Twilight Tenth Anniversary Edition Page 9

“I did apologize—for the second one, at least. Will you forgive me for the first? I spoke without thinking.”

  “Yeah, of course. You don’t have to apologize to me.”

  She sighed. “Don’t I?”

  I didn’t know how to answer—it sounded like a rhetorical question anyway. I stared down at my hands wrapped around the lemonade bottle, not sure what to do. It was so strange to sit with her here—like normal people. I was sure only one of us was normal.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  I looked up. She was staring again, her gold eyes curious and—like the first time I’d seen her—frustrated. Once again, my thoughts refused to pass through the appropriate filter.

  “I’m wondering what you are.”

  Her smile tightened, like her teeth were suddenly clamped together, but she held it carefully in place.

  “Are you having much luck with that?” Her voice was casual, like she didn’t really care about my answer.

  My neck got hot and—I assumed—unattractively blotchy. During the last month I’d given it some thought, but the only solutions I could come up with were completely ridiculous. Like Clark Kent and Peter Parker–level nonsense.

  She tilted her head to the side, staring into my eyes as if she was trying to see through them, right into my brain. She smiled—inviting this time, impossible to resist.

  “Won’t you tell me?”

  But I had to try to resist. She already thought I was an idiot. I shook my head. “Too embarrassing.”

  “That’s really frustrating,” she complained.

  “Really?” I raised my eyebrows. “Like… someone refusing to tell you what she’s thinking, even if all the while she’s making cryptic little comments designed to keep you up at night wondering what she could possibly mean… Frustrating like that?”

  She frowned, her lips pouting out in a distracting way. I worked to hold on to my focus.

  “Or is it frustrating like, say, she’s done a bunch of other strange things—for example, saving your life under impossible circumstances one day, then treating you like a pariah the next—and she never explained any of that, either, even after she promised? Frustrating like that?”

  Her frown twitched, then settled into a deeper scowl. “You’re really not over that yet?”

  “Not quite yet.”

  “Would another apology help?”

  “An explanation would be better.”

  She pursed her lips, then glanced past my left arm and laughed once.

  “What?”

  “Your girlfriend thinks I’m being mean to you—she’s debating whether or not to come break up our fight.”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend, and you’re trying to change the subject.”

  She ignored the second half of my statement. “You might not think of her that way, but it’s how she thinks of you.”

  “There’s no way that’s true.”

  “It is. I told you, most people are very easy to read.”

  “Except me.”

  “Yes, except for you.” Her eyes shifted to me and intensified, drilling into mine. “I wonder why that is.”

  I had to look away. I concentrated on unscrewing the lid of my lemonade. I took a swig, staring at the table without seeing it.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked.

  Her stare was less penetrating now, I saw with relief. “No.” I didn’t think it was necessary to mention that my stomach wasn’t steady enough for food. “You?” I looked at the empty table in front of her.

  “No, I’m not hungry.” She smiled like I was missing some inside joke.

  “Can you do me a favor?” I asked, the words escaping before I could make sure they were allowed.

  She got serious quickly. “That depends on what you want.”

  “It’s not much,” I promised.

  She waited, still guarded but clearly curious.

  “Could you warn me beforehand? The next time you decide to ignore me? For my own good, or whatever. Just so I’m prepared.” I looked at the lemonade again as I asked, tracing the lip of the opening with one finger.

  “That sounds fair.”

  She looked like she was trying not to laugh when I glanced up.

  “Thanks.”

  “Can I have a favor in return?” she asked.

  “Sure.” It was my turn to be curious. What would she want from me?

  “Tell me one of your theories.”

  Whoops. “No way.”

  “You promised me a favor.”

  “And you’ve broken promises before,” I reminded her.

  “Just one theory—I won’t laugh.”

  “Yes, you will.” I had no doubt about that.

  She looked down, then glanced up at me through her thick lashes, her long gold eyes scorching underneath.

  “Please?” she breathed, leaning toward me. Without permission, my body leaned closer to her, like she was a magnet and I was a paper clip, till her face was less than a foot from mine. My mind went totally blank.

  I shook my head, trying to clear it, and forced myself to sit back. “Um… what?”

  “One little theory,” she purred. “Please?”

  “Well, er, bitten by a radioactive spider?” Was she a hypnotist, too? Or was I just a hopeless pushover?

  She rolled her eyes. “That’s not very creative.”

  “Sorry, that’s all I’ve got.”

  “You’re not even close.”

  “No spiders?”

  “No spiders.”

  “No radioactivity?”

  “None at all.”

  “Huh,” I mumbled.

  She chuckled. “Kryptonite doesn’t bother me, either.”

  “You’re not supposed to laugh, remember?”

  She pressed her lips together, but her shoulders shook from holding the laughter back.

  “I’ll figure it out eventually,” I muttered.

  Her humor vanished like a switch flipped off. “I wish you wouldn’t try.”

  “How can I not wonder? I mean… you’re impossible.” I didn’t say it like a criticism, just a statement. You are not possible. You are more than what is possible.

  She understood. “But what if I’m not a superhero? What if I’m the villain?” She smiled as she said this, playfully, but her eyes were heavy with some burden I couldn’t imagine.

  “Oh,” I said, surprised. Her many hints started adding up until they finally made sense. “Oh, okay.”

  She waited, suddenly rigid with stress. In that second, all of her walls seemed to disappear.

  “What exactly does okay mean?” she asked so quietly it was almost a whisper.

  I tried to order my thoughts, but her anxiety pushed me to answer faster. I said the words without preparing them first.

  “You’re dangerous?” It came out like a question, and there was doubt in my voice. She was smaller than I was, no more than my age, and delicately built. Under normal circumstances, I would have laughed at applying the word dangerous to someone like her. But she was not normal, and there was no one like her. I remembered the first time she’d glared at me with hate in her eyes, and I’d felt genuinely afraid, though I hadn’t understood that reaction in the moment, and I’d thought it foolish just seconds later. Now I understood. Under the doubt, outside the incongruity of the word dangerous applied to her slim and perfect body, I could feel the truth of the foundation. The danger was real, though my logical mind couldn’t make sense of it. And she’d been trying to warn me all along.

  “Dangerous,” I murmured again, trying to fit the word to the person in front of me. Her porcelain face was still vulnerable, without walls or secrets. Her eyes were wide now, anticipating my reaction. She seemed to be bracing herself for some kind of impact. “But not the villain,” I whispered. “No, I don’t believe that.”

  “You’re wrong.” Her voice was almost inaudible. She looked down, reaching out to steal the lid for my lemonade, which she then spun like a top between her f
ingers. I took advantage of her inattention to stare some more. She meant what she was saying—that was obvious. She wanted me to be afraid of her.

  What I felt most was… fascinated. There were some nerves, of course, being so close to her. Fear of making a fool of myself. But all I wanted was to sit here forever, to listen to her voice and watch the expressions fly across her face, so much faster than I could analyze them. So of course that was when I noticed that the cafeteria was almost empty.

  I shoved my chair away from the table, and she looked up. She seemed… sad. But resigned. Like this was the reaction she’d been waiting for.

  “We’re going to be late,” I told her, scrambling to my feet.

  She was surprised for just a second, and then the now-familiar amusement was back.

  “I’m not going to class today.” Her fingers twirled the lid so fast that it was just a blur.

  “Why not?”

  She smiled up at me, but her eyes were not entirely disguised. I could still see the stress behind her façade.

  “It’s healthy to ditch class now and then,” she said.

  “Oh. Well, I guess… I should go?” Was there another option? I wasn’t much for ditching, but if she asked me to…

  She turned her attention back to her makeshift top. “I’ll see you later, then.”

  That sounded like a dismissal, and I wasn’t totally against being dismissed. There was so much to think about, and I didn’t do my best thinking with her near. The first bell rang and I hurried to the door. I glanced back once to see that she hadn’t moved at all, and the lid was still spinning in a tight circle like it would never stop.

  As I half-ran to class, my head was spinning just as fast. So few questions had been answered—none, really, when I thought through it—but so many more had been raised.

  I was lucky; the teacher wasn’t in the room when I ran in late, face hot. Both Allen and McKayla were staring at me—Allen with surprise, almost awe, and McKayla with resentment.

  Mrs. Banner made her entrance then, calling the class to order while juggling a bunch of cardboard boxes in her hands. She let the boxes fall onto McKayla’s table, and asked her to start passing them around the class.

  “Okay, guys, I want you all to take one piece from each box,” she said as she produced a pair of rubber gloves from the pocket of her lab coat and pulled them on. The crack as the gloves snapped into place was strangely ominous. “The first should be an indicator card,” she went on, grabbing a white card about the size of an index card and displaying it to us; it had four squares marked on it instead of lines. “The second is a four-pronged applicator”—she held up something that looked like a nearly toothless hair pick—“and the third is a sterile micro-lancet.” She displayed a small piece of blue plastic before splitting it open. The barb was invisible from this distance, but my stomach plunged.

  “I’ll be coming around with a dropper of water to prepare your cards, so please don’t start until I get to you.…” She began at McKayla’s table again, carefully putting one drop of water in each of the four squares of McKayla’s card.

  “Then I want you to carefully prick your finger with the lancet.…” She grabbed McKayla’s hand and jabbed the spike into the tip of McKayla’s middle finger.

  “Ouch,” McKayla complained.

  Clammy moisture broke out across my forehead and my ears began a faint ringing.

  “Put a small drop of blood on each of the prongs.…” Mrs. Banner demonstrated as she instructed, squeezing McKayla’s finger till the blood flowed. I swallowed convulsively, and my stomach heaved.

  “And then apply it to the card,” she finished, holding up the dripping red card for us to see. I closed my eyes, trying to hear through the humming in my ears.

  “The Red Cross is having a blood drive in Port Angeles next weekend, so I thought you should all know your blood type.” She sounded proud of herself. “Those of you who aren’t eighteen yet will need a parent’s permission—I have slips at my desk.”

  She continued through the room with her water dropper. I put my cheek against the cool, black tabletop and tried to hold on as everything seemed to get farther away, slithering down a dark tunnel. The squeals, complaints, and giggles as my classmates skewered their fingers all sounded far off in the distance. I breathed slowly in and out through my mouth.

  “Beau, are you all right?” Mrs. Banner asked. Her voice was close to my head, but still far away, and it sounded alarmed.

  “I already know my blood type, Mrs. Banner. I’m O negative.”

  I couldn’t open my eyes.

  “Are you feeling faint?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I muttered, wishing I could kick myself for not ditching when I had the chance.

  “Can someone walk Beau to the nurse, please?” she called.

  “I will.” Even though it was far away, I recognized McKayla’s voice.

  “Can you walk?” Mrs. Banner asked me.

  “Yes,” I whispered. Just let me get out of here, I thought. I’ll crawl.

  I felt McKayla grab my hand—I was sure it was all sweaty and gross but I couldn’t care about that yet—and I worked to get my eyes open while she tugged me up. I just had to get out of this room before it went full dark. I stumbled toward the door while McKayla put her arm around my waist, trying to steady me. I put my arm over her shoulders, but she was too short to help my balance much. I tried to carry my own weight as much as possible.

  McKayla and I lumbered slowly across campus. When we were around the edge of the cafeteria, out of sight of building four in case Mrs. Banner was watching, I stopped fighting.

  “Just let me sit for a minute, please?” I asked.

  McKayla breathed out a sigh of relief as I settled clumsily on the edge of the walk.

  “And whatever you do, keep your hand in your pocket,” I said. Everything seemed to be swirling dizzily, even when I closed my eyes. I slumped over to one side, putting my cheek against the freezing, damp cement of the sidewalk. That helped.

  “Wow, you’re green, Beau,” McKayla said nervously.

  “Just gimme… a minute…”

  “Beau?” a different voice called from the distance.

  Oh, please no. Not this, too. Let me just be imagining that horribly familiar voice.

  “What’s wrong? Is he hurt?” The voice was closer now, and it sounded strangely fierce. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to die. Or, at the very least, not to throw up.

  McKayla sounded stressed. “I think he fainted. I don’t know what happened, he didn’t even stick his finger.”

  “Beau, can you hear me?” Edythe’s voice was right by my head now, and she sounded relieved.

  “No,” I groaned.

  She laughed.

  “I was trying to help him to the nurse,” McKayla explained, defensive. “But he wouldn’t go any farther.”

  “I’ll take him,” Edythe said, the smile still in her voice. “You can go back to class.”

  “What? No, I’m supposed to…”

  And then a thin, strong arm was under both of mine, and I was on my feet without realizing how I got there. The strong arm, cold like the sidewalk, held me tight against a slim body, almost like a crutch. My eyes flipped open in surprise, but all I could see was her tangled bronze hair against my chest. She started moving forward, and my feet fumbled trying to catch up. I expected to fall, but she somehow kept me upright. She didn’t so much as stagger when my full weight tugged us both forward.

  Then again, I didn’t weigh as much as a van.

  “I’m good, I swear,” I mumbled. Please, please let me not vomit on her.

  “Hey,” McKayla called after us, already ten paces behind.

  Edythe ignored her. “You look simply awful,” she told me. I could hear the grin.

  “Just put me back on the sidewalk,” I groaned. “I’ll be fine in a few minutes.”

  She propelled us quickly forward while I tried to make my feet move in the right pattern to match her spe
ed. A few times I could swear that my feet were actually dragging across the ground, but then, I couldn’t feel them very well, so I wasn’t sure.

  “So you faint at the sight of blood?” she asked. Apparently, this was hilarious.

  I didn’t answer. I closed my eyes again and fought the nausea, lips clamped together. The most important thing was that I not vomit on her. I could survive everything else.

  “And not even your own blood!” She laughed. It was like the sound of a bell ringing.

  “I have a weak vasovagal system,” I muttered. “It’s just a neurally mediated syncope.”

  She laughed again. Apparently, the big words I’d memorized to explain these situations did not impress her the way they were supposed to.

  I wasn’t sure how she got the door open while dragging me, but suddenly it was warm—everywhere except where her body pressed against me. I wished I felt normal so that I could appreciate that more—her body touching mine. I knew that under normal circumstances I would be enjoying this.

  “Oh my,” a male voice gasped.

  “He’s having a neurally mediated syncope,” Edythe explained brightly.

  I opened my eyes. I was in the office, and Edythe was dragging me past the front counter toward the door at the back of the room. Mr. Cope, the balding receptionist, ran ahead of her to hold it open. He faltered when he heard the dire-sounding diagnosis.

  “Should I call nine-one-one?” he gasped.

  “It’s just a fainting spell,” I mumbled.

  A grandfatherly old man—the school medic—looked up from a novel, shocked, as Edythe hauled me into the room. Did he notice that when she leaned me against the cot, she half-lifted me into place? The crackly paper complained as she pushed me down with one hand against my chest, then turned and swung my feet up onto the vinyl mattress.

  This reminded me of the time she’d swung my feet out of the way of the van, and the memory made me dizzy.

  “They’re blood typing in Biology,” Edythe explained to the nurse.

  I watched the old man nod sagely. “There’s always one.”

  Edythe covered her mouth and pretended her laugh was a cough. She’d gone to stand across the room from me. Her eyes were bright, excited.

  “Just lie down for a minute, son,” the old nurse told me. “It’ll pass.”