A/N: Okay, this is again, very random. It is supposed to take place over the entire school year, with alternating POVs between all the major characters, Alice, Jasper, Edward, Bella, Emmett, Rosalie. We'll see how well I do on that :). I wrote Alice's chapter to Fall Out Boy. Each character has their own band, and it will pretty much be the tone of that chapter. The fact that I wrote Alice to Fall Out Boy, shows that she is not going to be a regular Alice…
Disclaimer: Stephenie owns them all, not me.
Newly cropped ebony hair bobbed in her reflection, wet and sticking in every direction. It framed a small face, her tiny features twisted into a scowl. She stared at her foreign reflection, completely different than the glamorous girl with a curtain of black and blond hair she had been just a few minutes ago. Her hair was in a heap in one of the master bathrooms. If she had thrown it away, her parents most likely wouldn't notice the change.
She was wearing, to her absolute horror, a white blouse, tucked into a navy skirt, topped off with a navy and gold cardigan and white knee highs. Her scowl deepened as she surveyed the damage. She plucked at the large pocket of air in her blouse, where her breasts were supposed to fill. Everything was too big, their smallest size one too large for her.
There was no way she was going to go out in public like this, she thought, never mind starting a new school dressed like a substandard version of the cookie cutter girls she imagined she would be immersed with.
She sighed, and looked at the other versions of this same outfit she would have as her only other clothing options for the next eight and a half months. If she wasn't kicked out by then, she could either go home, which her parents promised would only happen if she behaved, or she would be stranded at the school for the summer, taking a few optional courses in order to have the 'privilege' to stay.
There were short sleeved blouses for when it was warmer, another long sleeved one, with a more elaborate collar, a white polo shirt, for physical education, she guessed. There were large navy shorts, that reminded her of her grandmother's underwear, one more knee length skirt, two full length, and worst of all, a navy tartan dress, with a sailor's collar, for formal occasions.
She shivered. Life was going to be hell in clothes like that, even if they fit. She looked around the room, her eyes resting on her sewing machine and a large basket overflowing with scraps of expensive fabric, only a few of the things she would die at boarding school without. She thought about altering them, so they fit, but then came across a better idea.
She stripped off her clothes, laying them on her bed, like the rest of the monstrosities were. Standing in her underwear, she surveyed what she had to work with, picking up a knee length skirt to begin with. She placed it on the dressmaker's dummy her parents had bought her when she wrecked her third car escaping from the police.
She flipped on a switch, music playing instantly, as the lights dimmed everywhere but the circle where her sewing equipment were. Humming along to the bubbly music, she began to pin the skirt to the right size, and then thought about what she could do with it. Shorter was a must, so she pinned up the skirt, until it would end up halfway down her thigh.
She grabbed a roll of black lace, and pinned it to the bottom. She had an iron on jeweled skull, which was a joke gift from her sister, who knew it was definitely not Mary's style. She grabbed it, and held it just above the hem. Perfect.
She had a few other iron on gems, and decided to line the pockets in them. However, the navy blue of the skirt was overpowering, and she contemplated it for a few minutes before removing the lace and the jewels.
She quickly sewed the skirt into the right size, hemming it, and adding a pleat on the side to use up the extra fabric around the waist. She left off the jewels and the lace, placing it down gently once she was finished. She ran off into the dark corners of her room, digging through a drawer of art supplies, until she found what she was looking for. A jar of expensive gold fabric paint, which she used on a pair of shoes for a dance competition a few years ago.
She grabbed a paintbrush, and ran back into the spotlight. She put the skirt back on the dummy, it fitting perfectly. She unscrewed the stop of the paint, dipping in the paintbrush, scooping up a golden glob. With a flick of the wrist, she splattered the golden paint across the front of the skirt, the trail like a galaxy covering the blue.
She smiled, and continued to splatter paint until the power of the navy was obscured. She grabbed a hair dryer to help the paint dry quicker, knowing that she was leaving tomorrow, and she had an entire wardrobe to alter.
She ironed on the jeweled skull, amazed at the quality of the paint. It moved with the fabric, and seemed like a part of the skirt. She supposed expensive really did mean high quality sometimes. She sewed the lace on the hem of the skirt, and then inspected her work.
No longer a vomit worthy, knee length, navy monster, it seemed like something she would actually wear. She was proud of herself, and placed it on the bed, watching how it stood out from the others, imagining that would be like how she would stand out in the school.
She grabbed the next skirt, already planning to add tulle underneath, to make it near the ballet skirt she prized, a handmade skirt by an unknown Italian designer, a particular friend of hers.
She added lace, shortened skirts, added a deep v neck to a few of the shirts, adding a lacy turtleneck to one of the short sleeved blouses. She turned one of the long skirts onto a strapless dress, and turned the other into tight pants. She spent the rest of the afternoon, and the whole night altering, changing, and splattering paint on her new clothes. She grabbed a few tank tops from her closet, ripping heart shaped holes in them, and then sewing them back up with patches of see through lace, or extra fabric.
When she was finally finished, the sun had risen again. She stiffly pulled on the makeshift dress made from the navy skirt, sliding white lace tights underneath, the white only a shade or two lighter than her skin. She stepped into peep toe silver ankle boots, and put on a chunky black necklace. Stepping in front of her full-length mirror, she felt a rush of pleasure.
She twirled, marveling at how the dress hit at the exact right place, and skimmed over her thin body, making her seem as if she had curves. Her hair had dried in the absolute chaos she had left it in, crowning her tired face with complete wildness. She looked good. She looked like she would stand out. She looked almost dangerous.
She held back a giggle, turning to leave. She took off her clothes again, putting on comfortable pajamas. She folded up all the extra clothes she had created; putting them in the designer suitcase with all the other things she had packed the day before. She ran to her sewing table, grabbing a few essentials. A few spools of navy and black thread, a few needles, a handful of stick on gems.
She placed them in a small satchel, and put them in her luggage. She surveyed her room. Everything she loved would stay here. She would be able to bring her iPod, her favorite slippers, and her phone, which was empty of the people she would want to contact. Everything else stayed behind.
She grabbed a black notebook, and a few pens, and shoved it in her bag. She would be able to shop for school supplies and toiletries there, but under surveillance, thanks to her parents' special request.
Glancing at the clock, she saw she had two hours before she had to wake up, at nine. She turned the lights on everywhere in her room, the music system still playing the same songs on repeat. She skipped over to her fridge, holding only carrots and energy drinks. She downed a red bull, and grabbed a handful of pre-cut carrots. She opened the sliding door to her elaborate bathroom, which she had designed by herself.
She slid into the shower, the water hot, feeling good on her skin. She squeezed out too much shampoo, not quite used to the small amount her shortened hair would need. The calming scent of jasmine soon reached her nose. She closed her eyes, the excess shampoo dripping down her face as she worked her hair into a lather.
A pounding came from her door, before it slid open, revealing her little sister, Cynthia. "Mary!" Cynthia cried in anger and panic, "What did you do?!" She lifted up her hand, revealing a handful of long black hair mingled with blond strands.
Mary found herself not wanting to respond to her name. Mary. It was so plain, so empty. It might have fit the little girl blinded by wealth, unable to see the dysfunction of her family, her father's multitudes of affairs, but who she was now, who she had been turning into for the last four months, didn't fit that name. She thought about it for a little while as Cynthia's rage subsided into confusion.
"Mary?" Cynthia asked, placing the hair down with slight disgust, wiping her hands on the legs of her pajamas.
"Please don't call me that anymore," she said, contemplating what her new name should be. "Call me Alice instead," Alice said, picking her middle name as her new identity. It was christened on her in memory of her eccentric grandmother, who died while Mary was seven, ten years ago.
Cynthia rolled her eyes, missing the seriousness in Alice's voice.
"Fine, whatever. Alice, what the hell did you do to your hair?!" Cynthia yelled, as Alice turned off the water, after rinsing her hair. So much for a relaxing last shower. She wrapped a towel around herself and stepped out, meeting her sister's incredulous gaze.
She tucked the end of the towel in, creating a makeshift dress, as she grabbed for a dollop of mousse. Alice wanted her hair to look like it did yesterday. As if she had stayed up all night, forgetting to brush it.
Cynthia's jaw dropped in awe. "You're hair… it's so short." She said, anger dissipating out of her voice.
"That's what usually happens when you cut it, Cynthia." Alice said, allowing an edge to creep into her voice, something that she had never done before.
Cynthia looked hurt, but reached her hand up to tentatively touch the spiky edge. When her fingers reached the point, she jerked them back, as if stung. A smug smile crept onto her face.
"Mom and Dad are going to be really angry with you." Cynthia said, her only threat the possible anger of their negligent parents.
Not very worried, Alice sighed. "It's my hair, Cynthia."
Cynthia fumed, her face turning red with anger before sticking her tongue out at Alice, and running out of the bathroom.
Alice turned to her reflection. The argument with Cynthia wiped out the buzz the energy drink had given her, and she had deep bags underneath her eyes, not only from staying up all night, but from being unable to have a proper nights rest for at least four months.
Her stomach grumbled, the carrots only awakened her hunger. She left her room, still wrapped in a towel, sneaking down a few flights of stairs to get to the kitchen on the main floor. Her bare feet made no noise on the lushly carpeted stairs, years of ballet and a low body mass helping her keep quiet. She didn't want to run into her parents until she was dressed in her new school uniforms, which her mother had exclaimed over, when they were shipped here. "They are just so darling, Mary! I can tell you are going to enjoy this new school." As if sending her to a boarding school was a gift, not the punishment for knowing more than she should.
She reached the main floor, and entered the Tuscan style kitchen. Everything in her house was immaculate, expensive, and a cover up for the rot in the souls of the people who lived here. Except Cynthia, she corrected herself. At fourteen, Cynthia was still naive, innocent. Once Alice was gone, there would be nothing to stop her from becoming corrupted.
She grabbed a bagel, wanting to escape before anyone saw her, not waiting to toast it. She wanted water to wash the taste of red bull and carrots from her mouth, a terrible combination. As she crept over to the fridge to grab a bottle, she heard muffled whispers from the back door.
The voices were hushed, and then she heard the unmistakable wet sound of a sloppy kiss, and a girlish giggle. Alice's stomach dropped as she recognized the voice. Someone she never really thought about before, but knew. Someone from her Spanish class, a girl with bouncy brown curls, and perky breasts that Alice always envied. A girl, the same age as her, if not a few months younger. The back door closed with a sigh.
She felt like vomiting, and put the bagel down, to scurry out of the room. Her father walked in, catching her leaving.
"Mary?" he asked, his contemptuous voice lessened by shock. His few remaining hairs were in disarray, and his robe hung open, exposing fleshy thighs and a large gut. He peered at her, as if he wasn't sure it really was her, not wearing the glasses he usually did.
She didn't answer, leaving as quickly as possible. She ran up the stairs, still trying to be quiet, not wanting to wake her mother, who lied alone in an empty bed, dreaming about herself, self centered as always.
Alice collapsed on her bed as soon as she entered her room. She wondered if she should cry, but her eyes stayed dry. She looked at the ceiling, a domed roof, as she was in the very top floor of their superfluous mansion. She contemplated getting a mural painted up there, but then she remembered that she would be living in boarding school for her last year of school, and then she would be going to university, probably living in dorm. She might not be able to live here again.
Alice felt sad, and reached one arm out, grabbing a fistful of her satiny comforter. Silently, she said goodbye to her room, as her alarm went off, blasting the room full of a mechanical techno remix, before she hit the snooze button.
She sat up, running her fingers through her damp hair, causing it to stand on end once more. She was a bad person, she decided. The girl who's life had just changed for the worse was not what she was sad about. The fact that Cynthia is losing the only person who ever cared about her did not make her upset. She was sad to leave her sewing machine, her makeup, and her freedom.
She stared at the ceiling for a few more seconds, until she felt the bed move beside her. Cynthia was there, tears running down her cheeks. Cynthia buried her face into Alice's bony chest, searching for comfort that their mother and father could not give.
"I asked them to let me go with you," Cynthia said once her sobs had stopped, her face still pressed against Alice, listening to the beat of her heart. "I asked them to send me there too, but they refused. They told me that you were a bad influence."
Alice lightly stroked Cynthia's back, her heart torn in two. "I am a bad influence." She whispered. "But I'm better than they are."
Cynthia sniffled, "What do you mean?"
Alice sighed, her eyes finally filling with tears. "You'll see." Alice said, just as their mother came into the room, glowing as only someone who doesn't see anyone but themselves can.
"Wake up Mary!" She shrieked joyously, whipping open the curtains dramatically, not realizing that the overhead lights were already on. She twirled around, to see Alice and Cynthia on the bed. "Cynthia, what are you doing here?" She frowned.
Alice sat up, pulling Cynthia with her, both wiping at their eyes. Cynthia's black hair was in knotted pigtails, and her face was blotchy with crying, and Alice had leftover eyeliner from the day before smeared down her cheeks, but their mom didn't notice.
"Everyone get ready!" She chirped, already thinking about what outfit she would be wearing. "The jet is leaving in an hour and a half!" She left the room humming to herself as her daughters held back their tears.
Cynthia looked up at Alice with wide, liquid blue eyes. "She didn't notice your hair." She whispered and Alice nodded.
They both stood up. "Will you pick out my clothes today, Alice?" Cynthia asked, as she asked every morning. Usually Alice said no, but today she didn't.
"Okay," she said, walking to her closet, 'You can borrow my clothes if you want." Cynthia's face lit up, making Alice's heart feel less damaged. Cynthia ran in front, and opened the closet as if opening a buried treasure. She skimmed her small fingers across the clothes, as good as new.
Alice had a burst of kindness, and said "You can use them while I'm gone. In fact, you can use all of the things I own while I'm gone." Cynthia looked up at her with awe, making Alice feel uncomfortable. "As long as you're careful," she clarified, and Cynthia nodded quickly.
Alice picked out denim bermuda shorts, with a peach hippie shirt, and white gladiator sandals. Cynthia put them on quickly, as Alice grabbed her tartan dress from her new and improved school uniforms. She had altered it, making the skirt full, and taking off the sleeves, and adding a deep neckline, and a black sash.
Cynthia twirled endearingly in front of Alice's gilded mirror, her hair still in disastrous pigtails, until she saw Alice. "Oh!" she exclaimed, looking at her older sister with admiration and sadness.
Before anything else could be said, their mother flew in again, chattering nonstop.
"Girls! We have to go in fifteen minutes to make it to the airport on time! I'll send the butler up to grab your bags Mary! Oh, Cynthia, you look adorable! Mary, what the hell are you wearing?! Well, I have to go! Make sure to brush your teeth! And Mary, please brush your hair, it's atrocious! Breakfast is on the table!"
Out of breath, their mother twirled out of the room. Alice ran her fingers through her hair, messing it up on purpose, a silent defiance. Cynthia stood awkwardly, swaying on her thin legs.
"I suppose we should go," Alice suggested, and Cynthia's eyes welled up with tears again, wrapping her long arms around Alice's middle.
"Do you have to go?" Cynthia asked, as the butler entered the room. He watched the floor the entire time, not wanting to interfere. He grabbed the bags, and left, his eyes never leaving his feet. The only reason he had worked for them for so long was because he learned to keep his mouth shut, and only see what he was supposed to see.
"Yes," Alice whispered. She peeled Cynthia from her, and held her hand as they walked down the stairs.
Alice and Cynthia held hands then entire ride to the airport, and as they waited for Alice's bags to be put on their father's jet. Cynthia walked into the jet with Alice, refusing to leave. Their father scooped her up, her screams not affecting him, and the entire family waited outside as the plane got ready to leave.
The last thing Alice saw was her father talking on his phone to someone, cupping his hand around the receiver, as to not share the information being shared, her mother standing there, sniffing attractively, wiping imaginary tears from her immaculate cheeks, and Cynthia, who had thrown herself to the ground in her wretchedness, wrecking the clothes Alice had lent her.
A/N: Okay, so I don't know who's POV I'm doing next. Tell me who you want in your review! And also, I have a blog , which I am going to pimp :D It's slightly random, and then I have another one which is like, morbid poetry. But the first one's better. And my story School Projects has been nominated for the best All Human for the Twilighter Awards ! Vote for me :) (Links on profile)