At that moment, the bell rang loudly, making me jump, and Fredward Cullen was out of his seat. Fluidly he rose—he was much taller than I'd thought!—his back to me, and he was out the door before anyone else was out of their seat.
I sat frozen in my seat, staring blankly after him. He was so mean, it wasn't fair. I began gathering up my things slowly, trying to block the anger that filled me, for fear my eyes would tear themselves up. I usually cried when I was angry, a humiliating tendency.
"Aren't you Isabella Duck?" a male voice asked.
I looked up to see a cute, baby-faced boy, his pale blond hair carefully gelled into orderly spikes, his sky-blue eyes smiling at me in a friendly way. He obviously didn't think I smelled bad.
"Bella," I corrected him with my best smile.
"I'm Mike."
"Hi, Mike," I kept smiling.
"Do you need any help finding your next class?"
"Ooh, gosh, let me see... " I rummaged around in my knapsack, taking particularly long to find the schedule-document while surreptitiously38 checking him out.
Pale blond hair: check.
Spiky hair: check.
Friendly: check.
He had all the makings of a thoroughbred. I smiled inwardly.
"Um, gym, I think? Where's that?"
"That's my next class, too. C'mon, I'll walk you there."
I smiled appreciatively and grabbed onto his arm, pressing it against my chest. This was going to be too easy.
We walked to class together; he was a chatterer, a natural-born chatter-box—he supplied most of the conversation, which made it easy for me. He'd lived in California 'til he was ten, so he knew how I felt about the sun. It turned out he was in my English class as well. He was the nicest person I'd met today.
But as we were entering the gym, he asked, "So did you stab Fredward Cullen in the heart with a pencil or what? I've never seen him act like that."
38. With syrup.