Chapter Five: Edward

Walking back toward the main building, I was as optimistic as could be. My ears were still blissfully ringing from the shuddering tremolo and sweet vibration that certain songs provided.

My selections during those ten or so minutes of stolen bliss behind one of the smaller buildings had sufficiently tempered my mind to a relaxed, obliging, frame of consciousness.

Between the cacophony of bitter screaming to the serenade of violin aching with vibrato (or both in one song), I felt ready to endure the remaining two classes of the day.

Strengthened by the rhythmic beat of Spellbound by Siouxsie and the Banshees, I pulled the map of Forks High from my pocket to see where Biology was.

Thankfully, I happened to spot Angela walking through the main thoroughfare and casually stalked her to our next class.

I waited just long enough to give myself a breath, to collect myself, before I shoved the crumbled map into the front pocket of my parka and slipped through the door. Sliding all evidence of my musical dalliance into the side pocket of my backpack in the process.

Mr. Molina, my new Biology teacher, was standing behind the only center-placed lab table at the front of the class. With an irritatingly squeaky pen he was semi-expertly sketching the different phases of mitosis onto the whiteboard. Most of them were already finished, save for the one he was presently working on.

Not wanting to interrupt Mr. Molina's artistic progress to give him my sign-sheet, I stalled time by taking a quick perusal of our classroom; Half wondering where Angela and Mike were sitting as my gaze casually drank in the scenery.

My head hadn't turned ten degrees before I saw him.

With one imaginary tick of the clock: time came to a proverbial stop.

I don't think I even remembered how to breathe.

Unsure whether my mouth felt more dry or wet, the swelling lump in my throat nearly suffocated me.

The only sound I could hear, and comprehend, was the beat of my own heart. The blood rushing through my veins sang like brown noise – a waterfall. An invisible wall that, for one moment of hyper-vigilance, I felt safe behind.

Perhaps because, and only because, Edward had yet to notice me. He had to be this Edward, simply because there was no possibility in my head of anyone else at Forks High being as beautiful as this guy was.

So I drank him in. Devoured his every feature. Knowing, on some unconscious level, that this moment might be all I had.

Gorgeous could not begin to describe him.

Nor could any other word: resplendent or magnificent, suitably explain the enchantment – nay, possession – that the mere presence of this boy stirred within me.

The only thing I could rightly compare him to, in that moment, was a photo of the La Génie du mal Sculpture of Lucifer.

Edward was neither too stocky, nor lanky; too short, nor tall. Though he was slender, he did not lack muscle, and it showed in the way his clothes hugged his body. To create that ungodly silhouette that would (against my better judgment) haunt my remaining dreams.

I was bewitched; captivated.

Not only because his facial features were exquisite. That his long lashes perfectly encapsulated those dark fine eyes of his. The fact that his near-black hair looked rich, colored, and expertly styled in a way that didn't look artificial had nothing to do with my stupefaction.

It was less that he looked like the kind of guy any person (with my sort of inclinations) would fantasize about, and everything to do with how he carried himself.

I'd always been attracted to the soul before the body. Yes there were people I found more physically appealing than others, but if their soul turned out to be ugly then it robbed my capacity to get hard thinking about them.

Thankfully, such complicated thoughts as to why that was and if I was broken because of it were far from me, now.

Because, while I was wholly absorbed in devouring every little detail about his posture and mannerisms to get to know whatever I could glean about him…

Edward Cullen could care less about me. Just as Lauren had earlier warned.

His face never looked up from whatever he happened to be doodling in his notebook to see who came through the door. The girls seated at the two person desk in front of him could have shoved their books on the floor and I doubted he'd be bothered to give two cents about the disruption – he was that wrapped-up in his work.

He spoke to no one, looked at no one, and – what was even more bewildering – no one looked at him.

Was he even there?! Or had I suffered a complete mental collapse and my body was slumped over, unconscious, somewhere on campus?

I pinched my fingers together and it alleviated nothing. My body felt the pain of the sensation; but, my mind was incapable of letting this dream slip away.

My head was swimming; the room ebbed and flowed without moving. As though I were surrounded by a strange, potent, perfume that no one else seemed to be able to smell.

Like the world was colorblind to something only I could see.

In those ten to thirty seconds where Mr. Molina finished his sketch for today's lecture, I couldn't bear to look away.

Not even because there was something in Edward's expression, his posture, and demeanor that permeated the unspeakable.

In thinking back on this horrible, wonderful, day – I determined that he looked on the outside the way I felt on the inside.

That he, too, had to wear a mask in this place. To keep the person he really was safely nestled from rebuke or censure.

The full weight of the song Creep crept, unwavering, into my head.

He was so very special.

Too perfect to ever want me.

For the space of time between that spark of first sight to the moment Mr. Molina finished his sketch and noticed the awkward teenager hovering in the doorway: I'd held my breath completely.

My heart felt so devoid of air that it weighed less than a feather. It fluttered like a dehydrated hummingbird; its song disheveled and sporadic with seemingly no rhyme or reason.

A song I couldn't hear. That burst, that spark, that seed of love that ruptured my soul. Irrevocably.

A song that could only be felt. Born from that first, stunned, gasp that broke from my chapping lips the moment Edward and I's one sided interlude ended.

As, unbeknownst to my sorry twitterpated, ass – Mr. Molina had said: "Mr. Swan?"

Three. Damn. Times.
In front of the whole Biology class.

Everyone turned their head to stare at me. Including, and most importantly, Edward.

Dear Gods. The first time Lucifer in the flesh deigned to glance my way — it was because I was being a creepy, bug-eyed, weirdo!

Just standing there, staring at him.

Edward's painfully perfect brow furrowed perplexedly. Which only grew worse the longer he beheld me.

I could see the question building on his face, fuming as a coming hurricane, louder and louder:

Is this guy stupid?

He looked annoyed. Frustrated. Perturbed.

The irritation oozed from him the way perfume filled an elevator and became insufferable. He turned his head away.

Humiliated; mortified, it took the loss of his direct, disapproving, stare for me to finally turn toward Mr. Molina at the center lab table.

Very nearly knocking my knee into the corner edge as I held out my slip for him to sign.

And it was here that the budding radiance of my naive little heart dimmed. The dull glass sphere falling onto the floor and shattering into a million little pieces.

As, in this one, pivotal, second: the tone of the room changed from mortification to pure, unadulterated, revulsion.

To my great shame, as I'd approached the table to hand Mr. Molina my sheet – a stupid table fan blew that strip of paper right out of my hand.

All the warmth in my fingers drained through the floor with that one look of disregard Edward shot into my soul.

The class watched in a convoluted hush of astonishment, hilarity, and derision as that little slip of paper flew across the room.

Circling in a seemingly uncharted course of small loops through the air before it swam right past Edward's face and pathetically smacked into the glass of the windowed wall behind him.

Somehow, that crumpled, messy, slip of signatures had set this change in motion.

Edward had become rigid in his seat. No longer were his eyes on his notebook.

They were on me; meeting my gaze with the strangest bewilderment. No, bewilderment could not describe the fire in those pitch-black eyes.

Not even the venomous glare of Connor could compete with the vehemence that consumed Edward's beautiful face.

Was he that offended by my supposed clumsiness that the only reasonable response was to hate me?

The ragged screech of unsettled bass from any metal song I'd ever loved rippled through me and awoke something dark and terrible within me.

I just didn't understand what it was at the time.

I felt like a marionette, having had all his strings yanked out.

"Mr. Swan? Won't you take a seat?" Mr. Molina seemed to politely order rather than ask.

As a zombie, I took the offered packet of stapled papers (which depicted future assignments of importance) from Mr. Molina on autopilot and held it against my chest.

After all, if I dropped these, it couldn't be worse than having to look Edward in the eye again, right?

Yet, as a moth to flame, I turned and looked right into the fire.

Which was still unforgivably ablaze. Tempestuous as hellfire in the loathing he burned into me.

"Isabeau? Are you alright?" Mr. Molina asked in quiet tones of concern, which I was grateful for.

My reply seemed to be hidden beneath the laughter of students behind me: "Yeah. Fine."

Who the hell was this Adonis to hate me?! What had I ever done to him?! What the hell was his problem?!

Taking one step to find my seat; it finally occurred to me...that there were no other seats.

The only seat left in this classroom was the one next to him.

The guy who was seething. Bristling those merciless orbs into me.

What I didn't realize at the time, was the survival technique that had been instilled in me by my father since I was a small child:

Never turn your back on a predator.

If you look away, they'll pounce: and you will die.

So I didn't look away.

I stared death in the eye as I approached the two person black-top lab desk, pulled out the empty aisle-side chair, and slowly slid into place beside the virulent statue.

Edward, with loathing and disgust snarling his mouth, tightened his fingers into fists so tight that his knuckles had no color.

I couldn't look away.

No longer because I felt connected to him, but because if I didn't he might attack me.

For no other reason, that I could think of, than because he was pissed to have to share his desk with the new guy.

What else could it possibly be? I hadn't been exercising to reek and even if I did have acne on my chin divot again – that wasn't a reason for that level of disgust.

It wasn't a reason to be so resolutely loathed.

I don't think either of us took a calm breath or turned our gaze to the teacher once during that unbearably terrible hour.

And as if that wasn't enough, Edward never moved.

Just kept skewering his eyes – coal-black and electrifying – into my own.

The experience was like watching a doctor coming for me with latex gloves and empty blood vials. It was the rubber tourniquet being wrapped around my arm. That immeasurable expanse of time between a doctor's attempts at comfort and the time before the butterfly needle pierced my skin.

Only what was usually an agonizing couple of seconds lasted for that entire hour.

The moment class ended, and Edward bolted from our lab desk like his feet were on fire, the proverbial snap of the tourniquet set me free again.

Free from feeling like I had to keep fighting for my life – not just my sanity.

I finally could breathe; which resulted in mild hyperventilation.

Not only from the shock of barely functioning on the complete edge of my seat for the whole hour.

But because I'd inherited something from my mother that I hated to my core.

Whenever she was angry, she cried.

Of all the things I could have gotten: her deep blue eyes, her hundred watt smile, her gracefulness, I lost the genetic lottery because I was fighting back tears!

How I didn't immediately break into loud, wailing, sobs was a gift from the universe I didn't dare try to question.

But quietly, in ragged shuddering raspy breaths, I still fucking wept.

I couldn't stop myself – even with the reminder of every harsh male voice screaming at me to 'stop crying' blaring in my head on repeat.

The tears were hot and burned. The worst of it threatened to fall from my nose at any provocation. So ashamed of myself for being reduced into this hot mess, I let my dark brown hair cover my face. Grateful that I kept it shoulder length for exactly these kinds of situations.

Desperately praying (to no one God in particular) that if anyone saw me like this they had the decency to pretend they hadn't, I started gathering my books in a rush.

In the back of my mind, I think I saw Mr. Molina slip out of the classroom after Edward left, but I could have imagined that.

The classroom seemed to go on around me; a fishbowl effect where I was aware of everyone else, but unable to respond to them.

There was only one thing I could do in this situation – and that was get away from people.

Bolting as fast as was acceptable indoors, I left.

My last class was P.E. and I couldn't handle the idea of exercise after the cataclysm of stress I'd just endured.

I stormed off so fervently that I purposefully ignored familiar voices.

Eric, because of course he was keeping an eye out for me, called out from concern. Who knew who else had tried to follow…

Music couldn't help me. Not when I needed to be able to hear – to assure myself that Edward wouldn't change his mind and come back to finish the job.

Five minutes wasn't enough to soothe what storm had come over me. But it did allow me the ability to breathe semi-normally. For the tears to stop even if the evidence was still plastered on my face.

I could see out of puffy eyes. Breathe, however shakily, with enough fluidity to not worry about an asthma attack.

It was then, while I was just beginning to worry about what to do about my last class, that I heard Mike's voice from around the corner.

He must have followed me here, to the place I'd hidden earlier to listen to music. Behind one of the smaller buildings near the gymnasium.

"Bee? You okay?"

A question I utterly loathed, but I answered as you were supposed to:

"Yeah."

Mike chuckled a little, as if to break the tone. "So, did you stab Edward with a pencil or something?"

Great. The whole class had seen that sad excuse for a staring contest.

"No," I answered honestly. Exhaling another shaky, drawn out breath. "No idea what his problem was."

"I've never seen him act like that." Mike shrugged, walking closer to slouch his back against the brick wall beside me. "If you want I can ask Mr. Molina if he minds switching lab partners?"

Thinking Mike was just being nice, I offered a brief, forced, smile. "Thanks. It'll be fine. On my end anyway.'"

Mike leaned against the wall beside me, nodding.

I don't think either of us said anything for a little while and it was kind of nice; To not feel pressured to say something.

"Uh. Here," Mike broke the silence. Although, it took the crinkling sound of paper to pull my focus from the woods off in the distance back to Mike.

Looking down, I noticed the office slip sheet I'd left stuck on the window in my haste to get out of there. Mike had rescued it for me.

I took it with soft, lifeless, fingers. Half afraid that if I touched this cursed object, all the earlier anguish would fall back over me.

It didn't, but the memory of the note flying past Edward's face – his hatred skewering into my soul – resurfaced. Haunted by the living, a person I should rightly shove from my mind, I tucked the paper into my pocket.

"Cullen's an ass, then," Mike sympathized with a weak smile. Vaguely gesturing to my face with his hand. "Not worth all this."

I agreed with him, though the laugh I returned was hoarse and hollow. "Yeah. I know."

"We can chill here awhile. Coach'll understand."

Torn between the temptation to skip and the idea of being responsible for Mike's tardiness, I caved to the latter.

"No. I'll be alright," I assured. Reminding myself that I could sit the class out if it turned out to be too 'strenuous'.

"Come on," Mike urged with a playful half-smile. "If Ed-tard starts any shit with you, I'll handle him."

I laughed a bit more genuinely now, however weak it was. It was nice, how easy Mike could make me laugh.

"Yeah. Right."

Wiping my eyes just to make sure everything I could control was hidden, I followed Mike from the 'secret spot' I'd made.

Somewhere on the route to class, though, he stopped me.

"Hey Bee?" Mike tapped my shoulder, so I paused to look at him. "I wanted to ask you something."

"Shoot."

"I was wondering if you wanted to come to my house this weekend? Some of the guys might come over. Play some PS3?"

Comforting as his smile was, the thought of spending more time with others once school was over made me mildly cringe.

It wasn't like I didn't enjoy hanging out with friends; but, school was already stressful as it was. Adding after-school socialization on top of it? I worried that might exhaust me. The idea of having an episode in front of other guys, especially Mike or Connor, made the cringe turn into a full-fledged grimace.

Still, I reminded myself: I hadn't fainted in over a year. I'm better. Stronger. I can handle it. If there was enough time to rest on Sunday then it should be fine.

"When were you thinking of meeting up?" I cautiously asked him.

"Saturday afternoon. I've got air hockey, too, if you wanted to play for old time's sake?"

I had really been hoping to check out the Forks Public Library on Saturday, see what books they had available, but if I checked it out in the morning then maybe I'd feel up to hanging out in the afternoon. It sounded reasonable to me. Plus, if it was bad, I could just drive home.

"Sure. Just promise Connor won't mess with me."

Mike snorted and scoffed a bit. "Please. Like I was gonna invite him."

"Aren't you friends?" I protested, just because I didn't want Connor to sick any venom on Mike because of me.

"Yeah," Mike replied, nonchalantly. "But, Con and I hang out all the time. I wanna spend some time catching up with you.'

"Are you sure he won't be pissed off?"

"So what if he is?" Mike laughed, even reached out to playfully push my shoulder.

"I don't want to tick him off anymore than he already is," I protested, stopping in my tracks to look at him seriously.

"I won't let anyone hurt you, Bee," Mike's voice was firm, but caring. And he meant it, I could see it in his eyes, but…

"You couldn't stop them before."

The knife I'd plunged went deeper than I meant. His eyes began to tear up as the color drained from his face.

"Mike, I'm sorry. I d-"

Worried that I went too far, I opened my mouth to further apologize, but his hands rose to squeeze my upper arms tightly beneath the shoulders. I didn't know what he was doing until he lifted me like a sack of flour!

Suddenly, I was like a whole foot above the ground – feet dangling in the air – before he set me back down like I was nothing.

Gods, he was so much stronger than he looked! Ironic, considering he was a little shorter than me when we stood next to each other.

Shocked, I said nothing. Conflicted by how light I had to be for it to be so easy for him to move me.

"I won't let anyone hurt you again. Least of all Connor. Got it?"

"Yeah," I murmured. "Word."

Did I really just say word? Jeez.

"He can get over it, like Tyler," Mike assured, irritably, and it was then that I realized who the familiar guy sitting by Connor at lunch was. Tyler Crowley.

Unwilling to bear a resurgence of the past, and all the ugly things that happened before I turned fifteen, I focused on the fact that Mike said Tyler 'got over' it.

Which meant one person of their old little clique no longer hated me?

If Mike could become friends with Tyler and Connor after all that happened…maybe I could forgive them, too. People could change. I should give them a chance – if they wanted one.

"So long as I don't steal you from your other friends, I'll come."

Mike grinned so broadly that I practically saw his tonsils.

"Awesome sauce! It'll be lit, fo shore'," Mike guaranteed, and I let him ramble on about his favorite video games as we walked to Gym.

Somehow, with all his whimsy, Mike had saved me from worrying about Edward. And, somehow, he made me feel accepted here, like Jacob.

Maybe, just maybe, I could keep a friend here.