Puddle Jumping by 107yearoldvirgin.pdf

Puddle Jumping by 107yearoldvirgin

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6598600/1/

Summary: To know the ending, you must start at the beginning. I'm Isabella

Marie Swan. Eighteen years old. Senior. Short in stature. Skinny fat. Brown hair

and eyes. And this is my story. It's not your run of the mill fairy tale

Chapter 1

"Sometimes I think I made him up. And I reached out through the ether, through

the haze, and tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Hey, please, come wake me

up.""

I cradle my head in my hands as Dakota Skye reaches her epiphany and sits on

the stoop of her true love's apartment, twenty-five-hundred miles away from her

home. And I seriously, seriously want to be supremely pissed off because the

entire reason why I streamed this movie in the first place is because the synopsis

included the words 'cynicism' and 'treacherous'. Instead, I get this really heartfelt

love story and a girl who reminds me of an Asian Juno who I would legitimately

consider going gay for.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself, now, aren't I?

Because, the main reason I'm so pissed off right now is because this movie…this

Indie gem I found through my 'You might also like…'spider web of

recommendations on Netflix, is telling me that no matter how much money you

have to make a movie, the ending is always the same: You end up together.

Stupid Hollywood and their lies.

This guy in the movie is super cute. And he wears a beanie and says exactly

what's on his mind, because he has a 'no-bullshit' gene or something. And he has

an amazing smile, along with an easy demeanor. He speaks in full sentences and

thoughts instead of grunts and tit grabs. And, for that matter, this chick's original

boyfriend is pretty stellar looking in a 'hotter-version-of-Elijah-Wood' kinda way.

But that's not how life really is, now is it?

No. In real life, the main character rarely gets what she wants, especially after

laying it all out on the line. She rarely gets to see her Happily Ever After as

Paramore sings over the closing credits of the names of the thousands of people

who have been responsible for shoveling lies rolls by.

Damn. When did I get to pessimistic?

Oh, right. The day I was born.

Wait, that's unfair. I would venture to say that a year ago, cynicism was as far

from any of my personality traits as one could fathom. But, then he came back.

No, that's a lie, too. It's not like he was actually gone. Just gone from my world.

Out of sight, out of mind. All that shit. He didn't exist to me or I to him. Which,

truthfully, seemed to be a hell of a lot easier than what I was experiencing at the

moment, caught in the eye of the storm and waiting for the tornado's tail to

touch down and do one of two things: blow my life wide open…or completely

disappear right in front of my eyes.

So, while I wait for my ending…happy or not…I suppose I could let you in on what

it is I'm babbling about. And the only place to start when telling a story is right

from the beginning, right? The beginning of this story actually takes place almost

a decade ago, if you can believe that. Which you should, because I'm tired of

lying.

It starts with me and my fashion-forward best friend…Lauren.

What? Did you think I was going to say 'Alice'? There you go, making snap

judgments and jumping to conclusions. If you could see me right now, you'd feel

shame because of how stern my expression is and how slowly my head is shaking

from side to side. I mean, you can't see me, right? Because, if you can, then I

need to pay my uncle ten dollars and follow his advice on keeping a scarf draped

over my webcam even when it's off.

Let me get back on track. Familiar faces you know and love…The beginning

doesn't include Alice, though she eventually does come around. All of them

eventually play a part in this, actually.

I'm Isabella Marie Swan. Eighteen years old. Senior. Short in stature. Skinny fat.

Brown hair and eyes. And this is my story.

If you haven't figured it out already, this isn't your run-of-the-mill fairy tale love

story.

It's not even a paranormal romance.

I wouldn't even categorize this much of a romance at all.

Because I'm not the kind of person to fall in love.

And neither is the guy I'm head over heels for.

Chapter 2

You can tell a lot about a person by the way that they color.

I used to think that there were two kinds of Crayola holders: Ones who color

inside the lines and ones who don't stay within the rigid boundaries set by thick

black perimeters that make up a koala bear. But, it seems that inside and outside

of the lines is just the main basis for comparison.

You have those that color lightly inside and fill each space according to the

chosen and appropriate shade.

You have those that scribble and slap any color anywhere. And sometimes these

people have purple turkeys and shit that drives me absofreakinglutely crazy

because, seriously…who has purple turkeys?

Anyway.

Then you have people that take the time to outline each portion of the picture

with color before filling it in, so that it not only looks cohesive, but it seems like

they actually give a damn about the Precious Moments big-eyed-freak they are

giving definition to.

Or, you have those that make little polka dots in the middle of a bear's face and

then cry excitedly that the bear has chicken pox.

See where I'm going with this? Society has pretty much taught us that it's inside

the lines, or outside. But…there is so much more in between.

Take the kids I sit for, for example. One likes to color only half of the drawing.

And the other likes to color one wing of a bird red, the other one brown, the face

yellow… etcetera, blah, blah, blah.

Why are you telling me this? You're asking and rolling your eyes. I can feel it.

Fine.

I say all of this because before I met Edward Cullen, I was the girl who colored

inside of the lines. I traced the outlines first, thick and heavy before filling in each

section with the corresponding color. I prided myself on it, actually. And when I

was ten years old and my best friend Lauren got grounded for shoplifting a fake

diamond bracelet from Claire's because it looked like one she saw someone wear

on television, I told her I would take her babysitting job for her.

It was the first time I met Edward Cullen. Nine years old. White-blond bowl cut

and a mom that kept him on one of those baby leashes when he was younger. I

know because I saw a picture of it once. He wanted to color for the two hours

that I watched him and halfway through the first picture, I looked over and

grabbed hold of his hand, gently stopping him from what he was doing with the

wax sticks.

"You need to color inside the lines," I admonished him as only a ten year old girl

with a superiority complex could do.

He didn't even look up from the paper. "You're mean," he whispered and

continued to make sweeping motions across the paper, coloring in wide strokes in

every vibrant hue he could get his long, spindly fingers on. It was probably the

first words he'd spoken to me, and they would reverberate through my brain for

years to come.

What? Don't judge me, people. I don't like people being mad at me, or not liking

me. So, I tried to make up for it.

"Wanna go outside?" I'd asked, afraid that he'd tell my mom I had hurt his

feelings.

"It's raining." He'd said it so matter-of-fact, like he was the adult and I was some

stupid little kid.

Edward Cullen was not going to get the best of me, you see. I was going to make

fifteen dollars that day. And I was going to get this kid to give a good report to

his mother.

"It's not raining that bad," I'd egged him on.

And that was the very first time I'd gotten him to do something he didn't want to

do. We'd gone out into the rain on that balmy summer day. He'd kind of looked

up into the sky with wide, green eyes that appeared much too mature for his age,

and he'd simply muttered something about the chances of getting hit by

lightning.

I didn't really hear him, though. He had a bad ass swing set in his back yard and

I was too busy trying to get up the slide from the front instead of taking the

ladder because I wanted to be one of those chicks on television who kicked ass.

And my first step would be to get up a slide. In the rain.

It's called 'preparation', people.

Edward had run over to me, his hands waving frantically as I huffed and puffed

my way up the slick metal. "You're gonna get hurt!"

I'd rolled my eyes and shushed him. "I'm fine."

And that's when the first lightning bolt hit the tree a few feet away from the slide

I was struggling to get up.

"Holy shit!" I'd screamed.

Oh, please. I said some Hail Mary's and asked for forgiveness.

"Come on!" Poor little Edward looked like he'd just taken a dump in his pants.

And I had watched in awestruck wonder as he'd turned around ridiculously fast

and sprinted across the backyard, his legs propelling him forward with the speed

and grace of a gazelle as he leaped over puddles of water two feet deep to get

back to the house.

Leaving me on the metal slide.

Alone.

Where I actually did get hit by lightning.

Well, not me. The slide. The slide got hit by lightning and I was holding onto it

and so I sort of just spazzed out and my hair was standing up by the time I shook

hard enough to get my fingers to let go of the side of the slide. And then I fell

back into a puddle and blacked out.

When I woke up in the hospital, my Mom informed me that Edward had pulled me

across the lawn and called 911 for an ambulance. And I was lucky to be alive.

It was then that I had to wonder why Edward even needed a babysitter in the

first place. I mean, really? I was only a year older and he seemed a hell of a lot

more capable of taking care of himself than I did.

Sure, you can see where this is going, but I was ten, dammit. I didn't know about

prodigies and whatnot back then. Plus you're seeing all of this from the end

and…whatever. Just follow me, here, okay?

Because Edward Cullen had essentially saved my life. And then he showed up at

the hospital with his Mom, looking at me like I was the most fascinating thing in

the world because I just wouldn't die.

He stayed for a good thirty minutes, not speaking and not doing anything other

than staring at me. And right before he left, he pulled a folded piece of paper out

of his pocket and handed it to me, offering me a small wave and walking out

behind his mother.

And that piece of paper held the most intricately colored artwork I'd ever seen in

my life. Which is when I knew I was kind of an asshole and needed to check

myself before I acted like the know-it-all I thought I was.

Because just the day before, I had apparently told the Dali of our generation to

color inside the effing lines.

Chapter 3

I feel compelled to tell you to get a sandwich or something because this isn't

going to be quick. But, then I remember that half of you are probably reading

stories with three hundred chapters to them and the rest of you are probably

watching 'How I Met Your Mother' and I don't feel so bad about making sure that

you see the entire story as it was before you see the ending as it is.

So, where was I?

Oh, right. Babysitting.

You would think that after I almost died, I wouldn't be asked to sit for Edward

anymore. But you'd be wrong. Because apparently, his mom was, and is, a total

whack-job and couldn't learn a lesson once. And I'm sure it was because she felt

like her son was good enough that we wouldn't get into trouble, but she didn't

take into account that I wasn't good enough not to get us into trouble.

You see, Edward really was kinda perfect. He was quiet and aloof, always minded

his manners, dotted his I's and whatnot. He was continuously focused on coloring

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