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twilitty · 2 years

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By The Moon

by: @twilitty

Chapter 11: Bake Sale

word count: 3.8k

I eventually end up asking Charlie about having Jessica and Angela over for baking, as well as various other “girls’ night” activities. I don’t specify which activities, not because I’m being evasive but because I’m not sure what the activities are. He agrees and promises me he will be busy and out of the house. He doesn’t elaborate any further, so I don’t pry. We say our good nights, him seated in front of the television and me heading up the stairs.

I make it to my room and quickly prepare my pyjamas in my arms before going into the bathroom and turning on the shower. The scalding heat of the water is welcome and comforting in a way that I can’t entirely explain. It burns away thoughts of this evening, of my mild freak-out in the kitchen. Of how Jacob had to hold me on the porch.

The way he just wrapped his arms around me, just held me so tight, something about that felt natural. I’m not sure if it was natural for him or for me or for both of us, but it felt like something that would’ve happened regardless of the smoke or the alarms. Somehow, I would’ve ended up being held by Jacob Black, but not romantically.

Maybe that’s the message of the evening for me. Maybe some greater being is at work here, and it’s telling me that Jacob Black is my friend and nothing more. Never anything more. He held me like he’d hold a friend, there was nothing else happening.

I mean, of course, it was completely platonic. Had he ever done anything to indicate he saw me in any other way? No. He’s a good person. He’s nice and sweet and funny and comfortable, I shouldn’t go applying my own juvenile daydreams to the situation.

Besides, it’s not as if I see him in any way other than platonic. Not consciously, at least.

Sure, sometimes when I think of him, I focus on very not-friend-like traits. Like his chest or his shoulders or his wide smile. Or how kind he is to me, how he has somehow just accepted our friendship from childhood as still applying today.

I scrub at my skin, a little harder than necessary, to try and banish any further thoughts about Jacob Black. I scrub and scrub and scrub until my skin is pink and new. Until I finally feel clean.

Stepping out of the shower I quickly start thinking about which book to read next. I finished my last book just a couple of days ago, a reread of Sense and Sensibility. I dry myself off, then dress in pyjamas and go about my nighttime routine.

I could do another reread of some classic. Perhaps The Picture of Dorian Gray? I had never finished the entire book, had only gotten fifteen pages into it three years ago before abandoning it for something else. Or I could read something new.

I don’t have any new books in my room, but I’m sure I could pick something up from the store during my next shift. I’m still not sure about when that is. Mr. Webber is still in the process of adding me to the schedule, which is just an online calendar with names filled in the boxes beside time slots. He promised I’d know by the end of the week, and I was too shy to ask whether he meant Friday or Sunday. Did he mean the end of the work week or just simply the end of the week? Regardless, I’d find out soon enough.

I make my way into my room, safe from thoughts of a certain someone, and pick up the first book my fingers touch. I take it to bed and crawl under the covers, but not before closing the blinds.

Since having that nightmare of a dream, looking over at the forest is something I don’t want to partake in. Ever.

I’m halfway through the first chapter when there’s a knock on my door. “Yeah?” I close the book, sliding an old receipt in as a bookmark.

Charlie steps into the room, still dressed in jeans and rubbing at the back of his neck. “Uh, I’m going to hit the store sometime tomorrow. So, if you want to leave a list of ingredients you girls will need for the baking stuff then I can pick it all up.”

I stop moving for a moment, and it seems like he suddenly can’t meet my eyes. “Oh.” He looks up at me now, my voice a little scratchy and higher pitched than I’d like it to be. “Thank you, dad. I really appreciate it.”

He mumbles something unintelligibly under his breath and nods his head briskly a couple of times. It’s clear I acquired my social quirks from his side of the family. “Yes, well…” He gives me a tight-lipped smile before slowly closing the door. “Good night.” The door clicks shut.

I don’t hear his footsteps and quickly call out, “Night!”

He walks away from my door and a smile seems to spread across my face of its own will.

I leave a list for Charlie on the kitchen counter, along with a thank you at the bottom. I included the basics: eggs, cream, baking powder, and flour. Everything else we either already have or I don’t know we need yet.

I then take a few minutes to clear the area of anything that shouldn’t be there. I load the dishwasher, start it, and then hand wash a few plastics and pans that we might need for tonight.

I still have a couple minutes before needing to leave for school, so I quickly run back up into my bedroom and tidy up anything that is obviously out of place. I stack my books appropriately on my dresser, throw a pair of socks in the laundry basket, and smooth out my duvet one last time. There, I think contently, now I can leave.

I lock the door behind me, dash into my truck, and start the engine all within a matter of seconds. That level of speed and efficiency is an accomplishment. In the past, I’ve tripped down the porch steps, stumbled over loose gravel, and dropped my keys down between the heavy pot and the house. It would take me half a minute to move the stupid pot, which weighs nearly thirty pounds and seems to be made from weighted concrete.

Today, though, I am in the truck without any issues, and it feels like a good omen for the rest of my day.

I make the drive to school in record time, which is nothing to celebrate. Forks residents claim to have traffic on the highway and main streets, but I’ve never encountered it. Maybe we just have different definitions of traffic, in the same way, that we apparently have different definitions of beaches.

I pull in next to Fran the Van, which is packed to the point of overflowing with my friends. Jessica is sitting in the passenger seat, her knees pulled up to her chest and arms wrapped around her shins. She’s in a short sleeve violet blouse, her hair curled and a little frizzy around her shoulders. All in all, dressed inappropriately for the weather.

“Jess,” I say, stepping out of my truck and leaning against it. My backpack sits on the ground by my feet. She looks over at me, a serene smile outlined by glossy lips. “You do realize it’s barely April, right?”

“April is spring,” She retorts not unkindly. Her serene smile is now a disapproving frown. “Spring means short sleeves and sun.” We both look up at the sky, which is decidedly not sunny. “Okay, well, it’s still early spring and that means short sleeves.” I don’t say anything for a moment, and she rolls her eyes. “Bella, I swear, you are so out of touch.”

Mike closes his eyes dramatically from inside the van, shaking his head at me to communicate that it’s okay if I’m out of touch. Mike seems more awake than he usually is at this hour, which is to say that he’s all smiles and laughing jokes with those inside the vehicle. I question whether the weather, which is barely a degree warmer than it was yesterday, has infected the good students of Forks high school with something.

How can they all call this weather, grey and dreary, spring weather? This is a warm winter if anything.

I spot Angela, already walking towards the scattering of buildings and pick up my backpack to follow her. I’d like to discuss the girl’s night tonight with her before I include Jessica in the conversation. Angela seems more down-to-earth, more understanding of my apparent lack of social experiences.

I catch up to her, walking at a fast pace but not jogging. Jogging would likely result in me face down on the pavement and requiring concussion protocol. Angela looks over at me, her auburn hair pulled up into a ponytail and her eyes outlined with mascara. Her eyelashes are much longer than I recall them being, and the dark makeup on them only brings out the hazel of her eyes.

“You look pretty,” I tell her. She ducks her head and mumbles a thank you, a clear indication that she looks particularly put together for a reason today. I open my mouth to question it, but as she looks over her shoulder I quickly see the reason for her mascara and shyness. Ben Cheney is exiting a shiny silver vehicle and appears to be the only other person dressed sensibly today. He’s wearing a large hoodie and a loose pair of trousers. “Ah,” I look back to my friend who quickly picks up the speed. As though she’s racing away from him.

“Don’t say ‘ah’,” she criticizes lightly, shooting me a dark look out of the corner of her eye.

“Sorry, what noise would you rather I make?” I giggle at her scowl, which quickly parts to a close-lipped smile. “Are you avoiding him or what’s happening?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she replies quickly. She’s an awful liar.

“Angela Webber, you basically ran away when you saw him.”

“Only my mom calls me by my full name,” she says.

“If you give me your middle name then I can give you the true motherly experience.” This causes her to laugh, which I appreciate.

“Okay, fine, it’s Francis.”

“Francis?” I pause, looking over at my friend with fresh eyes. “Your full name is Angela Francis Webber?”

“Don’t look at me like that, it’s a perfectly normal middle name.” A sniff of displeasure, then, “It was my great grandmother's name.” I don’t say anything, just work to conceal the smile and subsequent laugh trying to surface. “Oh, please!” She throws her hands up exasperatedly. “Fine, what’s your middle name?”

“Marie,” I answer automatically. The smile I’ve been hiding breaks through, and Angela Francis Webber rolls her eyes at me. I laugh at the thought of her full name; she does not appreciate it.

“Of course, someone with the middle name ‘Marie’ will dislike Francis.” She picks up the pace, walking at almost a full jog. I work to keep up with her, which is futile because her long legs propel her at Olympic speeds.

“Angela!” I call out to her, and she barely spares me a glance over her shoulder before taking a tight turn around the first building. I swear I can hear her laughing as she leaves me in her dust.

“Trouble in paradise?” I nearly jump out of my skin at the voice behind me, which causes the teenage boy responsible to laugh at an obnoxious volume.

“Jesus, Eric,” I mutter, throwing him a look as I take a deep breath and try to calm my nervous system. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Sorry, just heard that you guys are planning something tonight and thought I might get an invite?” He gives me his brightest smile, even going so far as to clasp his hands under his chin like a poor commoner boy asking for another bowl of soup.

“It’s a girl’s night, so girls only.”

He exhales heavily, laying on the guilt trip as he drops his hands to his pockets. “I hate being excluded,” he whispers in an obviously unhappy voice.

“You aren’t being excluded,” I tell him. I try to remain assertive, even as he pouts.

“I also hate being ostracized.”

“You aren’t being ostracized.”

Jessica and Angela arrive together in Jessica’s car. My initial excitement over having an opportunity to hang out with my friends outside of school is overridden by the large bag hanging over Jessica’s arm. Oh, yikes.

I step out onto the front porch, my arms dangling uselessly by my sides. The horror of what could be in Jessica’s bag occupies my mind. Alcohol? Charlie is a progressive man; he understands the tendencies of the younger generation. But still. He’s a cop and cops typically are not fans of underage drinking.

Stop overthinking everything, Bella. My inner voice does little to quiet the steady stream of anxiety coursing through my mind.

“Hey!” Jessica skips the middle stair and all but leaps onto the porch. I hear no incriminating noises coming from the bag, no sounds of glass bottles clinking together. Good.

“Jess, want me to take that?” I offer, already moving to remove it from her arm. She nods gratefully and hands it over. It’s surprisingly light for such a large bag and again my interests are piqued.

Angela follows up the porch, a backpack over her shoulder and a couple bags of chips in her arms. I greet her with a friendly expression that she reciprocates.

Inside the house, we drop the bags onto the floor in the living room, which I made sure to tidy up long before anybody arrived. I notice my friends’ eyes wandering a little more than I had anticipated, their focus quickly drawn to a series of my school photos on the mantle. They approach the framed photos quickly as if they might miss them by walking too slowly.

“You guys better not bully me about my middle school years,” I warn. Jessica giggles in response and points to one of the photos.

“I like your smile in this one,” she says with a bit too much of a laugh behind her words. “It’s very-”

Angela smacks her arm before she can finish talking. “Jess, I have half a mind to kick you out of here on Bella’s behalf.” Laughter descends upon the group, which seems to call Charlie out of his hiding spot from upstairs.

His footsteps are softer than usual, which hints at his nervousness. “Jessica Stanley and Angela Webber,” he says from the foot of the stairs. Both of my friends turn quickly and put on their best smiles for my father. I feel a swell of pride somewhere inside me, but I’m not entirely sure why. Is it because of my polite, kind friends? Is it because of my dad who knows my friends’ names? Or maybe it’s a pride for me, for going out of my comfort zone and inviting people over.

“Hello, Chief Swan,” Angela says, stepping forward and extending a hand to shake my fathers. He shakes it and shoots a grin at the group of us.

“Call me Charlie, there’s no badge on my chest today.” Then, with a wink in my direction he says, “I’m Bella’s dad today and nothing else.”

“Well, thanks for letting us come over. We really appreciate it.” Angela nods along with Jessica as the brunette talks. A soft blush settles over my father’s cheeks and the prideful feeling in my chest swells again.

Something about this moment feels so right as if I was meant to be standing here in my father's living room with my two new friends waiting to bake for some fundraiser. It’s as if every moment of my life has pushed me toward this place. As if everything happening right now is meant to happen.

I’m not one to believe in fate or some cosmic force controlling our lives, but in the second I might believe just a little bit. As my first two girl friends laugh with my dad. My dad is trying so hard to give off a good impression, to make this a great night for me. I wonder if he knows this is my first true girls’ night. I wonder if that’s why he keeps looking at me with such a large smile.

“I’m going to run out and meet with some guys down on the Rez. You girls need anything before I leave?”

“I think we’re good, dad, but thank you.” He says goodbye and pulls a jacket over his shoulders. A minute later I hear his cruiser start up and drive away.

“Okay, so I brought supplies,” Jessica announces, quickly producing a portable speaker from the top of her large bag. “Bur first,” she taps a button on the top of the machine and music fills the room. “Music!”

The music shifts over the evening, going from house to pop to some indie/country mixture that Angela puts on. By the time it’s my turn to pick a playlist I’ve already decided on my choice. Classic rock. It produces a couple surprised looks from my friends, but they seem pleasantly surprised.

“I should’ve expected this,” Jessica admits, looking over her shoulder at Angela as she pulls a tray of cookies from the oven. She then pulls out two more trays of assorted baked goods.

“Expected what?” I ask a little critically. Angela closes the oven with a thud and laughs lightly to herself. “Expected what?” I repeat.

Jessica looks back at Angela meaningful, building up the suspense. If she’s good at anything it’s leaving a woman in anticipation. Just as I’m about to repeat myself for a third time she raises a hand to stop me.

“I just mean, doesn’t your friend like rock?” She giggles at the word friend as if there’s something significant about the word.

“Who? Eric?”

Angela comes over and pats me on the shoulder sympathetically before leaning against the kitchen table with me. “She’s talking about a different friend. Who doesn’t live in town.”

I turn back to Jess. “Are you talking about Jacob Black?”

The only answer I get is a chorus of giggles and then an apologetic look from Angela. I cover my face with my hands, the blush creeping up my neck and into my face more than humiliating. Not to mention that the offending blush is also as good of a confession as anything. “Guys,” I groan out from behind my fingers.

“Aw, come on, Bella. You can talk to us about anything.” Jessica takes a moment to sip from her sparkling water. “Or about anyone.” I groan again.

“We are just friends,” I say finally, removing my hands from my face. I keep my eyes down towards the ground. “And I mean that. Just friends.”

“That’s what most people who aren’t ‘just friends’ say,” Jess quips. Angela remains decidedly silent and when I look over at her I see she’s furiously stirring batter with a wooden spoon. Jessica follows my line of sight. “Angela, you’re going to murder that mix if you keep up with that pace.” Angela slows her movements but only slightly.

She looks up from the large bowl to meet my eyes and offers me a reproachful look. “If you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to,” she tells me. It’s an offer I appreciate but shake my head.

“No, it’s fine. We can talk about Jake.” I take a deep breath. “But we really are just friends.”

“You sound disappointed,” Angela says. My stomach tightens a little, whether in denial or an admission of guilt I’m not sure.

“No, just upset with myself, I think.”

“Because you like him?” Jess confirms. I nod. “Okay, so does he like you? Does he act like he likes you?”

“How do you act like you like someone?” I feel like it’s a dumb question for me to ask because Jessica goes a little quiet. “I’ve never really had this situation before, so I’m not sure.”

“Does he, like, touch you more than necessary?” I think of my hand in his, of him wrapping his large arms around me in a bear hug. Jessica grins at something on my face and I work to put back on my mask of neutrality. “Based on that expression, I think he might like you.”

“You can’t know that,” I argue, but my traitorous brain has already run wild with the thought and I can’t slow down. Suddenly every touch, every moment of eye contact, and every word passed between us feels significant. Feels monumental. Feels like it means something more than just friends.

“Okay, fine, maybe I don’t know that. But what do you want me to say? That I have no idea? That’s so incredibly anticlimactic.” Then, after a pause of her watching my face she says, “Besides, if he did like you what would you do about it?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Would you ask him out?” Angela asks, piping up for the first time in a few minutes. She’s moved from the mixing bowl to pouring the batter into little muffin holders. “Or kiss him maybe?”

“No, no, I wouldn’t.” The words bubble to the surface quickly, too quickly. Why was that my first response? Because I don’t want to kiss Jake? Yeah, right. I’ve thought of that scenario too many times to be healthy. Maybe it’s her first suggestion. Is it that I don’t want to ask him out? Or have us as being more than platonic? “I barely even know him,” I add on a little quieter. Jess has moved on to icing now cooled cupcakes, but Angela is still listening.

“Maybe get to know him better, then?” She suggests. “He’s really attractive, I’m sure he’s got a great personality to match.”

The blush creeps back up my neck. “Yeah, he’s really nice.”

“Swan!” Jessica yells out a little too loudly for the small room. “Paper towel, STAT!”

Angela giggles at our friend, who has icing dripping down her forearms. She catches us watching and shoots a glare. “I said STAT! Does that not mean anything to you people?”

“I guess we’re roleplaying a hospital now,” I joke. Angela laughs and produces a napkin for Jessica. The conversation twists and turns and we wind up back on Angelina Jolie like it usually does when Jessica is involved. I’m happy to talk all about her cheekbones because it keeps my mind away from someone else’s.

Last Chapter

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twilitty · 2 years

Text

By The Moon

by @twilitty

word count: 5.3k

Chapter 10: Who Can't Make Lasagna?

I talk to Renee Wednesday morning on the drive to school. I know it isn’t entirely safe to drive while talking on the phone, but it seems the safer alternative to having Renee call me during class. She has been anxiously awaiting the details of my shift yesterday, or at least that’s what Charlie told me this morning when I woke up. “She called at half past six this morning. Seems a little anxious to hear about how the shift at the Webbers went.”

I have never known my mother to be anxious. Harebrained, erratic, a little extravagant: yes. But not anxious.

So, I call her before I pull out of the driveway, thankful that Charlie had already left for work. He frowns upon phone usage while driving, not that I blame him. I usually frown upon it as well, but today I seem to make an exception for myself. A casual hypocrite in my own way.

I tell her all about the bookstore, the coffee shop next door, my friend Angela, and how nice the entire experience was. She laughs at all the appropriate parts and makes excited noises when I reveal a particularly interesting piece of information.

“Angela says we can use the ceramic mugs from the coffee place as long as we return them before closing,” I tell her. She can’t see my grin, which stretches across my face and pulls at the muscles in my cheeks, but I know she can hear it in my words.

“Ah! You hate cardboard to-go cups!” My grin grows infinitely at her casual mention of one of my quirks.

“I do hate them, yeah!” And so, the conversation continues.

It continues until I pull into the school parking lot and nearly clip someone’s car. “Mom, I got to let you go before I get into an accident.”

“Okay, sweetie, have a nice day!”

I toss my phone beside me on the seat and drive for a moment longer before I pull into my usual spot beside Fran the Van.

The entire group is already here, lounging in or around Tyler’s mom’s van. I notice Angela leaning against the hood, her arms wound around her chest as she nods along to something Jessica is saying. I never really imagined Jessica and Angela being good friends, which is perhaps due to my initial, and likely biased, perception of Jessica Stanley.

She’s a beautiful girl, with long dark hair and a rounded chin. She, unlike Angela, is extroverted and seems to speak at a volume just below a yell. She’s a good friend of mine, and her boisterous traits don’t detour me in any way. In fact, it might be because of her extroversion that I enjoy her company so much.

I had assumed, rather stupidly, that her sociable tendencies and Angela’s quiet demeanour left the girls at odd ends of the friend spectrum. Clearly, I was wrong in that assumption. The two girls have broad smiles on their faces as Jessica says something animatedly with emphatic hand movements.

She turns as I close my door behind me. “Oh! Bella!” This causes Angela to turn and her smile to soften at me. “I’m so glad you’re here, I was just telling Angela about that bake sale for the homeless people. We should totally make brownies or something, right?”

My response is cut off before it begins. Eric pokes his head out of the open passenger window of the van. His hair is greased back with some heavy-duty hair products, so heavy-duty that I doubt a hurricane could move a strand out of place. “It’s not for the homeless, Jess.”

Jessica rolls her eyes in response, throwing me a wounded look. “Well, okay, fine. Who’s it for then?”

“It’s for the volleyball team,” He responds before popping back into the van. Jessica and Angela stand quietly for a moment as if considering his words for truth.

“No,” Jessica says loudly. “The volleyball team is running it, not getting the money.”

Eric doesn’t respond, just shakes his head, and maintains his conversation with Tyler. I approach my two girl friends as the school bell rings. Everybody begins moving at once, but Jessica links her elbow with mine before we can depart. “I’m, like, completely positive the money is for the homeless people. Don’t listen to Eric.”

“Well, if you still want to bake for it, I don’t mind helping.” She squeals at this, reaching over and smacking Angela on the arm excitedly. Angela looks over quickly, her eyes wide.

“Why am I getting hit suddenly? Did Angelina Jolie-”

Jessica waves away our friend’s suggestion, “No, no, no. Angelina Jolie did not follow me back. Which I think is so stupid, I am very clearly her type and I’m also so much better than Brad Pitt.” She looks back over to me, momentarily distracted. “Like, have you seen his hairline? It’s absolutely horrendous.”

We walk in silence for a few more beats, Jessica’s face screwed up in concentration. “Well,” I interject quickly as we step onto the paved pathway leading to our respective buildings. “If you guys need any help with baking just let me know.”

I turn to depart, unlinking my arm with Jessica’s when she calls my name. “That would be so amazing! We could make it a whole girl’s night!”

The thought of having a girls' night introduces equal amounts of fear and excitement into my body. Somehow, knowing Angela would be involved soothes the fear portion of my emotions.

I spend the rest of the morning thinking about the implications of a girl’s night. Am I supposed to bring something in particular? Maybe ice-cream? Nail polish? Perhaps my best pop CDs?

I cringe at my own thoughts, the stereotypes that I am embracing by assuming that nail polish must be brought to a girl’s night. Although, in my defence, I have never truly attended a girl’s night that had an attendance of more than just Renee and me. And Renee was a big fan of all things beauty and self-care. We’d listen to trashy music and eat soft-baked cookies. I’d paint her nails and she’d braid my hair in an elaborate way that seemed to take an eternity to finish.

I meet up with my friends again at lunch, prepared to assault them with questions.

Angela and Jessica have their heads together, whispering discretely between the two of them as the conversation continues around the room. I take the only open seat, which is between Mike and Lauren and across from Eric. Jessica and Angela are sitting to the side of Eric and acknowledge me with kind smiles.

I’d much rather sit beside them than Lauren. The blonde-haired girl with a slender face seems to have taken some extreme disliking to me, and I cannot understand what prompted it. She tends to avoid speaking to me directly and goes out of her way to ignore my presence entirely. Just last week she had asked if everybody- her words, not mine- wanted to go to her house to swim once the weather got warmer. Apparently, her parents had a pool large enough to host the entire football team, and it was somewhat of a fan favourite amongst our friends.

Everyone at the table had happily agreed, already beginning to make plans for the inevitable ‘first swim of the season’ when she looked over at me and made an exaggerated frown. “Oh, Bella, you probably already have something to do that day though, right?” Her voice was sugary sweet and concealed in faux concern. Despite the fact that nobody had mentioned any specific date yet, I found myself slowly nodding my head and agreeing with her. It’s as if her words had some power over me. I constantly found myself succumbing to her teasing, it was infuriating.

“Bella!” I look over to Jessica who’s picking at a plate of lukewarm nachos with too much lettuce and too little cheese. The lunches for the past few days had been especially awful and I wonder if one of the lunch ladies is trying to get fired. On Monday someone bit into a burger to find it still pink inside. “I texted my mom and she’s doing her book tomorrow night, so we can’t do it at my house?”

“Oh, that’s okay, Jess,” I say low enough to try and keep our conversation from Lauren. The last thing I need is her injecting her venom into the plans. I should be the bigger person and extend an olive branch but considering how much she dislikes me she’d probably bite off the olive branch and sneer. “We can always do this weekend.”

“Well, actually the bake sale is on Friday, so we have to do it either tonight or tomorrow night.” Angela smiles apologetically and I get the impression that I’m about to be hosting girl’s night. “I have swim tonight so I can’t do anything and tomorrow my brothers are having their friends over to play some video game thing.”

“Oh.” I sound stupid, even to my own ears.

Both girls blink at me, but Angela quickly interjects before the silence continues. “If you don’t want to do it at your house then I’m sure we can find somewhere else.”

Jessica continues to watch me expectantly, but not rudely. If I could see her hands under the table, then I’m sure I’d see her fingers crossed.

As much fear, or rather anxiety, that I feel towards our girl’s night, I also feel incredibly excited. I’d rather have a girl’s night at my house than not at all. And besides, I’m sure Charlie would love to see how well I’m adjusting in Forks.

“No, we can do it at my house. I can pick up some baking supplies at the grocery store tonight, I doubt Charlie has anything in the cupboards.” I feel an odd sense of relief as they both thank me for hosting. I can’t pinpoint why exactly but wonder if it has anything to do with knowing I won’t have to navigate the confusing side streets of Forks to find either of their houses.

“Do what at your house?” Mike asks from my right. Jessica blushes lightly as he glances in her direction.

I spare her from the obvious effect he’s had on her. “Just a girl’s night.” My voice comes out a little higher as I notice Lauren leaning forward on her elbows. Damn it. I make eye contact with her quickly before looking back toward Mike. I can only hope her parents had instilled some baseline manners in her and that she won’t invite herself over to my house.

“I’m a girl.” Her voice comes out whiny and upset. Everyone swivels to look at the blonde to my left, her eyebrows lifted delicately in distaste. She’s a good actress, I’ll give her that.

Nobody speaks for a moment, and I can feel my shoulders slouching forwards under her scrutiny. Angela clears her throat, clearly prepared to invite her along to our hangout. I don’t think Jessica and Angela are oblivious to Laurens disliking me, but they’ve also never brought it up and I doubt they’ll start today.

I rush to speak before Angela can. “Yes, you are a girl.” I look down at my lunch tray, taking a large bite of a crunchy apple and chewing harshly as the table silences itself. I can feel my friends’ eyes on my skull, watching me and probably trying to decipher why I said that.

Then, thankfully, Eric bursts out into emphatic laughter. His laughing fit is contagious and quickly has Mike and Jessica joining in. I peek up from under the curtain of my hair and see Angela stifling a laugh with her palm pressed against her mouth. I don’t hear anything from my left and know Lauren must be staring daggers at me right now. She’s probably plotting my murder. A lightness has entered my chest, lifting my spirits and easing the discomfort Lauren instigated.

“What’s so funny?” Someone asks from over my shoulder. I look over and Tyler is grinning down at us, a bottle of apple juice lifted to his lips.

Eric takes a heavy breath before heaving out another bout of laughter. Mike responds for him, “Bella called Lauren a girl!”

Tyler sprays apple juice over the table, wetting the top of my head and the front of Eric's face. The laughing only increases in volume, and I find myself joining in. Lauren leaves for class quickly.

The entire drive home I speak aloud, practicing for how I’ll introduce the idea of a girl’s night to Charlie. I’m hesitant to inform him of our plans, although I know I must. My concern is that he’ll call Jessica and Angela’s parents to confirm the plans. Or that he’ll do something else equally as embarrassing. I can’t really think of anything else that he could do to embarrass me regarding this, but my teenage brain is in the midst of freaking out.

“I was planning on having some friends over tomorrow night,” I say into the empty cab of the truck. The windshield wipers are on the lowest setting, rain pattering the windows. “Is it okay if I have some friends over tomorrow night?” I huff out a sigh, sounding entirely like a dramatic teenager.

Renee had always said that my wise beyond my years. That I only get more middle-aged with each birthday. I don’t think she’s wrong. I was never one to attend parties, to attend football games or other sporting events. I’d never attended a school-organized dance or gone on a weekend road trip with friends. In fact, I don’t recall ever truly having friends in Phoenix.

I was never sad or lonely, not in the way that most people without friends are lonely. I had my mother and, on occasion, her friends or Phil.

She was all the dramatic teenager that I was supposed to be. It was as if we had switched rolls sometime between elementary and middle school. She would invite friends over for late-night dancing and I would read on the porch, in bed and lights out at an honourable hour.

I pull up out front of the Swan residence, in all its aged glory, and put the truck in park. I then experience a full-body refusal to exit the vehicle. It’s not the first time, nor will it be the last. It’s as if my very being is offended by the rain and refuses to step into it. Okay, maybe it’s a mixture of rain-induced repulsion and mild nervousness about having to discuss the girl’s night plans with Charlie.

Okay, maybe it’s just me procrastinating talking to Charlie.

His cruiser is staring at me from its parking spot, laughing at my inability to have a basic conversation with my father. Fine. Okay. Fine. I can do this. There is nothing scary at all about telling Charlie I’m having a couple friends over tomorrow.

Besides, they’re girls so that should make it easier. I doubt Charlie would like it if I had a bunch of boys over. Well, unless it was Jacob Black. In that case, he would probably jump with joy.

I push thoughts of Jacob Black from my mind.

I try to push thoughts of Jacob Black from my mind.

Instead, I have been thrust into a nonstop influx of feelings and images by even the mere mention of his name internally.

Jacob crouched over tide pools, his large hands holding the starfish so gently. His smooth black hair pushed behind his ears every time it falls over his eyes. The way his eyebrows scrunched upwards each time he got stuck on an Algebra question. His muscles bunching underneath his shirt and the casual way he seems to carry himself. Like a boy who knows how beautiful he is but doesn’t let that make him cocky. Make him unlikable.

“Get a grip, Bella,” I mutter angrily into the air.

I stalk up the front porch steps, trying to muster as much courage as possible when the front door opens. I startle, knees knocking together and stumble backwards. An arm winds around my waist, pulling me back onto the porch.

Jacob Black smiles down at me, his hair pulled back and tucked behind his ears. “Bella, hi!” I force my mouth to smile at him, the entire time screaming internally.

I had just been thinking about his back muscles, thinking about how good he looked in that black shirt he had on. I had just been thinking about him in a very not platonic way. And, as per my luck, here he is standing on my porch in a form-fitting shirt.

“Jake,” I mumble, thoughts lost to the hormonal chaos raging inside of me due to the warmth of his arm around my waist. “I didn’t know you were here.” It’s a dumb thing to say, but I still said it and now I can’t take it back.

His smile barely dims, but his eyes flicker down to my midsection, where my arms are raised to not come into direct contact with his arm. His smile dims a little now and my heart plummets with it. He removes his hold on me, instead planting his hands on his hips. He looks a little silly like that, tall and broad as he is but standing like a kindergarten teacher.

“I’m just stopping by,” he says. He doesn’t move from his position, and I don’t dare move either. Something about his lack of movement instigates the same in me. It is then that I notice there is somebody else present.

Charlie is standing in the open doorway, his arms crossed over his chest and moustache pulled up to expose a toothy grin. “Well, now, look at the two of you.” He says it proudly as if we’ve done something worthy of praise. I nearly fell and broke my tailbone and Jake pulled me up, not entirely something commendable on my part. My father looks over to Jacob then, motioning for him to step back into the house. “Jake, you stay for dinner. I have lasagna in the oven.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Chief Swan. I really should get back to the Rez.” Jacob looks between Charlie and me, finally dropping his arms back down to his sides. I stand stupidly, watching this go on.

“You’re making lasagna?” I had only meant to think the words, but apparently, the eventful last few moments have interrupted the channel between my brain and mouth.

Charlie looks at me pointedly, eyes narrowed. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.” I nod. Once, twice, three times.

“Okay, cool. I’m sure it’ll be great.” Both men look at me now, Jacob’s eyebrows raised, and Charlie's furrowed over his brown eyes. The same as mine. Well, in colour not in expression. I’m sure my eyes look something like those of a rabbit about to be eaten by a coyote. “What?”

Charlie opens his mouth, raising a finger to say something when he cuts himself off. “Jake, I’d really like it if you could stay for dinner. I’ll give Billy a call and send him a piece home with you.”

“Thanks, Chief Swan.”

“And enough of that Chief Swan stuff, call me Charlie.”

“Thank you, Charlie.”

We all sit around the small kitchen table with its diverse array of chairs and pointedly ignore the growing smell of something burning. The television is playing quietly in the next room, I can barely make out the voices or what is happening. I focus on the tinny noises, trying ardently to avoid Jacob.

“So, Jake, your father tells me that you’re helping out with Sue.” Charlie leans forward on his elbows, eyes darting over to the oven when something makes an odd popping noise from inside. I idly recall Sue Clearwater, the kind wife of Harry Clearwater. I don’t have any memory of her face but know that she used to hang out at the Black’s house every summer with her family.

Jacob nods and looks a little sheepish as he ducks his head. “Yeah, but I’d say it’s more like she’s helping me out. I’m no good with that doctor stuff, honestly.”

“She’s a doctor?” I ask, pulling my attention away from the noises in the living room.

“Yeah, has a practice down on the Reservation,” Charlie tells me before turning his attention back to Jacob.

I ask another question before my father can change the topic. “You want to be a doctor?” Jake looks over at me, his eyes bright and open. There is something underlying his expression, something like humour but I can’t imagine at what.

“No, not really. I’m just learning some basic first aid and stuff,” he pauses, giving me a broad smile that only heightens the blush settling into my face. I look down at the grains in the table, picking at the varnish. “I haven’t really thought about what I want to do after school. Probably just some community work.”

I look up and immediately regret it. Jacob is watching me steadily with his warm, open expression. As if he’s just waiting to hear about what I’m going to say next as if he’s completely unaware of the impact he can have on me. I take a shallow breath and look over at Charlie.

I also regret this.

Charlie is watching Jacob with some form of parental disagreement on his face, his eyebrows pulled down and lips pursed. I have yet to be on the receiving end of that look but feel bad for Jacob who has yet to notice. I clear my throat and Jacob follows my eyes, his eyebrows darting up.

“Jacob, you’re graduating in only a few months.” My father’s voice is stern, the disapproving tone of Police Chief Swan.

Jacob steals a glance at me and then back to my father. I wish I could help him out but being on the receiving end of Charlie’s scolding is not on my agenda for today. Besides, Jacob has broad shoulders, I’m sure he can handle this.

“I am, yes.” Jacob has either missed the point of Charlie’s statement or is choosing to ignore it.

“And you have no plans for college?” I don’t miss the hint of concern now layering my father’s words, and from the softening in Jacob’s expression, I don’t think he missed it either.

“I might go later, but not next year. I have commitments on the Rez, I want to keep them,” Jacob says confidently. Charlie just nods, as if this response has satiated him.

“You still with Sam and the others?” Charlie asks. I don’t know what this means, the name is unfamiliar, but Jacob understands and bobs his head in acknowledgement.

“Yeah, I am.” The conversation is thankfully interrupted by the oven beeping. We all turn our heads to stare at the ancient appliance, the scent of something burning has grown exponentially. Charlie stands, scraping his chair backwards, and opens the oven door slowly.

Smoke pours out and the smell of burnt lasagna is overpowering. My nose tingles a little with the sensation, and I clap my hands over my face as the smoke continues to fill the kitchen and spread the awful smell. Charlie says something that I don’t immediately hear, the tingling in my nose spreading across my face. Gross, gross, gross. I hate the smell of burning things. I hate it when it’s strong like this.

The tingling increases exponentially, and I stand abruptly, Charlie saying something else that I don’t hear. The chair falls and I can feel it hit the floor, feel the impact as it seems to reverberate through my bones. The tingling continues as I step backwards, my heel kicking the chair and nearly toppling it over. I just don’t want to be in the kitchen, don’t want that smell near me, don’t want the smoke touching my face. Don’t want to be near any of it.

Someone else says something but the smoke is still filling the kitchen and there’s a ringing in my ears and it’s loud and bright and hazy from the smoke and I hate the smell of burning things. Gross, gross, gross.

Someone says something again, louder, and I can hear the words, but they don’t entirely make sense. There’s a loud noise, a screaming noise coming from overhead.

My hands clap over my ears as I continue backwards, the tingling numbness spreading over my body like a volcano building to erupt.

Something touches me, my shoulder. I try to say something, but I’m not sure what and I push back against the pressure. Sorry, sorry, sorry, my brain thinks on repeat. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I push back against it, but it doesn’t leave my skin and the ringing from above is getting even louder and my palms don’t cancel out any of the noise. The air is still hazy, and I smell burnt lasagna like it’s right in front of me and I just want it all to stop. I just need it all to stop so I can breathe and think and feel something that isn’t this hazy tingling.

“Bella?” The pressure on my shoulder increases and I push away from it. But it herds me, pulling me away from the hazy room and the ringing noise and the incoherent words and the awful burning smell.

Cold air touches me, presses up against me, and filters out the smell of burnt lasagna.

“Hey, hey.” There’s more pressure on my shoulders now, covering the tingling with warmth and feeling. I know it’s Jacob, only Jake runs a fever at all times of the day. He pulls me against his chest, his large arms wrapping around my shoulders and compressing me against his broad form. “It’s okay.” The numbness in my limbs retreats minorly, leaving some feeling in my fingertips and feet. I drop my hands from my ears. They move so that they are cradled between my chest and his, my arms brought up and away from the startling cold around us.

The ringing in my ears slows, quieting, seeming farther away with each passing breath.

The volcano in my chest, waiting to erupt, has calmed. The force of its buildup has died down and it remains inactive within me. The heat encompassing me contrasts with the cold touching my legs and this difference relaxes something integral inside of me. It forces me to take a deep breath, to press my forehead closer to Jacob’s hard chest. To take another deep breath and then another.

“Bells?” My eyes don’t open yet, still squeezed shut against the world around me.

A few more moments pass and my eyes open. I take another breath, this one filling my chest and expanding my ribs. It’s as if my consciousness flies back into my mind, rewatching the scene I had just made. Rewatching the entirety of the past however long. I don’t say anything and instead, just remain in Jacob Black’s arms for a moment longer. “It’s okay,” he says quietly, the action causing his chest to vibrate under my forehead. “We can stay here for as long as you want.”

I pull away slowly, the comforting hold of his arms dropping from me. I keep my eyes trained on my socked feet, on the aged porch beneath them. “Sorry,” I whisper, glancing up at my friend.

Jake is watching me carefully, but not judgementally. Still, the intensity of his eyes pushes me to look back down at my feet. “It’s okay,” he says finally. I look back up again, my heart skipping as I watch him take a step forward hesitantly. “Are you okay?” His hands reach out as if to hold me again.

I open my mouth, but the words remain in my throat. I force them out in a rush. “Yeah, just super tired, I guess.” His hand's pause, quickly retreating back to his sides.

He opens his mouth now, eyebrows pulling down quickly in response to my quick dismissal of my actions.

“Bella? Jake?” The door swings open and Charlie stands in the opening, oven mitts under one arm and a towel clenched in his hand. “You guys good for pizza?” I nod gratefully and Charlie grunts in approval, turning and heading back into the kitchen. I hear him dialling on the home phone and then begin the order.

“We should head in. Help Charlie to clean up.” I pull the door open and motion for Jake to step inside. He does as instructed, but watches me the entire time as if trying to figure something out in his head.

I hate being looked at like that as if I’m something to investigate. That’s how Renee had looked at me when, instead of crying, I simply sat in a corner on my first day of kindergarten. When I had chosen to skip recess at the ripe age of six to sit in the back of the library and read Archie comics. That’s how Phil had looked at me when I had to transfer hot chocolate from a cardboard to-go cup to my ceramic one. “That’s a waste of time,” he had said simply. “You have to drink it either way, just drink it the way I gave it to you.” But I hate the way cardboard feels, the dry itchiness of the material that seems to stay on my skin even after I’ve stopped touching it.

“Leave her be,” Renee had said with a kind smile towards me. She had stopped looking at me in that investigative way long before. “She doesn’t like the cardboard, that’s okay.” So, I drank my hot chocolate out of the ceramic mug and watched Phil watch me the entire time.

We end up eating pizza fifteen minutes later. Pepperoni for Jacob and Charlie, plain cheese with mushrooms for me. The fire alarms had long since stopped their horrible screaming, the smell of smoke had been filtered out through open windows and replaced with the damp smell of wet grass and the greasy smell of cheap pizza.

Even so, the embarrassment of my earlier behaviour haunts my thoughts and keeps me silent while eating. I let Charlie and Jacob discuss what they want. Let them talk about sports and hobbies and the names of people I don’t know. Jacob occasionally looks over at me, as if waiting for me to contribute to the discussion. I don’t.

Charlie looks at me, too, but only to make a face at the mushrooms on my pizza. “That’s nasty,” he says simply. I stick my tongue out at him, which causes him to laugh and lifts the heavy feeling in my chest.

We finish dinner, me before the others because my appetite got lost somewhere between freaking out from the smoke and freaking out from the fire alarm. I excuse myself to use the washroom, and on the way back hear my name. It causes me to stop just at the bottom of the stairs, listening hard to make out Charlie’s words.

“Bella’s a good kid,” he says with a mild amount of fatherly authority. “She’s not a fan of loud noises, no harm in that.” My chest feels oddly hollow at that, the weight of embarrassment leaving me momentarily.

There is something warm in the way Charlie talks about me as if he doesn’t feel the need to understand why I am the way I am. As if he’s never even thought of me in that frustrating, investigative way. As if he’s never felt the need to make sense of me, not in the way that others sometimes do.

I quickly step into the kitchen, to save myself from having to hear anymore. Jacob is already looking up at the entryway, eyes already on me as I step inside. It makes me wonder if he could hear me standing at the bottom of the stairs and if he knows that I was listening in.

“I think I might head out,” he says to me. I check the time on the microwave and see that it’s barely seven o’clock. He notices my scrutiny. “I have a thing with some friends later,” he explains. I nod, feeling awkward for no good reason.

“Sam?” Charlie asks not unkindly. Jacob agrees and this causes Charlie to smile broadly. “I like him, respectable man.”

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