Disclaimer: Twilight is not mine but Violet, her family, Caleb, and Amy are!

A/N: Ermmmm....my teachers have a secret plan to kill me? I've had something going on every weekend since I posted last? My writing has went into hibernation due to the unnaturally cold weather we're having here in Florida? (Global warming, my butt...Although, I do suppose it's called climate change now.) Who am I kidding...there's no excuse for the wait. Nor (nor???? Side note: I often use words completely incorrectly while speaking, so I'm always second-guessing myself. Not sure why but it is a source of hilarity) is there an excuse for not replying to any of my 20+ reviews....Thanks for reviewing even though I'm lower than dirt.

I did get nominated for the Pup and Leech awards, so whoever nominated me and voted deserves about three pans worth of my mother's lemon bars (or whichever tasty treat you'd prefer :-] )

For those of you still with me, I'm sooooo SORRY that you had to put up with the wait. Thanks to QUEENOFTHEUNICORNS for pulling my head out of my butt.

THIS CHAPTER HAS NOT BEEN BETA'd. I haven't even read it over completely. I know. I really suck. I'm going to be out of town in thirty minutes or so and I want to get this out. If you'd like to read something that's, you know, halfway decent, wait till next week. I will have it beta'd by my amazing betas. For those of you who don't care, if I make any plot changes, I'll let you know.

Dedications:

For those of you readers who have been close to someone with cancer and for my grandmother, Sunni, who died of brain cancer in October, 2001.

Gone but not forgotten: Tracy D. (summer, 2009), Graham Murphy (December 14th, 2002), Irmgard (February, 2009), Herm S. (Diagnosed: October, 2008; Passed away: December, 2008), Granny Dorsett (March, 2009), Jezebel (May 3, 2008), D.J. Farrar (January, 2003), Maragaret Devonshire (2004), Joe Kirby, Patrick Swayze (September 14, 2009), Marie G (January 6, 2009), Cecelia S. (January 2008), Ron (February 6, 2008), Grammy Carroll (November 15, 2009)

Chapter Ten

"All life is an experiment."

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Violet

Her birthday would have passed unnoticed if it hadn't been for Collin. He'd given her a badly wrapped package that she had torn open to find an exquisite locket, detailed with tiny flowers and threaded onto a gold chain as thin and delicate as a spider's web. Inside, though, was where Violet found the real treasure. Collin had inserted on one side a crude sketch of a tan wolf with deep eyes and on the other, a picture of a violet. It was her only birthday present that year, but Violet thought it was the best gift she'd ever received.

The gift hung around Violet's neck now, as she approached her counseling appointment. Apparently, the hospital provided professional therapists for patients and their families, and although she hadn't particularly felt like she needed one, it would be nice to talk to someone. She'd been appointed Michael Weston in room one eighteen. She reached out to knock on the blue door.

Sophie

Sophie glared up at the ceiling, absolutely and completely hating him. That Seth kid. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him upon her eyelids, his bizarre expression tattooed permanently in her mind. The dazed, lost expression in his eyes…

Sophie sat straight up in her bed, struck with sudden determination. She was going to find out what was wrong with Seth. It would be an experiment, and it would keep her mind off Violet. She rolled off her bed and pulled out from under the third plastic bin from the right. Brown leather journals lay inside, fresh and new and full of hope.

Pulling her favorite black pen from its holder, she lay on her bed, opening the first page and writing:

Subject's last name:

Sophie gnawed on her lip. She didn't know what his last name was. She sighed, hating to leave a section blank and moved on.

Subject's first name: Seth

Gender: Male

Purpose: To discover what is wrong with the subject…either mentally or physically.

Proposed course of action: Observe subject at the Seattle Children's Hospital and in his natural surroundings (i.e. the Quileute Reservation)

Difficulties: Need justification for visiting the Quileute Reservation.

Sophie flipped the page after writing the date, April twenty-first, in the top corner. On the fresh page, she put the date she'd seen Seth last, April sixteenth, and wrote down her observations from that day.

Subject is a Quileute man that seems to be in his early twenties. He seems very in shape, almost over-developed, which leads me to wonder if he's taken steroids. He also isn't wearing a belt. (side note: this should be remedied as soon as possible). All in all, at first sight, he seems quite normal; however, when eye-contact is made, his pupils dilate and his face goes slack. He seems to be caught in some sort of day dream. Once again, this leads me to believe that the subject is taking drugs. For the rest of our contact, the subject—

There was a knock on the door. Sighing and closing her journal, Sophie went to go answer the door. She was shocked to find Seth standing on her doormat, his hands shoved in his pockets and a nervous expression twisting his face.

Sophie felt her eyebrows climb her forehead. How ironic, she thought, and creepy. "What are you doing here?" she asked coldly, noting again his dazed expression.

He blinked stupidly at her for a second as if surprised she had even opened the door. "Erm….crap….because…because," he glanced at the ceiling as if it held the answer.

Sophie sighed and shut the door in his face. Then, she remembered something. She quickly opened the door and asked, "What's your last name?"

Seth looked taken aback. "Clearwater."

"Have you taken any drugs in the past twenty-four hours?"

"What?" he spluttered. "No!"

"Forty-eight?"

"No, I don't take any drugs."

"Of course," she said with a bright, fake smile, slamming the door in his stunned face.

To her surprise, she began to giggle. She hadn't giggled since she was…seven. At that thought, she stopped immediately, raising her hand to trace the rough curve of her chapped lips with wonder. She'd known this investigation would provide entertainment.

There was another knock on the door. After counting to thirty, she opened it. "Yes?"

Seth stood there, a secret smile gracing his lips. All traces of his previous disorientation were gone. "I'm supposed to pick something up for Violet."

"What?"

"Her makeup," he said, not missing a beat.

Sophie was confused by the complete turnaround in his behavior. "Oh…okay."

He grinned at her, and her stomach lurched curiously. "Well, come in," she said softly. Her fists clenched and unclenched uncomfortably. She loathed uncertainty.

As they walked up the stairs, Seth asked, "So tell me about yourself. What do you enjoy doing?"

Sophie gnawed on her thumb nail. Would it make the experiment go more smoothly if Seth thought she weren't strange? "Observing the television," she finally blurted out, the lie flying out awkwardly around her thumb. She groaned internally, cursing her tendency to spit out unwieldy phraseology when she was under pressure.

Seth paused on the steps for a second, his eyes seeming to cut through her deceit and peel away her skin and bones and all her physical ties to earth until all that was left was her very soul, delicate, fragile, and naked for him to see. His brows narrowed infinitesimally. "If you say so," he said.

Sophie's skin burned under his gaze. How had he done this? How had he managed to her strip away in ten seconds the armor she had built since the first day of elementary school? She hated him. She stomped up the stairs then, as if forgetting something, stamped back down to halt in front of Seth, glaring. It was almost a humorous image: a thirteen year old girl, face red, fist clenched, eyes murderous, staring up at a man twice her size, albeit a gentle one.

"Can't you wear a belt?" she fumed. Her pubescent mood swings were giving even her whiplash.

Seth raised his eyebrows. "Would you like me to?"

"Yes!" she snapped. Whatever happened to mature, Sophie? she thought to herself.

"Okay," he said placidly.

"That's it?! That's all you're going to say? Don't you have a sense of personal pride? Of expression?"

"It's just a belt. If it bothers you that much, I don't mind," Seth answered.

Sophie harrumphed, going into the guest room and grabbing one of Max's studded belts. "Here," she said gruffly.

They made their way into Violet's room, and Sophie grabbed Violet's makeup bag from under the sink. Seth reached for it, saying thanks, but Sophie pulled back at the last second. "Why are you really here?" she asked.

"What do you enjoy doing?" Seth shot back.

Sophie glared. "I enjoy reading."

He grabbed the makeup bag out of her hand. "Thanks."

Sophie's mouth popped open. "You didn't answer my question!"

Seth shrugged, walking down the stairs. "Never said I would. Bye, Sophie. See you later."

"In your dreams!"

Michael Weston

Michael Weston never signed up for this. Sure, he had majored in psychology, and yes, he had wanted to be a counselor for children. It was the children with cancer thing that caught him up. Admittedly, his first patient was seventeen and apparently had a high chance of recovery, but still, what the hell was he supposed to do if she died?

Why couldn't he have just listened to his mom and became an accountant?

There was a knock on the door. Michael quickly straightened up in his seat, pulling out his notebook and glancing one more time at the name at the top of his file.

Violet.

"Come in," he called, pulling at his hair nervously. I can do this.

The door opened slowly and Violet walked in. She was bony and her hair was thinning, but Michael could tell that she'd been quite beautiful before she'd started chemo. She smiled at him softly and said, "Hi, I'm Violet. It's nice to meet you."

"Erm, hello," he said. "I'm Michael Weston. If you would just…" He gestured to the couch.

She sat down, crossing her legs and staring down at her fingernails.

What to do next? He thought frantically, shuffling through his files. "So you were diagnosed with leukemia two and a half weeks ago?" he asked, stalling. It was as if everything he'd learned disappeared out of his head.

"Yes," Violet murmured, averting her eyes.

Just remind her of the day she found out she had cancer, why don't you?

He groaned. "Look, I'm sorry but this is my first day, and I can't remember anything." He hung his head in defeat. "I'm sorry. If you just want to talk…"

Violet gave a small smile. "That's perfect."

"Well, start from the beginning then."

"…and my hair started falling out the day before last. I'll probably be bald tomorrow and have to wear a stupid wig. My birthday was this week…and I'm just, I'm just worried about Collin."

"Your boyfriend?" Michael Weston asked.

"Yes. I don't—I don't want him to be stuck with me. He makes me so happy, and I love him, but I'm just, no good for him like this."

Michael grimaced. "Look, Violet, I can tell you, as a man that's had girlfriends before, that Collin wouldn't be with you if he didn't want to be."

"But he has to be with me!" Violet argued, her eyes tearing up.

"No one has to do anything, Violet," he said. "If I know anything…it's that. Collin knows what he's gotten into."

"That's exactly it! He does have to be with me. He's probably forced to love me! It's just something his kind does! The only reason I don't question it is because without him I don't know how I'd survive this." Violet was sobbing now.

Michael, to say the least, was confused. Violet hadn't struck him as arrogant before, humble actually, but she thought someone had to love her? Maybe she was delusional? "Violet, what are you talking about? His kind?"

"Michael," Violet breathed, looking up at him, "this is all confidential, right?"

He nodded mutely.

"So what if I said something a little crazy? Could you just ignore it for a girl who may be dying of cancer?"

Michael tilted his head. What? "Technically, yes…but, Violet, what do you mean?"

Violet laughed harshly. "Michael, Collin's a werewolf." And with that she stood up and rushed out the door.

He watched her go with disbelief. He just had to the one kid here that was crazy, too.

A/N: From this point forward, for any inaccurate info, I'm calling artistic leeway...sorry, guys, it's just getting too hard.

For those of you left: Please review!!!! They make me write faster! Have you ever had to see a counselor? I did for anxiety problems. Hated the woman. Anyone attacked with a crackle advertisement at my story? I was... It was so annoying.