Author's Note: This story is written in a colloquial, first person point of view, so you as a reader can feel like Bella, and hear her thoughts.
Disclaimer: Everything and anything related to the Twilight saga belongs to Stephenie Meyer. This is a work of fiction based on her writings. No harm is meant by it.
Did You Hear The News That You're …?
The little hand is on the eight, and the big hand is on the three.
Great, I'm late.
I'm gonna end up in detention.
I'm gonna set a record, or at least that's what my best friend, Angela, tells me. I'm always in detention for being late, never for doing anything wrong, just being late. Funny, how being late gets a person stuck in school for an extra hour with all the troublemakers.
I can already hear the fiery redhead receptionist in the office now. Her pitchy voice grating my ears, "Isabella Swan, you're late. Does Chief Swan, your father, know that you are always late?"
Yep, that's exactly what she's going to say, Chief Swan part, and all. She never fails to remind me that my dad is the town's police chief.
I can feel it. The lecture is coming. I can feel it, like I can feel the sweat falling into my eyes.
That's why instead of watching where I'm walking, I'm rubbing at my eyes, and why I'm tripping over, none other than all-around Mr. Popular, school president, star athlete, hypnotically beautiful, Edward Cullen. I fall like the star football player himself has just tackled me.
Not attractive at all.
"I-I—I'm so—so sorry, Edward." Great, I can't even apologize to the guy without stuttering.
"You can see me?" He asks, but I don't hear it. Sure, I see his lips moving, but I'm not listening. I'm too distracted by his eyes, hoping that I'm not drooling on his shoes that probably cost more than my beat-up truck.
"What?" I ask distractedly. How rude do I look not paying attention to what Edward Cullen is saying?
"You can see me?" He looks perplexed and still with his eyebrows furrowed, he looks nothing short of godly.
"Um, yeah. Why wouldn't I?" Now, I'm the one that's confused.
"You haven't been to the auditorium, yet." It's not a question; it's as if he's talking to himself, nodding his head, figuring things out, but I can't help but answer him.
"No, I'm late. And I'm getting later by the second," I reply snidely.
"You really don't know." His voice breaks at the end of the statement. I can't help feeling guilty for not knowing what he's talking about.
"What are you talking about?" Why is he being so cryptic? I'd heard Edward was kind of secretive.
"This." It's all he says as he hands me a pocket sized memorial card, the kind they hand out at funerals. It has his picture on it.
"You're—" I don't get to finish my sentence because he does.
That's how Monday morning begins.