The girls' locker room buzzed with its usual pre-class chaos—a symphony of slamming metal doors, squeaking sneakers, and the kind of gossip that could fuel a small town's rumor mill for approximately three election cycles. Bella Swan perched on the narrow bench like a condemned prisoner contemplating her final meal, staring at her regulation gym clothes with the existential dread usually reserved for tax audits or surprise root canals.
The faded gray shorts had definitely seen better decades—possibly the Reagan administration—and the Forks High t-shirt looked like it had survived multiple natural disasters, possibly including a volcanic eruption and several unfortunate encounters with industrial washing machines operated by people who'd given up on life.
Bella held up the shorts, examining them with the scientific precision of someone trying to decode ancient hieroglyphics or understand why anyone thought polyester was a good idea for athletic wear.
"These were clearly designed by someone who's never encountered actual human anatomy," she muttered, turning the garment this way and that as if a different angle might reveal hidden secrets of proper fit or at least basic understanding of how human legs were supposed to function. "Like, did they just guess what human proportions looked like based on abstract art and hope for the best?"
Around her, the familiar chaos of teenage social dynamics played out with all the subtlety of a reality TV show. Angela Weber sat on the bench across from her, quietly having what appeared to be a complete nervous breakdown about her upcoming chemistry test.
"I don't understand valence electrons," Angela was saying to no one in particular, her voice carrying the particular strain of someone who'd spent the previous evening staring at molecular diagrams until they began to resemble ancient conspiracy theories. "I mean, I understand that they exist in theory, and I understand that they're supposedly important for molecular bonding, but asking me to predict their behavior is like asking me to predict the weather on Jupiter using only a magic eight-ball and childhood trauma."
"Angela, breathe," said someone from the general direction of the lockers. "It's just chemistry. It's not like you're performing brain surgery."
"Brain surgery would be easier!" Angela replied with increasing hysteria. "At least brains don't have mysterious electrons that decide to share or not share based on incomprehensible rules that seem to change depending on which textbook you're reading!"
Near the mirror that had seen more teenage drama than a soap opera scriptwriter, Lauren Mallory held court with the theatrical flair of someone auditioning for a one-woman Broadway show about her own life. She was dramatically recounting her weekend encounter with some guy from La Push who apparently possessed supernatural levels of physical attractiveness.
"I'm not even exaggerating this time," Lauren was saying, gesturing wildly with her hairbrush as if it were a conductor's baton and she was orchestrating a symphony of teenage thirst. "This guy looked like he was personally sculpted by some kind of divine entity with access to modern gym equipment and really good lighting. I literally forgot how to form coherent sentences. Complete linguistic shutdown. My brain just went 'ERROR 404: WORDS NOT FOUND.'"
"Did you at least get his number?" asked Sarah—Tyler Crowley's girlfriend whose name Bella could never remember but who was always asking the practical questions that cut through Lauren's dramatic narratives like a knife through particularly elaborate cake.
"I tried," Lauren replied with the theatrical despair of someone whose tragic romance belonged in a Shakespeare play. "But every time I opened my mouth, I just made this weird squeaking sound, like a rusty gate or a dying mouse that had been trained in the art of social awkwardness. Very attractive. I'm sure he was completely charmed by my impression of malfunctioning farm equipment."
"Maybe he's into the rusty gate aesthetic?" suggested someone from the general vicinity of the lockers, though their voice was muffled by what sounded like someone getting tangled in their own gym shirt.
"That's not a thing, Katie," Lauren replied with the authority of someone who considered herself an expert in male psychology despite evidence to the contrary. "Trust me, no one finds mechanical failure sexy."
The usual suspects were discussing their usual topics with the kind of intensity that suggested these conversations were matters of national importance rather than teenage social dynamics. But today, Bella found that her usual ability to tune out the ambient noise of human interaction had completely abandoned her, possibly because her brain had decided to stage a coup against her higher reasoning functions.
Her mind kept drifting back to Edward's touch—the way his marble-cold fingers had traced her cheekbone with the reverence of someone handling priceless art or defusing a particularly volatile explosive device that might detonate if handled with anything less than absolute precision. The memory sent electricity racing down her spine like she'd been struck by lightning, making her fingers tremble as she attempted to tie her sneakers with all the coordination of a newborn deer attempting advanced calculus.
*Try to pay attention in gym class,* he'd said, as if he hadn't just completely rewired her nervous system with a single caress that had probably registered on seismographs in neighboring states. As if she could possibly focus on anything other than the way his golden eyes had darkened when he'd looked at her, the way his jaw had tensed like he was fighting some internal battle that involved multiple levels of self-restraint and possibly advanced meditation techniques.
The shoelace slipped through her fingers for the third time, and Bella stared down at her feet with the kind of betrayed expression usually reserved for trusted friends who'd revealed embarrassing secrets at parties or for technology that had decided to malfunction at the worst possible moment.
"Seriously?" she asked her shoes with the indignation of someone who'd been personally wronged by inanimate objects. "We're going to have coordination issues with *shoelaces* now? That's a new low, even for me. What's next, are my socks going to rebel? Will my hair decide to achieve sentience and start making its own life choices?"
"Earth to Bella Swan, come in Bella Swan! This is mission control requesting immediate confirmation of brain function and possibly proof of life!"
The sing-song voice cut through her Edward-induced haze like a particularly cheerful foghorn operated by someone who'd consumed their body weight in espresso and was now experiencing the kind of caffeinated enthusiasm that could power small cities. Bella blinked, focusing on Jessica Stanley, who was standing beside her locker wearing the kind of knowing grin that suggested she'd been conducting detailed anthropological research on Bella's dreamy expression for an embarrassingly long period of time.
Jessica looked like she'd stepped out of a quirky indie film about precocious teenagers who solved mysteries in their spare time while delivering rapid-fire dialogue that was too clever for real life. All sharp angles and animated expressions, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail that somehow managed to look effortlessly chic despite being held together with a hair tie that appeared to be constructed from rubber bands, determination, and possibly small amounts of hope.
She was already dressed for class, her gym clothes actually fitting her properly—a concept that remained as foreign to Bella as quantum physics, normal teenage social behavior, or the ability to walk across flat surfaces without incident.
"Sorry," Bella said, shaking her head in an attempt to clear the Edward-shaped fog from her brain, which felt about as effective as trying to clear actual fog with a flyswatter or attempting to solve complex mathematical equations through interpretive dance. "What did you say? Also, did you just reference mission control? Are we launching something? Because if we are, I feel like I should probably be informed about any space-related activities that might require my participation."
"Only your love life into orbit, apparently," Jessica replied, her eyes practically sparkling with the kind of excitement usually reserved for major holidays, celebrity sightings, or the discovery that someone had accidentally left really good snacks in the teacher's lounge. She had the look of someone who'd just discovered buried treasure, if buried treasure consisted of teenage drama and potential relationship gossip that could fuel months of detailed analysis and speculation.
"I asked if you were planning to share the juicy details of that incredibly romantic scene I just witnessed outside the gym, which, by the way, was so cinematically perfect that I'm pretty sure someone should have been filming it for posterity or possibly for a documentary about the mating rituals of mysteriously attractive teenagers."
"What scene?" Bella asked, though even as the words left her mouth, she could feel heat creeping up her neck like a slow-burning fire fueled by embarrassment and the memory of Edward's fingertips against her skin.
"Oh, don't even try that innocent act with me, Bella Swan," Jessica said, settling onto the bench beside her with the satisfied expression of someone who'd just caught their best friend red-handed in the middle of a romantic moment that belonged in a museum dedicated to swoon-worthy interactions. "I have eyes. I have functioning retinas. I have excellent observational skills that I've been honing through years of people-watching and possibly too many romantic comedies."
"I witnessed the entire thing, and I'm pretty sure my ovaries actually exploded from the sheer romantic intensity. Like, there might need to be some kind of cleanup crew, because the level of sexual tension in that interaction could probably power the entire Pacific Northwest for several weeks."
"That's... medically concerning and possibly a violation of several laws of physics," Bella said weakly, though she was secretly impressed by Jessica's ability to make even basic human reproduction sound like a catastrophic industrial accident.
"Holy mother of Jane Austen, Bella. The way Edward Cullen was looking at you? I thought I was going to spontaneously combust from secondhand swooning, and I was watching from like fifty feet away!" Jessica's voice had reached that particular pitch that signaled an incoming legendary dramatic monologue that would probably become the stuff of Forks High legend. "It was like watching every romance novel ever written come to life, except with better cinematography, more sexual tension, and possibly actual supernatural elements that I'm not going to question because I'm too busy being impressed by the sheer romantic artistry of it all."
"It wasn't a scene," Bella protested, though her voice lacked conviction even to her own ears and she was pretty sure her face was now approximately the same color as a fire engine that had been painted an even more aggressive shade of red for maximum visibility.
Jessica let out a laugh that could probably have been heard from space and was definitely loud enough to disrupt satellite communications and cause minor earthquakes in neighboring states. "Oh honey, no. That was not 'just saying goodbye' in any recognizable form of human interaction. That was some serious *Pride and Prejudice* hand-flex, *Titanic* bow-of-the-ship, 'I-would-die-for-you-without-question' level romantic tension that probably registered on seismographs and possibly caused small animals to swoon in solidarity."
She leaned closer, lowering her voice to what she probably thought was a conspiratorial whisper but was actually loud enough to be heard in Canada and possibly alert the wildlife to the presence of teenage drama that required immediate attention.
"The boy looked at you like you were the last slice of pizza at a college party during finals week, touched your face like he was handling the Hope Diamond or possibly defusing a nuclear device that required the utmost delicacy, and then walked away looking like he was physically restraining himself from sweeping you off your feet and carrying you away to his mysterious vampire castle or whatever brooding manor he probably lives in that's definitely filled with dramatic architecture and possibly a library with rolling ladders."
Bella nearly choked on her own saliva, which would have been an embarrassing way to die but oddly appropriate given her general coordination issues and tendency to be betrayed by basic bodily functions. "His what now? Did you just say vampire castle? Because that seems like a very specific architectural assumption to make about someone's living situation."
"You know what I mean! That whole brooding, mysterious, 'I'm-dangerous-but-devastatingly-handsome-and-probably-have-a-tragic-backstory-involving-dead-parents-or-ancient-curses' thing he has going on." Jessica's hands were moving now, gesticulating wildly as her excitement built momentum like a runaway train fueled by romantic speculation, caffeine, and possibly small amounts of hysteria.
"Like he stepped out of some gothic romance novel where the male lead has a tragic past, cheekbones that could cut glass, and a tendency to brood dramatically on clifftops during thunderstorms while his hair moves mysteriously in wind that doesn't seem to affect anyone else."
"I don't think Edward broods on clifftops," Bella said, though even as she spoke, she realized she wasn't entirely certain about Edward's clifftop-brooding habits and was now slightly curious about whether he had any opinions about dramatic weather-related posing.
"That's what makes it even more mysterious!" Jessica exclaimed with the enthusiasm of someone who'd just solved a particularly complex puzzle or discovered that her favorite coffee shop was having a sale on pastries. "He probably broods in forests, or abandoned buildings, or on the hoods of expensive cars while staring pensively into the distance and contemplating the weight of existence or whatever it is that mysteriously attractive people think about when they're not busy being mysteriously attractive!"
"I'm pretty sure most people just think about normal things like homework and what to have for lunch," Bella offered weakly.
"Not Edward Cullen. That boy's thoughts are probably filled with poetry and existential angst and possibly complex mathematical equations that somehow relate to the nature of human suffering." Jessica was fully animated now, her voice reaching crescendo levels that could probably be classified as a natural phenomenon. "Seriously, Bella, if you don't at least make out with that boy before graduation, I'm going to stage an intervention. With charts. And possibly a PowerPoint presentation with animations, statistical analysis of your romantic potential, and maybe some interpretive dance to really drive the point home."
"Please don't make a PowerPoint about my love life," Bella said, though part of her was oddly curious about what Jessica's romantic statistical analysis would look like and whether it would include actual mathematical formulas or just really enthusiastic speculation.
"I'll call it 'Operation: Get Bella Laid Before She Dies of Sexual Tension,'" Jessica continued with the kind of strategic planning that suggested she'd given this significant thought. "It'll be color-coded with pie charts showing probability of different outcomes based on current trajectory analysis, bar graphs demonstrating the various romantic scenarios, and maybe some flow charts to help you navigate different conversational approaches that might lead to actual physical contact."
"That sounds terrifying and possibly illegal in several states."
"It'll be educational! Think of it as a public service. I'm basically providing you with a comprehensive guide to not dying a virgin, which I think we can all agree is an important life skill."
"And don't even get me started on his hair!" Jessica continued, apparently unable to stop now that she'd built up this kind of momentum and was operating at maximum Jessica capacity. "How does it always look like that? Like he just rolled out of bed after having incredibly intense dreams about brooding mysteriously while composing tragic poetry and possibly solving complex philosophical problems through the power of smoldering attractiveness?"
"Hair doesn't work that way, Jess. That's not how follicles function."
"His hair does! I've been conducting observational research, and that man's hair moves like it exists in its own personal wind system that operates according to laws of physics that are specifically designed to maximize romantic impact." Jessica was now gesturing with both hands, creating what appeared to be interpretive dance movements to illustrate her points about Edward's supernatural hair situation.
"It's like he has a team of invisible stylists following him around with blow dryers, existential angst, and possibly some kind of advanced hair products that haven't been released to the general public because they would give ordinary mortals too much power."
Before Bella could figure out how to respond to Jessica's increasingly scientific analysis of Edward's potentially supernatural hair situation, Coach Clapp's voice boomed across the locker room like the sound of impending doom mixed with resigned disappointment and possibly a migraine that had achieved sentience.
"Ladies! Let's move it along! I don't have all day to wait for you to finish discussing whatever teenage drama is currently consuming your collective brain cells and probably lowering the national average for productive thought!" His voice carried the particular tone of someone who'd given up on humanity but was contractually obligated to pretend otherwise. "Time to separate the athletes from the... well, from most of you, because let's be honest, the statistical probability of finding actual athletic ability in this group is roughly equivalent to finding unicorns or reasonably priced college textbooks!"
Coach Clapp appeared in the doorway like a manifestation of athletic authority and barely contained frustration, clipboard in hand, wearing the expression of someone who'd dedicated his life to physical education and was beginning to question all of his life choices, possibly including the decision to wake up that morning.
He looked like he'd rather be literally anywhere else—possibly including a dentist's chair, a tax audit, or a meeting about quarterly budget reports conducted entirely in ancient Latin—but was committed to the noble cause of forcing teenagers to engage in athletic activities against their will, biological programming, and basic survival instincts.
His whistle hung around his neck like a talisman against teenage chaos, and his gym shorts were the kind of aggressively practical garment that suggested he'd given up on fashion sometime during the Clinton administration and never looked back, possibly because fashion had personally wronged him at some point.
"Come on, Swan! Stanley! Unless you're planning to compete in professional locker-sitting or advanced friendship analysis, I suggest you get moving! The gymnasium awaits your presence, and by 'awaits,' I mean 'is resigned to enduring whatever athletic disasters you're about to unleash upon it like some kind of coordinated assault on the basic principles of sports!'"
Jessica grabbed Bella's arm, hauling her toward the gymnasium with the efficiency of someone who'd had plenty of practice navigating Coach Clapp's particular brand of motivational speaking, which seemed to consist primarily of resigned sarcasm, barely contained despair, and possibly some kind of advanced therapy technique designed to prepare teenagers for the harsh realities of adult disappointment.
"Come on, Bella," Jessica said cheerfully as they approached the gym doors with all the enthusiasm of soldiers marching toward certain doom. "Time to witness you accidentally redefine the laws of physics through the power of athletic incompetence. It's going to be like watching science fiction, except more embarrassing and with more potential for injury."
"That's not encouraging," Bella replied, trying to mentally prepare herself for whatever fresh humiliation awaited her in the gymnasium, which had probably been specifically designed to maximize the potential for public embarrassment.
"I'm not trying to be encouraging. I'm trying to be realistic, which I think we can all agree is more helpful in the long run. False hope never helped anyone, especially not in physical education."
The gymnasium was already filled with the usual pre-class chaos that reminded Bella of a poorly organized battle scene from a low-budget war movie directed by someone who'd never actually seen a war movie but had heard them described by someone who'd once read a book about military strategy. Students were scattered across the polished wood floor like casualties of some great athletic conflict, some stretching with the dedication of future Olympic athletes, others standing around looking like they were contemplating various escape routes or possibly the meaning of existence.
The familiar smell of rubber mats, teenage anxiety, industrial disinfectant, and what might have been the lingering scent of decades of athletic defeats hung in the air like an ominous cloud that had settled over the space with the permanence of something that had given up on ever leaving.
Bella spotted the badminton nets being set up and felt her stomach drop to somewhere around her knees, possibly relocating to an entirely different zip code out of self-preservation instinct.
Badminton was a sport that required hand-eye coordination, quick reflexes, the ability to track small projectiles flying through the air at speeds that defied rational explanation, and a basic understanding of how rackets were supposed to function as extensions of human limbs rather than as weapons of mass destruction or abstract art installations.
It also required not tripping over one's own feet while attempting to move in any direction, not accidentally hitting oneself in the face with the racket (a skill Bella had never mastered despite years of dedicated practice), not somehow managing to get tangled in the net like a particularly clumsy fish, and not launching the shuttlecock into alternate dimensions through the sheer force of athletic incompetence.
In other words, it required every athletic skill that Bella had never possessed and would likely never develop, despite Coach Clapp's increasingly creative attempts to help her achieve basic human coordination through what could generously be described as "character-building experiences" and less generously described as "public humiliation disguised as physical education with possible sadistic undertones."
"All right, people!" Coach Clapp's whistle cut through the noise like a weapon of mass destruction operated by someone who'd studied under drill sergeants and motivational speakers with anger management issues. "Badminton today! And before anyone asks—Newton, I'm looking at you specifically because I can see the question forming in your brain—no, it's not named after a small mammal, no, you can't just stand there looking confused and hope the shuttlecock develops its own navigation system and artificial intelligence, and Swan—"
He pointed directly at Bella with the precision of someone who'd had extensive practice identifying sources of impending chaos and possible insurance claims.
"—try not to injure anyone today, including yourself, any innocent bystanders who happen to be in the general vicinity, any spectators, the equipment, the building's structural integrity, or the fundamental laws of physics that govern how sports are supposed to work!"
The entire class turned to look at Bella with the kind of fascinated attention usually reserved for natural disasters or particularly spectacular car accidents. She felt her face turn approximately the same color as a fire engine that had been painted an even more aggressive shade of red for maximum visibility and possibly to warn people about impending danger.
She'd earned her reputation as the gym class liability through a series of increasingly spectacular accidents that had become the stuff of Forks High legend, passed down through generations of students like cautionary tales about the dangers of combining athletic equipment with gravitational forces, poor coordination, and what could only be described as a supernatural ability to defy the basic principles of cause and effect.
There was the volleyball incident that had resulted in a bloody nose (hers), a concussion (also hers), and somehow a dent in the gymnasium wall that maintenance was still trying to explain to the school board and possibly to structural engineers. There was the basketball incident that had somehow ended with her hanging from the rim like a particularly confused sloth, despite the fact that she was barely five-foot-four and possessed the upper body strength of a moderately athletic housecat.
And there was the track and field day that would go down in Forks High history as "The Day Physics Gave Up," which had culminated in Bella falling into the long jump pit while standing perfectly still, somehow achieving negative distance and raising questions about whether she'd accidentally discovered new laws of motion that defied several centuries of scientific understanding.
"How do you fall into a long jump pit while standing still?" Jessica had asked afterward, her voice filled with the kind of awe usually reserved for natural phenomena, impossible magic tricks, or the discovery of new forms of mathematics.
"I honestly don't know," Bella had replied, spitting sand out of her mouth and wondering if she'd somehow broken the space-time continuum through the sheer force of athletic incompetence. "I think I might have achieved a new level of coordination failure that hadn't been previously documented by science or possibly by any known form of human experience."
Now, approaching the equipment cart with the resignation of someone approaching their own execution or possibly a particularly unpleasant medical procedure, Bella scanned the available rackets like she was choosing a weapon for gladiatorial combat against opponents who actually understood how sports worked and possessed basic motor skills.
Most of the rackets looked like they'd been used as medieval torture devices, their strings frayed and their handles wrapped in tape that had seen better decades, possibly better centuries. Some of them appeared to have been chewed by wild animals or possibly used for purposes that had nothing to do with badminton and everything to do with creative destruction and poor life choices.
Bella selected one that seemed marginally less likely to spontaneously combust during use, testing its weight with the caution of someone handling unstable explosives or possibly cursed artifacts that might retaliate against improper usage.
The racket felt foreign in her hands, like a tool designed for an entirely different species that had evolved opposable thumbs, basic motor skills, and some kind of inherent understanding of how sporting equipment was supposed to function in three-dimensional space.
"Hey there, Bella!"
She turned to find Mike Newton approaching with his characteristic eager smile that belonged in a commercial for breakfast cereal or possibly a public service announcement about the importance of maintaining positive attitude in the face of certain athletic doom. His blonde hair was styled in what could generously be described as "intentionally messy" and less generously described as "electrocuted scarecrow attempting to achieve casual California surfer aesthetic despite living in the Pacific Northwest."
He moved with the easy confidence of someone who actually enjoyed physical activity and understood how his body was supposed to function in three-dimensional space, like he'd been born with an instruction manual for basic human coordination that everyone else had somehow missed.
Mike had the kind of wholesome, all-American good looks that belonged in cereal commercials, campaign posters for student body president, or possibly advertisements for healthy outdoor activities that normal teenagers were supposed to enjoy without questioning their life choices. His blue eyes held the eager enthusiasm of a golden retriever who'd just heard the word "walk," and his smile suggested he was genuinely happy to see her, despite her well-documented history of athletic disasters and her tendency to accidentally injure her gym class partners through the sheer force of gravitational misunderstanding.
"Want to be partners?" he asked, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet like he was already warming up for the inevitable athletic activity and possibly preparing himself mentally for whatever chaos was about to unfold. "I promise to duck if you accidentally launch the shuttlecock in my direction, and I'll try to maintain a safe distance when you're holding the racket, you know, for insurance purposes and basic self-preservation."
"That's not as reassuring as you probably think it is," Bella replied, though she appreciated his acknowledgment of her coordination issues and his apparent willingness to risk his personal safety for the sake of partnership and possibly friendship.
"I'm not trying to be reassuring. I'm trying to be prepared, which I think we can all agree is the more practical approach." Mike grinned with the kind of easy humor that suggested he'd given this situation serious thought and had developed what he considered to be a reasonable survival strategy. "Plus, I figure if I partner with you, Coach Clapp will be so focused on making sure you don't accidentally recreate the Hindenburg disaster or achieve some other historically significant level of destruction that he won't notice if I'm not putting in maximum effort."
"So I'm your camouflage for athletic mediocrity?"
"You're my camouflage for survival. Much more important. Plus, let's be honest, your athletic disasters are way more entertaining than anything I could accomplish through normal human incompetence."
Despite herself, Bella smiled. Mike's easy humor and genuine friendliness were exactly what she needed after Jessica's intense romantic analysis and her own spiraling thoughts about Edward's predatory intensity and possible supernatural nature.
They found an open court toward the back of the gymnasium, strategically distant from Coach Clapp's direct line of sight and hopefully outside the blast radius of whatever athletic disaster Bella was inevitably about to create. This was a strategic decision that Bella had perfected over years of gym class survival—the farther they were from authority figures, the less likely her inevitable accidents would become public spectacles suitable for documentation in school newspapers or possibly scientific journals dedicated to the study of coordination disorders.
Mike immediately began warming up with the kind of enthusiastic practice swings that suggested he not only understood how rackets were supposed to work but actually enjoyed using them for their intended purpose rather than as abstract instruments of chaos. He moved with fluid grace that made Bella feel like she was watching a nature documentary about a species she'd never belong to, possibly one that had evolved on a planet with different gravitational laws and more forgiving physics.
"So," Mike said as he bounced the shuttlecock experimentally on his racket, performing the kind of casual athletic maneuver that Bella could never accomplish even with intense concentration, divine intervention, and possibly a detailed instruction manual written by experts in the field, "I heard you and Edward Cullen are hanging out now."
The casual way he said it—like he was commenting on the weather rather than discussing the topic that had been dominating Bella's every waking thought and several of her dreams—immediately put her on high alert. There was something underneath his tone, a forced lightness that suggested this conversation had been planned rather than spontaneous.
"We're friends," she said carefully, taking a practice swing that sent her racket whistling through empty air with the efficiency of someone attempting to battle invisible opponents who were apparently very good at dodging and possibly trained in advanced evasive maneuvers.
"Just friends?" Mike's tone remained conversational, but Bella caught the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his practice bounces became more forceful, like he was working through some kind of internal frustration that he was trying very hard to keep under control. "Because it looked like more than friendship when I saw you two outside the gym earlier. Like, significantly more than friendship. Like, possibly approaching levels of romantic interaction that might require some kind of rating system."
Bella managed to connect with the shuttlecock on her next practice attempt, though "connect" was perhaps too generous a term for what happened when her racket made contact with the small projectile. The shuttlecock went spinning wildly off course, flying in a direction that defied several laws of physics and possibly a few international treaties governing the behavior of sporting equipment in civilized society.
The projectile ricocheted off the wall, bounced off a basketball hoop, achieved temporary flight that suggested it had developed some kind of anti-gravity properties, and finally came to rest in the hair of a girl from her biology class who was playing on a court approximately thirty feet away.
"I'm not even going to ask how you managed that," Mike said, staring at the impossible trajectory the shuttlecock had taken with the kind of awe usually reserved for natural phenomena, impossible magic tricks, or the discovery of new forms of physics that challenged everything scientists thought they knew about the universe. "That violates at least three laws of physics, basic principles of cause and effect, and possibly the fundamental nature of reality itself."
"It's a gift," Bella said weakly, watching as the girl extracted the shuttlecock from her hair with the patience of someone accustomed to having sports equipment mysteriously appear in unexpected places, possibly because this kind of thing happened regularly at Forks High.
"It's something," Mike agreed, carefully retrieving a new shuttlecock from the container while staying outside the radius of Bella's apparent ability to bend the laws of physics through athletic incompetence. "I'm not sure what to call it, but it's definitely something that probably deserves scientific study."
"It's complicated," Bella said, belatedly answering his Edward question while attempting to figure out how to hold her racket in a way that might result in the shuttlecock going in approximately the direction she intended rather than achieving independent flight or possibly gaining sentience.
"Complicated how?" Mike asked, serving the shuttlecock with a gentle underhand motion that suggested he'd learned to adapt his playing style to accommodate partners who existed in a state of constant warfare with basic motor skills. "Because from where I was standing, it looked pretty straightforward. Guy likes girl, guy touches girl's face like she's made of spun glass and might shatter if he applies too much pressure, guy walks away looking like he's already planning their future together and possibly their children's college funds."
"Mike." Bella's voice carried a warning note, though she wasn't entirely sure what she was warning him against. Possibly against continuing this conversation, possibly against the way his observations were hitting uncomfortably close to truths she wasn't ready to examine, or possibly against standing too close to her while she was holding a racket and therefore posing a significant safety hazard.
"I'm just saying," Mike continued, serving the shuttlecock with enough force to suggest he was working through some frustration but not enough force to completely overwhelm Bella's already challenged athletic abilities, "maybe you should be careful about Edward Cullen. There's something... off about him."
"Off how?" Bella asked, though she was pretty sure she didn't want to hear Mike's answer, especially if it involved observations that might be more accurate than she was comfortable with. She attempted to return his serve and managed to make contact, though the shuttlecock's resulting trajectory suggested she'd been aiming for a target in an entirely different gymnasium, possibly in a different time zone or alternate dimension.
The shuttlecock sailed over Mike's head, over the net, over the adjacent court, and somehow managed to land in the water fountain with a small splash that suggested it had achieved a level of precision that Bella had never intended and probably couldn't replicate if she tried for the rest of her natural life.
"Okay, that one was actually impressive," Mike said, staring at the water fountain where the shuttlecock was now floating like a small, defeated bird that had given up on flight and decided to take up swimming instead. "I mean, the odds of accidentally achieving that exact trajectory are probably astronomical. You should consider a career in... I don't know, reverse engineering or chaos theory. Maybe quantum physics, since you seem to have some kind of natural understanding of how to violate basic scientific principles."
"I'll add that to my list of backup career options," Bella said, wondering if she should retrieve the shuttlecock or just pretend it had never existed and hope that no one would notice.
Mike jogged over to the water fountain and fished out the soggy shuttlecock, shaking it off with the resignation of someone who'd learned to adapt to unexpected circumstances and possibly to accept that his gym class experience was going to involve more improvisation than he'd originally planned.
"I don't know exactly," he said, returning to their court and answering her earlier question while attempting to restore the shuttlecock to some semblance of its original form. "He's just... intense. The way he looks at you, the way he watches you when he thinks no one is paying attention. It's not normal, Bella."
He served again, this time with a nice, easy lob that should have been simple for anyone with basic hand-eye coordination and a functional understanding of how rackets were supposed to work. Bella swung her racket in what she hoped was the general direction of the approaching shuttlecock, but somehow managed to miss it entirely while simultaneously spinning herself around in a complete circle and nearly falling over in the process.
The shuttlecock landed gently on the ground behind her, as if the universe was mocking her attempt at athletic participation and possibly suggesting that she should consider taking up activities that involved less coordination and more sitting.
"That's ridiculous," Bella said, though even as the words left her mouth, she couldn't help remembering Edward's confession that he thought about her constantly, that she occupied his thoughts in ways that probably weren't healthy for either of them and possibly violated several psychological principles regarding normal human relationships.
"Is it?" Mike asked, retrieving the shuttlecock with movements that suggested he was trying very hard to be patient and possibly questioning his life choices. "Bella, the way that guy looks at you... it's not how normal people look at someone they like. It's hungry. Like you're something he wants to—" he paused, searching for the right word while Bella attempted to untangle herself from her own racket, which had somehow become wrapped around her wrist in a way that defied basic physics, "—consume."
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!