I am ten the first time I see him.
It is my birthday. Later I would remember this particular day as a marvelous event, but at the time it is only ordinary. There is white cake with blue rosettes, games of hide and seek, and brightly colored ribbons and wrappings. Decorations are bed sheets hanging from clotheslines so if and when the wind blows there is a sense of enchantment for anyone who is young and impressionable. I did not appreciate the floral-patterned walls billowing lazily this night – thus fulfilling their purpose to obscure my opponents in a rich game of tag – as much as I now wish that I had.
My mother has always begun each of my parties at precisely 7:42 p.m., two minutes after the time of my birth, and, typically from year to year, at dusk. She lights a sparkler for everyone in attendance, and instead of taking one for myself I lie in the center of the yard to watch the show; they are shooting stars here on earth.
I feel the vibrations from the guests running around, and I am not afraid that if they come too close I might be burned from a spark. I want them to come closer yet I cannot explain why. Perhaps I would like to be thrown into my own imagination.
It is then that he comes into view.
He is upside down to me, but it's easy to see that his face is round with youth. He wears a white undershirt and dark shorts and I think he must be cold, because I am in my white cotton dress which does not protect me from the chill of the ground.
"Hello," I say. "Thank you for coming to my party."
"Why are you lying there?"
"I'm watching the stars fall."
My explanation does not impress him. "My aunt Esme made me come."
"Then I'll thank her."
Edward walks away – I find out his name after my party has ended – and takes a sparkler from my mother.
If I offended him I didn't mean to. He doesn't seem angry. He seems lost.
.
.
.
It is October now. A Sunday. My father rakes leaves in the front yard. My grandmother and mother are busy cooking dinner. The aroma of beef stew and homemade bread warms our entire house, and I think about dressing to go outside and jumping into a pile of leaves if for no other reason than to bother my father, but I don't. I stare out my window. There is a feeling of stillness that settles in my belly I cannot explain. Wait, it tells me. My memories are fuzzy, but I am certain it is this particular feeling that purposely renders me motionless, even as Eleanor nips my calf, right through my pant leg.
A trickle of warm blood runs down to my ankle and I cannot turn my focus away from a small figure coming down our street. Eleanor hops onto the windowsill, purring, her rump high and her tail higher.
Edward hands my father a book, and then looks up at me. My father and Carlisle Cullen have shared books with one another for some time. They famously discuss characters, all of whom have bored me to tears, well into the night over several beers. It occurs to me that although the relationship between my father and Mr. Cullen has been ongoing for years, I do not recall anyone ever mentioning a nephew.
My father hands the book back to Edward then nods toward our house. In a few moments, Edward is in my bedroom.
I am ten years old and unconcerned with my appearance, though I am dressed appropriately enough for a boy to be in my room. But he is in my room so I feel it is all right to ask things I've wondered about for the past three weeks. We have not become friends, his birthday present for me making this fact obvious. I have never liked the color pink let alone fancy hair clips and haven't had the slightest inclination to start now.
"Why don't I see you in school?" I ask.
Edward rubs his temple with the heel of his hand. "I skipped a grade so we don't go to the same school."
His answer deflates my curiosity. He's smarter than me, and probably does not have the time or desire to entertain a girl who is still in elementary school. I am sure he is mature, too, and has interests that surpass board games and cartoons, like girls.
This makes me nervous.
He points to my floor. "Is that blood?"
There are only specks of red dotting the floor, but I suppose it's the larger splotch near my foot he is concerned about. At the time, I didn't realize that Eleanor's teeth went so deep.
"My cat was trying to get my attention," I explain. All I can think is that my mother is going to kill me, not about the boy who stands in my doorway with fidgety hands.
"Does it hurt?" He asks, and I'm pressing my pant leg against my calf to stop further bleeding even though I don't know if I still am.
"No, it's fine. Did you want something?"
"I don't know," he says.
I straighten. "You're kind of strange." I immediately regret saying this to him, and I am too mortified by my juvenile behavior to apologize. I should be paying attention to every detail, like the freckles across his nose and the pudge of his cheeks.
I should be burning every detail into memory.
Edward is not bothered, though. He laughs and says that he'd like to be my friend.
Poor choice of birthday presents aside, we do, in fact, become friends.
That winter it snows for days. Reportedly, as much as thirty-two inches have fallen overall, a record year. Branches have snapped off trees from the weight of snow, and at night it is so quiet it is like a dream. Our electricity has flickered off a couple times, and I was frightened we all might freeze to death so my father taught me how to keep the fire going once he and my mother had gone back to work. I did not disappoint as proven by the constant stream of smoke erupting from our chimney.
Although my grandmother has enlisted me to help her clean corners of the house that no one will ever see, I don't mind. It's been a full week without school and that is enough.
Edward has trudged through tall drifts to come see me almost daily. We stay outside until our fingers and toes are numb, and the pieces of hair that stick out from underneath our hats are matted with snow. As soon as we are warmed again from the fire I boast about, poking the ash off burnt wood and setting another log ablaze, as if I have done it a million times, we are back outside.
I believe my grandmother prefers the quiet. She does not mention frostbite or colds or staying away from the pond, she only tells me and Edward to be back before the sun can no longer be seen.
Despite her one rule, we are at the edge of the pond when in the dimming late afternoon everything looks like it could be something else.
Skeleton trees surround us and there is promise in the icy air that more snow is coming. I don't ever want it to end.
My nose is running. I am too embarrassed to openly wipe it, even if Edward's nose is running too and he doesn't have an issue using his gloves or the arm of his coat. Instead, I cover my mouth with my mittened hands so it looks as though I am flirting, when really I am dabbing my nostrils.
But I am flirting. I have never done this with a boy and the way that Edward looks at me as he places one foot on the ice and keeps the other on the ground, it is easy, natural. There is mischief in his eyes and his cheeks are bright from cold, or maybe warm because of me. I am close to him. I don't remember taking a step.
Edward tilts his head and smiles and then he kisses my cheek. I am too stunned to react. I don't follow him to the center of the pond, and he does not beckon me to do so.
There are seconds that pass by – long, quiet, magical seconds as my heart gallops and my insides tingle and I am filled with utter joy. It is life altering because I have felt that moment when my life has taken that turn. All this has occurred before the first crack sounds. And then, even faster than that magic, the ice splinters beneath his feet, rocketing out before I can scream his name. And that magic is swallowed by fear when the ice shatters and he is sucked down into the water.