A/N: This story will go back in the past through her high school years (young), and her middle school years (younger) to give context on how she got to the present—but only briefly.

..::.. Chapter 9 - High School ..::..

Young - High School

"Edward," I yell. The front of the class is loud. The teacher stepped out and told me I'm in charge. I don't know why I'm in charge. I'm an average student, but no straight A's. I see why Mr. Banner would choose me, compared to these Neanderthals, I'm a better option.

I sit here, in this old desk marked with slang, curses, and tag names people love to go by in their neighborhood. It's stupid. How did I end up in special studies? This is fucked. The class for troubled kids meant to be monitored and make sure they do their homework. That one fucking class I failed last year, and this is what I get. Torture with weirdos.

I sigh and watch an immature Edward sit at the teacher's desk. He's snooping. He grabs a piece of chalk and draws a dick on the board shooting out sperm.

"Stop being a douchebag!" I yell. I haven't talked to him since freshman year. Well, more like middle school. He's not popular by any stretch. He's the troublemaker. The popular kids fear him, the popular girls give him dirty looks, but they don't protest much when his hand makes its way up their skirts. He's his own clique. Pete and two other assholes follow him around. They sit on the stairs of the school and snap on underwear when girls pass by. The leaders and cat-callers of tomorrow. How inspiring.

I stare him down when it's my turn up the steps. I try not to look scared. I grip my keys strategically so I can take a swing if anyone tries. He watches me hard, leaning back on the steps on elbows.

His biker jacket is the only cool piece of clothing he has. The rest is faded and dated, old Adidas on his feet, corduroy pants on summer days because he's got but a few pairs. But he's tall. His dad doesn't spend money on him. A lesson. I heard that from Alice. She swallowed hard and shook her head when she told me how hard he was on him.

What she never explained was his arms and abs scratched up and scabbed, though trim and taut. He likes to wipe his face once in a while with a lift of his shirt.

It surprised me once. The muscles, but mostly the scabs.

What does he do to get that many so regularly?

He goes away for long periods of time. Then he's back and making everyone's life a living hell. I don't know how he passes the school years. Well, except for that one time. Now he's older than everyone.

I pass by him on the steps, and his eyes follow me, but nothing else. He doesn't touch me. Those same eyes I see through my window at night to his room. We stare at one another a lot. But nothing ever comes of it. We don't talk. We have silent communication. He steps out on that roof off his room, and when he's not smoking or staring at the sky, he's watching what I do in my room. He lounges there and snoozes.

It's not like it's new. He's always done it. I don't find it odd at all. I think his life is shitty and he needs that headspace and the comfort of watching someone else's calm life.

Because when his dad is home, all hell breaks loose. He doesn't come alone. Edward's uncles file in to talk to his grandfather who lives with them.

Maybe that's where he gets his scabs. You can hear the yelling from our house. And always toward Edward. His mom yells his name to stop whatever he does. I couldn't ever get a good view. Dad would come into my room, shut the window and tell me to go to bed.

But I did see once.

I did.

When he's not watching me, he's out in the street all hours of the night, doing God knows what. He has this beat up Dodge Polara his uncle gave him. The girls he drags along, the few who get in his car who really didn't mind when he'd reach up their skirts, they get a ride. More ways than one. They make it to his room, and I have to ignore that light pouring in through my window.

Until one night, I really couldn't help but look. I was curious. Was he just as vicious to their soft skin and hearts as he was to everyone? I don't know why it bugged me. Even if the girls were the meanest in school, I worried. I watched.

And the things I saw.

He was lean but robust from his thighs to hips and shoulders. A man before his age. Gorgeous like his father. He'd crawl over the bed. Sometimes he was generous. Others, he'd lay sprawled back. The shy girl fumbled. But then he'd take over. Settled her exactly where he wanted her. The girl in ecstasy and I held my breath along with her.

He wasn't vicious. He was just rough around the edges.

I never looked after that.

"Edward!" I yell. I channel his mother in some ways. The class looks over at me.

He looks up, chalk mid-air.

"Cut the shit."

He relents. He tosses the piece onto the dusty shelf and walks back to his desk to the beat of my heart.

He sits, folds his hands like a good student and says, "You love me, Bella?" The crowd howls. He hasn't said that in years. It just angers me.

"I'm not even sure your own mother does," I say right back. And maybe the crowd goes wild this time.

I shake in my bones, but I don't look away. I know him more than anyone else in this room. Deep down inside, I know I shouldn't have said that.

. .

. .