CHAPTER 1 - Leah Linington's P.O.V.
When my best friend Bella Swanson disappeard, my first thought was that she would never come back. That she was dead somewhere in a bitter gutter, sufforing from the cripst air and the mushy french fries that rested beside her.
There was a reason I thought all of this. The day she left, my father and I went out searching for her. When we didn't find Bella, we went searching for clues. Even the tinyist ones; we even asked her mother, Maria, what she had for breakfast that evening.
Miss Swanson (everyone calls her Maria, she's very young) reported that Bella had not been talking to anyone new, or that she had done anything to be worried about recently. She simply said that all Bella was focused on for the past six months was school, and her all time favorite sport, soccer.
The thing was, I could see why anyone would want to take beloved Bella Swanson. First of all, she was what people called perfect: Perfect grades, the star soccer player, great looks, amazing boyfriend, and popularity. If you had to be jealous of someone, it was Bella. Most girls called her by her famous nickname, Swanny, but all the guys called her either A: Bells or B: Bellaboo. Of course, she was my best friend, so I had something different for her: Bellie.
The day Bella vanished, the school went crazy. The teachers were looking up every single piece of information about her, not to mention her personal calender. The found nothing that would have anything to do with a grubby hand taking her away. The students dripped wet in tears, screaming stupid stuff, like "She's dead!" or "She got raped!". I, on the other hand, simply remained calm and searched. Crying and expecting the worse wouldn't help a soul. Bella wouldn't be proud of me.
I was sitting silently on my bed, reading Bella's old diary, the one thing that nobody dared to read. Everybody knew that 'Swanny's Diary' was sacred. It was something that you just didn't think about.
Why? Because Bella was known for keeping secrets. She didn't tell a soul any of hers, or any of her friends. Nobody would be afraid to tell her anything, for they knew she would keep it in her worn out, torn, musty leather diary that she kept in her sock drawer. Everything she ever knew what placed in neat, simply print perfectly fitted on each individual light blue lining.
Honestly, when I flipped through the pages slowly, I expected more from it. Maybe something that read, "CARLA LOVES ANDREW!" with a big bubble cloud around it, that was impossible to miss. Or some drawings, or at least something that would pop out at me. Instead, all I saw were simply words and numbers, that nobody would want to take the time to read.
I didn't care about the beginning stuff. It was all who the slut of the school had a crush on, or that some emo girl cuts. I honestly didn't care about those people's buisness: Only Bella's. I knew that when you would get deeper into the hard leather and the crisp pages, your heart would start pounding.
I finally reached Chapter 12 (Yes, Bella was the most orginized person I had ever met. Each thing she had were either A: Labeled B: Marked into chapters or C: Color coded). Chapter 12's name was called simply, Bella.
In the first few pages, it was simply things like, "people think I'm perfect, I'm not..." or silly stuff that Bella already told me loads of. I silently giggled, because her 'reason's' she wasn't perfect was because she missed a Penelty Kick in fifth grade.
As soon as I got deeper, Bella's light, perfect handwriting bled darker into the pages, causing holes or marks. I ran a hand through my hair, then took a deep breath and read on.
October 17th
Dear Diary,
Hi, I haven't talked to you for a while. I've honestly missed you - I've been really in the mood to vent about my life. The thing is, I have such high expectations from my family, friends, and teachers, I can't keep up with it all. Today, Mrs. Becka told me that she's expecting a one hundred on our next chem test. Excuse me, but I have a life. Mrs. Becka is apparently the hardest teacher to score a one-zero-zero with. Good grief.
People keep telling me their problems, or who they like. I act all sweet, and simply say, "your secret's safe with me.' But inside, I'm thinking, 'who do they think I am? Their personal therapist? No...
My father hit me yesterday-
I stopped dead in my tracks, and threw the diary on the ground. I knew it.
