together. Esme liked to monopolize the television with Sex and the City re-runs.
He brushed his fingers along her wrists before helping her fold the sleeves neatly. The Oxford shirt looked baggy but oddly stylish atop a pair of skinny jeans. He winced at her palms, completely scuffed up. Finished, he tucked some hair behind her ears. She was just so pretty.
"I'll come hang tonight," he said, kissing her forehead. "After the game."
"On a Friday night?" she asked dubiously.
"Way, way better than fishing ping pong balls out of piss beer," he said.
"Bella, honey?" Charlie called gently that night, wanted to check on her. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up when he heard a loud, deeper laugh. He could hear the tinny sounds of Mario Kart. He slammed the door open.
Charlie had never seen them like that. The little shit was sitting up against the headboard of her bed; Bella was propped between his knees, her back to his chest. Her head was tucked underneath his chin, and he had both arms around her, though he was holding a Nintendo control.
They both turned to look in his direction; Bella's perfect mouth fell to an O. Insolently, the little shit rolled his eyes.
"Daddy?" Bella squealed. One of their characters - Princess Peach, by the sound of it - whined after being hit by a turtle shell.
"What are you doing here?" Charlie thundered at the little shit, turning scarlett. That was fucking obscene; Bella still decorated her four-poster bed with stuffed animals. Charlie didn't want some juvenile delinquent fondling his daughterin front of a stuffed cast of Winnie the Pooh.
"Daddy, please don't," Bella begged. "We were just..."
"Quiet, young lady. You," Charlie said, zeroing dangerously in on the little shit. "Out."
Edward looked at Charlie with a nonchalant defiance that made him snap.
"Daddy, we were just hanging out," Bella begged.
Charlie cackled, far more aggresively than he would have normally dreamed of being.
"Out. I'm not kidding around," he barked.
The little shit rolled his eyes. "Let me just get her settled," he said with that characteristic cocky laziness. Edward lifted her to the side of him, lifting her easily. Seeing his hands on her waist, Charlie bristeled. Once Isabella was sitting outside the confines of his legs, Edward pushed to his feet.
Unable to contain his rage, Charlie stepped past Bella and grabbed him by the collar. "Out," he seethed with rage.
"Daddy!" Bella screeched. "Daddy, what the heck is wrong with you?!"
Charlie grabbed all 170 pounds of adolescent muscle - happy the boy was still a little gangly - and dragged him towards the threshold. He released him and shoved him brusquely away from the bedroom, past the kitchen, towards the front door.
"You better tell your father about this," Charlie barked. "If he doesn't ground your ass until you graduate, I fucking will, you understand?"
The little shit grinned cockily at him, and then saluted insolently.
"Yes, sir. Good night," he half-cackled, turning cheekily on his heel. Charlie resisted the urge to shove him down the front steps, imagining with tendrils of pleasure what it would feel like to push him.
Seething, Charlie took a deep breath and stomped back into his daughter's bedroom. It still bore all the markers of childhood; it still had wainscotting on the walls. Her childhood books sat one one bookshelf, opposite a tall shelf where she kept a handful of stuffed animals. Isabella was purposefully dessecrating it just by letting that little shit inside.
Agile within her means, Bella had pulled herself up and was sitting on the bed. Her big, doe eyes were glassy, but mostly, her forehead was wrinkled. "You can't shove people around like a psycho," she sneered snootily.
"I can do any damn thing I want. My house, my rules," he barked. "And you..."
"You're grounded." Charlie blurted out cluessly.