chapter two
August 25, 2008
They meet at the start of his freshmen year of college.
It'd been a strange yet wonderful thing for Paul to hear his name and the word "college" in the same sentence. Teachers, counselors, and administrators—all of whom had deemed him a lost cause after he started skipping school and failing his classes—told him he wouldn't be successful if he continued down his "troublemaker" path; and after the chaos of phasing for the first time, joining the pack, and risking his life for Bella Swan again and again, he wasn't sure if he would even survive, let alone graduate high school.
But he had proved everyone wrong.
His repeated senior year flew by without incident—thanks to the Cullens and their newest additions' departure—and by the time June rolled around, he was a B's (and one A) student walking across the decorated stage of the tribal school's small gymnasium, dressed in a cap and ill-fitting gown with a diploma in one hand and the other raised in the air as he waved to his dad and grandma who, with the proudest smiles he'd ever seen, clapped and cheered for him.
(Seated in the very last row was the entire pack—minus Jared who was also graduating that day—and when his name was called, they jumped to their feet, displayed an array of colorful posters—Congrats, Loser in glittery letters was Leah's contribution—and gave the loudest applause.)
"So, what's next?"
It was the question that followed the post-graduation festivities, a question that, at one point, wouldn't have had a clear answer; however, now that his life was no longer teetering between Possible Annihilation to Total Death and Destruction, he could finally respond without any uncertainty:
"I'm going to college."
And so, with his acceptance into the few community colleges in Forks and Port Angeles, Paul made the decision to continue on with his life as it should have been – simple, carefree, without any interference or looming threats of violence and bloodshed from vampires.
After a summer of late nights and early mornings, of pink sunsets and orange sunrises at the beach, of bonfires underneath a sky full of gleaming stars, of surfing and cliff-diving and three-day hikes, of short drives to get seafood and long drives to see the desert, of reveling in the luxury of not worrying for once, Paul's first day of his freshman year of college finally arrives.
And he isn't nervous.
He isn't nervous when, on a cloudy Monday morning, he pulls into the small parking lot of Peninsula College alone (Jared followed Kim to a university in Colorado, but not before assuring Paul that he'd call him every single day so you better pick up the goddamn phone, Lahote); he isn't nervous when he pushes past the double doors, wading through hushed whispers and probing stares as he makes the short (and tardy) walk to his first class of the day; and he isn't nervous when he takes one of the last remaining seats in the back of the brightly-lit room, seated between a blond guy who looks like he's about to pass out and a dark-haired girl whose music is blaring loudly from her headphones.
It's only when he hears the clacking of high heels against the floor, the grey pantsuit-clad professor clearing her throat as she enters the room that Paul finally feels the beginnings of anxiety trickle in. After introducing herself—the blood rushing in his ears muddles his hearing, making him unsure of whether her name is Dr. Roberts or Dr. Robertson—and spending several minutes combing through the impossibly-long syllabus, she begins her lecture.
Paul, whose mind is still reeling from the number of books he'll have to read and essays he'll have to write this semester, rifles through his backpack, reaching for a notebook and struggling to find a pencil to jot down every single word she says. Glancing up for a moment, he notices each of his classmates scribbling away...and his nervousness amplifies.
He's positive that he brought a few pens and pencils with him, yet his clumsy fingers only brush against the brown paper bag housing his lunch. He's missing out on important information, information that will be valuable to his understanding of the content and future assignments and discussions and his overall success in the class...all because he can't find a pencil to take notes with.
He isn't just nervous anymore – he's freaking out.
What the hell had he been thinking?
He doesn't belong in college. He isn't ready. He has no plan and no idea of what to study. He's going to fail and disappoint his grandma and his dad and his friends and anyone who has ever believed in him because he can't take notes because he can't find a fucking pencil. And great, there's that familiar itch underneath his skin that makes him want to run from the classroom and shed his skin but he can't leave because he doesn't want to fail and—
"Pssst...here."
When Paul glances to his left, his mind still a storm of frantic thoughts, he sees the girl with the headphones holding a mechanical pencil out toward him. Eyes on her paper and right hand scrawling in messy, looping script, she pushes it closer to him.
"Take it," she whispers.
He stares, equal parts dumbfounded and thankful, before pulling the pencil from her grasp. Wasting no time, he writes the subject—The Study of the Novel—and the date onto his paper.
"Thanks," he whispers back, jotting down a few seemingly important terms the professor listed on the whiteboard. He's still struggling to keep up when, only a minute later, the girl positions her notebook between the two of them.
"Write what you missed," she tells him, and though he isn't sure what he did to deserve a random act of kindness from a complete stranger, he takes the offer without complaint and copies down the points he'd missed from the beginning of the lecture.
They continue on this way for the next hour, the girl with her head propped up by her left hand while she writes and Paul occasionally glancing at her notebook. When class is finally over—he breathes the biggest sigh of relief—he makes sure to write the page numbers of the first assigned reading into his planner before shoving his materials into his backpack. He looks to his left again, ready to thank the girl for helping him when he realizes that she's already heading for the door.
Shit.
He jumps from his seat, gently pushing his way through the slow, shuffling bodies of his classmates before catching her retreating form in the atrium.
"Hey!" he shouts after her. "Hey, wait up!"
She doesn't hear him—he can make out the strum of a guitar from her headphones—and catching up to her in a few long strides, he taps her on the shoulder. She whirls around, her alarmed expression smoothing out when she realizes that it's him standing before her.
"Uh…hi," he says lamely.
She removes one earbud, hitting the pause button on her MP3 player before replying, "Hi."
"I, uh – I just wanted to say thanks...for the pencil and the notes." He scratches the side of his face, feeling like an idiot for not thinking of something better to say (though he's certain tacking on you really saved me back there would've been much, much worse).
"Glad I could help," she smiles, dark brown eyes gazing up at him with a gentleness that makes him feel a little too exposed.
He realizes, then, that she's an entire foot shorter than him, bundled up in a slouchy hoodie for the chilly morning and equally-chilly classroom. She's so…human, different from the friends who'd become his second family, who he'd spent almost every waking moment with since he'd phased. And he isn't sure what makes him feel this way—her smile, which is both warm and a little shy; the fact that she hadn't judged him for his earlier panic; or, that like him, she's one of the few students of color he's seen so far—but he wants to keep talking to her.
He wants to be friends.
"I'm Paul," he blurts suddenly. "Paul Lahote."
She eyes him curiously, staring long enough that he wonders if he's being too weird or too forward or a humiliating combination of both. Much to his relief, though, she says, "Anahi Vazquez, but you can call me Ani."
"Cool." He almost cringes at his own response; he isn't good with words that don't involve insults or swears, a product of dealing with his brothers (and Leah) on a never-ending basis. "It's nice to meet you."
"Likewise."
The two of them descend into a silence that makes Paul feel increasingly awkward, especially since they're still standing in the middle of the atrium, eyes glued to him as people pass them by.
"So…I'll see you on Wednesday?"
"Definitely," Ani replies, lips curving into another sweet smile. Motioning to the pencil still held between his fingers, she adds, "You can keep that, by the way."
As if his entire vocabulary has suddenly abandoned him, all he can respond with is another pathetic "Cool" before she's waving at him, repositioning her headphones, and heading to her next class.
Later, when he's perched at the dinner table beside his grandma, digging into the beef stew she'd prepared, he finds himself muttering her name under his breath, pronouncing it with the same accent he'd heard her use.
Pretty, he thinks to himself. Very pretty.
a/n: Anahi is pronounced ah-nye-ee and Ani is ah-knee. Thanks for reading! Comments are always appreciated.