Until the Moon Burns

I was tempted to hurt him, but I refrained-a detention or being called into any offices wasn’t on my to-do list. I had other things to do-like polish my Audi.
The vampire was out faster than me; he seemed to stand up a millisecond before the bell went. I groaned. Super speed-one of the perks of eternal damnation. Being near vampires had made me grateful I could die. How awful, how frustrating it must be for them, I thought. Never allowed to die, yet never truly alive.
I weaved in and out of the students, many people stared, but I had anticipated that-new girl, gossip, new things to talk about. Life here must have been pretty boring if I was the topic at lunch.
I caught up with him, not without difficulty, and he slowed down a tiny fraction. I kept up, shocking him and myself-I saw the surprise in his coal black eyes. I tried not to get my heartbeat up because I knew he would hear the change and he would have been able to see the pulse in my neck, but it was hard, he was just so seamlessly quick.
“You were very rude in French,” I told him, striking up a conversation. As I had thought, I got no reply again. What else could I ask? I thought quickly, ask him his name? No, I could find that out too easily. He could give it to me, (or refuse to, perfectly justifiable) and then leave. It was vital to find out more about him. I needed to know if I was safe, if he was thirsty.
And on the plus side, his beauty was beyond words.
“I need your help,” I finally said.
Damsel in distress. Who could resist? Getting to know the new girl. That was cool, right?
He stopped, turning slowly to meet me. I glanced at his French book, and read his name. Edward Cullen, written in perfect, flawless italic. It fitted him beautifully, such a classic, handsome name.
He was so perfect. The angles of his cheekbones, the smooth, white surface of his marble skin, his strong, muscular-looking arms, strong jaw line, all of him fitted together perfectly, like a human jigsaw. It was obvious even before he was a vampire, (who knows how old he was. 50? 70? 170?) he had been incredibly good-looking. His black eyes locked with mine, and I was suddenly extremely aware of how shabby I looked. Big, wavy hair that was probably a state, hardly any-makeup on, and my clothes? Why hadn’t I made a bigger effort? It was my first day, after all, I should have made an effort. I hated myself at that moment-weirdly; I even regretted wearing my old red Converse. Embarrassed, I looked away, but not for long. I glanced back at him, and he nodded. I took that as my cue to continue, so I thought fast.