In the Debris by Believitornot

In the debris by BelieveItOrNot

A story of unlikely friends, a story of family, a search for truth and a search of self. "She's everyone else's Isabella, but she's only my Bella." "I write a poem about a boy and girl who fall in love in the eye of a tornado." AH E/B V/J

I love this story. No, you don't understand. I looooove it. Every word, every chapter, every character, every scene. Love. Love. Love.

In the Debris follows two separate characters: Edward and Victoria. Their voices are very different as are their lives. In fact, when reading each POV, you feel as if you're reading two separate stories, yet they collide. Sometimes I loved it, and sometimes I hated it. But only because I wanted to keep reading one person's story.

Edward's mother has passed away. Shortly after her death, his father, Carlisle (a big,fat jerk!), married his mistress. His family life is not good. Edward realized with his mother's passing that his own life was out of control, that he wasn't being the man she wanted him to be, so he changed. Over the summer he avoided his friends, his usual activities and became a recluse, except for hanging out with his brother, Max, who's thirteen (and freaking adorable). I think Max should be voted best original character, in my opinion, but no one listens to me.

Once Edward's in school he realizes quickly that his friends are not too happy with his transformation, but he doesn't care. He mostly ignores them and does his own thing, though he does listen to the ramblings from his classmates about new move-in Isabella Swan.

Enter Isabella. Isabella is a natural remedies, artsy, photographing, fun-loving, family girl. And she knows things about Edward. At least, she's heard things. But those things, while true, are not true anymore. And thank you to BeleiveItOrNot for not making us suffer through his awful past and allowing us to basque in his new sweet, genuine self. That was so, so refreshing.

Meet Isabella . . .

A glance to my left has me doing a double-take. There, sitting on a boulder under the bridge, with her nose in a book, is Isabella. Even from here I can tell it's no textbook she's reading. It's a novel. Curious about what it is, I head over there, wiping my wet hands off on my jeans. She doesn't notice me approaching over the rocks, she's so absorbed.

She jumps when I ask what she's reading and shoots me the most worried look, as if she's been caught breaking the law. I wonder for a second if she has a joint hidden in those pages.

The look on her face turns into a reluctant sort of acceptance. Maybe it's just me she's disappointed in seeing. She flashes the cover of her book at me.

"That isn't for school."

"No, they're reading Moby Dick. Read it last year."

"So, how are you finding Raskolnikov?" I ask in a mock voice of sophistication.

Her eyes widen and it's not my imagination when their color lightens. "You've read it?"

"Don't hide your shock or anything."

One hand covers her eyes, while the other one appears to involuntarily hold her place in the book. I notice she's not wearing her bracelets, and also that she's dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt that looks big enough for a man. "Of course you've read it. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She spreads two fingers that are covering her eyes and peeks through. It's cute and I try not to smile. "I mean, what student at Forks High hasn't?"

"I guess I get your shock. It's probably the same reason I came over here when I saw you reading."

"Because I'm reading?"

"By choice, it looks like. Why here?"

"I live right up there." She points up the hill to the brick house, next door to Mrs. Makenna's. "I like it under this bridge. I can stay out here even if it rains."

In the sky only three white clouds are in sight; we'll be rain-free for a while.

"Wait. What I'm doing here makes total sense. Why are you here? Don't you live in some forest-hidden mansion?"

"What else have you heard about me?" I squat down beside her so she doesn't have to squint to look at me.

"Sounds like your dad might be Dr. Frankenstein or Dr. Jekyll. Somebody told me your roof gets struck by lightning once a year."

I laugh at that.

"But I've also been told that I have to go to one of your parties. Nobody throws parties like you do."

I shrug. She'll be waiting a long time if she's expecting me to throw a party.

"So, why are you here?"

"I mow your neighbor's lawn."

Now she's the one who laughs. "You what? You, the richest guy in Forks, mows lawns?"

"That's cool," I say, not laughing. I don't bother telling her why I do it. I look out at the creek. It's a narrow one, and pretty still. It barely makes a sound at all; it's maybe the sound of a dog taking a piss or something.
"Don't pretend to be insulted. I may not know you, know you, but I already know you better than that."

"You think you know me. Enjoy your book, Isabella. Tell Rodya hello for me." I head back up toward the street.

"Hey," she says, "If I really did hurt your feelings, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

I nod, leave her wondering.

I am pissed, not so much by what she said, but by allowing myself to think for a minute that she might be different. But no, she makes assumptions about who I am based on my family's money just like everyone else.

At the top of the hill, I glance back at her, under the bridge, rifling through her bag. She did apologize, though, and that's something that would never cross the minds of most of the others in this town.

I still can't get a read on her. I shake my head, no reason to care so much.

I start to my car when I hear her call my name. I look back and she shouts for me to come on over for a drink the next time I mow the old widow's lawn. "We'll talk some more about Dostoevsky… or whatever!"

"Hot and cold," I say.

"What?" she shouts.

"You're hot and cold," I say, louder.

She throws her arms out at her side, camera in hand, and shrugs. Then her camera's in front of her face, she's bending slightly forward, and I know she's taking my picture.

She's nuts.

"I'm thirsty, now," I shout at her.

"Come on, then." She slips her camera into her bag and gives a big motion to me with her arm. I start back down the hill, checking my watch. There's still time before I have to get Max.

"What will the caption say under that picture?" I ask, following her through weeds toward her house.

"I don't know yet." She brings a finger to her mouth in thought. I think she might be as confused about me as I am about her.

"Why do you mow her lawn?" We're walking through the garden, up brick patio steps and through the back slider into the kitchen. I wipe dirt off my feet before entering.

"If I don't, she will."

It's a small enough kitchen that it would've driven my mother crazy, but in real perspective it's probably average size, bigger than the one in the pool house, anyway.

"It's nice that you do that for her. I think I might've been wrong about you." She drapes her bag over the back of a chair. The bag sags heavily, seams tearing on the straps. How many cameras does she have in there?

"Maybe." I don't tell her that she's not the only one who's suspected being wrong about me lately.

She pulls a lemon off the top of a basket of fruit and starts slicing it. When she fills my glass of water she slips a slice on top. "It's to rejuvenate you. Try it."

Edward is fantastically honest in this fic, and while it takes he and Isabella a while to get to know each other, once they do, they don't play games. And they are awesome together. As Edward says, Bella is awesome. Those are his words. For real. 

She carries his guilt for him, gives him celery to stop his tears, lavender to make wishes, and hugs because he doesn't have them. Yeah. Awesome.

This is awesome, too.

"You called him 'Sir.'" She starts laughing harder and at my expense. I stop laughing.

"I've never had to address a girlfriend's dad before."

With hands on my shoulders, she brings her lips to mine. "It was perfect."

As we kiss, I stand up so I can wrap my arms around her, feel her closer.

"What if he comes back?" I ask against her throat.

Her body kind of shivers, I think because of my mouth and breath brushing her skin. "Then you'll probably have to leave."

Her hand is sneaking under my shirt to my abdomen. "I love this bit of hair on your stomach." She tickles me there.

"Bella." I smile.

"What? You like?" She does it again.

I nod. "I like."

She tilts her head to the side. "Say my name against my neck."

I bring my mouth to the skin she's offering me. "Which name?"

"It doesn't matter." A quiver runs through the words.

"Bella, Isabella," I whisper. She's melting against me. I hold her up. "It's really good to know about this neck weakness. Really good."

"Mmm." It isn't much more than a sigh.

This is pretty much the sexiest thing I've ever experienced fully dressed or not, and I'm doing it to her. My hips want to push into hers and they will. They will. But not yet.

"Have I told you that I think you're beautiful?" I ask. "Because I do. You're really beautiful."

"Your eyes are closed," she says, her voice losing strength as she speaks. Even though my mouth is still on her neck and I couldn't see her even if my eyes were open, I play with her.

"I've memorized your face."

"You're beautiful, too," she whispers.

"Your eyes are closed."

"No, they aren't."

I lift my head and what I see makes me laugh. They are closed.

Our mouths meet again.

I know you think that's enough awesome, but wait there's more! Have you forgotten about Victoria? She is a poet, a free thinker, and lover of deep thoughts and fantasy. She sees everything differently, she loves, and she fears. 

James is her best friend and has been for a long time. He earned that place. See . . .

I remember the first poem I wrote about James. It was the night we decided to become friends.

It was a sporadically rainy, wind-blown and leafy Halloween. We were in seventh grade, and I had just entered the beginning of my years of ridicule, the beginning of seeing Lauren for the person she really is. I must not have quite believed it yet, when she invited me to her party, telling me to wear a pretty costume.

"You're so pretty," she said over the phone. "Make sure you play that up."

My aunt went shopping with me and helped me pick out a fairy costume. I had blue wings that sparkled and I added matching sparkles to my face. I wore a layered iridescent pixie skirt and silver shoes. My hair curled over my shoulders, and I did feel pretty.

But at the party, I was the only one there in a costume. People stared, they pointed, they laughed into their hands. I wanted to run out; maybe I should have. I searched for Lauren. I would ask her why she didn't tell me the costume part of the party had been cancelled. When I found her in the kitchen, I got my answer.

"Why, Victoria! I was sure you'd come dressed as a clown. You wouldn't even need a wig." Her smile and voice were honey and moonbeams, while her words were lightning strikes, and her laughter was the cackle of a witch.

More laughter brewed around me as I headed toward the door. Words that cut left the mouths of many; I covered my ears.

Out front, I sat on the porch, the tulle of my dress scratching at my legs through my tights. My head fell into my hands. I had no idea where to go or what to do - too mortified to call my aunt already, who'd just dropped me off.

"I like your costume," said a boy from behind me. His voice sounded newly deepened, like he was just trying it on for size, but it didn't quite fit.

"Really funny." I wiped at my tears. "Ha, ha. Have a good laugh."

"Who cares if you're the only one in a costume? It's Halloween."

"James," I said, looking up at him. I knew him, of course, though we'd never had one class together. "This is a stupid party."

"Lame." He nodded. "Why are we here?"

"I'm waiting for my aunt to come back. I can't call her and tell her I was the joke of the party."

He sat beside me, our legs touching. He was so skinny back then, scrawny. "Know who I think is the joke of the party? Lauren."

Trick-r-treating kids were running toward us, up the path to Lauren's house. I got up and started walking home. Nine blocks wasn't too far, I tried to tell myself, though I was already shivering. I could feel James beside me.

Rain started in again, small slow drops for now. Leaves ahead of us stopped crunching under our feet and started squishing instead.

Crossing Sycamore Street, I said, "I don't think I have any friends anymore." I picked up a wet leaf and twirled it back and forth in my fingers. It sagged and I let it go, wet and dropping heavily to the ground. I made up a poem in my head about heavy leaves. Heavy as rocks. You could throw them at someone and they would cause injuries. The wind called me a liar when it blew hard enough to rattle the wet leaves, so unlike rocks. I liked my poem anyway and would write it down when I got home.

On Maple Drive, as we passed more screaming kids in costumes, James said he would be my friend.

"But you're a boy."

He stopped and I turned back. "Does that make me diseased?"

"No." I smiled.

The rain had stopped. With the next rush of wind at my face and leaves at my feet, I thought that maybe James was making fun of me. Maybe this was all part of the joke.

"Prove we're friends, Boy."

"How?"

I pulled my wings off, my shoulders happy to be free of the cutting elastic straps. "Wear these."

He put them on, laughing, and wore them all the way to my house. He even pulled me by my wrist to trick-r-treat at a few homes. Then, with three pieces of candy fisted in my palm, I knew I could trust him. He wore the wings just to cheer me up, and didn't care when the people answering doors laughed at him. The wings bobbed on his back and I made up another poem about boy fairies, glittery-winged creatures with rockstar hair. They lived inside tree branches, and these boy fairies were the reason why rock-solid leaves crunched under feet. If it wasn't for these fairies, leaves would hurt us all when they fell from trees like boulders. They would damage cars.

James and I wouldn't see each other much at school. We had different lunch hours - I sat alone, feeling eyes aimed at the new town crack baby. I wrote poems at my table, in my poetry book that locked. Never would I share my poetry with anyone.

At the lunch table, hunched over my book, I wrote a poem about a boy and girl of the night. They were only alive then. In the day they were dead, black-lipped corpses, but in the dark, all the colors of the world were in them.

James and I were nighttime friends long before we became daytime or all-the-time friends. For now, at thirteen, the night, cold and damp and soggy-leafed, was our time.

She loves James, but she does't know what to do about that. Because they are nothing more than best friends.

Enter Edward. Wait? What? Just listen. Edward is different now, and Victoria's always been different because of her strung out mother. (She lives with her aunt and uncle and doesn't know where her drugged out mom is.) She doesn't have anyone to talk to, and Edward offers an ear. They become friends. And I promise that's it. Sort of, but it's fine. I promise!

Edward helps Victoria sort out her feelings. Victoria becomes friends with Bella and helps her sort out her feelings. And James and Edward become friends and sort out something manly and worthy of a good action sequence in a movie. It's all good. 

Victoria's search for her parentage: her mother and unknown father is the basis of her journey. Her friends support her on her way. they protect her and love her fiercely. 

This fic will make you swoon, laugh, cry, want to hurt someone, and sigh from the actual beauty of the writing. Victoria's a poet and Bella'a a photographer, but all I see are BelieveItOrNot's beautiful words. They're more stunning than any photograph or any poem I've ever encountered. Read it. You will not be disappointed. 

Team Jacob safe. 

Medium smut.