My eyes were the worst color green anyone could ever have.

For the most rare color in the world, mine were strangely unnoticeable. Not once had I ever gotten a compliment. I knew why; because they looked flat and dull and gray, like wet cement after a downpour. My hair was mostly brown, too, so I looked diluted and colorless overall. In the fluorescent lighting that dominated the classrooms in school, they did look green—but there was a tinge of brown that made them look like mud. In that lighting, you could see the coppery red highlights throughout my hair. That and the muddy brown-green clashed horribly, not to mention with my pasty skin.

But in the sunlight…the sunlight brought out this amazing emerald that sometimes even stunned myself. Golden-brown streaks were even visible around the pupil if you looked closely. And the red hair, it didn't clash anymore—it just went. My skin had an iridescent, healthy glow.

I could be good-looking if I stayed in the sun all the time. Unfortunately, I lived in the cloudiest damned place on earth.

I slammed my hands on the keys angrily. I was so frustrated I could hardly take it. Reading music just didn't click with me. I couldn't even play Mary had a Little Lamb—how was I supposed to play anything else? Besides, this song was ten times harder.

I groaned and yanked at my hair. I would never make my parents proud. They always said I'd make a wonderful musician someday, but only because my entire family was involved in the performing arts. I was supposed to fill that last remaining blank. Esme was great at the violin, Carlisle was in a fairly popular local band before he went to medical school, and Alice sang and danced and was damn good at it. Me? I'd just begun to teach myself piano. And I was already seventeen.

So much for fulfilling the family legacy.

I felt a sudden urge to tear the sheet music to pieces. It looked so easy, but I didn't know what the hell the notes were and what key to press…and what the hell did those little flats in the beginning mean? I'd considered getting an instructor, but we just didn't have the money between Alice's dance and voice lessons. Not to mention the fact that Carlisle was still in medical school. Esme didn't make heaps of money as an art teacher, either.

I couldn't help but feel disappointed in myself. I knew they were all concealing their disappointment as well…and I needed to get away. Run from their pitying glances whenever they talked about how artsy the Cullens were…"oh, except for Edward," they'd say a bit sadly. "He's the odd one out." Fake laughter.

I knew how to get all this out of my system.

I quickly dialed a phone number I'd dialed thousands of times before, and I waited for him to pick up for what seemed like hours. I tapped a high-pitched key on the piano out of boredom and nerves.

"Hello?"

"Jasper," I said with a sigh of relief. Just hearing his voice was enough to alleviate all the built-up anxiety.

"What is it?" he asked with genuine concern lacing his voice.

After a pregnant pause, I told him that I'd be coming over. No questions were asked, because Jasper knew that I didn't like answering them.

I was well on my way there within two minutes.

I let myself sink into the couch cushions, closing my eyes for a brief second before falling into a familiar routine of comfortable silence. Well…there was that, and a movie was on. Our routine went uninterrupted, but every so often, I would ask Jazz to pass the chips or adjust the volume. There was strictly no talking otherwise. It was just how we were because Jasper knew when I didn't want to talk. For that, I was grateful.

After ten minutes or so, Jasper began fidgeting. I took this as a sign that he wanted to ask me why the hell I was at his house.

I sighed in defeat. "What?" I grumbled.

He chuckled dryly. "You know me so well." He stretched and tapped his fingernails against the wooden coffee table. I could tell he was pondering, because his brow creased and his lips pursed.

Jasper turned and observed my face carefully. There was a glint of curiosity and even frustration in his cerulean eyes as he appraised my expression. Finally he nodded to himself, appearing pleased with his conclusion.

"It's the piano again."

Honestly, I tried to keep my jaw shut, but it was in vain. In all the twelve years we'd known each other, I still didn't know how he just knew shit like that about me. I impatiently awaited his response.

Jasper closed his eyes and reclined his head back. His all-knowing smirk plastered on his face irked me. "Well, for one, I heard you banging on the keys over the phone."

Wow. I…didn't even remember that.

"And you look, I dunno, like a lost puppy or some shit," he continued. "And that's what you looked like the last time."

Oh God. The last time. I remembered it well: I walked through his front door during dinner and dragged him out to the living room so I could vent about how difficult reading music was. He was right. It was just like last time.

But I huffed indignantly and insisted, "Not really."

"Yes, really."

I didn't answer. He didn't really need to know the petty issues troubling my mind, did he?

"Look," he sighed. "I know you're gonna tell me what happened eventually. Christ, I can feel your aggravation coming off in waves over here. Just spit it out, 'kay?"

I hated it when he was right.

Before I had the slightest inkling of controlling myself, all my insecurities were unabashedly spilling out of my mouth. Jasper listened closely, eyes tightening minimally as he analyzed my words.

"…and I can't even play the fucking melody of Silent Night," I finished bitterly.

I exhaled sharply and returned my focus to the television, though I wasn't interested in watching Jurassic Park for the umpteenth time.

"Well, maybe you should give this music thing a rest."

I looked back to Jasper, eyes wide.

"I can't do that. My parents…"

"Your parents don't give a shit if you can play," he argued, hinted frustration seeping through. "It shouldn't matter. It doesn't matter."

A pause filled the air as I realized that he was probably right. He was always right.

"Fine. I'll give it a rest."

He smiled softly and I saw a great deal of tension leave his entire body. Was I irritating him that much?

I raked my fingers through my hair and flopped sideways onto my back, legs still dangling off the couch. I'd accidentally slid forward without realizing, causing my knee to gently touch Jasper's. I didn't think anything of this until he flinched, looking startled. He abruptly jerked his knee away like he was electrocuted.

I peered at him curiously.

"Jazz?"

His face flushed and he refused to meet my eyes. Instead, he turned up the volume on the television and focused too intently on the screen.

With a slump of the shoulders and a reluctance to mull over his strange behavior, I followed suit.

"Fuck, I am bored. And I'll beat the shit outta you if we have to watch Goodfellas one more time."

Jazz snorted. "That was your idea, remember, Eddie?"

"Nope."

"Mhmm."

"Just shut up."

Then Jasper did something I thought I'd never see him do. He picked up his dad's issue of Sport's Illustrated as if he did it every day and started reading. I was nothing short of taken aback.

"The Yankees won the world series," he said slowly.

I nodded. "Yeah, I think everyone's gotten around to hearing that, Jazz."

He looked like he wanted to explain himself, but couldn't. It was possibly the most awkward moment I'd ever had with him. Usually, he was so calm and collected—just two hours ago he was fine! But now he was not himself. Jumpy, maybe even anxious. And he was talking about sports. Jazz doesn't care about sports.

"Let's go for a walk," I blurted, needing to break the thick silence. He shrugged.

"Yeah. Let's go to the park or something," he agreed easily. "I sort of wanted to miss that show about the ancient pyramids anyway. If I watch it, that's all you'll hear from me for days." He grinned, and I couldn't help but feel relieved—that sounded like something Jasper the History Buff would say under normal circumstances.

What made this so abnormal?

We were out the door without another word. I vaguely noted that it was already dark outside. Time seemed to escape too quickly when I was spending time with Jazz.

As soon as I got a good view of the park, I wanted to leave immediately. Laurent was leaning against the fence, smoking a cigarette. Trying to look badass and failing miserably.

He grinned and called, "Cullen, c'mere!" I glanced at Jasper to see if it was alright. He shrugged and took a seat on the nearest bench.

I tried to walk as slowly as possible, even though I probably looked like I was limping. I just hated the bastard.

"What's up?" he asked casually. "Cigarette?" He held up the small white box and a lighter.

I wrinkled my nose. "No, thanks. What are you doing here?"

Laurent snorted, an ugly sound that made me want to recoil. "What are you doing here?"

"Walking," I said tersely.

He leered at me and hummed thoughtfully.

"What?" I asked, getting aggravated.

He laughed and blew smoke in my face. I suppressed the urge to rip his head off.

"Well," he explained, "it just fits."

I sighed impatiently. "What does?"

"That you'd be with Whitlock. At night."

I stared blankly, wondering what the hell he was getting at, and he huffed. "Night. In the dark."

"Still not following."

Somehow, he appeared pleased that I didn't understand, as if expecting me to suddenly put the pieces together.

"Eddie," he warned, "I'd watch out for that kid if I were you."

I crossed my arms and glared. "Why?"

"Dude are you blind?" he asked, astounded. Laurent began laughing again. He choked out, "He's such a fuckin' faggot."

I stood there for a moment, confused. But then it clicked: he called Jasper a faggot.

Before I could question whether or not I was overreacting, my knuckled burned as they made contact with Laurent's nose. It was a satisfying burn, especially how I felt the cartilage break underneath my fist. I wanted to kill the asshole, make him suffer from the red fury swirling in my chest.

"Don't fucking call him that," I growled furiously in his face. My left forearm pinned him to the fence and my eyes met his with a barely-concealed promise of a threat.

Laurent's eyes were wide, his jaw was slack, and his fingers gingerly touched his nose. It was bleeding heavily, I observed with morbid gratification.

"Alright, alright," he said immediately in a panicked voice. "Look, I mean, it's just that—"

"Shut the hell up and get out of here," I said in a much calmer voice, though rage was still clawing at my chest. What I really wanted to do was make him hurt worse than he could've hurt Jasper if he'd happened to hear our conversation. Make him hurt worse than he could ever hurt anyone in his life.

He winced and stopped backpedaling, for which I was thankful. I'd just begun to notice how much my hand hurt. I was not running on pure adrenaline anymore, after all.

I snarled a few obscenities for good measure as his short, stubby legs sprinted off. I really liked that I'd scared him. He wasn't much of a threat—at least half a foot shorter than me with a small, awkwardly out-of-proportion build. He relied on his friends to get him in and out of trouble. They were the ones who posed the real threat. But they weren't here and I didn't really fucking care what they'd do next.

I took a moment to gather my thoughts. Alright, so even though it was a complete overreaction, the douchebag deserved it.

Then I heard a strange spluttering noise behind me and remembered that Jasper was still there. He looked like he didn't know whether to punch, interrogate, or congratulate me. I sighed and absently pulled at my hair, not giving two shits that it probably would look worse than before.

And Jasper would have a couple questions. I wasn't sure if I wanted to answer them.

He would surely want to know what possessed me to do such a stupid and reckless thing; I had no response. He'd want to ask me what he said to deserve a broken nose; I wouldn't answer that one, either.

The only reason I knew those things was because I'd known Jasper since kindergarten. I knew him like he didn't know himself. Jesus, sometimes I thought I could read his mind.

I looked tentatively over at him as he shook his head and opened his mouth—a second later, it clamped shut. He started again.

"How—I mean…Edward, what the…why would you—"

"I don't know," I said, cutting him off briskly. I sat beside him and pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. Suddenly, I had a headache and it was excruciating. "He was pissing me off."

"What the fuck did he do?" he asked in strained wonderment.

I offered a small smile, refusing to respond. He thankfully didn't push it.

We walked back home in the dark. I found myself unwillingly wondering if there was any truth to what Laurent had said.