even when i've become a monster?
A WHITER SHADE OF PALE
FIFTY-FIVE HOURS AND COUNTING in Forks, Washington for Noelle Sjöblom — and quite frankly, she's shocked she hasn't had a psychological break yet. A coffee and a stale bagel later, and she's ready to start the day, kind of. To tell the truth, she's not sure if she'll ever be 'ready' enough for this, you know, to say she feels solid enough emotionally to fend off an onslaught of people that are going to introduce themselves (only because she's new), forget she exists after that and then call it a day! The last thing she wants to be doing right now is sitting in some stuffy classroom with a bunch of people she doesn't know and a random teacher teaching a lesson that's meant to be taught to students who've already learned half of the course — because yeah, she's starting school halfway through the semester. (She has jolly old, Dave Sjöblom to thank for that!)
Really, Noelle doesn't want to be here. Like literally anywhere else on the planet would suffice — well, save for a country at war — yeah nevermind, on second thought Forks seems like a neat place to be right now.
The worst part of it all is that Paul won't be there to stop her when she slams her head against her locker and plays dead so her uncle Rick can come and pick her up and she'll be able to go home. Her cousin goes to school on the rez — ugh, why can't she again? — meaning he has to leave ten minutes earlier than Noelle because school starts a different time for him.
Her father had insisted she go to school in the mainland because they offer more programs at the public school than the one on the rez. Noelle knows he has her best interests at heart, but taking all AP classes is not what's best for her! Not nearly! Not at all! On his accord, junior year is the most important and she's got to be as focused as possible. Except those words don't resonate with her. The way she sees it, it doesn't matter what school she goes to. In the end, be it in the mainland or on the rez: she. doesn't. want. to. go.
Her dad may be infuriating, a little crazy even, but the girl still adores him. It's truly a shame that he decided to send her here, like she was some sort of burden. You know that's not true, she tells herself when the thought resurfaces time and time again. He's the only parent figure she's ever had, after all. Not that it's a touchy subject or anything (it totally is) but Noelle's mother, who's surname her daughter took on as an alternative to Lahote, is . . . out of the picture.
Noelle hardly holds any reminisce of the woman anyway. The only thing Eva Sjöblom left behind for her daughter was a letter and a pretty ring that Noelle wears every so often. Except the letter has most of its words scribbled out in black sharpie — and her dad doesn't like seeing the ring on her finger. Something about bringing up bad memories . . .
Her father is amazing though, apart from the whole sending her away to live here thing. She's entirely, completely, 100% content with the hand she's been dealt. No mother? Who cares? Not me, Noelle tells herself. Dave Lahote is all she'll ever need to be happy. He's the kind of dad that prepares extravagant breakfasts at every chance he gets — and is a terrible cook — a waffle making legend for the history books! That's one of the things she misses most, and it's only been like, a day.
The birds are chirping. Uncle Rick has just left for work. Noelle is alone. The weather is pretty crappy, not really how Noelle likes it:l blue and sunshiney with a few clouds here and there for good measure — because they're just so pretty to look at . . . No, instead, the sky is an asphalt grey, threatening the arrival of rain showers later in the day.
Whatever happened to happily ever after? Her brows stitch together as the girl looks up at the sky from the porch swing. It seems so far away . . . How did she manage to get herself here? No boyfriend, no frosted flakes, no lamps? (That's right, her lamp collection still hasn't fucking arrived yet.) Really though, Noelle can't figure out why she still cares about what is no more. The past is the past. So why does is linger? Why does she have a single ounce of adoration left in her shallow little heart for someone she's only ever bent backwards trying to please to no avail? She can't figure out why she's doing this anymore?!
Shut the brain off!! Pump some drugs into her veins until the thoughts can't piece themselves together and a numb buzzing is the only thing her body knows.
Too bad it's just fantasy!
So Noelle is stressed, and nearing on her last cigarette as she sits on the front porch swing, staring out into the blindingly green forest and listening to the sound of animals functioning, wishing she could do the same. Her dark irises watch the smoke engulf the air around her when she exhales, closing momentarily and welcoming the black void of nothingness. Technically, she supposes, having remembered from middle school science class years ago, she is an animal — a high maintenance, imperatively depressed, animal. But an animal is still an animal and a depressed teenager is still a depressed teenager. How is she any different from the squirrel running across the lawn, fighting to survive through everything life throws at it?
You're not a squirrel, Noelle. Shut the fuck up.
The girl stomps her leather boot down on the cigarette, clutching her car keys in one hand and her bag in the other. She glances at her watch. 7:59. Time to go. If she speeds, she'll make it in time. If she doesn't, great! A few less minutes spent in hell.
Her minivan pulls into the parking lot around 8:10, having had a assistance from the helping hand of speeding, yes, if that's what you're dying to know. It's just so fun, that feeling you get when the seat is shaking and the wheels are rumbling and you're gripping the wheel and you know what you're doing isn't allowed.
The parking lot seems to be the place to be for many of the kids that go here. A plethora of them are sitting around the small space, in their separate groups, joking, gossiping, making out. I don't think I like this place, Noelle thinks. Maybe I can ask Dad about homeschooling over skype later. She's being silly though, he's never going to agree to that. Dave wants the best for his daughter. The best is this! This is what she gets, and she can't let her gratuity of it slip away because of some stupid school.
Anywhere is better than where she left her nightmares behind.
Or did they follow her?
Forks High is the furthest thing from what Noelle had become accustomed to back home in Florida: muscle tees and crop tops, Chanel handbags and shiny black credit cards at their feet. Pricy vehicles lined up one by one in the student lot, most of them acquired through sweet sixteen birthday parties or hours spent complaining to their parents. Girls sauntering past, applying glimmering gloss across their rosy pink lips as their curls bounce in the breeze. Children, surmounting to larger family fortunes than a kid that grew up in the middle of nowhere Washington could ever imagine or wrap their tiny little head around. That was what Noelle knew before — the private school life. Forks isn't just different in attitude or financial stature; they dress different here too. In big jackets and thick heavy knit sweaters that make her feel sweaty at the very thought of having one on her body. The girls seem to have a fascination with headbands, the boys look as if they were never taught how to do their hair up properly.
Kinda gross, but not surprising.
Noelle slugs her bag over her shoulder and closes the car door as slowly as she possibly can; anything to prolong this inevitable terribleness. She hates school, she really does! She's not the type of girl that can pay attention in class even if she doesn't want to, or keep her mouth shut when a misguided teacher scorns her for daydreaming. Noelle doesn't take pretty notes or go home and study before tests, and usually it's fine. She's pretty good at winging things and making it out unscathed. No one, not even herself, can bring the girl to care about schooling. Maybe if it involved less time sitting in a chair and staring at a chalkboard — a smaller population of pubescent boys throwing things at each other from across the classroom.
Call her dramatic, but it's survival of the fittest from here on out for the girl in the jeans two sizes too big. The cold air sends whisps of bottle blonde strands flying out of place and over her shoulder. There goes my attempt at looking presentable. They're looking at her weird now, with prying eyes and quirking lips, calculating who she is by the way she looks and the clothes on her back. It's not a nice feeling.
She's the new girl — and a cute one at that — it's physically impossible for her to blend in amongst the colourless crowd of teens in her pumpkin orange hoodie. Noelle sighs, her throat scratching for nicotine as she bids farewell to the hunk of junk minivan and sets pace towards the school.
Please let this be a normal school day!
With the Frizz?
No way!
....
I remember when rock was young! Me and Suzie had so much fun! Holding hands and skimming stones! Had an old gold Chevy and a place of my own! But the biggest kick I ever got . . .
"Noelle Sjöblom." The girl says, turning her attention off the radio and to the office secretary.
"From Florida, correct?" The lady behind the desk pushes her ugly pink glasses up her nose. She types something into her computer. Click clack, click clack. "I spoke to your father on the phone earlier."
Noelle decides not to respond, there's nothing to say to the woman. Can she just have her schedule already? She nods her head and smiles (kinda), tapping her boot against the floor impatiently. She runs her fingers through her air and stares at the posters plastered across the office walls: USE PROTECTION! JOIN THE FIGHT AGAINST TEEN PREGNANCY! along with . . . TAR THE ROADS, NOT YOUR LUNGS! PUT IT OUT BEFORE IT PUTS YOU OUT! Noelle feels for the pack of smokes in her pocket, just to make sure they're still there, and when she does, a smirk dances across her face.
"Your schedule, Ms. Sjöblom?"
The girl looks up, blinking. "Thanks." Is all she says, snatching the piece of paper out of her hands and moving it closer to her face so she can see the classes.
There's math, science, history, all of the such things that a student is required to take. And then gym! Why the fuck would they put me in gym? Noelle can't play sports for the life of her. Like literally. She broke this girl named Cindy's nose once on the private school tennis court after throwing the racket in an attempt to hit the ball . . . Yeah, long story short, she received a three day suspension after that. Noelle is not a tennis whiz, lesson learned.
Again, gym class? Kill her now.
She pushes past the door, entering the bustling hallway. Immediately, someone rushes past, shoving Noelle to the side and nearly causing her to lose footing. God. Most of the students are too busy trying to get to class on time than to notice the girl carefully weaving her way through the crowd, but a few of them turn to look at her, questioning why there's a girl they've never seen before dressed like a seventies groupie lost in their hallway. Noelle maintains composure, still. She clutches her arms around herself tightly, biting her lip and hoping there'll be an end to this madness.
The light at the end of the tunnel comes when she reaches her locker, a tiny grey hunk of metal that smells like it had some sort of rotting sandwich in it at one point in time. It's not all that much of a crowded area, save for a boy and a girl conversing nearby.
Noelle has been saved! The damsel is no more!
She tries to make no bother of herself and makes a beeline toward the locker. It doesn't take long before she's thrown all of her stuff in it and is ready to head to gym class. The office hadn't given her a uniform or anything to wear like that . . . so she can automatically assume she'll be sitting out for today, which is a relief on its own. The idea of physical activity stirs up her intestines in all sorts of icky disgusting ways.
Noelle turns around to find a strange girl two feet away from her. She has shimmery amber eyes the colour of fresh honeycomb and a spiky haircut that seems to defy gravity. Seriously, that shit don't add up . . . The girl is a masterpiece, fascinating to look at just as one would a painting at the Louvre. Her face reminds the Sjöblom girl of something she'd see on a billboard in a big city. The strangest thing about the girl, perhaps, is the illuminating glow of her skin, a whiter shade of pale than any of the other students she's seen. Does she even go here? She looks a little old for high school? Noelle takes a step back, feeling a bit violated at the sudden closeness of the girl's proximity.
"You're new." She says, her singsong voice chiming her the girl's ears like an annoying little bell.
Awkward convo, here (good for nothing) Noelle comes!
"Yep." She feels her anxiety bubbling in her chest as the word spills past her lips. Every muscle in her body feels like it's tightening as she grinds her teeth together, not out of anger, but due to the jitters she regularly gets when speaking to strangers. This isn't out of the ordinary. Not for Noelle!
"I'm Alice." She pipes, standing on her tip toes and making a peculiar little wheezing sound that Noelle thinks is meant to mean she's excited??? She really doesn't have the time to try and figure this girl, Alice, out.
"Noelle." She tells her, forcing a smile.
Please leave me alone please leave me alone please leave me alone and —
"We've got to get going, Al."
Both girls turn their heads to look at a boy with walnut coloured curls and the same amber eyes as Alice. You guessed it! He's beautiful too. Definitely a stunner. Noelle does a double take at him even. He leans against the locker a ways down from them carelessly, eyes on Alice and only Alice.
"Bye Noelle!" She twirls around, walking away like she's on a cloud or she's some sort of fairy.
She prays to god not everyone here is that out forward when it comes to introducing themselves . . . The blonde watches the pair turn down the hallway. Her eyes flicker between the boy and the girl, questioning what just happened.
He wouldn't even look at her.
dedicated to: brattitudes , tyumens my bbs
authors note:
OK BUT HOW SURPRISED ARE WE ALL THAT IVE BEEN CONSISTENTLY UPDATING EVERY DAY ???? like for real, on a scale of 1-10??!