Burning Up (Jacob Black)

20. What's Wrong?

The sound of keys rattling continued at the front of the house as Jacob and I jumped out of the tub. The water clung onto my bare body as my feet hit the cold floor. My hair was thick with water. It rhythmically dripped off my shoulders and onto the ground. I shivered as the bathroom air penetrated my skin.

"Here," said Jacob in a hushed voice. He had a towel wrapped around his waist and was handing me one of my own. After I grabbed it, he lifted that same hand and pressed his index finger against his lips: shh. I nodded.

I simultaneously wrapped the towel around me and creeped out from the bathroom, cowering behind Jacob. Both our heads perked up in caution as we heard the front door open.

"Get in my room. Go!" He turned back to me and batted his hand towards his bedroom door.

Although I tried to gently place my tippy toes on the ground, my wet footsteps still thudded prominently as I sprinted down the hall. Just as I made it into his room—I closed the door as softly as I could—I heard the muffled and casual greeting between Jacob and his father.

I exhaled, not realizing I'd been holding my breath. My body, which was once tense, relaxed as I sunk onto Jacob's bed. Even though no one was around, I still clutched the bath towel protectively to my chest. The adrenaline of the moment wore off, and my vision centered back onto his room. I sat back up, slightly tuning into the barely audible chitchat in the living room.

My eyes scanned around his room. Not much had changed besides the items on his desk. Although the mess was still the same—papers, pens, and god knows what else scattered everywhere—the objects had changed since the last time I'd visited his room. My eyes caught on a crimson-red notebook that lay front and center on his desk.

Jacob Black was scrawled in the bottom corner of the cover in surprisingly eligible writing. I couldn't help myself; my fingers practically inched towards it on their own. I flipped open the notebook to a random page.

I was met with mostly biology and English notes. I skimmed his essay on Hamlet for English class; unbiased, I'd give it a B+. I flipped to the next page. This page was covered in doodles. Everything from abstract grid patterns to the iconic S symbol to fighting stick figures littered the page from top to bottom. I felt a smile on the apples of my cheeks as I examined his scribbles. Suddenly, I understood why parents hang every shitty drawing their kid makes on the fridge. I flipped the page again.

I felt my heart sink out of my chest cavity and weigh on my guts.

Strike three. You're out.

It was written in a blood-red fountain pen. Although it was silent—even the chatter between Jake and Billy had quieted—it felt like a horror movie sting playing at full volume in my brain. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

I blinked. The page was empty. A drop of water built at the tip of my hair and fell down, leaving one circle of dampness on the edge of the paper. I was frozen.

I heard the doorknob of the bedroom door turn; relief washed over me as I finally breathed. I turned to the door as it creaked open. Warm relief was completely lost as a feverish cold crawled from my ankles to my scalp like worms underneath my skin.

Edward stood right before me. He was silent and motionless in the ajar doorway. Typical.

"I warned you," was all he said. Before I could start hyperventilating, screaming, or crying, I felt my jaw tighten as I remembered what I promised myself. I am not going down without a fight.

I lurched forward and wound my hand back before plunging towards him. My eyes squeezed shut as I swung my fist towards him, my body weight carrying me forward with velocity.