𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒, emmett cullen

2 - NICE VAN ✓

CHAPTER 2 || FORKS HIGH SCHOOL

BELLA'S TRUCK IS ANCIENT, Brooke considers it borderline scrap metal. An ugly orange color with burly, unattractive headlights hooded by thick bands of apricot painted metal, messy chips of paint cast aside and littering their gravel driveway. The sixteen-year-old Swan lounges leisurely across their porch, with hands tucked comfortably into the warm confines of her inky colored bomber-jacket, eyeing the vehicle as her sister hesitates inside. A absent smile curls at Brooke's lips with the memory of Jacob Black and his father, Charlie had bought the scrap metal from Billy Black as a homecoming gift for Bella with the promise that their mother insisted they could share, or that Brook rather preferred whenever Bella were behind the wheel nonetheless . Her smile quickly turns malevolently mischievous as she recalls the glimmer in the Quileute boys eyes when he looks at Bella; his crush on her sister brightening Brooke's rainy day.

Until Bella ushers Brooke into her barely running truck and they begin the short trek to Forks High School.

Forks High School consists of an abundance of red-bricked buildings, the kind of red one would find on a stereotypical barn. The students were in huddles, their parents would've been infants together. Hell, their grandparents and beyond may have been, it wouldn't surprise Brooke in the slightest. The parking lot wasn't plentiful, though with the spaces remaining when it was so close to the beginning of classes. Eyes seem to chase Bella's spluttering truck, piercing the side of Brooke's face through the smeared glass of her window before the sixteen-year-old begun to shrink in her seat. Brooke wasn't as shy as Bella, that much was apparent due to her social status in Arizona and her flourishing friendships in every school and place they'd inhabited; including La Push. As well as her adoration for track and the limelight it could place on a character, Brooke had to be okay with moderate attention but she didn't appreciate the curiosity and judgement that happened to be glued to her features. Meanwhile, Bella is dying inside.

Coming to a halt beside a navy van, populated by teenagers with their gazes set on the Swan sisters without sway. Then, naturally, one had to open his mouth.

The male radiates arrogance, but his eyes are kind despite himself as he laughs fluidly alongside a crowd of unfamiliar faces. He waves his hand toward Bella's truck, Bella glancing behind herself in confusion.

"Nice ride," He muses, mockingly just as Brooke steps out of the passenger seat. The sixteen-year-old props herself up on the small ridge of the open door, popping over the roof up to the tops of her shoulders and when the boy looks at her, she raises her middle finger with a boyish grin.

"Nice van, been molesting children lately?" Brooke chortles. His friends erupt in laughter and the boys smile wavers yet he laughs it off, eyeing the girl with a timid smile.

Bella's face flushes crimson, rushing toward the school when Brooke skids to a halt in front of her to stop her hurry. Brooke begins to fish for their schedules in her backpack as Bella balances her weight on one leg, lip caught between her teeth with waves of meekness splashing from the older girls form. The sixteen-year-old hands Bella her schedule before glancing over her shoulder at the sign labeled 'Reception' with 'Offices' beneath, accompanied by much smaller text of the teachers that inhabited the building, Couch Clapp being one.

"I have to go see the Coach, see if there's an open spot on the track team," Brooke breathes, smiling gently when Bella nods, giving her a one-armed hug before shuffling toward the school.

Brooke watches from afar as a boy with a camera horrifies her sister, animatedly conversing with the shier Swan girl.

Upon entering reception, Brooke faces a pudgy woman, her roots nastily grey to raven ends, fixed into a low ponytail that gave Brooke the impression of a founding father with thick-rimmed tawny glasses against her forehead with how high they were pushed up the bridge of her nose. Her thin lips are upturned in a scowl at the pile of papers between her claw like fingers as she attempts to straighten the pile, nasally huffing before her brown, almost treacle colored orbs land on Brooke's petite frame.

Brooke wants to run away.

Yet, the sixteen-year-old shuffles forward, handing the witch-like receptionist the neon post-it-note with the Coaches chicken-scrawl marked onto it in inky sharpie. The woman presses a silver button beside her desk and a beep echoed above the office door.

"Last door on the right," She caws, earning a nod from Brooke before the girl's rushing through the door with a shiver.

"Damn," Brooke murmurs, eyeing every door and the white, bold, italic lettering on each mahogany door; not fully trusting what could've been considered a mythical beast, only heard of in Greek mythology.

Though, the witchy receptionist hadn't lied.

Brooke rasps her knuckles lightly against the door before hearing a voice call out to her to enter. Coach Clapp appears to be in his mid to late thirties, dirty blond curls almost mousy brown are a mess across his forehead yet cropped around the sides and back, his hazel eyes are stern yet bright as he paces his office. He wears sportswear, a pair of overused sneakers shrieking against the flat, matted, carpet, his black sweatpants high above his hips giving him a Simon Cowell esc appearance that brings a grin to Brooke's face, his white t-shirt is tucked into his pants and his jacket his undone.

"Brooklyn Swan, right?" He grunts, extending his hand with a kind smile as Brooke nods her head, grimacing at her full name.

"Just Brooke is fine, sir,"

"Coach is fine with me," He quips, leaning against his desk before crossing his arms over his chest.
"Your father and I are good friends, him and Harry Clearwater are some of the best fishermen in Forks," Charlie Swan had of course spoken to the Coach the minute he knew his daughters were returning to him, Renee having drilled the idea of Brooke needing to commit to some form of sports, preferably track and Renee being unsure on whether Brooke would settle without it; she would've at some point but that didn't decrease Brooke's thankfulness.

"I'll be sure to not tell Waylon that," Brooke muses as the Coach grins, laughing loudly as he nods.

"Oh, God, you're right. The man would skin me like a—well, like a fish," Brooke winces at the foul joke just as the Coach does before both shrug it off. The Coach is then reaching across his desk to grab a pen and another brightly colored sticky note, writing rapidly in a font that Brooke wouldn't have been able to understand if she hadn't lived with her mother for so long. He extends the note mutely, only explaining when Brooke takes it from his grasp.
"Track team meets after school every Wednesday and Friday. Races and events tend to be on a Saturday with rival schools outside town; I think it's the Reservation lot next," He informs as Brooke's eyebrows furrow in confusion.

"Tryouts?"

"No need. We only have a couple girls on the team and your father has already preached about how fast you are, fastest on your last team so I've heard?" Brooke nods timidly, embarrassment crawling up her spine with the thought of her father proudly proclaiming her track skills to her future Coach; her father, the man who will only run when he has to at work.
"And a few records to your name in Arizona and the neighboring states?" She hums, ducking her head before the Coach claps his hand on her shoulder in a friendly manor.
"You'll do fine, kid," The bell is shrill against her ears before silence when the Coach waves her out of his office and to class.