Twilight AF
Chapter 2
Shit got worse because apparently that's how the universe treats mopey assholes like me. My mother read The Secret, apparently. Her conclusion? It's all my fault; stop being me.
I didn't get a wink of sleep. Partly because of the monsoon raging outside my bedroom window, and partly because my father grilled me for details about Renee on the sly at dinner until the cringe got the better of the both of us and consequently stuck with me throughout the night.
Also because sex hair, courtesy of his death-stare and preposterously criminal beauty, succeeded in plummeting my self-esteem into the seventh circle of Hell. I spent all afternoon staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror while trying to convince myself that I didn't, in fact, resemble Mark Zuckerberg, pasty skin and bugged out brown eyes to boot.
Then shit weirdly got better because the next day sex hair's not at school. His four weirdo foster siblings are all present at their lunch table, not talking, or eating; or moving, but sex hair is decidedly missing.
Buzzcut keeps looking at me, though, which weirds me out. One time when our eyes meet her expression gets animated and she looks like she's on the verge of making a move. I turn back to Jessica before that can happen though. Claudia's definitely not receptive to that shit. She looks like the kind of person who could will your existence into oblivion by a single glance. Claudia spends the entire lunch break sniffing her Granny Smith, too, so I'm pretty sure she's a sociopath.
Not going to lie, I spend most of the day Googling snappy one-liners in the event sex hair decided to vocalize his issues with me, so I'm low-key bummed that he's absent.
Then I start questioning shit again, and almost have myself convinced that he has some sort of gastro-intestinal bug and his psychoneurotic behavior the day before had nothing whatsoever to do with me.
Yeah, I'm not buying it, though.
I decide, since he's fostered, that he must have all kinds of psychological issues, probably due to his mother, and maybe I look a bit like her. Hey, I can definitely empathize with that.
Jessica sneaks back to her usual table beside the closet perv during Bio, leaving me blessedly in peace at sex hairs. I pretend to be pissed off about it—reverse psychology and all that—hoping she'll stay where she is out of some kind of triumph.
It's obvious Jessica views Mike as her fall-back guy in the likely event sex hair tells her to fuck off, and she's pretty impressed with herself that I decide not to make a stand re the seating arrangement. Mike pouts all through class, though. I feel his neediness boring into the back of my skull the entire hour.
Still, I have to make a concerted effort to give him the slip before and after gym, and then during my escape route to the parking lot at the end of the day.
I pass the fostered supermodels, standing in front of a silver hatchback as I'm making my way toward John-Boy. Claudia scoffs at me blatantly and mutters something that sounds freakishly similar to "he's ran off because of that girl?"
I turn on impulse to stare openly at her; mostly out of sheer bewilderment but also too because what she said got my back up and I'm contemplating throwing down. Claudia scowls at me, so I reciprocate by pointedly rolling my eyes. That's when I notice hers. Pupil black exactly like sex hair's.
Okay, this shit is really starting to creep me out.
. . .
I spend the next hour trying to remember whether Jessica told me Claudia was related to the agonized-looking dude, or sex hair.
I'm not exactly confident, but I conclude it has to be sex-hair. Also, I've forgotten what his name is. I'm pretty sure it's Jasper.
He does not look like a Jasper.
I detour to the Thriftway before home because if I have to eat another microwave meal I'll probably end up with cryptosporidiosis as well. I walk up and down the aisles with every hair along my body erect and quivering. It's the sort of shit Renee used to say meant people were trampling over your grave.
I can't help it, though, because none of the locals in the supermarket have black eyes.
I get home, put the groceries away, do my homework, and then read an email my mother sent me about how great life is without me on the road with her boy toy. She tacked on how much she missed me at the end in the same sentence where she asked whether I'd stolen her favorite pink Walmart blouse.
Did I mention my mother is completely delusional?
I'm halfway through cooking dinner when my father arrives home from work. I do not mention my mother's correspondence; neither of us deserve the kind of misery that would result in.
After a minute and a half of stiff small-talk, my father, entirely too casually, returns to the hall where he hung up his gun and holster, and removes the bullets. I'm not sure what that says about me, but it can't be anything good. I pretend I don't notice while the deafening crack of thunder drowns out my laughter.
Dinner is just as painful as the two previously. My father asks whether I've made friends, and then goes on a tangent about rap sheets and criminal records. He appears to enjoy talking about the locals, so I take the opportunity to nonchalantly slip the Russian supermodels into the conversation.
"Dr. Cullen is an upstanding member of the community," he replies like he's reading someone's LinkedIn profile aloud, but he looks suddenly unnerved so I know he's picked up on their creepiness, too.
"The foster kids are weird, and I'm sorry, but they're not normal!" I blurt impulsively and am more than relieved when my father's eyes spark with obvious concurrence.
"They're from Alaska," he murmurs as if that's supposed to explain away their weirdness. Granted I've never been to Alaska, and neither has he, but maybe there is a town there where the locals breed disturbingly-beautiful children with black eyes.
I mean, people like my mother exist, so anything is possible.
"So what's this Dr. Foster Dad like?" I enquire, a lot more curious that I wish I was.
"He's...a very attractive man," he goes with, his voice restricting before he clears it roughly and chews on his steak.
"Does he have black eyes too?" I'm entirely too forthright and it causes my father to turn and gaze at me for several uncomfortable seconds.
"I think they're a kind of brown," he eventually answers and then he blinks fifty-seven times in quick succession; which is my father's built it polygraph buzzing that he's bullshitting.
That concludes our talk about the Russian supermodels. We finish dinner in silence, and I fake a sudden onset migraine when he drags the home brand frozen apple pie from the freezer.
That night it stops raining, which pisses me off. I have no choice but to cry in the shower instead. After I watch Supernatural on Netflix for the purposes of studying the eye color of the demons.
I barely sleep that night, too.
The rest of the week is pretty much the same. Sex hair doesn't come back, though. There's a rumor going around that he has an intestinal parasite. I'm pretty aggravated over it because how dare he make me question my purpose for existing only to immediately go MIA?
On Friday Mike-closet-perv-Newton invites me to the beach for some group venture to go surfing. It's during lunch, and I laugh for a good forty-five seconds before I realize he's serious. Then during sixth period, I get hauled into the Principals' office and lectured about spreading unsavory rumors. I plead the fifth and am let off with a warning.
Buzzcut waves at me in the parking lot that afternoon; I pretend I have something in my eye.
Charlie works all weekend while I live out my tragic life by finishing my homework early Saturday morning and then stopping by the public library in the afternoon.
The librarian pushes herself on me the instant I walk through the door and starts harassing me about applying for a library card. I humor her and then give her the slip in the young adult section.
Sunday I redo my homework, because I literally have fuck all else to do, and thus concludes my first week at Forks.
. . .
People actually wave at me as I pull John-boy into the school parking lot Monday morning, so it seems I have been accepted into the fray and am now a local. Not so sure that's a good thing, because it's a lot easier to hide amongst complete strangers when I'm attempting to evade closet perv than it is among people whose names I now know.
With a bit of luck in a few weeks I'll have forgotten. I'm really shit with names.
The fucker has mapped out all my escape routes because he knows exactly where to find me. He's ditched Jessica in English and now sits beside me. I gave him the cold shoulder for the entire lesson until he started pestering me about some perceived slight he'd committed.
"Look, Mike," I say at the end of class when the needy asshole stands up and waits for me to collect my shit, "I should tell you now that Jessica is into you, and I'm into...someone else."
"Who?" he asks as disappointment floods his expression
"Oh, uh...Jasper," I answer when my mind turns blank.
"Oh," a smug grin ghosts across his face, "but you should know Jasper is going out with Alice."
"Who?" I echo, my expression no doubt as equally vacant.
"She sits with them. Short dark hair..." His voice trails off and he raises his brows in obvious emphasis.
Shit, Jasper is the agonized-looking dude?
"Oh, did I say Jasper? I meant..." Fuck I can't remember his name. "I meant the other one."
"Which—"
"I sit with him in Bio!" I blurt. "Look, I..." But, impatiently shrugging it off, I spin on my heel and leave the room without him.
It's snowing, and the locals are beside themselves in excitement. I am too, if truth be told. It's the first time I've ever seen it, but that sentiment quickly comes to a screeching halt when some asshole lobs a projectile at me clumped with it.
I soon realize I'm caught in the crossfire, and am forced to break into a run to escape it. Jessica lobs several at me, but misses. Her aim is shittier than mine.
For the next several hours, it's all anyone can talk about. Apparently, there's a planned offensive after school, and closet perv uses it as an excuse to trap me into further conversation.
He's also using Jessica as an excuse to leer constantly nearby, because Jessica still insists on accompanying me everywhere. I suspect it's to make sure I stay clear of Mike. The girl is as delusional as my mother.
We pass the weirdos' table on our way to purchase our food. I glance casually in their direction only to immediately regret it.
"Hi, Bella!" Buzzcut choruses as if she was waiting to pounce on me the instant our eyes met.
"Er...hey," I say, more than a little weirded out because she's not in any of my classes and we've never even met.
That's when I realize there's five people at their table again. Sex hair is back and currently gazing at me intently. It's not murderous this time, but it's still unnerving as all shit.
I'm pretty sure I pull up short and my mouth falls open, but I quickly recover and scowl at him.
His expression only smooths out in surprise like he can't understand my hostility.
Gaslighting asshole.
"What's wrong with Bella," I hear Mike gossiping about me after I ditch food for a coke and stomp off toward Jessica's lunch table muttering darkly to myself.
"Nothing!" I burst, not in the mood for Mike's overly invested bullshit now that it seems I'm about to be thrown into sex-hair's trajectory again. I've also forgotten all my snappy comebacks, so if he starts glaring at me again, I'm going to be rendered mute.
"Aren't you hungry," Jessica adds.
"Apparently."
Mike continues his vested interest in me while I contemplate hauling ass to John-boy—only to immediately get pissed off at myself. I am not hiding from that beautiful assface. I refuse.
I sneak a glance at their table again, all covert-like through my hair and under my lashes. I tell myself that if he's death-staring me, I'll fake an asthma attack and spend Bio in the infirmary.
The five of them are being idiots, laughing and flicking melted snow at each other.
So, they really can behave like normal people. Imagine that. Though, Claudia does look like she's about to pull a knife.
They also look less deathly pale today. Maybe being from Russia means they have the reverse effect and their skin only gets flushed when it snows.
Like the middle-aged dude and the guy in agony, Sex hair's hair is completely drenched, making him look like he's just had shower sex.
I mean seriously, does the guy even own a comb?
"Bella, what are you staring at!" Jessica asks, way too loudly, with the obvious objective of embarrassing me for ogling the Russian supermodels.
Naturally sex hair hears and turns his head squarely to me. He doesn't glare; instead, he looks frustrated, like he's gotten over his agro and my presence is now an inconvenience.
"Edward's staring at you." She giggles like a bitch.
"Edward?" I repeat, ignoring the snotty context behind her amusement.
So, his name's Edward...
"Yeah..." Jessica's rightfully confused, but she really is grating on my final nerve with her passive aggressive bullshit.
"I forgot what his name was," I explain myself, jerking an annoyed shoulder.
"He seems to know yours," she replies, her sarcasm now blatant. "But don't worry, he doesn't like anyone."
"Well good thing it's mutual, hey, Jessica!" I snap at her, my eyes narrowing in warning. I'm three seconds from slapping this bitch down.
Squinty eyes interjects, and the topic quickly reverses back to their planned snow-ball war in the parking lot after final period like we're all in fucking grade school.
But, I mean, there's not a lot else going on in Forks, so I can't exactly begrudge their enthusiasm. By the time the bell signals for sixth period, however, it quickly becomes obvious the snow's been replaced by rain.
Everyone groans, and Mike's incessant bitching over it follows me all the way to Biology.
Mine and sex hair's table is empty; sex hair has yet to arrive and Jessica's several feet behind me hanging off Mike's every word. I was fully prepared for a slap fight had she tried to take back my seat now that sex hair's back.
Dumping my books to the surface of the table, I take my stool and drag it noisily in. A microscope sits in the middle, sectioning it in two with a box of slides close by. Sex hair arrives half a minute later, and I watch discreetly from my periphery as he approaches and takes his seat beside me. He sits as far away from me as possible without him looking unhinged, but doesn't say anything. There's still a few more minutes left until the start of class, so in attempt to distract myself from his creepy-ass presence I eavesdrop on everyone around me.
They're still bitching about the snow melting. Boring.
"Hello," sex hair says in greeting, all charming and friendly-like.
For a moment I'm not positive it was him who spoke, but I know the overly soft husky tenor to his voice could only belong to him. I turn to him slowly and eye him dubiously.
His eyes that are trained on me steadily are...not black, but a weird amber gold. Okay, what the actual fuck?
"W-what?" I stammer, because why is he talking to me and what the hell is going on with this dude's eyes?
"I didn't get a chance to introduce myself. I'm Edward Cullen," he continues on, ignoring my obvious fluster.
"Hello, Edward," I reply, without bothering to hide my sarcasm, and judging from his expression he found it amusing.
"You're Bella Swan." His smile inches broader, and despite angling his body toward me, he's leaning back like he fully expects me to throw a punch or something.
I blink several times, much like my father does when he's bullshitting, only in my case it's because this guy is borderline lunatic beautiful. So beautiful it's giving me a sense of vertigo.
"Uh...apparently," I utter, shaking my head minutely in an attempt to get a hold of myself. I turn back to the front of the room, slightly out of breath and feeling my loins begin to ignite.
I distract myself from his disturbing face by deliberating to myself why his eyes have changed color. He has to wearing be contacts, I conclude, so I turning back, I put it to him.
He gazes at me for a moment like my question confuses and surprises him simultaneously. "Yeah," he eventually answers sounding everything but certain.
"Huh." So Mr. Perfect is flawed like the rest of us. "Short-sighted or far?"
"Um, short." He clears his throat and glances away, frowning to himself.
I gauge him for a moment; his frustration is clearly back. I open my mouth to say more when the teacher walks in the room effectively cutting me off.
For today's lab we're studying onion root mitosis; which now explains the microscope.
"Ladies first, partner," sex hair says, and when I again meet his eyes he's throwing me that charming smile again, but this guy is so full of shit.
"What?" I repeat, but it's more in accusation.
"Or I can go first, if you like?" he says, his smile vanishing as his brow arches in obvious scrutiny.
I shake my head to myself again. "Nope, I'll go first."
I drag the Microsoft closer to me, slot in the slide and after all of three seconds, I write down the answer. I've done this shit before at my old school and I don't care if I look like a blowhard in front of this guy.
"Do you mind if I look?" sex hair asks after I continue to the second slide without pause.
"You can wait," I say, peering through the lens, because I haven't forgotten his asshole behavior from last Monday, and I'm a grudge-holder.
He doesn't argue, but I can feel his eyes on me as I determine all three phases, and jot them down. When I'm done, I nudge the microscope slightly in his direction. "There you go."
"Thanks," he mutters as his hand inadvertently grazes against my thumb. It's as cold as mine are, but I make nothing of it. It's an occupational hazard of living in Monsoon Central, after all.
He finishes in record time—his handwriting is just as grotesquely perfect as his face—and after he turns to stare at me expectantly.
"What?"
"Erm..." Shrugging, he looks away toward the window. Both his hands are clenched into tightly closed fists I notice. He sure is an uptight asshole.
The teacher stops at our desk, and noticing we're both finished, he starts grilling sex hair over hogging the microscope. I don't like the conclusions he's making, so I make my annoyance known.
"I didn't copy his answers. I did it myself!"
The teacher eyes me for several uncomfortable seconds, obviously weighing up whether to call my bluff. In the end he mutters shit beneath his breath and heads down the aisle to harass squinty eyes and Jessica.
"So...do you like the snow?" sex hair asks weirdly, like he feels the need to keep conversation going.
"Who doesn't like snow?" I say nonchalantly.
"You didn't look like you were enjoying it earlier," he contradicts me, his grin becoming toothy. His teeth are braces-since-birth straight, but his canines are slightly longer than the rest, so not too perfect, at least.
"Just because I don't like frozen projectiles thrown at my head doesn't mean I don't like snow," I say, glancing down at my open note pad. He's too freakishly beautiful that I'm afraid I'll get stuck in an awkward cycle of ogling him.
"You don't like the cold?"
"Who does?" I say shortly.
"So...why did you move to Forks?" he pries unashamedly.
"I just did," I answer, scoffing at his audacity that he thinks I'm just going to spill on my life after his psycho behavior toward me last week.
"Any particular reason?" This guy is really shit at picking up on social cues.
"Why is it any of your business?" I demand, turning to face him fully and almost shrinking back in my seat by the way his peculiar gold eyes are staring at me.
Are eyes supposed to glow? I'm pretty sure they aren't.
"Good question," he mutters, not nearly as under his breath as I think he meant.
"How are you feeling anyway?" I change the topic.
"Sorry?" he asks blankly.
"Rumor has it you had stomach flu," I reply with a small smirk.
"Um...no, I just had..." His eyes dart around the room as if he's wracking his mind for a plausible explanation.
I raise a disinterested shoulder and return my gaze to my open notepad. Beside me he shifts in his chair and drags his fingers through his damp, unruly hair several times. I pretend I don't notice. Until he starts bothering me again.
"So, are you staying in Forks indefinitely?"
I expel a very pointed breath and once again turn to face him. "Maybe."
"Am I annoying you?" he asks appearing satisfied by the idea.
"Yes," I say flatly.
"Why?"
"Because you're weird, and I don't feel comfortable divulging personal details to you."
His lips twitch like he's on the verge of laughing at me. "Do you think I'm weird?"
"You think you're normal?" I put to him skeptically, and this makes him sit up straight.
He almost blushes but doesn't quite pull it off. "I mean... wh-what do you mean by that?"
I only quirk my brow, wandering whether he's really this clueless, when the bell signals for the end of the lesson. In a flash and without another word he's up and out of his chair and stalking for the door before anyone else can blink. I watch him go, checking out his ass and almost laughing to myself in complete and utter amazement.
I almost liked him today, but the guy is definitely a serial killer.
Closet perv accosts me exactly fifteen seconds later, moaning about how the onion root all looked identical.
"Huh. I thought it was pretty easy," I contradict with a small smile.
"Well you had Cullen as your partner," he replies with the same assumption as the idiot teacher.
"Since Cullen is an assface, I did it myself—before him," I point out, before snorting and walking past him toward my arch nemesis, Gym.
Volleyball again. Mike tries to cover for me like I'll find him somehow chivalrous. When it's my turn to serve, I throw the ball at the back of his head and am immediately sent to the bleachers.
I think about sex hair; I don't like the conclusions I'm making, or the traitorous way my body gets all hot and bothered by the thought of him.
He's beautiful, but a psychopath. We've established that.
I pass him in the parking lot at the end of the day. He stands leaning up against his car, like he thinks he's James Dean, staring at me. Like he literally stares at me. I only gaze back for a moment or two before I make the "L" for loser sign with my hand and bring it to my forehead.
He laughs. He actually laughs. The fucking asshole is so hot!
I'm so damn flustered I almost take out several cars as I'm reversing out. Sex hair continues to laugh while buzz cut waves manically at me.
I'm beginning to think the entirely family are crack addicts.