My mother drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down. Itwasseventy-five degrees in Phoenix, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. Iwaswearing my favorite shirt — sleeveless, white eyelet lace; I waswearingit as a farewell gesture. My carry-on item was a parka.
In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, a smalltownnamed Forks exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. It rainsonthis inconsequential town more than any other place in the UnitedStatesof America. It was from this town and its gloomy, omnipresentshade thatmy mother escaped with me when I was only a few months old. Itwas inthis town that I'd been compelled to spend a month every summeruntil Iwas fourteen. That was the year I finally put my foot down; thesepastthree summers, my dad, Charlie, vacationed with me in Californiafor twoweeks instead.
It was to Forks that I now exiled myself— an action that I took withgreat horror. I detested Forks.
I loved Phoenix. I loved the sun and the blistering heat. I loved thevigorous, sprawling city.
"Bella," my mom said to me — the last of a thousand times — before Igoton the plane. "You don't have to do this."My mom looks like me,except with short hair and laugh lines. I felt aspasm of panic as Istared at her wide, childlike eyes. How could I leavemy loving, erratic,harebrained mother to fend for herself? Of course shehad Phil now, sothe bills would probably get paid, there would be foodin therefrigerator, gas in her car, and someone to call when she gotlost, butstill…"I want to go," I lied. I'd always been a bad liar, but I'd beensayingthis lie so frequently lately that it sounded almost convincingnow.
"Tell Charlie I said hi.""I will.""I'll see you soon," sheinsisted. "You can come home whenever you want —I'll come right back assoon as you need me."But I could see the sacrifice in her eyes behindthe promise.
"Don't worry about me," I urged. "It'll be great. I love you,Mom."She hugged me tightly for a minute, and then I got on the plane,and shewas gone.
It's a four-hour flight from Phoenix to Seattle, another hour in asmallplane up to Port Angeles, and then an hour drive back down toForks.
Flying doesn't bother me; the hour in the car with Charlie, though, I wasa little worried about.
Charlie had really been fairly nice about the whole thing. Heseemedgenuinely pleased that I was coming to live with him for the firsttimewith any degree of permanence. He'd already gotten me registeredfor highschool and was going to help me get a car.
But it was sure to be awkward with Charlie. Neither of us was whatanyonewould call verbose, and I didn't know what there was to sayregardless. Iknew he was more than a little confused by my decision —like my motherbefore me, I hadn't made a secret of my distaste forForks.
When I landed in Port Angeles, it was raining. I didn't see it asan omen— just unavoidable. I'd already said my goodbyes to the sun.
Charlie was waiting for me with the cruiser. This I was expecting, too.
Charlie is Police Chief Swan to the good people of Forks. Myprimarymotivation behind buying a car, despite the scarcity of my funds,wasthat I refused to be driven around town in a car with red and bluelightson top. Nothing slows down traffic like a cop.
Charlie gave me an awkward, one-armed hug when I stumbled my way off theplane.
"It's good to see you, Bells," he said, smiling as heautomaticallycaught and steadied me. "You haven't changed much. How'sRenée?""Mom's fine. It's good to see you, too, Dad." I wasn't allowed tocallhim Charlie to his face.
I had only a few bags. Most of my Arizona clothes were toopermeable forWashington. My mom and I had pooled our resources tosupplement my winterwardrobe, but it was still scanty. It all fit easilyinto the trunk ofthe cruiser.
"I found a good car for you, really cheap," he announced when we werestrapped in.
"What kind of car?" I was suspicious of the way he said "good carforyou" as opposed to just "good car.""Well, it's a truck actually, aChevy.""Where did you find it?""Do you remember Billy Black down at LaPush?" La Push is the tiny Indianreservation on the coast.
"No.""He used to go fishing with us during the summer," Charlie prompted.
That would explain why I didn't remember him. I do a good job of blockingpainful, unnecessary things from my memory.
"He's in a wheelchair now," Charlie continued when I didn'trespond, "sohe can't drive anymore, and he offered to sell me his truckcheap.""What year is it?" I could see from his change of expression thatthiswas the question he was hoping I wouldn't ask.
"Well, Billy's done a lot of work on the engine — it's only a fewyearsold, really."I hoped he didn't think so little of me as to believe Iwould give upthat easily. "When did he buy it?""He bought it in 1984, Ithink.""Did he buy it new?""Well, no. I think it was new in the earlysixties — or late fifties atthe earliest," he admitted sheepishly.
"Ch — Dad, I don't really know anything about cars. I wouldn't beable tofix it if anything went wrong, and I couldn't afford amechanic…""Really, Bella, the thing runs great. They don't build themlike thatanymore."The thing, I thought to myself… it had possibilities —as a nickname, atthe very least.
"How cheap is cheap?" After all, that was the part I couldn't compromiseon.
"Well, honey, I kind of already bought it for you. As a homecominggift."Charlie peeked sideways at me with a hopeful expression.
Wow. Free.
"You didn't need to do that, Dad. I was going to buy myself acar.""I don't mind. I want you to be happy here." He was looking aheadat theroad when he said this. Charlie wasn't comfortable with expressinghisemotions out loud. I inherited that from him. So I was lookingstraightahead as I responded.
"That's really nice, Dad. Thanks. I really appreciate it." No needto addthat my being happy in Forks is an impossibility. He didn't needtosuffer along with me. And I never looked a free truck in the mouth —orengine.
"Well, now, you're welcome," he mumbled, embarrassed by my thanks.
We exchanged a few more comments on the weather, which was wet, andthatwas pretty much it for Conversation. We stared out the windows insilence.
It was beautiful, of course; I couldn't deny that. Everything was green:
the trees, their trunks covered with moss, their branches hangingwith acanopy of it, the ground covered with ferns. Even the air filtereddowngreenly through the leaves.
It was too green — an alien planet.
Eventually we made it to Charlie's. He still lived in thesmall,two-bedroom house that he'd bought with my mother in the earlydays oftheir marriage. Those were the only kind of days their marriagehad — theearly ones. There, parked on the street in front of the housethat neverchanged, was my new — well, new to me — truck. It was a fadedred color,with big, rounded fenders and a bulbous cab. To my intensesurprise, Iloved it. I didn't know if it would run, but I could seemyself in it.
Plus, it was one of those solid iron affairs that never getsdamaged —the kind you see at the scene of an accident, paintunscratched,surrounded by the pieces of the foreign car it haddestroyed.
"Wow, Dad, I love it! Thanks!" Now my horrific day tomorrow wouldbe justthat much less dreadful. I wouldn't be faced with the choice ofeitherwalking two miles in the rain to school or accepting a ride intheChief's cruiser.
"I'm glad you like it," Charlie said gruffly, embarrassed again.
It took only one trip to get all my stuff upstairs. I got thewestbedroom that faced out over the front yard. The room was familiar;it hadbeen belonged to me since I was born. The wooden floor, the lightbluewalls, the peaked ceiling, the yellowed lace curtains around thewindow —these were all a part of my childhood. The only changes Charliehad evermade were switching the crib for a bed and adding a desk as Igrew. Thedesk now held a secondhand computer, with the phone line forthe modemstapled along the floor to the nearest phone jack. This was astipulationfrom my mother, so that we could stay in touch easily. Therocking chairfrom my baby days was still in the corner.
There was only one small bathroom at the top of the stairs, which Iwouldhave to share with Charlie. I was trying not to dwell too much onthatfact.
One of the best things about Charlie is he doesn't hover. He leftmealone to unpack and get settled, a feat that would have beenaltogetherimpossible for my mother. It was nice to be alone, not to haveto smileand look pleased; a relief to stare dejectedly out the windowat thesheeting rain and let just a few tears escape. I wasn't in themood to goon a real crying jag. I would save that for bedtime, when Iwould have tothink about the coming morning.
Forks High School had a frightening total of only three hundredandfifty-seven — now fifty-eight — students; there were more thansevenhundred people in my junior class alone back home. All of the kidsherehad grown up together — their grandparents had been toddlerstogether.
I would be the new girl from the big city, a curiosity, a freak.
Maybe, if I looked like a girl from Phoenix should, I could workthis tomy advantage. But physically, I'd never fit in anywhere. Ishould be tan,sporty, blond — a volleyball player, or a cheerleader,perhaps — all thethings that go with living in the valley of the sun.
Instead, I was ivory-skinned, without even the excuse of blue eyesor redhair, despite the constant sunshine. I had always been slender,but softsomehow, obviously not an athlete; I didn't have the necessaryhand-eyecoordination to play sports without humiliating myself — andharming bothmyself and anyone else who stood too close.
When I finished putting my clothes in the old pine dresser, I tookmy bagof bathroom necessities and went to the communal bathroom to cleanmyselfup after the day of travel. I looked at my face in the mirror asIbrushed through my tangled, damp hair. Maybe it was the light,butalready I looked sallower, unhealthy. My skin could be pretty — itwasvery clear, almost translucent-looking — but it all depended oncolor. Ihad no color here.
Facing my pallid reflection in the mirror, I was forced to admitthat Iwas lying to myself. It wasn't just physically that I'd never fitin. Andif I couldn't find a niche in a school with three thousandpeople, whatwere my chances here?
I didn't relate well to people my age. Maybe the truth was that Ididn'trelate well to people, period. Even my mother, who I was closer tothananyone else on the planet, was never in harmony with me, never onexactlythe same page. Sometimes I wondered if I was seeing the samethingsthrough my eyes that the rest of the world was seeing throughtheirs.
Maybe there was a glitch in my brain. But the cause didn't matter.Allthat mattered was the effect. And tomorrow would be just thebeginning.
I didn't sleep well that night, even after I was done crying.Theconstant whooshing of the rain and wind across the roof wouldn'tfadeinto the background. I pulled the faded old quilt over my head, andlateradded the pillow, too. But I couldn't fall asleep until aftermidnight,when the rain finally settled into a quieter drizzle.
Thick fog was all I could see out my window in the morning, and Icouldfeel the claustrophobia creeping up on me. You could never see theskyhere; it was like a cage.
Breakfast with Charlie was a quiet event. He wished me good luckatschool. I thanked him, knowing his hope was wasted. Good luck tendedtoavoid me. Charlie left first, off to the police station that was hiswifeand family. After he left, I sat at the old square oak table in oneofthe three unmatching chairs and examined his small kitchen, with itsdarkpaneled walls, bright yellow cabinets, and white linoleum floor.Nothingwas changed. My mother had painted the cabinets eighteen yearsago in anattempt to bring some sunshine into the house. Over the smallfireplacein the adjoining handkerchief-sized family room was a row ofpictures.
First a wedding picture of Charlie and my mom in Las Vegas, thenone ofthe three of us in the hospital after I was born, taken by ahelpfulnurse, followed by the procession of my school pictures up tolastyear's. Those were embarrassing to look at — I would have to seewhat Icould do to get Charlie to put them somewhere else, at least whileI wasliving here.
It was impossible, being in this house, not to realize that Charlie hadnever gotten over my mom. It made me uncomfortable.
I didn't want to be too early to school, but I couldn't stay in thehouseanymore. I donned my jacket — which had the feel of a biohazardsuit —and headed out into the rain.
It was just drizzling still, not enough to soak me throughimmediately asI reached for the house key that was always hidden underthe eaves by thedoor, and locked up. The sloshing of my new waterproofboots wasunnerving. I missed the normal crunch of gravel as I walked. Icouldn'tpause and admire my truck again as I wanted; I was in a hurry toget outof the misty wet that swirled around my head and clung to myhair undermy hood.
Inside the truck, it was nice and dry. Either Billy or Charliehadobviously cleaned it up, but the tan upholstered seats stillsmelledfaintly of tobacco, gasoline, and peppermint. The engine startedquickly,to my relief, but loudly, roaring to life and then idling at topvolume.
Well, a truck this old was bound to have a flaw. The antique radioworked, a plus that I hadn't expected.
Finding the school wasn't difficult, though I'd never been there before.
The school was, like most other things, just off the highway. Itwas notobvious that it was a school; only the sign, which declared it tobe theForks High School, made me stop. It looked like a collection ofmatchinghouses, built with maroon-colored bricks. There were so manytrees andshrubs I couldn't see its size at first. Where was the feel oftheinstitution? I wondered nostalgically. Where were the chain-linkfences,the metal detectors?
I parked in front of the first building, which had a small signover thedoor reading front office. No one else was parked there, so Iwas sure itwas off limits, but I decided I would get directions insideinstead ofcircling around in the rain like an idiot. I steppedunwillingly out ofthe toasty truck cab and walked down a little stonepath lined with darkhedges. I took a deep breath before opening thedoor.
Inside, it was brightly lit, and warmer than I'd hoped. The officewassmall; a little waiting area with padded folding chairs,orange-fleckedcommercial carpet, notices and awards cluttering thewalls, a big clockticking loudly. Plants grew everywhere in largeplastic pots, as if therewasn't enough greenery outside. The room wascut in half by a longcounter, cluttered with wire baskets full of papersand brightly coloredflyers taped to its front. There were three desksbehind the counter, oneof which was manned by a large, red-haired womanwearing glasses. She waswearing a purple t-shirt, which immediately mademe feel overdressed.
The red-haired woman looked up. "Can I help you?""I'm IsabellaSwan," I informed her, and saw the immediate awarenesslight her eyes. Iwas expected, a topic of gossip no doubt. Daughter ofthe Chief's flightyex-wife, come home at last.
"Of course," she said. She dug through a precariously stacked pileofdocuments on her desk till she found the ones she was looking for."Ihave your schedule right here, and a map of the school." Shebroughtseveral sheets to the counter to show roe.
She went through my classes for me, highlighting the best route toeachon the map, and gave me a slip to have each teacher sign, which Iwas tobring back at the end of the day. She smiled at me and hoped,likeCharlie, that I would like it here in Forks. I smiled backasconvincingly as I could.
When I went back out to my truck, other students were starting to arrive.
I drove around the school, following the line of traffic. I wasglad tosee that most of the cars were older like mine, nothing flashy.At homeI'd lived in one of the few lower-income neighborhoods that wereincludedin the Paradise Valley District. It was a common thing to see anewMercedes or Porsche in the student lot. The nicest car here was ashinyVolvo, and it stood out. Still, I cut the engine as soon as I wasin aspot, so that the thunderous volume wouldn't draw attention to me.
I looked at the map in the truck, trying to memorize it now;hopefully Iwouldn't have to walk around with it stuck in front of mynose all day. Istuffed everything in my bag, slung the strap over myshoulder, andsucked in a huge breath. I can do this, I lied to myselffeebly. No onewas going to bite me. I finally exhaled and stepped out ofthe truck.
I kept my face pulled back into my hood as I walked to thesidewalk,crowded with teenagers. My plain black jacket didn't stand out,I noticedwith relief.
Once I got around the cafeteria, building three was easy to spot. Alargeblack "3" was painted on a white square on the east corner. Ifelt mybreathing gradually creeping toward hyperventilation as Iapproached thedoor. I tried holding my breath as I followed two unisexraincoatsthrough the door.
The classroom was small. The people in front of me stopped justinsidethe door to hang up their coats on a long row of hooks. I copiedthem.
They were two girls, one a porcelain-colored blonde, the other alsopale,with light brown hair. At least my skin wouldn't be a standouthere.
I took the slip up to the teacher, a tall, balding man whose deskhad anameplate identifying him as Mr. Mason. He gawked at me when he sawmyname — not an encouraging response — and of course I flushed tomatored.
But at least he sent me to an empty desk at the back withoutintroducingme to the class. It was harder for my new classmates to stareat me inthe back, but somehow, they managed. I kept my eyes down on thereadinglist the teacher had given me. It was fairly basic: Bronte,Shakespeare,Chaucer, Faulkner. I'd already read everything. That wascomforting… andboring. I wondered if my mom would send me my folder ofold essays, or ifshe would think that was cheating. I went throughdifferent argumentswith her in my head while the teacher droned on.
When the bell rang, a nasal buzzing sound, a gangly boy withskinproblems and hair black as an oil slick leaned across the aisle totalkto me.
"You're Isabella Swan, aren't you?" He looked like the overly helpful,chess club type.
"Bella," I corrected. Everyone within a three-seat radius turned to lookat me.
"Where's your next class?" he asked.
I had to check in my bag. "Um, Government, with Jefferson, inbuildingsix."There was nowhere to look without meeting curious eyes.
"I'm headed toward building four, I could show you the way…" Definitelyover-helpful. "I'm Eric," he added.
I smiled tentatively. "Thanks."We got our jackets and headed outinto the rain, which had picked up. Icould have sworn several peoplebehind us were walking close enough toeavesdrop. I hoped I wasn'tgetting paranoid.
"So, this is a lot different than Phoenix, huh?" he asked.
"Very.""It doesn't rain much there, does it?""Three or four times a year.""Wow, what must that be like?" he wondered.
"Sunny," I told him.
"You don't look very tan.""My mother is part albino."He studied myface apprehensively, and I sighed. It looked like cloudsand a sense ofhumor didn't mix. A few months of this and I'd forget howto use sarcasm.
We walked back around the cafeteria, to the south buildings by the gym.
Eric walked me right to the door, though it was clearly marked.
"Well, good luck," he said as I touched the handle. "Maybe we'll havesome other classes together." He sounded hopeful.
I smiled at him vaguely and went inside.
The rest of the morning passed in about the same fashion. MyTrigonometryteacher, Mr. Varner, who I would have hated anyway justbecause of thesubject he taught, was the only one who made me stand infront of theclass and introduce myself. I stammered, blushed, andtripped over my ownboots on the way to my seat.
After two classes, I started to recognize several of the faces ineachclass. There was always someone braver than the others whowouldintroduce themselves and ask me questions about how I was likingForks. Itried to be diplomatic, but mostly I just lied a lot. At least Ineverneeded the map.
One girl sat next to me in both Trig and Spanish, and she walkedwith meto the cafeteria for lunch. She was tiny, several inches shorterthan myfive feet four inches, but her wildly curly dark hair made up alot ofthe difference between our heights. I couldn't remember her name,so Ismiled and nodded as she prattled about teachers and classes. Ididn'ttry to keep up.
We sat at the end of a full table with several of her friends, whosheintroduced to me. I forgot all their names as soon as she spoke them.
They seemed impressed by her bravery in speaking to me. The boy fromEnglish, Eric, waved at me from across the room.
It was there, sitting in the lunchroom, trying to make conversation withseven curious strangers, that I first saw them.
They were sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, as far away fromwhereI sat as possible in the long room. There were five of them. Theyweren'ttalking, and they weren't eating, though they each had a trayofuntouched food in front of them. They weren't gawking at me, unlikemostof the other students, so it was safe to stare at them without fearofmeeting an excessively interested pair of eyes. But it was none ofthesethings that caught, and held, my attention.
They didn't look anything alike. Of the three boys, one was big —muscledlike a serious weight lifter, with dark, curly hair. Another wastaller,leaner, but still muscular, and honey blond. The last was lanky,lessbulky, with untidy, bronze-colored hair. He was more boyish thantheothers, who looked like they could be in college, or even teachershererather than students.
The girls were opposites. The tall one was statuesque. She hadabeautiful figure, the kind you saw on the cover of the SportsIllustratedswimsuit issue, the kind that made every girl around her takea hit onher self-esteem just by being in the same room. Her hair wasgolden,gently waving to the middle of her back. The short girl waspixielike,thin in the extreme, with small features. Her hair was a deepblack,cropped short and pointing in every direction.
And yet, they were all exactly alike. Every one of them was chalkypale,the palest of all the students living in this sunless town. Palerthanme, the albino. They all had very dark eyes despite the range inhairtones. They also had dark shadows under those eyes — purplish,bruiselikeshadows. As if they were all suffering from a sleepless night,or almostdone recovering from a broken nose. Though their noses, alltheirfeatures, were straight, perfect, angular.
But all this is not why I couldn't look away.
I stared because their faces, so different, so similar, werealldevastatingly, inhumanly beautiful. They were faces you neverexpected tosee except perhaps on the airbrushed pages of a fashionmagazine. Orpainted by an old master as the face of an angel. It washard to decidewho was the most beautiful — maybe the perfect blond girl,or thebronze-haired boy.
They were all looking away — away from each other, away from theotherstudents, away from anything in particular as far as I could tell.As Iwatched, the small girl rose with her tray — unopened soda,unbittenapple — and walked away with a quick, graceful lope thatbelonged on arunway. I watched, amazed at her lithe dancer's step, tillshe dumped hertray and glided through the back door, faster than I wouldhave thoughtpossible. My eyes darted back to the others, who satunchanging.
"Who are they?" I asked the girl from my Spanish class, whose name I'dforgotten.
As she looked up to see who I meant — though already knowing,probably,from my tone — suddenly he looked at her, the thinner one, theboyishone, the youngest, perhaps. He looked at my neighbor for just afractionof a second, and then his dark eyes flickered to mine.
He looked away quickly, more quickly than I could, though in aflush ofembarrassment I dropped my eyes at once. In that brief flash of aglance,his face held nothing of interest — it was as if she had calledhis name,and he'd looked up in involuntary response, already havingdecided not toanswer.
My neighbor giggled in embarrassment, looking at the table like I did.
"That's Edward and Emmett Cullen, and Rosalie and Jasper Hale. Theonewho left was Alice Cullen; they all live together with Dr. Cullen andhiswife." She said this under her breath.
I glanced sideways at the beautiful boy, who was looking at histray now,picking a bagel to pieces with long, pale fingers. His mouthwas movingvery quickly, his perfect lips barely opening. The other threestilllooked away, and yet I felt he was speaking quietly to them.
Strange, unpopular names, I thought. The kinds of names grandparents had.
But maybe that was in vogue here — small town names? I finallyrememberedthat my neighbor was called Jessica, a perfectly common name.There weretwo girls named Jessica in my History class back home.
"They are… very nice-looking." I struggled with the conspicuousunderstatement.
"Yes!" Jessica agreed with another giggle. "They're all togetherthough —Emmett and Rosalie, and Jasper and Alice, I mean. And theylivetogether." Her voice held all the shock and condemnation of thesmalltown, I thought critically. But, if I was being honest, I had toadmitthat even in Phoenix, it would cause gossip.
"Which ones are the Cullens?" I asked. "They don't lookrelated…""Oh, they're not. Dr. Cullen is really young, in his twentiesor earlythirties. They're all adopted. The Hales are brother and sister,twins —the blondes — and they're foster children.""They look a littleold for foster children.""They are now, Jasper and Rosalie are botheighteen, but they've beenwith Mrs. Cullen since they were eight. She'stheir aunt or somethinglike that.""That's really kind of nice — for themto take care of all those kidslike that, when they're so young andeverything.""I guess so," Jessica admitted reluctantly, and I got theimpression thatshe didn't like the doctor and his wife for some reason.With the glancesshe was throwing at their adopted children, I wouldpresume the reasonwas jealousy. "I think that Mrs. Cullen can't have anykids, though," sheadded, as if that lessened their kindness.
Throughout all this conversation, my eyes flickered again and againtothe table where the strange family sat. They continued to look atthewalls and not eat.
"Have they always lived in Forks?" I asked. Surely I would have noticedthem on one of my summers here.
"No," she said in a voice that implied it should be obvious, evento anew arrival like me. "They just moved down two years ago fromsomewherein Alaska."I felt a surge of pity, and relief. Pity because, asbeautiful as theywere, they were outsiders, clearly not accepted.Relief that I wasn't theonly newcomer here, and certainly not the mostinteresting by anystandard.
As I examined them, the youngest, one of the Cullens, looked up andmetmy gaze, this time with evident curiosity in his expression. As Ilookedswiftly away, it seemed to me that his glance held some kind ofunmetexpectation.
"Which one is the boy with the reddish brown hair?" I asked. Ipeeked athim from the corner of my eye, and he was still staring at me,but notgawking like the other students had today — he had a slightlyfrustratedexpression. I looked down again.
"That's Edward. He's gorgeous, of course, but don't waste yourtime. Hedoesn't date. Apparently none of the girls here are good-lookingenoughfor him." She sniffed, a clear case of sour grapes. I wonderedwhen he'dturned her down.
I bit my lip to hide my smile. Then I glanced at him again. Hisface wasturned away, but I thought his cheek appeared lifted, as if heweresmiling, too.
After a few more minutes, the four of them left the table together.Theyall were noticeably graceful — even the big, brawny one. Itwasunsettling to watch. The one named Edward didn't look at me again.
I sat at the table with Jessica and her friends longer than I wouldhaveif I'd been sitting alone. I was anxious not to be late for classon myfirst day. One of my new acquaintances, who considerately remindedmethat her name was Angela, had Biology II with me the next hour. Wewalkedto class together in silence. She was shy, too.
When we entered the classroom, Angela went to sit at a black-toppedlabtable exactly like the ones I was used to. She already had aneighbor. Infact, all the tables were filled but one. Next to the centeraisle, Irecognized Edward Cullen by his unusual hair, sitting next tothat singleopen seat.
As I walked down the aisle to introduce myself to the teacher andget myslip signed, I was watching him surreptitiously. Just as I passed,hesuddenly went rigid in his seat. He stared at me again, meeting myeyeswith the strangest expression on his face — it was hostile, furious.Ilooked away quickly, shocked, going red again. I stumbled over a bookinthe walkway and had to catch myself on the edge of a table. Thegirlsitting there giggled.
I'd noticed that his eyes were black — coal black.
Mr. Banner signed my slip and handed me a book with no nonsenseaboutintroductions. I could tell we were going to get along. Of course,he hadno choice but to send me to the one open seat in the middle of theroom.
I kept my eyes down as I went to sit by him, bewildered by theantagonistic stare he'd given me.
I didn't look up as I set my book on the table and took my seat,but Isaw his posture change from the corner of my eye. He was leaningawayfrom me, sitting on the extreme edge of his chair and averting hisfacelike he smelled something bad. Inconspicuously, I sniffed my hair.Itsmelled like strawberries, the scent of my favorite shampoo. It seemedaninnocent enough odor. I let my hair fall over my right shoulder,making adark curtain between us, and tried to pay attention to theteacher.
Unfortunately the lecture was on cellular anatomy, something I'dalreadystudied. I took notes carefully anyway, always looking down.
I couldn't stop myself from peeking occasionally through thescreen of myhair at the strange boy next to me. During the whole class,he neverrelaxed his stiff position on the edge of his chair, sitting asfar fromme as possible. I could see his hand on his left leg wasclenched into afist, tendons standing out under his pale skin. This,too, he neverrelaxed. He had the long sleeves of his white shirt pushedup to hiselbows, and his forearm was surprisingly hard and muscularbeneath hislight skin. He wasn't nearly as slight as he'd looked next tohis burlybrother.
The class seemed to drag on longer than the others. Was it becausetheday was finally coming to a close, or because I was waiting for histightfist to loosen? It never did; he continued to sit so still itlooked likehe wasn't breathing. What was wrong with him? Was this hisnormalbehavior? I questioned my judgment on Jessica's bitterness atlunchtoday. Maybe she was not as resentful as I'd thought.
It couldn't have anything to do with me. He didn't know me from Eve.
I peeked up at him one more time, and regretted it. He was glaringdownat me again, his black eyes full of revulsion. As I flinched awayfromhim, shrinking against my chair, the phrase if looks could killsuddenlyran through my mind.
At that moment, the bell rang loudly, making me jump, and EdwardCullenwas out of his seat. Fluidly he rose — he was much taller thanI'dthought — his back to me, and he was out the door before anyone elsewasout of their seat.
I sat frozen in my seat, staring blankly after him. He was so mean.Itwasn't fair. I began gathering up my things slowly, trying to blocktheanger that filled me, for fear my eyes would tear up. For somereason, mytemper was hardwired to my tear ducts. I usually cried when Iwas angry,a humiliating tendency.
"Aren't you Isabella Swan?" a male voice asked.
I looked up to see a cute, baby-faced boy, his pale blond haircarefullygelled into orderly spikes, smiling at me in a friendly way. Heobviouslydidn't think I smelled bad.
"Bella," I corrected him, with a smile.
"I'm Mike.""Hi, Mike.""Do you need any help finding your nextclass?""I'm headed to the gym, actually. I think I can find it.""That'smy next class, too." He seemed thrilled, though it wasn't thatbig of acoincidence in a school this small.
We walked to class together; he was a chatterer — he supplied mostof theconversation, which made it easy for me. He'd lived in Californiatill hewas ten, so he knew how I felt about the sun. It turned out hewas in myEnglish class also. He was the nicest person I'd met today.
But as we were entering the gym, he asked, "So, did you stabEdwardCullen with a pencil or what? I've never seen him act like that."Icringed. So I wasn't the only one who had noticed. And, apparently,thatwasn't Edward Cullen's usual behavior. I decided to play dumb.
"Was that the boy I sat next to in Biology?" I asked artlessly.
"Yes," he said. "He looked like he was in pain or something.""Idon't know," I responded. "I never spoke to him.""He's a weird guy."Mike lingered by me instead of heading to thedressing room. "If I werelucky enough to sit by you, I would have talkedto you."I smiled at himbefore walking through the girls' locker room door. Hewas friendly andclearly admiring. But it wasn't enough to ease myirritation.
The Gym teacher, Coach Clapp, found me a uniform but didn't make medressdown for today's class. At home, only two years of RE. wererequired.
Here, P.E. was mandatory all four years. Forks was literally my personalhell on Earth.
I watched four volleyball games running simultaneously. Rememberinghowmany injuries I had sustained — and inflicted — playing volleyball,Ifelt faintly nauseated.
The final bell rang at last. I walked slowly to the office toreturn mypaperwork. The rain had drifted away, but the wind was strong,andcolder. I wrapped my arms around myself.
When I walked into the warm office, I almost turned around and walkedback out.
Edward Cullen stood at the desk in front of me. I recognized againthattousled bronze hair. He didn't appear to notice the sound of myentrance.
I stood pressed against the back wall, waiting for the receptionist to befree.
He was arguing with her in a low, attractive voice. I quicklypicked upthe gist of the argument. He was trying to trade fromsixth-hour Biologyto another time — any other time.
I just couldn't believe that this was about me. It had to besomethingelse, something that happened before I entered the Biologyroom. The lookon his face must have been about another aggravationentirely. It wasimpossible that this stranger could take such a sudden,intense disliketo me.
The door opened again, and the cold wind suddenly gusted throughtheroom, rustling the papers on the desk, swirling my hair around myface.
The girl who came in merely stepped to the desk, placed a note inthewire basket, and walked out again. But Edward Cullen's backstiffened,and he turned slowly to glare at me — his face was absurdlyhandsome —with piercing, hate-filled eyes. For an instant, I felt athrill ofgenuine fear, raising the hair on my arms. The look only lasteda second,but it chilled me more than the freezing wind. He turned backto thereceptionist.
"Never mind, then," he said hastily in a voice like velvet. "I canseethat it's impossible. Thank you so much for your help." And he turnedonhis heel without another look at me, and disappeared out the door.
I went meekly to the desk, my face white for once instead of red, andhanded her the signed slip.
"How did your first day go, dear?" the receptionist asked maternally.
"Fine," I lied, my voice weak. She didn't look convinced.
When I got to the truck, it was almost the last car in the lot. Itseemedlike a haven, already the closest thing to home I had in this dampgreenhole. I sat inside for a while, just staring out the windshieldblankly.But soon I was cold enough to need the heater, so I turned the keyandthe engine roared to life. I headed back to Charlie's house,fightingtears the whole way there. |
