The Twilight Saga Collection

by Stephenie Meyer

  “Yes, because you’re not listening to me. I’m still waiting for you to believe it. If you’re smart, you’ll avoid me.”

  “I think you’ve made your opinion on the subject of my intellect clear, too.” My eyes narrowed.

  He smiled apologetically.

  “So, as long as I’m being . . . not smart, we’ll try to be friends?” I struggled to sum up the confusing exchange.

  “That sounds about right.”

  I looked down at my hands wrapped around the lemonade bottle, not sure what to do now.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked curiously.

  I looked up into his deep gold eyes, became befuddled, and, as usual, blurted out the truth.

  “I’m trying to figure out what you are.”

  His jaw tightened, but he kept his smile in place with some effort.

  “Are you having any luck with that?” he asked in an offhand tone.

  “Not too much,” I admitted.

  He chuckled. “What are your theories?”

  I blushed. I had been vacillating during the last month between Bruce Wayne and Peter Parker. There was no way I was going to own up to that.

  “Won’t you tell me?” he asked, tilting his head to one side with a shockingly tempting smile.

  I shook my head. “Too embarrassing.”

  “That’s really frustrating, you know,” he complained.

  “No,” I disagreed quickly, my eyes narrowing, “I can’t imagine why that would be frustrating at all — just because someone refuses to tell you what they’re thinking, even if all the while they’re making cryptic little remarks specifically designed to keep you up at night wondering what they could possibly mean . . . now, why would that be frustrating?”

  He grimaced.

  “Or better,” I continued, the pent-up annoyance flowing freely now, “say that person also did a wide range of bizarre things — from saving your life under impossible circumstances one day to treating you like a pariah the next, and he never explained any of that, either, even after he promised. That, also, would be very non-frustrating.”

  “You’ve got a bit of a temper, don’t you?”

  “I don’t like double standards.”

  We stared at each other, unsmiling.

  He glanced over my shoulder, and then, unexpectedly, he snickered.

  “What?”

  “Your boyfriend seems to think I’m being unpleasant to you — he’s debating whether or not to come break up our fight.” He snickered again.

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about,” I said frostily. “But I’m sure you’re wrong, anyway.”

  “I’m not. I told you, most people are easy to read.”

  “Except me, of course.”

  “Yes. Except for you.” His mood shifted suddenly; his eyes turned brooding. “I wonder why that is.”

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

  “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked, distracted.

  “No.” I didn’t feel like mentioning that my stomach was already full — of butterflies. “You?” I looked at the empty table in front of him.

  “No, I’m not hungry.” I didn’t understand his expression — it looked like he was enjoying some private joke.

  “Can you do me a favor?” I asked after a second of hesitation.

  He was suddenly wary. “That depends on what you want.”

  “It’s not much,” I assured him.

  He waited, guarded but curious.

  “I just wondered . . . if you could warn me beforehand the next time you decide to ignore me for my own good. Just so I’m prepared.” I looked at the lemonade bottle as I spoke, tracing the circle of the opening with my pinkie finger.

  “That sounds fair.” He was pressing his lips together to keep from laughing when I looked up.

  “Thanks.”

  “Then can I have one answer in return?” he demanded.

  “One.”

  “Tell me one theory.”

  Whoops. “Not that one.”

  “You didn’t qualify, you just promised one answer,” he reminded me.

  “And you’ve broken promises yourself,” I reminded him back.

  “Just one theory — I won’t laugh.”

  “Yes, you will.” I was positive about that.

  He looked down, and then glanced up at me through his long black lashes, his ocher eyes scorching.

  “Please?” he breathed, leaning toward me.

  I blinked, my mind going blank. Holy crow, how did he do that?

  “Er, what?” I asked, dazed.

  “Please tell me just one little theory.” His eyes still smoldered at me.

  “Um, well, bitten by a radioactive spider?” Was he a hypnotist, too? Or was I just a hopeless pushover?

  “That’s not very creative,” he scoffed.

  “I’m sorry, that’s all I’ve got,” I said, miffed.

  “You’re not even close,” he teased.

  “No spiders?”

  “Nope.”

  “And no radioactivity?”

  “None.”

  “Dang,” I sighed.

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

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

  He struggled to compose his face.

  “I’ll figure it out eventually,” I warned him.

  “I wish you wouldn’t try.” He was serious again.

  “Because . . . ?”

  “What if I’m not a superhero? What if I’m the bad guy?” He smiled playfully, but his eyes were impenetrable.

  “Oh,” I said, as several things he’d hinted fell suddenly into place. “I see.”

  “Do you?” His face was abruptly severe, as if he were afraid that he’d accidentally said too much.

  “You’re dangerous?” I guessed, my pulse quickening as I intuitively realized the truth of my own words. He was dangerous. He’d been trying to tell me that all along.

  He just looked at me, eyes full of some emotion I couldn’t comprehend.

  “But not bad,” I whispered, shaking my head. “No, I don’t believe that you’re bad.”

  “You’re wrong.” His voice was almost inaudible. He looked down, stealing my bottle lid and then spinning it on its side between his fingers. I stared at him, wondering why I didn’t feel afraid. He meant what he was saying — that was obvious. But I just felt anxious, on edge . . . and, more than anything else, fascinated. The same way I always felt when I was near him.

  The silence lasted until I noticed that the cafeteria was almost empty.

  I jumped to my feet. “We’re going to be late.”

  “I’m not going to class today,” he said, twirling the lid so fast it was just a blur.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s healthy to ditch class now and then.” He smiled up at me, but his eyes were still troubled.

  “Well, I’m going,” I told him. I was far too big a coward to risk getting caught.

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

  I hesitated, torn, but then the first bell sent me hurrying out the door — with a last glance confirming that he hadn’t moved a centimeter.

  As I half-ran to class, my head was spinning faster than the bottle cap. So few questions had been answered in comparison to how many new questions had been raised. At least the rain had stopped.

  I was lucky; Mr. Banner wasn’t in the room yet when I arrived. I settled quickly into my seat, aware that both Mike and Angela were staring at me. Mike looked resentful; Angela looked surprised, and slightly awed.

  Mr. Banner came in the room then, calling the class to order. He was juggling a few small cardboard boxes in his arms. He put them down on Mike’s table, telling him to start passing them around the class.

  “Okay, guys, I want you all to take one piece from each box,”
he said as he produced a pair of rubber gloves from the pocket of his lab jacket and pulled them on. The sharp sound as the gloves snapped into place against his wrists seemed ominous to me. “The first should be an indicator card,” he went on, grabbing a white card with four squares marked on it and displaying it. “The second is a four-pronged applicator —” he held up something that looked like a nearly toothless hair pick “— and the third is a sterile micro-lancet.” He held up a small piece of blue plastic and split it open. The barb was invisible from this distance, but my stomach flipped.

  “I’ll be coming around with a dropper of water to prepare your cards, so please don’t start until I get to you.” He began at Mike’s table again, carefully putting one drop of water in each of the four squares. “Then I want you to carefully prick your finger with the lancet. . . .” He grabbed Mike’s hand and jabbed the spike into the tip of Mike’s middle finger. Oh no. Clammy moisture broke out across my forehead.

  “Put a small drop of blood on each of the prongs.” He demonstrated, squeezing Mike’s finger till the blood flowed. I swallowed convulsively, my stomach heaving.

  “And then apply it to the card,” he finished, holding up the dripping red card for us to see. I closed my eyes, trying to hear through the ringing 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.” He sounded proud of himself. “Those of you who aren’t eighteen yet will need a parent’s permission — I have slips at my desk.”

  He continued through the room with his water drops. I put my cheek against the cool black tabletop and tried to hold on to my consciousness. All around me I could hear squeals, complaints, and giggles as my classmates skewered their fingers. I breathed slowly in and out through my mouth.

  “Bella, are you all right?” Mr. Banner asked. His voice was close to my head, and it sounded alarmed.

  “I already know my blood type, Mr. Banner,” I said in a weak voice. I was afraid to raise my head.

  “Are you feeling faint?”

  “Yes, sir,” I muttered, internally kicking myself for not ditching when I had the chance.

  “Can someone take Bella to the nurse, please?” he called.

  I didn’t have to look up to know that it would be Mike who volunteered.

  “Can you walk?” Mr. Banner asked.

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

  Mike seemed eager as he put his arm around my waist and pulled my arm over his shoulder. I leaned against him heavily on the way out of the classroom.

  Mike towed me slowly across campus. When we were around the edge of the cafeteria, out of sight of building four in case Mr. Banner was watching, I stopped.

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

  He helped me sit on the edge of the walk.

  “And whatever you do, keep your hand in your pocket,” I warned. I was still so dizzy. I slumped over on my side, putting my cheek against the freezing, damp cement of the sidewalk, closing my eyes. That seemed to help a little.

  “Wow, you’re green, Bella,” Mike said nervously.

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

  No! Please let me be imagining that horribly familiar voice.

  “What’s wrong — is she hurt?” His voice was closer now, and he sounded upset. I wasn’t imagining it. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to die. Or, at the very least, not to throw up.

  Mike seemed stressed. “I think she’s fainted. I don’t know what happened, she didn’t even stick her finger.”

  “Bella.” Edward’s voice was right beside me, relieved now. “Can you hear me?”

  “No,” I groaned. “Go away.”

  He chuckled.

  “I was taking her to the nurse,” Mike explained in a defensive tone, “but she wouldn’t go any farther.”

  “I’ll take her,” Edward said. I could hear the smile still in his voice. “You can go back to class.”

  “No,” Mike protested. “I’m supposed to do it.”

  Suddenly the sidewalk disappeared from beneath me. My eyes flew open in shock. Edward had scooped me up in his arms, as easily as if I weighed ten pounds instead of a hundred and ten.

  “Put me down!” Please, please let me not vomit on him. He was walking before I was finished talking.

  “Hey!” Mike called, already ten paces behind us.

  Edward ignored him. “You look awful,” he told me, grinning.

  “Put me back on the sidewalk,” I moaned. The rocking movement of his walk was not helping. He held me away from his body, gingerly, supporting all my weight with just his arms — it didn’t seem to bother him.

  “So you faint at the sight of blood?” he asked. This seemed to entertain him.

  I didn’t answer. I closed my eyes again and fought the nausea with all my strength, clamping my lips together.

  “And not even your own blood,” he continued, enjoying himself.

  I don’t know how he opened the door while carrying me, but it was suddenly warm, so I knew we were inside.

  “Oh my,” I heard a female voice gasp.

  “She fainted in Biology,” Edward explained.

  I opened my eyes. I was in the office, and Edward was striding past the front counter toward the nurse’s door. Ms. Cope, the redheaded front office receptionist, ran ahead of him to hold it open. The grandmotherly nurse looked up from a novel, astonished, as Edward swung me into the room and placed me gently on the crackly paper that covered the brown vinyl mattress on the one cot. Then he moved to stand against the wall as far across the narrow room as possible. His eyes were bright, excited.

  “She’s just a little faint,” he reassured the startled nurse. “They’re blood typing in Biology.”

  The nurse nodded sagely. “There’s always one.”

  He muffled a snicker.

  “Just lie down for a minute, honey; it’ll pass.”

  “I know,” I sighed. The nausea was already fading.

  “Does this happen a lot?” she asked.

  “Sometimes,” I admitted. Edward coughed to hide another laugh.

  “You can go back to class now,” she told him.

  “I’m supposed to stay with her.” He said this with such assured authority that — even though she pursed her lips — the nurse didn’t argue it further.

  “I’ll go get you some ice for your forehead, dear,” she said to me, and then bustled out of the room.

  “You were right,” I moaned, letting my eyes close.

  “I usually am — but about what in particular this time?”

  “Ditching is healthy.” I practiced breathing evenly.

  “You scared me for a minute there,” he admitted after a pause. His tone made it sound like he was confessing a humiliating weakness. “I thought Newton was dragging your dead body off to bury it in the woods.”

  “Ha ha.” I still had my eyes closed, but I was feeling more normal every minute.

  “Honestly — I’ve seen corpses with better color. I was concerned that I might have to avenge your murder.”

  “Poor Mike. I’ll bet he’s mad.”

  “He absolutely loathes me,” Edward said cheerfully.

  “You can’t know that,” I argued, but then I wondered suddenly if he could.

  “I saw his face — I could tell.”

  “How did you see me? I thought you were ditching.” I was almost fine now, though the queasiness would probably pass faster if I’d eaten something for lunch. On the other hand, maybe it was lucky my stomach was empty.

  “I was in my car, listening to a CD.” Such a normal response — it surprised me.

  I heard the door and opened my eyes to see the nurse with a cold compress in her hand.

  “Here you go, dear.” She laid it across my forehead. “You’re looking better,” she added.

  “I think I’m fine,” I said, sitting up. Just a little ringing in my ears, no sp
inning. The mint green walls stayed where they should.

  I could see she was about to make me lie back down, but the door opened just then, and Ms. Cope stuck her head in.

  “We’ve got another one,” she warned.

  I hopped down to free up the cot for the next invalid.

  I handed the compress back to the nurse. “Here, I don’t need this.”

  And then Mike staggered through the door, now supporting a sallow-looking Lee Stephens, another boy in our Biology class. Edward and I drew back against the wall to give them room.

  “Oh no,” Edward muttered. “Go out to the office, Bella.”

  I looked up at him, bewildered.

  “Trust me — go.”

  I spun and caught the door before it closed, darting out of the infirmary. I could feel Edward right behind me.

  “You actually listened to me.” He was stunned.

  “I smelled the blood,” I said, wrinkling my nose. Lee wasn’t sick from watching other people, like me.

  “People can’t smell blood,” he contradicted.

  “Well, I can — that’s what makes me sick. It smells like rust . . . and salt.”

  He was staring at me with an unfathomable expression.

  “What?” I asked.

  “It’s nothing.”

  Mike came through the door then, glancing from me to Edward. The look he gave Edward confirmed what Edward had said about loathing. He looked back at me, his eyes glum.

  “You look better,” he accused.

  “Just keep your hand in your pocket,” I warned him again.

  “It’s not bleeding anymore,” he muttered. “Are you going back to class?”

  “Are you kidding? I’d just have to turn around and come back.”

  “Yeah, I guess. . . . So are you going this weekend? To the beach?” While he spoke, he flashed another glare toward Edward, who was standing against the cluttered counter, motionless as a sculpture, staring off into space.

  I tried to sound as friendly as possible. “Sure, I said I was in.”

  “We’re meeting at my dad’s store, at ten.” His eyes flickered to Edward again, wondering if he was giving out too much information. His body language made it clear that it wasn’t an open invitation.

  “I’ll be there,” I promised.

  “I’ll see you in Gym, then,” he said, moving uncertainly toward the door.