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Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight; it owns me. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the properties of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
This story is my homage to the greatest Roswell fanfiction of all time, SPIN by incognito.
Summary: When the Cullens move to Forks, Bella suspects that Edward is a superhero because of his "freaky yellow eyes." But she quickly realizes that she's destined to be only his sidekick, and a poor one at that. She's probably the only vampire sidekick ever who faints at the sight of blood. AU, HH (half human…is that even an acronym?)
I'm a sucker for superheroes with a dark side.
There's something spine-tinglingly compelling about someone who has the power to hurt, maim, and destroy yet who chooses to use that power for good.
But what happens when you find that superhero? Let's say, for the sake of argument, that you've found a superhero who can stop vans with one hand and practically wipe your memory with a single, mind-numbing kiss. The superhero you've been holding out for your whole life.
But then you find that you're only the sidekick, and a particularly lame one, at that. What happens when you find that the superhero has his eye on another heroine? And what if the superhero is really the bad guy?
What happens then?
I'll tell you what happens.
The superhero has to make a choice. Not only between blonde heroine and brunette sidekick; that's an easy one. The superhero has to choose to use his powers for good. To choose between life and death. Kinda like all of us, really.
This is the story of someone with that choice.
Of course, it's not me. I don't count.
In the fourth grade, I read a book about three kids with unusual gray eyes who could move things with their minds because their mothers were exposed to an experimental drug while pregnant. I don't remember the exact plot of the book, but I do remember that one of the kids used his ability to pickpocket the neighbors.
Naturally, I think of this book in eleventh grade when I meet the three Cullens with their weird golden eyes. Maybe they have special freaky powers to go along with their freaky eyes. I can just see the creepiest one, Edward, doing something fiendish with his golden-eyed superpowers.
I am right, of course. But I don't find out how right until later.
First, the setting. I have lived all but one year of my life in the small town of Forks, a muddy scar on the otherwise beautiful Olympic Peninsula. As a result, I snort when I hear a country song regaling the joys of a small town. Allow me to debunk some of the myths surrounding small town life.
Myth: You don't have to lock your front door. Fact: You do if you don't want to find the neighboring housewife rooting through your pantry looking to borrow a cup of sugar. Myth: The people are friendly. Fact: You walk around like an escaped convict in fear that someone will recognize you and want to make small talk. Myth: There's no waiting list at the local beauty salon. Fact: The ladies of the town (and some of their dogs) have suspiciously similar haircuts.
The point is, if you're not super interested in being sociable, having your neighbors drop by as you're getting out of the shower, and sharing the fashion sense of a poodle, Forks is not for you.
Needless to say, I plan on getting out as soon as I graduate from high school. Angela and I made a pact in ninth grade to go off to college together, preferably somewhere far enough away from Forks that we only visit for the occasional holiday. And preferably somewhere that offers events of higher entertainment value than a Mike Newton party.
Second, the protagonist of our story. This is how I meet Edward Cullen.
It's all over school: there are new kids in town. As you can imagine, in Forks this is a Big Deal. The last new kid to move here was…
You guessed it: me. In seventh grade. And actually, I moved back in seventh grade after a single year with my mom in Phoenix. Tyler and Mike still call me New Girl every so often. They crack themselves up.
But this isn't about me or them. This is about Edward. And how the focus of my life shifted to him.
Three new kids with three pairs of golden eyes. This is what I think when I first see them sitting together in the cafeteria. Of course, this is not what the rest of the student population sees. They are too distracted by the fact that the Cullens are a little more attractive than your average Spartan.
"Oh my gosh," a freshman gushes in the hallway. "Did you see that new boy? He is so hot!"
Yes, she's one of those. By her inflection, I could tell she meant "hott." I keep walking. But the Cullens seem to follow me everywhere. In and between every class, the hive mind buzzes with the following:
(1) What the Cullens are wearing (expensive)
(2) What the Cullens are saying (nothing)
(3) What the Cullens are doing (looking hott)
Even the queen bee herself—Rosalie Hale—is discussing the Cullens.
She's all, "I hear they're trouble." She's trying to regain control by casting doubt on the coolness that is the Cullens. Rosalie is never comfortable when someone else is in the spotlight. She is made to shine.
I mean, look at her.
If I wanted to be dramatic, I could say that Rosalie is my perfect foil. She's all blonde-haired and blue-eyed and red-lipped. I'm all dishwater-haired and brown-eyed and chapped-lipped.
But I don't really want to be dramatic. I continue listening to Rosalie.
Rosalie is all, "I hear their foster parents saved them from juvie." I watch her cascading golden hair sway as she speaks to a group of identically-dressed girls in little short skirts.
"Wow. Beautiful and dangerous," says Lauren. She isn't as beautiful as Rosalie but makes up for it by being even meaner. Currently, she's foiling Rosalie's plan to discount the Cullens. She's inciting the cheerleading pack to greater heights of curiosity. That's always the problem with surrounding yourself with a pack of identically-dressed people. Usually, they want to be you, so they will stab you in the back when they see the least opportunity to take your place.
I walk on by. Despite myself, my body drags me to Biology.
Biology is where I meet Edward Cullen. So you can understand why this was inevitable, let me tell you about Biology. Biology is the red-headed step-child of classes. Nothing you do in Biology ever really makes sense, and you wonder how it's part of the established curriculum. Here's what I have against Biology. You often have to:
(1) Interact with others
(2) Walk around
(3) Work with foreign substances
Clearly, this is a problem for me because I:
(1) Am anti-social
(2) Can barely walk
(3) Faint at the sight of blood or the smell of formaldehyde
P.S. I've found that bulleted lists help organize thoughts for maximum impact. In this case, you should be impacted by the fact that I hate Biology. Did I mention I have a tendency to set my hair on fire? Seriously, that Bunsen fellow should be sued.
After today, I can add another reason to my list: Edward Cullen is in my Biology class.
When I walk in, I see the Greek god with the freaky yellow eyes. Strike one for Edward Cullen: I learned a long time ago that Greek gods aren't worth it. There's one at every school, and you automatically set yourself up for failure by liking him. Unless, of course, you're the school's Greek goddess, which I'm not.
Greek god is sitting at my lab table. This is odd because Mr. Banner learned early on to not subject other students to my table. Hazard to their health and all that. The rash I inadvertently gave Jessica Stanley went away. Eventually. We have not spoken since then, but how is this a bad thing?
Greek god doesn't look at me as I approach, but he gets this weird look on his face as I sit down. And when I say weird, I mean your typical mask of hatred. The look you often see on someone's face when you meet them for the first time. He puts his hand over his mouth. He's going to hurl. This is perfectly normal. Formaldehyde usually has this effect on me, too. Mr. Banner has just wheeled out the frog legs marinating in my favorite substance. I think I'm too distracted by Edward's revulsion to feel my own.
I reach out and pat Edward's hand in sympathy. His hand is properly cold and clammy, given the circumstances.
"It'll get easier," I say. "Once the formaldehyde fries your nasal cavity so that you can't smell anything for the next twelve hours."
Edward jerks his hand away. He stares down at it as though it repulses him. I note that his freaky yellow eyes aren't yellow any more. They are dark brown, almost black.
Mr. Banner is saying something about frog legs. He's probably telling us how to cut them up. Perhaps warning us not to eat them. We are staring at Edward's hand as he moves it slowly and inexorably back toward his body. I'm thinking Millennium Falcon getting pulled in by the Death Star slow. His hand slips beneath the table.
He spends the rest of the period frozen. He's as far away from me as he can be. I spend the next several minutes fuming. My thoughts go like this:
He's probably just sick.
At least he didn't pass out.
Greek gods don't pass out.
Greek gods should stay up in Olympia where they belong.
Or is that down in Olympia from here?
I've always hated Greek mythology.
Why is there an armadillo in this classroom anyway?
Edward doesn't speak to me. He doesn't help me dissect the frog. The latter is okay; I am used to completing labs alone. The former is not. After all, I had sympathized with him over formaldehyde. I had tried to physically console him. I don't do this for just anyone. Strike two for Edward Cullen.
The bell rings, and he's out of the classroom before I can blink. I stand looking after him in my frog-smeared smock and goggles. Here's another thing to the list of things I hate about Biology: smocks and goggles.
I plan to ignore him. This is difficult, as Edward is not in school the next day. I watch as females throughout the school wilt. Many of them have clearly spent extra time getting ready this morning in an effort to stand out. Oddly, they all look the same.
They get to school, look each other up and down, and say "I like your hair" when they really mean "Look at mine." I see the word "PINK" across an umpteen number of posteriors. They might as well have a flashing neon arrow inviting people to ogle their butt.
Me, I've worn my best "Ignore Edward Cullen" outfit today: oversized hoodie, baggy jeans, ear phones. But we're all disappointed. That day, Edward Cullen sets some type of record. One day in Forks before he runs away screaming.
Rosalie is pleased. She's all, "I'll bet he got arrested for the fifth time." She'll be less excited when he comes back. You know he's going to come back. I will not keep you in suspense.
I pass the week not thinking about Edward Cullen. I don't think about Edward Cullen when I sit alone in Biology. Or when I catch his brother and sister looking at me in the cafeteria. And certainly not when the first words out of everyone's mouth are "Where's Edward?"
Edward could have his own little illustrated books where you have to find him amid a sea of increasingly bizarre scenarios and activities. Come to think of it, he kinda looks like Waldo with his little bronze bouffant.
Some people ask me specifically where Edward is, as if I know. Some of my Biology classmates are probably thinking "You had to go with the hand pat, did you? You know what that does to people."
Angela the Ninja helps me to continue not thinking about Edward Cullen. On Saturday, I go over to her house to hold the punching bag in her basement. This is the only thing I'm good for when she's sparring.
I call her a ninja, but really it's called karate, and she's been taking it since she was three. She is a very good ninja, although you would not know it by looking at her. She's short with reed-like bones. That is, until she has you in a death grip and could break your spine just by moving her pinky toe.
Her preacher's wife mom frowned on the sport.
"It encourages violence," she said. "You'll get into all sorts of fights."
Naturally, Angela worked her way to black belt. Her mother stopped complaining after Angela broke some frat guy's nose in Port Angeles. He was trying to hit on her.
She hit on him.
It's a good thing I wasn't there. Apparently, the guy's nose gushed blood. My fainting would have been a liability in the situation.
So here I stand behind Angela's red punching bag, trying not to fall over as she delivers yet another roundhouse kick. I encourage her by interpreting what the punching bag is saying to me.
"This punching bag thinks you kick like a girl!"
My teeth rattle as her kick connects.
"He didn't even feel that one."
My entire body shakes.
"I can't hear you!" (Yeah, I don't really know what I was going for there, either, but the line seems to work in movies.)
I fall on my butt. Angela provides butt pads for this purpose. She feels guilty about knocking me down all the time. Iron fists and a soft heart—an unbeatable combination. I'm her perfect sparring partner. It doesn't matter if she knocks me down; I knock myself down all the time. Said in the style of Dustin Hoffman from Rain Man, I'm an excellent faller.
When Angela's done pummeling the bag, we talk for a while. We talk about our various college options and where we feel like going today.
Today, Angela is feeling tropical. She's all Hawaii and Florida. Normally, I'm all Vermont and New York and Timbuktu. Today, I mention the University of Washington for the first time in the two years we've been discussing this topic.
Angela's eyes go wide, and she blushes. She blushes because Angela is one of the few not on the Edward bandwagon. She's on the Ben bandwagon instead. And Ben wants to go to the University of Washington.
For some reason, I'm uncomfortable that she's so clearly considering UW. I was just throwing it out there. I wasn't serious. It's too close to Forks.
On Monday, Edward Cullen is back at school.
I figure this out quickly. It isn't hard. What clues me in is that Forks High is panicked. Girls are running home to change; PINK is in flagrant display; people are in the bathroom throwing up that stupid breakfast muffin.
And, of course, I clue in further when Edward himself is in Biology. Granted, there have been some musical chairs that would be confusing to someone less clever than I. Edward sits at Rosalie's lab table. Lauren sits at mine.
I don't know how he broke up that little club—wait, scratch that. Edward probably just stood and looked vaguely at the wall behind Lauren's head until she melted into a puddle and slithered across the floor to my table. Alternatively, Rosalie could have taken one look at who was standing in line for her table and could have stared down Lauren herself.
Either way, Lauren was a goner. There was no way that she could have not ended up at my table. Lauren is now glaring twin death rays at me as I enter the room. She hopes I myself will melt; perhaps cower and go push myself into a threesome at Mike and Tyler's table. But Lauren's blue eyes don't have freaky powers, so I slide into my customary seat next to her.
Pleasantries out of the way, I turn my attention elsewhere. Slightly in front of me and to my right, I watch Edward's back for a second. It is covered in a gray pea coat. He is leaning toward Rosalie. And yep, he's speaking to her. His voice carries. Everyone in the room is holding his or her breath to hear it.
"I didn't get a chance to introduce myself last week. I'm Edward Cullen."
He is proper. And pleasant. Obviously, he isn't talking to me, the person who pats the hands of people she barely knows.
The other girls in the class let out a collective sigh—the sigh felt around the school. In their seats elsewhere, other girls not in this room sigh, not knowing why, simply understanding that something crucial has slipped through their fingers.
Edward Cullen has made his choice. Edward Cullen has just joined the Rosalie Hale fan club with the rest of the Forks High males.
Strike three for Edward Cullen.
After class, I stroll by Rosalie and her clique.
She's all, "Edward is deep. He's so misunderstood."
She has inside information now. She has him hooked. She no longer thinks he's delinquent.
Unfortunately for Edward, there's Emmett. Rosalie and Emmett have been dating for a majority of their lives. There's a rule that the best-looking guy and girl in the school end up together. Rosalie and Emmett fit the mold perfectly—she's head cheerleader, he's starting quarterback.
But Emmett isn't your average jock. Don't get me wrong, he's big, sweaty, and cocky. Despite that, you can't hate him. Case in point, he's currently threading through the hall in slow-motion, probably re-enacting one of his recent touchdowns.
And yes, he's providing his own commentary in an absurdly loud stage whisper.
"McCarty plows through a line of brawny defenders."
This as he edges carefully past a gaggle of freshman girls.
"He fakes out the league's top safety with a mind-blowing spin move."
This as he pivots slowly on one foot around a band nerd clutching a flute.
"His eyes are on the prize."
He does an elaborately slow rendition of the Running Man. At the end of the hall, Rosalie eyes him stonily.
"Two more steps and…TOUCHDOWN!"
He stands in front of Rosalie with his arms raised, making that hissing fake crowd noise. Rosalie's expression is annoyed, but her dancing eyes betray that her ire is mostly for show.
Rosalie doesn't deserve him. She deserves someone more like Edward. Hm, I wonder what will happen now that Emmett is no longer the best-looking guy in school.
Sometimes, my life seems to pass at light speed, like cars zooming by at night on the interstate. Headlights and taillights blend together until you don't know where one car begins and another ends. You know that cars are coming and going, that their passing has a start and finish, but all you see is a constant flow of light.
The next month passes in this type of blur. I attend lackluster classes, wade through faceless peers in the halls, and complete mindless homework. I'm merely an observer in my own life, and I'm observing alone. Usually, I have Angela to keep me company, but her presence is becoming increasingly erratic. Of course, I wholeheartedly encourage her to go sit at Ben's table. I could follow, but Ben sits with Mike and crew.
My only entertainment is watching the Edward Cullen dance. I call it such because I don't know how else to describe his bizarre behavior. I find myself oddly fascinated by the fact that, should he ever find himself in close proximity to me or—God forbid—alone with me, I literally can't count to ten before he makes his escape.
I want nothing more than to ignore him. But that's difficult when I see his nostrils flare when he passes me in the halls. Or when he glowers at me for backing into him by the communal sink in Biology.
I don't kid myself. I know that his actions can't possibly be an opposite and equal reaction to anything I've done. I'm sure this is some sort of cosmic coincidence. Usually I look around after one of his dramatic exits to see a flash of Rosalie's hair. Or I hear her laugh.
I go back to sleepwalking through my life.
A gleam in Mr. Banner's eye draws me from my stupor. It reminds me of the gleam he had last semester when we did blood-typing. Naturally, I am leery of this new gleam.
"I have a fun project for you," he says.
"That will require some time after class for the next several weeks."
"You get to choose a topic."
"And work with your partner to do research and write a paper."
And there's the snag. Lauren and I eye each other. We're sitting in identical positions at our table, our arms crossed. This is how we've sat for the past month while we've not worked on assignments together.
I think the topic that Lauren will choose is how many bottles of peroxide her hair requires before it's the perfect shade of blonde. She thinks the topic I'll choose is whether there's a specific gene that makes people so clumsy they're almost disabled.
Okay, I don't really know what she thinks. I just have this uncanny ability to write someone else's mental dialogue for them. I'm good at fight scenes. Name-calling. Down-putting. For example, in my head, Lauren is reacting to my quip about her bleach blonde hair.
"Maybe you should get some crip plates for your car," she says.
"Maybe you should buy me some sunglasses to spare me from the glare of your hair," I say.
"You'll be the first person in the history of Forks to fail gym," she says.
"You'll be the first person in the history of Forks to die from bleach in the brain," I say.
Mr. Banner continues, oblivious to the conversation in my head.
"Let's shake things up," he says. I'm listening. I could give someone a good shaking right now. Perhaps Lauren.
"Rather than have you work with your same partner, I'm going to draw new partners out of a hat."
The class groans. This does not dampen Mr. Banner's enthusiasm. He pulls out a magician's black top hap. He's obviously put a lot of thought into this. I watch as Mr. Banner pulls names out of the hat. He reads off the little bits of paper as they magically appear.
"Lauren and Mike."
Look at me dodging two bullets for the price of one.
"Rosalie and James."
Ha. That's great. James is the president of the Rosalie Hale fan club. A little odd, that one, but good for him getting his Rosalie fix.
"Edward and Cassie."
Cassie? Inside, I'm dancing. I'm not partnered with Mike or Edward. Things are going my way.
"Bella and Jonathan."
Okay. I can handle Jonathan. He's a jock, but I'll do all the work on this project anyway. I look around hopefully for Jonathan. I don't see him. This is not the greatest of signs.
A girl in the front raises her hand.
"Cassie is out with mono."
That explains her absence.
"And so is Jonathan."
That explains his.
There are a few giggles. The class understands what this means.
Mono is probably the most mortifying illness ever. If you'd like, you can get mono by sharing straws, toothbrushes, or food from the same plate. But the best way to get mono is to do lots and lots of kissing. Smooching. Face sucking.
As Cassie and Jonathan no doubt discovered.
Mr. Banner frowns. "Do you know how long they'll be out?"
"Few weeks?" The girl shrugs. She pretends not to know anything about mono as though she hadn't been suspiciously absent herself for a month last semester.
Mr. Banner has a plan. He looks down at the slips of paper arranged neatly on his desk. He moves a couple around.
"Edward and Bella," he says. "You're a team."
Neither Edward nor I clap in appreciation. We don't even look at each other or make any move to discuss next steps on the project. The bell rings, and I walk out of class. As I'm out the door, Mike walks past me with a gleam in his own eye. He has a magician's top hat cocked rakishly on his head. I smile at the thought that Mr. Banner is down one top hat with which to afflict people with hopelessly incompatible partners.
I stop smiling when I hear someone talking to Mr. Banner.
"Would it be possible for James and me to switch partners, sir?"
I know this voice, and, despite myself, I think I feel my heart drop into my stomach. Although why I'm surprised Edward is trying to get out of being partners with me, I don't know. I stop just past the door and scoot over until I'm out of the main stream. I wonder if Mr. Banner will like being called sir. I hope he thinks Edward is making fun of him. Perhaps he'll give Edward detention for being so rude.
"It's just a couple of weeks. Do you have a legitimate reason to switch partners?"
"Edward and I have a really great topic," a second voice bargains. Yeah. It's called an in-depth exploration of human anatomy, Rosalie. As demonstrated, I'm very good at coming up with Biology topics. Mr. Banner should put my topics in a magician's top hat. If only he still had one.
In my mind, I can picture Edward and Rosalie standing earnestly in front of Mr. Banner, their beautiful faces and eyes free of guile as they try to work their combined beautiful person voodoo. Will Mr. Banner cave?
"James and Bella are already gone. It would be unfair to switch partners on them like this."
Right now, this is what I could do: I could reach out and grab James' arm. He's passing me as we speak, looking cold and hard as always. But his eyes are unusually full of life. I could grab his blonde ponytail. I could march us both back in to Mr. Banner and obviate his argument.
But I don't.
Why? There are two obvious reasons.
Number one: James isn't really the type of guy who would just brush off a ponytail grab. He's a wrestler; he'd probably do some funky move and snap my wrist in the process. Therefore, I don't mess with James. Nobody messes with James, particularly to prevent him from getting what he wants. Which in this case definitely includes Rosalie.
Number two: So far, nothing about Edward has convinced me to want to acquiesce to any of his requests. Instead, I walk away to my locker.
At least this assignment promises to be interesting. It might amuse me to see the lengths he'll go to avoid working on this assignment with me.
Fast-forward through the time in which nothing interesting happens. Not, of course, that I consider time in which I happen to interact with Edward "interesting." You try living in Forks and see how quickly you categorize anything new as "interesting." You try it.
It's lunch now, so I'm in the lunch line.
"We should probably start on our Bio assignment."
When I hear this comment, which seems to be directed at me, I'm shocked by two things: (1) I've never seen Edward in the lunch line before and (2) Edward has never spoken to me before. I have been studiously ignoring him in Bio class since we received our assignment.
"Oh, I've already started," I tell him.
Edward blinks down at his tray of food. I think he cut in line to talk to me. Behind us, Tyler is giving him the evil eye. No one comes between Tyler and his food. Particularly on pizza days like today.
"Do you want to discuss your topic in more detail?"
"Sure." I grab a celery stick.
Normally, Tyler tackles anyone who cuts in front of him.
"How about today after school?"
Wait for it…
No movement from behind Edward. While he woodenly grabs some pizza, I peek over his shoulder.
Tyler is shaking it off. He's mumbling something to Mike and Eric. They all scowl at Edward, but they go back to loading their trays. This is weird. They're giving him space. They're pretending to peruse the same four options in front of them. They're stacking up the whole line behind them in a tangle of elbows and legs.
My eyes shift, and the person in front of me comes back into focus. Edward is looking at my chin. He's just asked me a question.
My brain catches up and fills me in: "Where and when would you like to meet?" He's being proper. And pleasant. Strange that he's speaking to me. This is not going according to plan. I have a plan for this Biology project, and it doesn't include Edward.
I grab a pudding cup.
"The diner. At 4:00." I say flatly. Note my enthusiasm. I doubt he'll show.
Edward and I part ways.
Tyler, Mike, and Eric give Edward one final round of stink eye and pounce on the pizza.
Despite myself, I watch Edward's stiff shoulders as he walks back to his customary table.
We don't make it to the diner at 4:00 p.m. At least, not today.
Classes are out at 3:30 p.m. At 3:35 p.m., I'm wrestling with Nellie's handle. I call my truck Nellie because then you can say "Whoa" with it, making Nellie feel like she's going fast.
Feel being the operative word.
In some ways, Nellie is made for me. I could take her bowling into a row of trees, and she would probably just mow them all down. I might even get a perfect strike. But there's this little thing about the handle on the driver's side door. You have to make it click just right before you can open it. On most days, I do fine.
Despite myself, I look across the lot where Edward and his siblings are getting into his Volvo.
Today, my hands are shaking a little. Could it be because I'm nervous? Yeah, I'm nervous that I won't ever get this door open and that I'll stand out here and freeze.
I try a different angle on the handle. That does it: I hear the little click I need.
At the same time, I hear something else I don't need. It's the sound of screaming tires and a horn. It's too close for my comfort. I whirl, and my vision is filled with Tyler Crowley's blue van. It's sliding toward me on the smallest patch of ice left in the parking lot.
I think: Sun, you've let me down.
I'd like to say my life flashed before my eyes. But all I can really see is the disappointed look in my mother's eyes when I told her I'd be moving back to Forks.
I have just enough time to say "Oh" and close my eyes. For a second, I feel something hard and cold pressed up against my body. There is a horrible crunch as Tyler's van impacts Nellie.
But I don't feel anything. I no longer feel cold. And I don't feel crunched.
Tyler's van has stopped a few feet from me. If I want to be dramatic, I could say that it has stopped a few inches from my nose. But I don't.
And I'm on the ground. Like I said, I'm an excellent faller.
I stand up. For some reason, I feel like I've missed something. For some reason, I look over at the silver Volvo. Edward's siblings are poised at his fender. How rude, let me introduce you now. They are Alice and Jasper.
Alice's and Jasper's freaky yellow eyes are staring at me. Edward's eyes are not. I assume he's in the car. No excitement here. He's probably fiddling with his radio. Nothing to see.
I'm surrounded by a mob of screaming high schoolers. Tyler's head is popping out of his passenger side window.
"Sorry Bella sorry Bella sorry Bella sorry," he's saying.
"Bella, your head," says Mike Newton.
I see what he means. Something is dripping into my right eye. I raise my hand to feel this something. My stomach already knows what it is. It's churning in preparation.
As I draw my hand down, I notice that a panel of Tyler's van is mangled in a strangely recognizable pattern. A panel that didn't touch Nellie. As I start to pass out at the sight of my own blood on my index finger, I think: What are handprints doing in the side of Tyler's car?
The world goes black, but don't worry. There are more than enough people around to catch me.