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123Creative Works Creative Writing Beau Swan Tries His Best (Twilight/Life and Death: Twilight Reimagined SI) Thread starterJurassicCore Start dateMay 11, 2025 Tags twilight (book series) drama humor romance supernatural (genre)CreatedMay 11, 2025StatusOngoingWatchers1,154Recent readers1,348Threadmarks131Dropped into the Life and Death: Twilight Reimagined universe, Beaufort Swan has a spotty recollection of the canon and no intention of getting murdered by vampires. He just wants to vibe, plagiarize the next two decades of music, and maybe flirt with girls. The plot has other plans.Last edited: May 15, 2025Threadmarks Sidestory InformationalStatistics (10 threadmarks, 31k words)ThreadmarksHide awards Reader mode RSS 1: Beau Swan Is Okay With The Pacific NorthwestWords 2.3kMay 11, 20252: Beau Swan & The Wonders Of The Early AughtsWords 1.6kMay 13, 20253: Beau Swan & The Horrors of Public EducationWords 4.2kMay 16, 20254: Beau Swan's Undead Bisexual Soulmate Is Legally Entitled To A Handicap Parking Spot1Words 3.7kMay 18, 20255: Edythe Cullen Prevents Twenty Murders, And Possibly Causes Three Thousand MoreWords 5.4kMay 19, 20256: Beau Swan Has A Completely Normal And Non Life Threatening Shopping ExperienceWords 2.4kMay 22, 20257: Beau Swan Loves His Parents Very, Very MuchWords 3kMay 22, 2025New8: Beau Swan Touches GrassWords 4kWednesday at 4:19 AMNew9: Edythe Cullen Stalks A Seventeen Year-OldWords 3.3kYesterday at 1:46 PMNew10: Beau Swan Does A Little TrollingWords 510Yesterday at 6:26 PMJump to newIgnoreWatchThread toolsThreadmarksSidestoryInformationalView content Remove this ad spaceThreadmarks 1: Beau Swan Is Okay With The Pacific Northwest View contentJurassicCoreNCAA D1 Hater/Creator of Peak FictionMay 11, 2025Add bookmark#11
Beau Swan Is Okay With The Pacific Northwest
I once heard someone say that Scott Pilgrim vs. The World had ruined a whole generation of women.
Now, aside from how bananas insulting that statement is, I do think it's worth unpacking a little. Because... what about the dudes? How many guys modeled their entire personalities off that movie? How many girls had to suffer through the "Ha ha, you're not my girlfriend" phase? How many relationships had to endure the whole "I'm just a kid with an instrument and trauma" arc? Or worse, the "I'm the protagonist of reality" thing?
But that line stuck with me—not because it was accurate, but because I got it. It's the same reason people dunk on Holden Caulfield, or idolize BoJack Horseman, or even write Medium articles about how Chandler Bing single-handedly broke masculinity. We all need someone to blame for how we turned out. And if that someone happens to be fictional, all the better.
And I can say this with authority, because I'm describing me. I'm one of those dudes who got ruined by Scott Pilgrim. Black jeans. Graphic tees. A flip phone held together with duct tape. A carefully cultivated persona of detached sarcasm masking a startling inability to reach out and connect to other people. The works.
I bring this up not because it's relevant, per se, but because it's what I was thinking about when I stepped into a diner and realized I'd officially entered the first act of a coming-of-age indie movie. You know the one. The part where the protagonist hits emotional rock bottom and ends up back in their hometown. There's always rain. Always a diner. And always some ominous acoustic guitar in the background that sounds like it was written by a guy who got dumped once and never recovered.
The diner wasn't bad.
That was my first real thought, post-Scott Pilgrim tangent. It was clean and quiet and smelled like old fryer oil and slightly burnt coffee—the aroma of choice for all diners north of the Mason-Dixon, apparently. It had pinewood paneling, faded Coca-Cola signs, and a cracked jukebox that had definitely seen at least one divorce.
The waitress knew my dad by name. He didn't know hers. That was probably a metaphor, or something. I was too jet lagged—dimension lagged?—to figure out what.
Charlie—Dad now, I guess, 'cause who calls their parents by their first names?—ordered the burger special. I copied him, out of politeness or instinct or maybe just inertia. I'd only been consciously inhabiting this body for, what, six hours? Eight? Felt rude to assert independent thought too early. Though, that didn't stop me from frowning and picking out the onions and pickles. Because no matter the time or reality, I would never lower myself to eating pickles.
The menu had, presumably, not changed since the 90s. The music hadn't, either. "Come as You Are" was playing from the tinny jukebox, and I drummed my fingers to the beat even as I chewed on my fries. Outside, the world was overcast and grey and damp with rain. Inside, my Dad was dissecting a sugar packet with more intensity than I'd ever seen a man dedicate to a carbohydrate.
He hadn't said much. I hadn't either. And I didn't mind, to be honest.
He was a quiet guy. Not in that stoic, old-country, don't-mess-with-my-town sheriff way people pretend is admirable. More like... he never quite figured out how to be much of a person around other people, so he eventually gave up on trying. Gently, over time. Like erosion.
So he was one of my people. Just a fellow introvert, trying to make his way through life without drawing too much aggro. He's just older. Slightly broader. Roughly 60% more mustache.
I think I quite like him.
We sat there in silence for a while, Dad staring out the window with his hands folded. I was still on pickle extraction duty.
The music changed. The jukebox was now playing "Smells Like Teen Spirit." Someone clearly decided that a Pacific Northwest diner legally required Nirvana on loop, so they'd loaded Nevermind into the jukebox and called it a day. Kurt Cobain must be rolling in his grave. Perhaps even breakdancing.
After a few more minutes of awkwardness and silence, he decided to be the one to bite the bullet and cross the proverbial minefield that was human interaction. "So," Dad began, as if he had to load, cock, and aim the sentence. "Excited to start school?"
"Honestly... kinda, yeah," I said, and caught his brows shooting up. "I don't know how to put it, but... I've just got a good feeling about it."
Dad looked at me over the rim of his mug, pretty obviously surprised. Surprised, but not skeptical. More like... relieved. He cleared his throat. "Well... that's good. I, uh... you're taking it better than I thought." Then he blinked. "...Not that I thought you'd sulk. Just. Y'know. The rain. And all."
Charlie Swan, ladies and gentlemen. The man of eloquence and charisma. He could make a nun swear.
I chuckled and waved him off. "Nah, I get what you mean," I said, glancing out the window. "Place looks like Twin Peaks. Most people would sulk with this kind of vista."
Dad let out something between a grunt and a chuckle—a sound like gravel getting nostalgic. "Yeah. Except less murder, I'd hope."
I couldn't help but smile at that. I'd only ever watched about three of episodes of Twin Peaks, but... "Diane," I said, bringing my thumb up to my lips as if to speak into an invisible tape recorder, "It's January seventeenth, ten-twenty AM. I can't help but wonder if Chief Swan is being literal. Forks. Population: twenty people and one dog. Last known homicide: The Cleveland administration. Further investigations are needed. End recording."
That got a real laugh out of him. Like, an actual chuckle, not just a nose-exhale. It was sudden and uncharacteristic enough that the waitress, a blonde woman in her forties, shot us a look over her shoulder. He ducked his head, smiling in that awkward dad way. I smiled back. And then we were silent again, because neither of us knew how to keep the conversation going.
The jukebox was playing "All Apologies." I tapped my fingers to the beat. Dad took a sip of his coffee. I smiled again, just a bit, just for myself. I think I like this place, all of a sudden.
This was, I decided, a good beginning.
We left the diner a few minutes later. The rain had lightened into a mist, more drizzle than downpour—just enough to blur the edges of the pine trees lining the street like smudged charcoal. Dad's police cruiser still had that old-car smell: vinyl, engine grease, and something faintly sweet, like spilled gas station candy. The inside was quiet, except for the creak of the seats and the soft clink of Dad's keyring as he started the engine.
We hadn't even pulled out of the lot when he said, completely casually, like he was commenting on the weather: "I forgot to mention earlier—I got a car for you. Got it cheap, too."
I stopped and blinked at that. "Oh shit, dead-ass?"
Dad also paused, seemingly taken aback by my sudden use of profanity. Whoops. I guess I let a bit too much New York slip out there.
I half expected a quick reprimand of "Language," but he just nodded, mustache twitching slightly. "Uh... Yeah. It's back at the house. It used to belong to Bonnie Black. You remember her?"
Bonnie Black… The name pinged something in the back of my head. Black. Jacob Black? That was a name I vaguely remembered from the book and the Team Edward vs Team Jacob stuff way back when, I think. My other memories filled in the blanks—sort of. It was enough that I kinda recalled a heavyset woman with a wrinkled face.
"Rings a bell," I finally said. "Remind me again?"
"She's from La Push. She and her husband used to fish with us in the summers."
Ah. That explains it. I—well, the old Beau part of me—must not have held those memories in high regard, I suppose. "Oh, gotcha... Used to belong to her?"
"She's in a wheelchair now," Dad said, dispelling my first few morbid thoughts. "So, it was just sitting in their yard gathering rust, and she wanted to sell it. Figured it'd be good for getting around."
I hummed an affirmative at that, but couldn't help the sudden feeling of... I don't know. Longing? Loss? Damn. I never thought I'd become the kind of guy who gets attached to a car, but I was suddenly feeling the loss of my Subaru. I'd just finished paying it off, too. It'd taken me from one end of the country to the other, twice.
Damn. I'm mourning a car. My car.
Dad seemed to sense the shift in my mood. He glanced over at me, brow furrowed. "...You okay, son?"
I waved him off, trying to fight away my frown. "Yeah, no, I'm good. Just got lost in thought." That was true, at least. I was just lost in thought about another life entirely. I glanced away, out the window, staring out at the ocean of pine trees and moss-covered ditches. "Um... What kind of car is it?" I asked after a moment, trying to get back into the flow of the conversation.
"Truck, actually. A Chevy."
"Ooh, a truck. I'm moving up in the world," I said, and Dad snorted in amusement. Though, internally, I was hoping I wasn't about to start driving around in some jackass redneck-looking pickup. There was only so much country I was willing to accept.
Dad didn't say anything else on the way home, and neither did I. We just sat there, listening to the sound of the engine and the rain pattering on the roof. After a while, I started to recognize the route we were taking. It was nostalgic to both sets of memories—some odd childhood months spent here in Washington, and several years of traveling through upstate New York, which has nothing in common with this place except for the color green.
I was still mulling it over when Dad pulled us into the driveway of his small, two-story house. And as promised, there was a truck waiting there.
I got out to inspect it more up-close, and immediately had to blink in shock. I wasn't expecting to see a vintage Chevy. It was a faded red—rusty in some spots, sure, but still unmistakably a classic. It had a sturdy bed, wide tires, and a long front end with a grill and headlights that reminded me of an old man's face. The cab was tiny as all hell, but that made it seem more compact. Charming, in a way.
Dad came up beside me, hands in his pockets, looking both proud of himself and embarrassed to be showing that much emotion. "Well? What do you think?"
I let my fingers trail across the hood. The metal was cold, damp, slightly rough under my fingers. It felt... good. Solid. Real. "It's... nice," I finally said. "I like it. It's... it's really nice. Thank you."
"You're welcome, son." He shrugged and smiled away from me, because God forbid either of us show the other a genuine human emotion.
The house itself was, in a word, quaint.
It was a small two-story house with wood siding and a low porch in the front, the kind you'd expect to see on the cover of some realtor's magazine. It had that aged, lived-in look, with its slightly sagging roof and the faded paint on the siding. It was a little run-down, sure, but that just made it look rustic. Rustic in that upstate kind of way. Not in a redneck sort of way, thank God.
And though my heart belongs to the cramped, aggressive hustle and bustle of Jackson Heights, there was something about this place that put me at ease.
I could already picture myself wearing flannel shirts and shit, hanging up string light bulbs outdoors, listening to Mumford & Sons, drinking beers with friends in the summer by the porch, maybe going hiking or hunting or whatever corny shit people do for fun in the sticks.
Not that I'd likely ever do anything that outdoorsy, of course. But the point is I could imagine it. That's the important thing.
The interior, too, was cozy. It had that old, well-lived-in feel that only comes from years of use. The hardwood floors were slightly warped, and the walls were covered in a mix of wallpaper and paint.
The furniture was worn and mismatched, but in a way that made it look lived in rather than neglected. The kitchen was small but functional, with a fridge that was probably the first one ever made. The living room had a big, comfy couch and a decent-sized TV. The dining table was a bit wobbly, but that just added to its charm.
There were pictures all around—family photos, mostly, and not many of them. They showed my dad and mom when they were younger, and a couple of me as a kid, and a few of some fishing trips that Dad had been on with his friends.
It felt homey. It felt nice. For the life of me, I can't fathom why I—and by extension, Bella—hated this place.Last edited: May 12, 2025Like Award Reply353JurassicCoreMay 11, 2025Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks 2: Beau Swan & The Wonders Of The Early Aughts View contentJurassicCoreNCAA D1 Hater/Creator of Peak FictionMay 13, 2025Add bookmark#102
Beau Swan & The Wonders Of The Early Aughts
I went up to my room and dropped my bags on the floor. I stood there for a moment, soaking it all in.
My room was quaint, too. That was the only word I had for anything since landing in Port Angeles. Quaint and charming. It was like a tiny, cozy cabin in the woods. The walls were a faded blue, the kind that's almost gray. There was a small bed in the corner with a plain, old quilt on top of it. A tiny nightstand with an old, dusty lamp. An oak dresser, a closet, a window that overlooked the street… and a desk. A real one. Old. Solid. And sitting right on it…
"Holy fucking shit," I breathed. "No shot!"
On the desk stood a computer. A once-white computer, which had turned a mottled yellow color from age and cigarette smoke, with a fat-ass CRT monitor and a beige mouse. And the tower! Jesus, the tower! The thing was blocky and white and plastic, and it had both a CD drive and an honest-to-God floppy disk slot.
My duffel bags were forgotten on the floor. I was a man possessed, because I suddenly realized I was in the presence of a goddamn dinosaur—A holy relic from the lost ages of mankind's technology.
I sat in the wooden chair and scooted it closer. The mouse was clunky and plastic, the buttons hard to click, the wheel hard to spin. I ran a finger over the keyboard, feeling the clack of the keys beneath my fingertips. The computer whirred to life with a sound like a jet engine, the screen lighting up with a soft, blue glow, and I got punched in the face by that nostalgic-ass jingle that's etched into every millennial's brain. And for a second, I could smell Fruit Gushers and hear Cartoon Network in the next room.
I was greeted with the sight of a Windows XP desktop. It even had the classic Windows wallpaper—the one with the big, green hill in a blue sky. And it had a single, solitary internet browser—Explorer. Internet motherfucking Explorer 6.
And it had Solitaire. And I opened Solitaire, and played a game of Solitaire, and I lost, and I felt like a winner.
I spent the next few hours just dicking around. I played Solitaire. Then Hearts. Then Minesweeper. And then I got bored and played them all again, because what else was I gonna do—go outside? Then I listened to that terrible and sacred screeching as the dial-up modem fired up, and browsed the internet.
The 2005 Internet was a wasteland. A desert of broken websites and bad design decisions. I downloaded Firefox as fast as I could because I'm not an animal. I spent fifteen minutes on a Naruto fansite that autoplayed Linkin Park and locked up the browser every time I tried to click on Sasuke's bio. I tried going to YouTube. Nothing. I typed in "Reddit." Site didn't exist. Twitter was still a gleam in a tech bro's eye, so I didn't even bother with that one.
I ended up on YTMND, watching a Flash animation of a badger dance while techno blared in mono. Peak 2005.
It was slow as hell, prone to crashing, and somehow still beautiful. I felt like a time traveler, exploring the preserved cities of a long lost civilization. And I felt like a mad scientist, too, because every time the computer made a weird noise or crashed I knew exactly how to figure out what was wrong with it. I was in love.
Dad was a saint and let me do my thing for a few hours. He only knocked on the door when it was time for dinner.
We had meatloaf and mashed potatoes. It was a microwaved TV dinner, naturally, but it still looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Dad didn't say a lot during the meal, just ate in silence and watched the game on TV—Bulls at Knicks. The Knicks lost, of course. And… Ugh, fuck me, it's gonna be literally 20 years before they become good again. That realization stung worse than the meatloaf was satisfying. Still, though, Dad was clearly in a good mood. And so was I, for that matter. I was in such a good mood, I even made an attempt at small talk.
"Who's your team?" I asked, gesturing to the screen. "Haven't seen you watch a game in a while."
"Seattle Supersonics," he said, looking at me like I'd just asked him what two plus two was.
...What? Wait, what? The Supersonics? They still existed even in '05? Wow, holy shit! I wondered; Had the Cavs drafted LeBron yet? Was Jordan still un-retired? Oh man, had Yao Ming gone to Houston yet? Time was soup.
"That's cool," I said, trying not to sound like I'd just learned gravity existed. "How're they looking for the playoffs?"
"Good, I think. They might make it to the finals this year. Ray Allen's having a great season so far."
"Ray Allen," I echoed, like I hadn't watched his entire Hall of Fame career already. "Yeah. He's good."
"Yep." He took a bite of meatloaf and chewed for a minute, his expression thoughtful. "You know... I was thinking. Maybe, uh… maybe you and I could go see a game sometime."
My fork paused halfway to my mouth.
It wasn't much. Just a quiet offer to see a Supersonics game. But for a guy like Dad? That was basically a love confession. I nodded before I could overthink it.
"Yeah," I said. "I'd like that."
I didn't know if we'd actually go. Or even when. But, still, he'd asked. One small step for man, one massive, emotionally taxing leap for introvert-kind.
After dinner, I washed the dishes, because I'm not going back to the days of being an asshole who never lifts a finger around the house. I made a half-hearted offer to help with anything else, knowing full well that Charlie—Dad—being Dad, would just grunt and wave me off. Which he did.
"Night," he said.
"Night."
So back upstairs I went. The rain had picked up again outside—steady, not dramatic. Just enough to make the window rattle a little, like it was humming along to the house's silence. I closed my door behind me, exhaled, and leaned against it for a second. Then I turned back toward the CRT altar that awaited.
I spent another hour or so doing nothing and everything. I tried to look up a forum I used to haunt back in 2007, just to see what it looked like in its primordial form. The homepage loaded like a JPEG falling down a staircase. I laughed out loud.
"Jesus Christ. We really let this pass as acceptable design."
It was all so hideous and beautiful. Ancient DeviantArt pages. GeoCities horror. MySpace. Fucking MySpace! It was such a weird feeling. Nostalgic. Like coming home to a place you thought was gone forever, only to find that it was literally exactly as you remembered.
It was fun while it lasted. I kept surfing until a yawn reminded me it was getting late. 10:28. School started at 8, so I should be there by 7:30 to make sure I'm all settled in. That meant... Eh. Wake up at 6:30 to do everything I gotta do.
So, with great reluctance, I decided to shut the thing down. I brushed my teeth. Turned off the lamp. Spent some time trying to figure out how to work the alarm clock. Crawled under the old quilt. Stared at the ceiling for a while, listening to the rain.
...I had a good feeling about this. Two sets of memories—neither of them fully mine, but both of them me, somehow.
Goodbye, Phoenix. See you later, New York.
Maybe I could build something new out of the pieces. Reinvent myself, not as who I was, or who I might've been, but as whoever I chose to be now. Someone better. Calmer. More patient. The kind of person who actually appreciates small towns and baseball and second chances.
Maybe I'd be the kind of guy who goes to the batting cages. Buys cleats. Befriends Washingtonians. Tries to meet someone—preferably of the not-undead kind—and takes a chance on them. Gets his heart broken, but learns to get over it. Maybe I'd get a dog. A big, dopey, yellow dog who rides shotgun on weekend drives along the coast and looks good in a bandana.
Choose life, and all that Mark Renton jazz.
And hey—school? That part, I had down. I had two dudes' worth of education stuffed into my skull. I could sleepwalk through the whole thing and still pull a B.
Choose life. Choose to avoid the magical shit. Choose to not be a moron.
Amen to that.
Solve for x:
If tan(θ) = 3/4 and θ = angle in a right triangle, what's the length of the opposite side if the adjacent side is 8?
I read the problem on the worksheet again. Then again. Then one more time for good measure. My brain, in a moment of sheer panic, conjured up a memory of a half-naked woman riding a bicycle, because apparently that's what it did when it was confused. No context. Just thighs, chrome, and confusion.
It's third period. I'm in Trig class. I've just realized that I'm completely cooked.Like Award Reply364JurassicCoreMay 13, 2025Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks 3: Beau Swan & The Horrors of Public Education New View contentJurassicCoreNCAA D1 Hater/Creator of Peak FictionMay 16, 2025NewAdd bookmark#363
Beau Swan & The Horrors Of Public Education
Funny question: When's the last time you woke up to an alarm clock? No, not your phone's alarm. Not some vibey playlist or whatever cringey chime TikTokers use. I mean an actual, honest-to-God alarm clock. You know, the kind you had to set yourself. The kind with numbers that glowed an angry red in the dark?
Don't remember? Crazy, neither do I.
So when my alarm—my actual alarm—blasted to life, I was still in a half-awake fog of exhaustion and irritation. I'd spent the last... forever waking up to Foo Fighters and shit, so the steady beep-beep-beep caught me so off guard I jumped off my bed and was about to start folding my sheets into hospital corners until I remembered where I was. I smacked the thing into silence. It was still dark outside, which made sense, given that it was 6:30, January, and Washington. The rain hadn't let up all night, and it was still going, drumming against my windows like an army of tiny, tiny soldiers trying to stage a siege.
So I brushed my teeth to the sound of running water. I'd have liked to listen to some music or a podcast while I did it, but that wasn't in the cards. There was no stereo in the bathroom, or bluetooth speakers, or anything. Just me and the water and the kind of silence that makes you start hearing your own thoughts too loudly.
After that, I went back to my room to finish getting dressed. Just pull on a pair of jeans, a plain white tee, a light hoodie. The works. I put on my sneakers—Reeboks, gross—then threw a jacket over it all.
Dad was already awake when I made my way downstairs. He was in the kitchen, drinking coffee and staring blankly at the TV, where the weatherman was giving the forecast: Cloudy with a chance of more clouds. Big surprise there. He looked over at me and gave a nod.
"Mornin'."
"Morning."
"Breakfast?" He gestured to the stove, where he'd set out a bowl of instant oatmeal.
I glanced at it, and then at the TV. 6:40. I could spare a few minutes.
"Yeah. Mucho thank you," I said, grabbing a spoon. I sat across from him at the table, eating my oatmeal. I took a sip of the coffee and immediately decided that I hated it, hated him for making it, hated myself for drinking it, hated the world for allowing it to exist, and that I would do whatever I had to do to get some goddamn Café Bustelo in this household.
"Sleep well?" He asked. His voice was gruff, but in an almost endearing way.
"Yeah. Bed's good."
He nodded, satisfied. There was a long, pregnant pause. He cleared his throat. "So... uh. First day at school. You ready?"
I nodded. "Yeah. I'm chi—I'm good. Gonna go in there and kill it. You know me."
He chuckled. "Well... I know you don't like making waves, so..."
"Hey. I'm a changed man," I said, grinning at him. "You'll see. I'm gonna come home with, like, twenty girls hanging off my arms and a full-ride to play quarterback at... LSU, or something. Vanderbilt? Whatever."
"You know how to throw a football?"
"...I'll, uh, figure something out."
We both laughed at that, and having fulfilled our quota for human interaction for the next 24 hours, we fell into silence again.
After a few more minutes of quiet breakfast, Dad looked at his watch and said, "Well. You'd better get going."
I nodded and stood up. I rinsed my bowl in the sink and grabbed my backpack off the counter. I double checked that I had everything I needed—notebook, pens, pencils, paper, etc.—then headed out the door. Dad followed me to the porch, watching as I made my way to my truck and hopped in. The rain was coming down a bit harder than earlier, and I could see it beading on the windshield. I turned the key, and the engine roared to life like a smoker clearing his throat through a kazoo, but hey, it started.
I pressed down on the brake and put the car in drive.
And paused.
I then put it back into park, turning off the ignition. I stepped out of the truck and I walked back toward the porch, where Dad stared back at me, confused.
"Everything alright?" he asked.
No. Everything was not alright. I'd driven hundreds of times before, but when I tried to think about how to get to school, my instincts bailed on me completely. I stood there, brain blank, waiting for... something. Directions. A shortcut. A route to just appear in my head.
My first thought was, "Ah, I'll just pull up directions."
Pull them up… on what?
I had no GPS. No map. No plan. Just me, a truck, and a rapidly evaporating sense of direction.
"…How do I get to school?"
He handed me a folded-up physical map. Like a caveman.
"It's just down the road," Dad said. "Take a left at the stop sign, go straight about a mile, you'll see the parking lot on your right."
I nodded like that meant anything to me. I was still stuck on the map. What was I supposed to do with this shit? Divine my location by sun angle and moss growth?
Still, it was only about a mile. No need to lose my head over this. My truck, I noticed, didn't even have a CD player. It had a tape deck. This was simultaneously cute and also completely cursed. Thankfully, either Dad or Bonnie Black had left a few cassette tapes behind, and I was in the mood for a history lesson.
So here's how the drive went: I tried putting a cassette in the player, got it stuck in there, tried taking it out, realized that the eject button was broken, realized that I had to push the cassette in and then pull it out to get it to work. Did that a bunch of times. Ended up listening to Queen's Greatest Hits, which was actually pretty awesome.
The actual driving part itself was surreal. You see, I remembered driving in Manhattan. Manhattan, New York, the city where lanes are a polite suggestion. If you can drive there, you can drive anywhere. I remembered navigating rush hour traffic that looked like Dante wrote it during a nervous breakdown. I remembered getting stuck behind a Hasidic wedding parade in Williamsburg while two guys had a screaming match in front of my hood. I even remembered parallel parking in spaces so tight the fire department had to get involved to pull me out.
The key word, of course, being remembered.
I didn't do any of that. Not really. That was the other guy. One of the ones I used to be. But the memory was still there, like a movie I'd watched too many times—sharp, stressful, and embedded deep enough that they made my hands tense on the wheel.
So yeah. The point is that I felt like a New York driver. Which is to say that I was an asshole. The kind of guy who floors it through yellow lights, swerves around slowpokes, and treats the concept of "no U-turn" as more of a dare than a rule.
But here in Forks, it was different. People were driving like they had nowhere to be, ever. They were going five below the limit. They were pausing to let me merge in. They were using their turn signals correctly. The roads weren't warzones. They were just... roads. Like, peaceful ones.
I didn't know how to process this. Was I in heaven? In hell? An episode of Black Mirror? What was this place, and how did they drive like this? How was the world not falling apart? How did they live without the sweet release of road rage?
It was terrifying. And also kind of... Nice.
I got to school in one piece and parked in the lot, just as the rain finally let up. The place was pretty huge. Far bigger than any school I'd seen back in Queens or Phoenix. It was a campus instead of a single building, and it was even big enough that it had a football field around the back.
I made it to the front office without getting lost or accidentally setting anything on fire. Small wins.
The man behind the desk—a friendly smile, thinning hair, and the kind of round face that made him look like he gave pretty decent advice—welcomed me with a lot of enthusiasm.
"Ah, the Chief's boy!" he said. "Let's get you set up."
I walked out of there with a map, a schedule, and a stack of signature slips—likely to make sure I wasn't ditching like a total scumbag. And also two separate uses of the name "Beaufort."
Which reminded me: I really had to kill that name situation.
My first class was English, which sounded pretty promising—I was an absolute dog at reading comprehension and essay writing, so I had no doubt I was going to smoke this. Easy clap. It's in the bag.
Little trouble, though: The moment I walked in and handed it my slip, everyone, including the teacher—Ms. Mason—stared at me. Very unsubtly. Even as I walked to my seat at the back of the room, I could feel their eyes boring into my skin like I was an escaped circus animal. It was both flattering and also awkward as hell.
I mean, sure, Forks was a small town. But was I really the first new kid they'd seen? Ever? Did they have a town-wide curfew or something?
...Oh. Right. Maybe it had to do with the part where I was the police chief's son. Guess that makes me both a minor celebrity and also, potentially, the most dangerous narc in a 10-mile radius.
I offered a nod to nobody in particular and sat down, trying not to trip over my own dignity. It's fine. Normal. Everyone loves watching the new guy. That's definitely not a recurring nightmare I've had since childhood or anything.
English was focused on "the classics," which meant a steady rotation of dead people: Shakespeare, Poe, the Brontës, Hawthorne. I knew most of it already—I'd written essays on half the reading list.
And yet...
Some part of me lit up at the syllabus. Like, yes, finally, literature with weight. With nuance. With meaning. I remembered loving all this stuff. Like, really loving it. Annotating passages, writing heartfelt essays about tragic metaphors and narrative structure, and even getting a little emotional over Wuthering Heights.
But sitting here now, none of it sparked anything.
If anything, it all sounded kind of… exhausting. Dense and self-important—The literary equivalent of chewing dry leaves.
Somewhere in the back of my head, I knew I used to love this stuff. I knew exactly why I loved it. But I couldn't make myself feel that way anymore. I'd read enough of this stuff to pass. That didn't mean I wanted to spend another semester wading through slow, metaphor-laden misery just to pretend I cared about tragic rich people in corsets.
Thinking about it further, I realized that I was now more of a modern fiction guy. Weird sci-fi, grim fantasy, and magic systems that required flowcharts.
…But it's 2005. Sanderson wouldn't publish Mistborn 'til next year. Or Warbreaker until, like, 2012.
So what does that leave me with? Eragon? Harry Potter? Shit, I am so, so cooked.
I was so caught up in my little literary identity crisis that I flinched when the bell rang. Like, actually flinched. Real smooth, Beau, great start.
"You're Beaufort Swan, aren't you?"
I looked up and saw a girl leaning over the desk next to mine. She was skinny, maybe five-one, with sharp cheekbones, straight black hair cut just past her jaw, and this open, chipper energy that practically screamed "yearbook committee."
"Uh. Yeah. Beau," I said, reflexively correcting myself. It came out a little sharper than I meant. I forced a smile to soften the edge. "Shorter. Less syllables. Better for branding."
She laughed, and I allowed myself an internal fist-pump. "I'm Erica," she said, still smiling. "Where's your next class?"
"Uh..." My eyes flicked over to my schedule. "Government with Mr. Jefferson, apparently. Says here that's in building six."
"Oh. I'm going to building four, but I can show you the way there."
"Cool. Thanks."
Erica walked like she knew exactly where she was going—which, compared to me, might as well have made her Moses parting the Red Sea.
She made a couple of comments about the weather. I gave short answers. It wasn't that I didn't want to talk—I wanted to say more. I just hadn't figured out how to get from "awkward new kid" to "person who contributes to conversations" without tripping over the landing.
At one point she asked if Forks seemed really different from where I used to live.
"Yeah," I said. "A lot more trees, a lot more gray. Fewer... uh, tall things. It smells a bit nicer, though. Less like hot garbage."
Erica snorted again at that, and I felt a tiny spark of confidence. Okay, maybe I can be funny.
Before long, we reached the building. She stopped just outside the door.
"Jefferson's pretty relaxed," she said. "Just don't show up late and he won't hate you."
"That's reassuring," I said, voice a little too flat.
She smiled anyway. "Maybe we'll have more classes together?"
"Yeah. Maybe." I gave a quick wave. "Thanks for walking me."
"No problem." She gave me a little wave and peeled off toward her own class.
Government was just about as easy as English had been. I was starting to feel pretty good—confident, even.
Then came third period: Trig.
Short for Trigonometry. Also short for Triggered, because I walked into that room and immediately knew I was cooked. Satan's favorite flavor of mathematics. The math of triangles. The one with sine, cosine, tangent—all those friendly-sounding words that mean nothing and ruin lives.
Solve for x:
If tan(θ) = 3/4 and θ = angle in a right triangle, what's the length of the opposite side if the adjacent side is 8?
What the actual fuck.
Not only did I not understand what I was looking at—I was physically, mentally, spiritually, and probably legally incapable of understanding it. The words were English. The numbers were numbers. And yet the whole thing read like an encrypted death threat from the Zodiac Killer.
I was sweating. My pen was sweating. My pen and I were trauma-bonding. Around me, other pens scratched confidently against paper. Someone let out a tiny satisfied sigh. I wanted to put my forehead through my goddamn desk.
I knew I'd taken math classes. Remembered them, even. But all that knowledge just hovered there, useless and slippery. Like trying to juggle spaghetti with chopsticks.
Calm.
Breathe.
Think.
I've got two lives' worth of school in my head, right? That has to count for something. Somewhere in this jumbled mess of memories, one of those two assholes must surely have a sliver of useful math knowledge.
Beau from the future went to college, didn't he?
...Yes. Yes, I had. With YouTube, plenty of Chegg, and a very generous roommate named Kevin, who'd done my math homework for weed money. I'd then sworn a blood pact to never look at math problems ever again.
Fuck. What about Beau from the past? I was in class just last week! Wasn't I passing?
Barely. With C-minuses, pity points, and one extremely heartfelt extra credit essay about how math made me feel small and afraid.
I stared at the problem. The problem stared back. I took another breath. I was not going to lose it. I was not going to crash out on my first day over this. We ball.
I picked up my pen, thought for a second, and wrote down the number "12." Not because I had any form of confidence that it was right, but because it felt like a number that wouldn't scream "I gave up," without also saying "I'm cocky." It was humble—a working class number. Salt of the earth.
I moved on to the next question.
If sin(α) = a/b and a = 5, b= 4/3, what is α?
...Motherfucker.
I spent the rest of the class just staring blankly ahead, listening to the teacher drone on about inverse ratios and trying to make sense of it all. I understood maybe four words in the entire lecture. One of them was "the."
Eventually, third period ended. I packed up my notebook, the shreds of my dignity, and move on to fourth period. Spanish. That one went fine. By the time lunch rolled around, I was in desperate need of it. I was mad hungry, and I was really hoping it would help me forget about where on the doll the Trigonometry had touched me.
The food was fine. Miles better than the cafeteria mystery meat from New York and Phoenix, but still not exactly good, either. I had a sandwich with turkey and lettuce on wheat bread, an apple, and some chocolate pudding. Culinary excellence.
A dude whom I shared some classes with, Jeremy, walked with me the whole way, and invited me to sit with him and a few other friends of his. Jeremy had shaggy brown hair, a wired-to-be-nice kind of energy, and absolutely zero fear when it came to striking up conversation with the new guy. It was honestly kind of relieving to find myself adopted by an extrovert this fast. So yeah. Thanks for being a real one, Jeremy.
I would've liked to make conversation with the rest of Jeremy's crew—really. They seemed chill. But I was… preoccupied.
By the vampires.
You couldn't miss them. They were the palest people this side of Scandinavia. I thought I was pale—and if I were any paler, I'd be translucent—but these people made me look sun-kissed. And they were beautiful. Unfairly symmetrical, glossy-haired, carved-from-light-and-sorrow beautiful. They didn't just look out of place—they looked outsourced from a catalogue, and photoshopped onto our plane of reality. Not the kind where people wear clothes. Rather, the kind where everyone's just gazing wistfully off a cliff in swim trunks, as if they'd never known hardship. Or tax forms. Or acne.
There were five of them; three girls, two guys, and not a single body fat percentage above 2% among them. They didn't so much sit as hover in place. One girl was tall, willowy, with dark hair and posture like she was low-key better than you. The blonde one had that polished, cut-glass kind of beauty—like if a Tiffany lamp learned how to judge people. The third was petite, with auburn hair that spilled perfectly down her shoulders, and lips that must have been sculpted by someone very lonely and very talented.
The guys were a study in contrast.
One of them was massive. Not just tall—wide, like a linebacker who'd been carved out of glacier runoff and spite. He had a jaw like an anvil and a manbun. In 2005. I wasn't sure if he was ahead of the curve or inventing it.
The second guy was leaner than the big one—still tall, but with a wiry build, and he sported a buzzcut so short it was practically a skin-fade. That cut gave me a brief, irrational moment of fear that he was about to start goose-stepping up and down the cafeteria.
I frowned as I realized that... None of them really resembled Robert Pattinson. Not even remotely. I mean, it was entirely possible that their characters just didn't resemble their actors. It wasn't exactly a one-to-one, I guess. So... Who the hell was Edward Cullen? The Primeval Manbun or Herr Sturmführer Nosferatu?
Wait, no... Edward wasn't the only guy vampire, right? He had a brother or something. A... Uh... Damon? So maybe one of these guys was Damon or whatever, and Edward was using the bathroom. Or stalking girls. Possibly even stalking girls while using the bathroom.
Then I had a brief moment of half-panic, half-confusion as it struck me: I was Bella. But, like, a gender-flipped version of Bella. So who's to say there wasn't a gender-flipped Edward? Ed...uarda? Edna? Edwina? I had no idea.
"Hey. Earth to Beau," said Jeremy. "You alright over there, man?"
"Uh, what?" I blinked, and realized that I had just been staring at the vampires for the past few minutes. They hadn't noticed, thankfully, so I just shrugged and turned back to Jeremy. "Sorry. Zoned out."
He followed my gaze, and snorted. "Oh. Yeah. Those are the Cullens and the Hales."
Hales? Who the hell are the Hales? I thought it was just Cullens? Is Damon a Hale? "Yeah," I said, nodding like I understood any of what was happening. "Cullens and Hales, right."
"Yup. The blondie is Jessamine Hale. She's dating Archie, buzz cut dude. The tall chick is Eleanor. She's with Royal, the big guy." Jeremy lowered his voice, like he was sharing a secret. "They're, like, together-together, you know? All of them. I know, weird. Like, they all live in the same house."
There was a pause. I blinked.
"Oh. Neat," I said. Because what else do you say when someone casually drops a quasi-incestuous vampire polycule on your lunch tray?
...Wait. No. That's not quite right. They're, like, a bajillion years old and aren't actually related. The incesty bit isn't really accurate, and kind of casts unfair aspersions upon them.
Jury's still out on ole boy throwing up sieg heils on the weekends, though. I'm keeping an eye on that dude.
...Actually, no. Maybe I won't keep an eye on him. Because maybe it would be better for my long-term health to not get involved with any of this vampire bullshit at all. These guys could keep being creepy and sparkly, and I could go about my life in peace. Live and let suck, I guess.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the redhead vampire girl suddenly recoiling in her seat like she'd been stung by a wasp. Her eyes darted across the cafeteria, wide and panicked, before coming to rest on... Me.
We locked gazes for a moment. She looked at me, a little furrow in her brows, like she was trying to figure something out. Then she turned away, going back to minding her own business.
Great. First contact. Love that for me.
"What's up with the redhead chick?" I asked, turning to Jeremy. "The short one, I mean."
Jeremy glanced over at the vampires. "Her? That's Edith Cullen."
Edith. Edith Cullen. Edward, Edith. Oh. Okay. Maybe that's the genderswap right there. Huh. It's a cute name, but not one I'd have guessed for an immortal bloodthirsty sex vampire. Kinda wholesome. Very Irish.
...Oh man. Doesn't Edward have this whole thing where he thinks Bella's blood smells absolutely delicious and so he really, really wants to murder her? Goddammit, do I have that now? Am I gonna have to deal with a vampire thirsting after my blood and stalking me and shit? Jesus, man, I really don't need that kind of energy in my life.
"She's pretty hot," Jeremy added. "But don't waste your time, though. She—"
"It's cool," I cut him off. "I'm not really interested."
And, really, I wasn't. As illegally beautiful as they all were, I really didn't want to deal with a vampire trying to murder-fuck me, or her brother (sister?) also trying to murder-fuck me to one-up her, nor their ancient Italian girlfriend (boyfriend?) rolling into town to regular-murder me later out of jealousy. I'm good. I choose life. Choose chocolate milk. Choose to stay way away from that chick.
Fifth period. Biology.
I'd walked into the room hoping to coast under the radar, maybe even sit in the back and quietly fade into obscurity for the rest of the day.
No such luck.
"Only seat left is the one next to Edith," said the teacher—Mrs. Banner, according to the nameplate. She didn't even glance up as she marked something on her clipboard. "You can go ahead and take it, Beau."
My heart dropped.
I turned my head, slow as molasses, like maybe if I moved carefully enough, it wouldn't be true.
It was true.
There she was. Edith Cullen. Short, pale, gorgeous, and currently sitting at a black-topped lab table with her hands folded as though she was posing for a yearbook photo titled "Most Likely to Commit Tax Fraud and Get Away With It."
Her black eyes met mine. Calm. Curious. Not warm, not cold—just... unreadable. Like I was a pop quiz she hadn't studied for and wasn't worried about.
I shut my eyes and sighed.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.Last edited: May 22, 2025Like Award Reply381JurassicCoreMay 16, 2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks 4: Beau Swan's Undead Bisexual Soulmate Is Legally Entitled To A Handicap Parking Spot New View contentJurassicCoreNCAA D1 Hater/Creator of Peak FictionMay 18, 2025 Awarded ×1NewAdd bookmark#824
Beau Swan's Undead Bisexual Soulmate Is Legally Entitled To A Handicap Parking Spot
I made my way over to the lab table with the sort of slow, purposeful walk usually reserved for death row inmates. I didn't even look at her. Not directly. Just enough to notice the way she was watching me, a slight furrow in her brow.
It occurred to me that I could just strip myself butt-ass naked and walk into the ocean. That, at least, would be a more sensible and efficient way to die.
Edith's curious expression became a frown, her lips pursing almost into a pout. Then, I came within a couple of feet of her, she flinched. It wasn't dramatic. She didn't leap up or hiss or bare her fangs or whatever. But she definitely twitched, like the air had gotten suddenly toxic and her body just had to recoil. Her shoulders pulled inward. Her face froze in a grimace. Her eyes darted toward me—black. Not dark brown. Not hazel. Black. Black as a starless sky, and still water, and things that stare back. The color of nothingness.
And then—just as fast—she turned sharply away and stared out the window like I wasn't even there.
Fuck.
I realized, then, that I'd been standing in the middle of the aisle for a few seconds now, just sort of... watching her watch me not watching her.
So, throwing all common sense and survival instinct to the wind, I sat down next to Edith Cullen.
She immediately stiffened, going so still she could've been carved out of stone, and let out the quietest hiss I'd ever heard in my life. Which, to be fair, wasn't a lot. But it was the kind of sound you'd hear from a cornered animal, or an air mattress.
I tried not to react. Tried not to move a muscle. Just sat there, still and quiet. Waiting.
She didn't move, and I didn't breathe too much.
For a long moment, neither of us did anything. Then, Mrs. Banner started to write on the board, and Edith let out a sharp huff, like she was blowing out a candle. I saw a few strands of her auburn hair flutter at her temple. She didn't blink. Didn't shift in her chair. Just kept staring out the window.
Fucking vampires, man.
Again, Edith jerked in her seat. Like she wanted to face me, but couldn't make herself do it. A few of the hairs along the nape of her neck stood up. Goosebumps trailed down her arms. I forced myself to stare at the front, where Mrs. Banner was lecturing on the endocrine system. She was talking about glands, which was interesting and also totally not what I was thinking about at all.
What the hell was it about me that was so inherently attractive to this chick, anyway? Yes, obviously I knew that it was my blood—the most scrumptious, five-star Michelin-rated plasma buffet this side of the Mississippi, but... Why? What was so different about my blood? Did it, like, have a slightly lower alcohol content than usual or something? Was it the diet I'd been on? Was I taking multivitamins? Was it genetic?
Oh Jesus, was it... metaphysical, or some shit? Was I the reincarnation of her Italian vampire wife-and-or-husband from the 1800s? Shit, what was her name again? Ophelia? Isadora? Fucking... Bitemonia?
The lecture went on, but I could barely focus. It was something to do with... Mitochondria, maybe? ATP? The words were just blurring together into mush. I was too busy sneaking glances at Edith, and trying not to freak out over her sneaking glances back at me. The air between us was like an electrical current—so intense that I wondered if I could run a microwave on the tension. I wondered if I should just... say something. Like, acknowledge what was happening. Something like "Hey, I know you're a vampire. Wanna grab coffee?"
No, that's a dumb idea. I don't want to have coffee with a vampire. I want to not be murdered and-or sexually harassed by one.
Jesus. She was so gorgeous, too. That was the worst part.
Because Edith Cullen was, for lack of a more accurate term, stupidly beautiful. The kind of beauty that should come with a warning label and an HR rep. Ethereal and sharp all at once, like a Renaissance sculpture was cast in living marble and then dropped off at a Pacific Northwest high school for the vibes. Her skin was luminous. Not pale—luminous. Her cheekbones could have been cut from diamond, her jaw from granite, her eyes from obsidian. Even the tight furrowing of her brow looked less like an expression of bloodthirsty rage and more like a masterwork of art. A little humanizing flaw in a perfect sculpture.
This was all so deeply, profoundly stupid. It should've been thrilling, being this close to someone so unearthly. Instead, I just had the sinking knowledge that I was within arms' length of an imminent explosion with a sweet tooth. And, apparently, I was the whole candy shop.
And somehow, she still looked hateful beyond all words.
Like I was the problem. Like I was the weird one for sitting at the seat that she was flinching away from, like I farted and then confessed to war crimes.
Her expression hadn't changed in minutes. That same perfect little scowl, like she'd just smelled something foul. The violent tension around the eyes. Lips curled back just enough to suggest that she was considering filing a complaint.
If I didn't know any better, I'd think I'd just ruined her wedding day.
I heard a soft creak from Edith's side of the table. Glancing over, I saw her facing all the way away from me, looking out the window entirely. One of her tiny hands, clenched into a tight fist, was atop the table. She quickly withdrew it and placed it on her lap.
What exactly was I supposed to do here? Apologize for having blood? "Sorry for existing, ma'am, please don't eviscerate me with your tiny, delicate hands."
And, yeah, I get it. I read the book once, I knew the deal. She was trying her absolute damndest to not eat me in front of twenty other people and a chalkboard. That's gotta be a Herculean effort, and I sympathize. But also, maybe she shouldn't have been acting as though I'd personally offended her entire Italian bloodline just by existing. You'd think someone who's had a hundred years to practice social skills could do better than "gritted teeth and thousand-yard stare." Get your shit together, Edith.
I shifted in my seat and caught the tiniest flick of her eyes tracking the movement. Barely a twitch. But it was there.
Watching me. Calculating something. Probably my internal organ layout. Possibly my credit score. Maybe just mentally ranking my outfits. Probably low.
Jesus, this chick would probably murder me and then criticize my layering choices.
"I'm sorry, officer. He wore a white tee under a hoodie. In January."
And still—still—every time she looked at me, my brain did a barrel roll and fired off three simultaneous reactions: fear, fascination, and an irrational urge to say something deeply inappropriate just to see if she'd blink.
I turned back toward the board, pretending to take notes. And I mean pretending, because all I was doing was drawing tiny skulls and the word help in different fonts.
And then, some insane part in my hindbrain made an unhinged realization, which nearly made me let out an hysterical laugh in the middle of the lecture—Edith Cullen was a vampire and a redhead. So she double has no soul. I bit the inside of my cheek and coughed into my fist to prevent the hysterical, fear-driven laughter from bubbling up and escaping my lips.
Zero soul minus zero soul equals negative one soul. This chick was in debt! Jesus Christ! If the Vatican found out about her, they'd have to invent a new category of exorcism. Triple S-tier unclean. Someone fetch the holy water and a garlic crucifix made of silver. Was she legally entitled to a handicap placard because her spirit was in the red?
Maybe that was why she was pissed. Maybe she was able to sense that I had, like, three people's worth of souls, nice and shiny and unbitten, and it was making her spiritually lactose intolerant.
Or maybe—and I'm just spitballing here—I'm going into a ridiculous panic spiral over this entire situation, and the real reason she's angry is because I'm a walking, talking Capri-Sun and I have the gall to exist within a square mile of her thirsty ass.
Because yeah, sure. That makes sense. I'm not just a guy anymore—I'm a fine vintage. A 2005 reserve. A limited-edition blood boy with a bold iron-forward profile and just a hint of cringe on the finish.
I shifted in my chair again, and I felt it. That flicker. That minuscule twitch from her direction. Her whole body didn't move, but the tension did.
I snuck a glance and immediately regretted it.
Her jaw was locked tight, teeth bared and clenched so hard I was half expecting to hear one crack. Her shoulders were tight, rigid, even. Like she'd been carved from ice and someone just turned the thermostat up a degree too high.
Was she breathing? I didn't think she was breathing. Can vampires even hold their breath? Is that, like, a thing?
Then, all at once, she did breathe. Sharp and fast. Like a gasp through her nose. She was staring at me now.
Dead-on. Face half-turned, jaw tight, nostrils flaring ever so slightly. Her pupils were pinpricks in a sea of black. Her eyes weren't just dark—they were fathomless. Predatory. Beautiful. And completely, completely unhinged.
It hit me all at once: this wasn't some angsty teen vampire with a sensitive soul and a dark past. This was a creature. A thing made of hunger and impulse, dressed up in flawless skin, a cream-colored cardigan, and resting bitchface.
And I was sitting not even six feet away from her. I swallowed hard, trying not to breathe. My fingers gripped my pen like it was a weapon, like maybe I could fend her off with Bic-brand courage.
Jesus Christ, this lady was seriously tweaking. What am I? Filet mignon or a fucking crackpipe?
All of a sudden, something changed in her expression. Her face twitched—barely. That animalistic, half-starved look flickered, replaced by a tiny flash of confusion, maybe even conflict. As though she couldn't decide between fury, confusion, or—God help me—amusement.
Her fingers tapped once on the underside of the table. Just once. But it was rapid. Precise. Like a little signal being sent up the chain: "Abort. Abort. Abort mission."
Then, suddenly, she moved.
It happened all at once, so fast I barely registered the motion. One second, she was a statue carved out of anger and restraint. The next, she was standing, her chair screeching backward with the kind of metal-on-tile noise that makes every single person in a room wince.
Heads turned. All at once.
I could feel them watching us—watching her.
Her lips parted. "I feel unwell," Edith said. And, man, even her voice was beautiful. High and musical, like wind chimes made out of diamonds and angelic farts. "May I be excused?"
Mrs. Banner barely had time to say, "Of course," before Edith was already gone. Just gone. She didn't walk out of the room. She vacuumed herself out of it. One blink, and she was halfway to the door. Another blink, and the door was swinging shut behind her.
Silence.
It fell like a curtain across the room. Everyone looked at the door. Then—like a school of fish sensing a different kind of danger—they all looked at me. Dozens of eyes. Staring. Blinking.
Someone coughed. Someone else whispered. I thought I heard my name.
I sat there. Still as stone. Staring straight ahead. Absolutely not trying to shrivel up and die inside my own hoodie.
Thanks, Edith. Thank you so much for making me the main character in your dramatic little disappearing act. It's not like I'm new here or anything. Not like I'm already worried people think I'm weird.
I looked around, and made eye contact with a kid in the front row who looked like he was already composing a LiveJournal post about this exact moment.
Fuck it.
I cleared my throat, forced a tight little smile, and offered the world's saddest attempt at levity. "So. Mitochondria. The powerhouse of the cell. Am I right?"
A few people snorted. Someone laughed. Someone else muttered, "Bro, what?"
I slumped back in my chair and stared at my notes. The skulls I'd been doodling stared back, disappointed.
Edith, please come back and kill me so I don't have to deal with the consequences of my own cringe.
The rest of Biology went... by.
Not quickly. Not slowly. Just by. Like time itself didn't want to be associated with me and was doing the bare minimum required by law.
I didn't hear a single other word of the lecture. Didn't even try. Mrs. Banner could've dropped dead mid-sentence and I wouldn't have noticed unless she landed on me. I sat there, still and numb, eyes locked on my notebook like maybe it would explain what just happened.
Every now and then I caught someone glancing my way. Some looked curious. Some looked amused. One girl near the window looked like she was trying to telepathically ask if I needed a priest.
Which, honestly... Maybe?
Eventually, class came to an end, and the bell rang like a mercy kill.
Mrs. Banner said something about the homework assignment, but it was lost in the sound of backpacks zipping, chairs scooting, and the collective rush of twenty people remembering that they had better places to be. Better things to do, less embarrassing situations to find themselves in—Such as a nice funeral, or perhaps a quiet little public execution.
I packed up my stuff as fast as I could without looking like I was running from a crime scene, and made for the door. I had one goal, and one goal only: vanish. Disappear. Run away into the mountains, grow a beard, and become the 21st century's first cryptid.
Just as I was about to bolt, however, I felt a soft tap land on my shoulder.
I flinched. My very first thought was: Oh God, she's back, she's gonna rip out my pancreas for a quick snack.
But when I turned around, my second thought was: Oh damn, she's cute.
Because, y'know. She was. Cute, that is. Very.
The girl who'd tapped my shoulder had long, rich blonde hair—so straight it looked like it had been personally bullied into submission by a flat iron. Her eyes were a soft, pale blue, and she had this kind of innocent, almost doll-like face. Babyfaced, but not in a weird way. In a wholesome way. She looked like the kind of girl who did well in group projects and had extremely legible handwriting. That kind of cute.
She gave me a cautious little smile. Friendly, but with the unmistakable energy of "please don't be weird."
"Uh. Hi," I managed to say. The most eloquent of greetings.
"Hi!" she replied, chipper in a way that felt both sincere and entirely incompatible with the emotional bomb crater I'd just crawled out of. "You're Beaufort, right?"
"Beau," I corrected, because muscle memory is a hell of a drug. Then, because I am a deeply cursed creature with no self-preservation, I added: "Like... the French word for 'handsome.' But that's not, like, a statement. I didn't name myself. I'm not saying I'm handsome. Just—it's a word. That's all."
...God, I wish I had the ability to kick myself in the dick. If I ever run across a time machine, I'll use it to travel back and kick myself in the dick so I don't say dumb shit like that.
But to my eternal surprise, she giggled. Like, actual, unforced, light-as-air laughter. "Well, alright then, Beau," she said, giving it a little extra bounce. "I'm McKayla."
I nodded and shook her hand, trying very hard not to look like I was amazed by how soft it was. Probably moisturized with something expensive-sounding, like cucumber cloudmilk. "Nice to meet you, McKayla. Thanks for not immediately filing a restraining order."
She laughed at that too, thank God. Record another hit for Swan. I was batting .1000 today.
"You're funny," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She then tilted her head, a little thoughtful now. "Hey, so... not to be weird, but... did you and Edith Cullen, like... know each other before today?"
My smile faltered for half a second. "Nope. First time meeting her. Why?"
"Huh. Weird," she said, thoughtful now. "She looked like she was about to pass out next to you. I've never seen her act like that before."
I shrugged, very much in the "oh god oh fuck" stage of damage control. "Yeah, I, uh… kinda noticed that. I dunno. She seemed sick or something. Kept grimacing like she had a stomach bug. But she bailed before anything happened, so… fingers crossed she makes it."
McKayla squinted at me for a second, then nodded as though she'd just decided I wasn't a serial killer. "That makes sense," she said. "Honestly, I thought she was gonna try and murder you or something." She then gave a little nervous chuckle. "I guess that sounds silly, huh?"
"Hah. Yeah. Kinda. For sure. Absolutely. Yep. Mm-hm."
McKayla, bless her beautiful extroverted heart, didn't press. She just smiled, like she'd flipped to a different conversational page. "What's your next class? Need help finding it?"
"Looks like it's PE," I said after checking my schedule.
She perked up at once. "Oh! I have Gym this period, too. I can walk you there."
"Sure, thanks," I said, feeling a little fluttery with relief. "I was almost ready to get lost wandering up and down the halls."
She laughed again, this light, easy giggle that made her sound like the kind of person who sent thank-you cards and actually remembered people's birthdays. As we walked, she filled the silence with small talk—nothing too invasive, just those quick, breezy questions you ask someone you just met. What was Phoenix like? Did I have any siblings? How was my first day? What did I think of Forks?
She didn't ask about the Edith Cullen incident again. Thank God. Instead, she talked a little about herself. She was originally from Sacramento—Which explained why she had the most California name on the planet—had a cat named Cinnamon—cute—and liked to play volleyball. Like me, she was a junior, and her dad owned a sporting goods store just down the road, and she was an only child, and so on and so on, and I nodded along and gave answers as best as I could when prompted.
And somewhere in all of this, something wild happened: I started to relax.
McKayla had this kind of... easy charisma. She made things simple. The more she talked, the less I felt like a living, breathing catastrophe. There was no posturing, no awkwardness. Just a normal, pleasant conversation with a girl who hadn't once tried to kill me with her eyes.
That was nice. I liked that.
By the time we reached the locker room, I was borderline cheerful.
Coach Clapp, our PE teacher, gave me the option to sit out today since it was my first day. I thanked her, and then politely declined, because A) I had gains to maintain, and B) I heard someone say we were playing volleyball today and I wanted to get my Haikyuu on.
McKayla smiled when she saw I'd stayed in. "Brave move," she said.
"Nah," I replied, grinning back at her. "Reckless optimism disguised as confidence. But thanks."
She gave me a thumbs up and jogged off to her team. I got assigned to the other one.
Somewhere in the back of my head, I remembered that I'd once hated volleyball. But that just meant that I'd once been a foolish and contemptible person who did not understand the inherent caveman appeal of hitting balls and jumping and shit.
And then the game started.
I jumped. I lunged. I missed. I got body-checked by a volleyball so hard I saw my past lives. I also somehow accidentally spiked the ball into my own teammate's face and then caught it on the rebound with my own face.
My face was pulsating angrily, and I couldn't wait to play again. I was sweaty, sore, a little dazed, and riding a high I hadn't felt in a while—some strange, stupid mixture of embarrassment and actual joy.
When Dad came home later that night, he paused in the doorway like he'd just walked in on a crime scene. His eyes immediately zeroed in on the swollen purple bruise spreading across my forehead like a bootleg birthmark.
He set down his keys and hung up his gunbelt. "Beau," he said slowly, like he was mentally preparing himself for a full police report. "Are you alright? What happened?"
I glanced up from the stove—where I'd been attempting to reheat some pizza rolls—and gave him a thumbs up.
"Got rocked playing volleyball," I said casually, still holding an ice pack to my face. "It was a great time, though."
He stared at me for a moment longer, brow furrowed like he was trying to figure out if I'd gone insane. Then, after a beat, he just shook his head, let out a soft huff of laughter, and walked past me to the fridge.
"Alright," he muttered, grabbing a can of Coke. "Just, uh, try not to get yourself concussed, alright?"
"No promises," I said, popping a pizza roll in my mouth and immediately burning the roof of it. "But I'll try."Last edited: May 19, 2025Like Award (Awarded ×1) Reply440