Disclaimer: This story is a fanfiction inspired by two of Stephenie Meyer's greatest works. All characters from the novels The Host and Twilight belong to the author, who has full rights to them. The rest is purely my own invention.

Dedication: I dedicate it with many thanks to Caelum Whispers, for her comments and her unconditional support to the main fic.

Author's Note about Spoilers: This one-shot is a humorous segment that I initially excluded from my fanfic 'Aurora' and decided to finish writing on the fly since today is April Fool's Day. If you haven't read 'Aurora' before, or at least the end of 'The Host,' don't worry, because nothing transcendental is really explained in these lines. Just know that Gail Rouse is a controversial classmate of Bella Swan's in the town of Forks who sometimes makes her life unbearable... and other times, makes it way too interesting.

This fic would correspond roughly chronologically to the Twilight episode 'Invitations'. It takes place on an (unspecified) day of the week that begins with Valentine's Day.

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APRIL'S FOOL SPECIAL CHAPTER:
Bribed

I can't believe I'm doing this! I thought, glued like a mosquito to the wall of the building marked by a huge, faded '1'. I ducked as the three of them started moving, and hid behind a huge bush the gardener had neglected during his weekly vegetation clearing, while a fine drizzle soaked me. I looked at my watch with a hint of anxiety, calculating how long it would take me to get to Trigonometry class if I ran at full speed...

No, I'd end up falling flat on my face by stepping on my toes or slipping in a puddle of water, and I'd probably be late because I'd have to visit the infirmary...

But I couldn't look away any longer.

Lee, Conner, and Eric were up to something with that damn Gail, and for the first time in my life, I was seriously wondering if it was worth skipping school to catch them in fraganti.

Peeking from my hiding place, my heart pounding, I watched as they approached the side fire exit door and tapped gently on the metal. The old building had been closed due to renovations that had removed the asbestos insulation, and while it was no longer potentially harmful, it wasn't in a suitable state for teaching. So it was used as a storage facility for unwanted items, like Halloween party decorations, 8mm film projectors, and 48-star flags. In theory, no student could enter unless accompanied by a teacher to transport some of this junk.

That was in theory and as Homer Simpson said, even communism works in theory.

The metal door, corroded by decades of Forks, opened with a tiny groan, not the squealing howl one might have expected, as if it had been deliberately oiled for discretion. Part of Gail's face, her recognizable nose (dark, small, but slightly diminished) and one of her blue eyes, peeked through the crack and regarded the three for a moment before opening it and forcefully motioning them silently to hurry inside.

"So that's where you're hiding it, huh?" I muttered, barely able to contain myself.

I didn't know what it was (drug smuggling? booze? deer jerky?), but for several days now, I'd seen Gail Rouse carrying around a very tall gym bag, the kind that could even carry a hockey or lacrosse stick , that would magically disappear during school hours. I could only conclude that it must be something very light or bulky, since she always carried it across her back when she was riding her ninja motorcycle.

I sneaked up —well, I tried my best to move quietly in my squeaky slippers without stepping in any puddles that might give me away— and carefully opened the door, hoping they weren't right behind it. I closed it behind me, leaving the Forks sky, which was beginning to redouble its intensity with its relentless rain, fearing I was setting myself up for a trap.

I followed the fresh water stains left on the worn, unwaxed linoleum floor and silently prayed I wouldn't find a rat that would make me scream. I wrinkled my nose and cautiously inhaled the interior air through my fins. I didn't smell any strange chemicals or alcohol fumes, so I could rule out the possibility of Meth synthesis or homemade moonshine brewing. There was just the typical slightly musty, acrid stench of a place that's been closed up for a long time.

I followed the murmurs until I reached the corner of a hallway.

"Come on, try it on, Eric," I heard a guy —I think it was Lee— say in a louder, more peremptory voice. I stopped in my tracks because I'd gotten too close and I wasn't sure whether to turn around.

"I don't know, guys..." Yorkie replied, whom I recognized immediately.

"It won't run, I've proven it," Gail exclaimed wearily.

"Have you tried them on?!

"Not that one specifically," she snapped, almost sensing that she was rolling her eyes in exasperation, "but I've done tests on it before and it holds up well to sweat."

What the...? Without context, my head spun trying to understand what the hell they were talking about, desperate to peek around the corner of the locker I'd parked behind. All I heard was the long, drawn-out sound of a metal zipper, the crinkle of a plastic bag, a strange, familiar strumming and suctioning sound that somehow evoked memories of my kitchen in Phoenix, before someone loudly opened a door and it slammed shut.

Then, silence.

A lot of silence.

Too much silence.

It was so silent that my own rapidly pounding heartbeat began to thunder in my eardrums. I checked my watch, making sure it was still working and that I had plenty of time to get back, but... What if they took another exit and locked the one I'd used from the outside? Panic gripped me, and not without reason... Would anyone hear me screaming from this building now, with the rain pounding like a rousing drummer at a heavy metal concert?

Only forty seconds had passed, according to my watch, but it seemed like hours.

I took a step back without looking, and my bad luck struck me again with its unfairness. What the hell had I done in another life to deserve to step on a piece (the only piece, actually) of linoleum bulging from the damp hallway, sounding exactly like a bag of fake farts? Perhaps I'd crashed into a trailer in a mirror exhibition? Accidentally put a black cat in a coal bin? Or angered a gypsy witch who placed a curse on me for ever and ever? I don't know; I didn't understand why I had such bad karma.

"Who's there?" Abigail Rouse's voice burst out in an excited voice. "Show yourself!"

Her words sounded like some kind of practical joke to me; they were almost the same nonsense my mother used to tell when we visited a supposedly haunted house and she would ask the spirits to manifest themselves, while I tried not to sneer.

At that very moment I wished I were a ghost and disappeared through the wall.

"It's just me, Gail," I said shakily, before stepping into view with my arms raised in a clear sign of surrender. There was enough natural light for them to spot me, but I couldn't spot Eric at first glance and instead focused on the girls' bathroom door.

"Damn!" the chippewa chick muttered, shaking her head.

"You gave us quite a scare, Bella!" Lee said, his eyes wide. Conner was fumbling with the backpack, pushing it back, but he couldn't get the zipper closed properly because it had gotten stuck. "What are you doing here?"

"I'd have to ask you guys that," I defended myself without lowering my elbows yet. "You were behaving very strangely."

"It's none of your business, 'Veronica Mars' apprentice," Gail teased me, or at least I think she intended to, except that I didn't recognize the reference and my mouth hung slightly ajar in doubt. "Oh, come on! Do you known 'Nancy Drew' or 'Miss Marple'?"

"Oh, right!" I blurted out, catching on to what she was talking about. Just then, Conner's foot caught on one of the bag's handles, sending the contents scattering everywhere. I stared at a pile of giant Ziploc bags (the kind you'd use to store a Thanksgiving turkey with all the trimmings) like the ones I used in Arizona, and their unusual contents nearly made me burst out laughing. I looked at the Canadian, her mouth set in a circumspect line, her gaze unfocused. "Is this all this mystery? Are you selling black market T-shirts, Gail?"

"No one here is selling anything to anyone," she clarified hastily, shaking her arms and approaching me with the notebook she'd pulled from her backpack. "I decorate the T-shirts they give me, with the designs they ask for, nothing more, nothing less."

"For an amount of money they leave you in envelopes inside your locker, right?"

I had seen that constant flow of people, before and after the romantic parties, and I don't think it was because she aroused so much passion with sudden written declarations of love.

Gail froze, holding the notebook out in front of me as if to offer it to me, not knowing for a moment what to say. I wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. But I simply took it from her fingers and examined the sketches she was creating between classes.

One clearly read, in a title in the form of a 180-degree arc:

One human's trash is another raccoon's meal

It was accompanied by a drawing of a smiling raccoon, with a yellow Daniel Boone-style hat on his head, peeking out of a garbage can instead of Oscar the Grouch from Sesame Street.

"Bloody Hell! Give me a break, Mini-Chief Swan," she protested, coming to her senses. "It's just a little extra money. Maple syrup doesn't grow on trees around here."

"And Eric? Where is he?" I asked, puzzled, approaching the pile of plastic bags and bending down to see that each one had a name on the label.

"He's in the bathroom," Conner murmured, and when I pointed in astonishment at the sign that clearly said 'out of order', he added more subduedly. "Don't worry, he's not doing a '1' or a '2'."

I skimmed a white t-shirt labeled 'Samantha'. It featured a camper wearing khaki shorts and a peg leg, giving the thumbs up, and on the left side was a message that read:

I survived a bear attack... a 75 percent, almost

I slapped my forehead in disbelief as I looked at Jessica's request!

Hang on, baby. This can get Grumpy

A pair of sullen black eyebrows (I think an exact imitation of Mr. Banner's) very well defined, outlined the edge of the breasts of the pink blouse, like a trompe l'oeil.

The rest of the bags were of the same shape, unique and unprecedented, each item different with a different joke in bad taste, absurd and/or clever, drawn with textile spray and the help of a high-precision airbrush.

None of them were repeated and more than one was truly hilarious.

"Hey, Bella," Lee called out to me, so I'd look up. "You're not going to rat us out to Principal Greene or your dad, are you? Gail personalized our bowling shirts for free, and then as we kept asking her for more and more things, we decided to give her a little money for her trouble and time."

I wasn't a snitch, Gail looked me in the eye and knew I wouldn't say anything, just like with Tyler's accident, but it's not like what they were doing was entirely innocent.

"What if you ask him to make you a copy of something with a registered trademark? Or something very similar?" I pointed out, getting up from the floor with a squeak of my sneakers. "It's a crime."

She became furious and looked at me with blazing eyes, not with rage, but with indignation.

"Crime! A crime!" Her nostrils flared, like when she was defending some absurd geeky position, like which version of Spider-Man was the best or the strict rules of one of his board games. "A crime is paying 50 bucks for a pair of jeans with the knee pads torn on purpose. Multinational corporations take advantage of snobs with mosquito-brains who want to fake a bit of 'rebellion' with what they dare to call grunge fashion. When it was the exact opposite of following Machiavellian fashion trends and recycling everything you want to preserve, like the…" She raised her volume as she spoke until she was screaming. "Aaah! Kurt Cobain would be turning in his grave over all this nonsense if he hadn't been barbecued first!" I... I don't copy anyone, and besides... I also patch the odd hole I find if I can. Burns has a professional sewing machine for more precise work in the workshop. They're just memories I cherish...!

"Okay, okay," I exclaimed like Jake did, raising my hands in a sign of peace.

I was going to add something else, to calm things down, but I was interrupted:

"Hey, Gail! It's perfect! Is it just what I was looking for... whooaaa!" Eric exclaimed, coming out of the girls' bathroom (off duty) and almost tripping when he saw me. "Bella Swan?! Have you heard about this too? Isn't that cool!"

He proudly showed me one of his plain dark grey t-shirts, but this time they had written on it, as if it were a chalk eraser and with white ink blots:

If there is no choice, let's do it quick-&-dirty

"No, no one's told me about any of this," I replied, irritated at having touched a nerve. Judging by the number of Ziploc bags scattered across the floor, at least more than half the students in our Biology II class, and several others from other subjects I shared, were in on it.

Everyone but me.

I felt excluded.

Again like in Phoenix.

Gail cleared her throat before answering me.

"Well, Bella," she shrugged, "it's like that motto they say in your army: 'If you don't ask anyone, no one will tell you anything.'"

"I think the saying was different," Conner corrected her, turning green.

"Do you want one?" Lee offered, pointing at the gym bag, which was still half full.

I nodded unconsciously, but then frowned:

"Shouldn't I order first...? Wait, you do sell singlets too!"

"You're such a fussy girl, Swan," Gail whispered in a subtle hiss. "Let me see, your size should be..." She pointed her thumb forward over my torso and winked her right eye, as if determining the best focus for a painting.

Shut up! I looked at her, my eyes wide open and my face flushed at the thought of her getting it right, or worse, undressing me with her gaze, and then getting it right.

She pulled out one that didn't have a name, yanked open the rubber Ziploc zipper, and handed it to me for examination.

"Yes, it would more or less fit you, although it might be loose in the chest," she judged when I placed her in front of my blue sweater.

I gritted my teeth, irritated:

"You can stick your comments where-I-know."

Eric, Lee, and Conner chuckled, raising their eyebrows in surprise in unison. They usually didn't see my bad temper coming out because of the Canadian.

I read the text on the coal-black T-shirt, which had been written in a phosphorescent green shade typical of old computer screens in OCR letters:

There is no peace for the wired

Beneath it, I'd drawn the end of a USB cable in a large drawing, and in the background was the rain of binary code in the same shade of green as in The Matrix trilogy. I glanced sullenly at Gail out of the corner of my eye; that was exactly what bordered on illegality, just a hair away. I didn't like the color; anything that dark would make me look as pale as a B-movie vampire, and it was also very tight. I didn't usually feel comfortable in clothes that tight unless I was pushing them hard during filming.

"Don't you have something bigger?"

"Big?" Gail looked at my torso again, then at my shirt, her face turning a little serious. "Do you want to give Chief Swan a gift?"

No way! That suggestion was almost the height of impudence.

"I just want something comfortable to wear around the house," I explained, taking a hesitant and long detour. I didn't want to use the word 'pajamas' in front of the inseparable Three Stooges.

Gail seemed to get the hint and nodded tacitly.

She pulled out another T-shirt, the perfect size for a regular sumo wrestler, in a very light charcoal gray. In bold black Gothic letters, it read:

Don't spoiler the end for me or I'll spoiler you to the end

In the background was a black and white drawing of a book, with a red bookmark sticking out of the spine, which actually dissolved into a pool of blood that spread out, brushing against a fountain pen, the end of which was actually shaped like a rusty serrated knife. It reminded me a bit of that Dali painting, the one with the chewy clock that seemed to melt, but in shades of white, black, and pure crimson.

"Don't you have something less...?" I bit my tongue, wanting to say, '...typical of you.'

If Charlie happened to see me wearing it around the house, he'd definitely have a fit.

"It is what it is," she said simply, then added, when I took out my wallet to pay her, "No, Bella, don't worry. The first one is always free."

"I shouldn't worry about it!" I wanted to laugh at her nonsense, when she used the same marketing techniques as drug dealers and AVON salespeople. I don't know how I could continue to trust Gail, when she was clearly a bad influence on me.

I looked at my watch, still had plenty of time after break to get back to my locker, and turned to watch Angela Weber peeking out into the hallway.

We both blushed like hot peppers and ducked our heads before crossing paths.

"Hey, Angie! I've got your order ready!" Gail purred like a cat romping with a ball of yarn. I didn't want to look and hurried out of Building '1', quickly zipping the Ziploc bag off my... Oh, God! I didn't want to think about it!

Yes, my bribe.

END

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Note on the cover: it was made with the help of AI (I have no talent for drawing, I can't even get the stick figures straight) describing the t-shirt that will appear in the main fic.

If you don't ask questions, you won't get told: a parody of the United States military's Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy on homosexuality in its ranks. It was in effect from December 21, 1993, to December 22, 2010.