They say don't judge a book by its cover, but its instinct. It doesn't matter that she's the most exciting chapter of my life, the most intriguing thing I've ever read, or the most beautiful character to ever exist. Appearances are everything, and I can never forget that.

I. Perfect

"Are you going to Michael's party tonight?"

I ignore Carlisle, pretending that my music is too loud.

It's useless. He yanks out my headphones, "Edward, I asked if you were going to Mike Newton's party tonight."

I hated that little runt. I did not want to go to his party. I didn't even want to be in the same room with him.

"Yeah dad, I'm going with Emmett." And Jasper too, but I know better than to mention him.

He nods, "Good, good. It's a great way to celebrate your victory against La Push."

"We haven't won yet, dad," I sigh, stabbing the center of my eggs. I'm oddly fascinated as I witness the trapped yolk that's been perfectly molded into its designated shape rushes towards the punctures, gushing out wildly at the first sign of freedom. "I heard that they're better this year. They might give us a good run tonight."

He chuckles, the sound echoing throughout the stark kitchen. I can't tell if the echo made the chuckle sound cold and empty, or if it was that way to begin with. He continues reading his newspaper, "They can practice for years, but now that you're the quarterback, they don't stand a chance. They're a pathetic excuse for a rival and they will never beat you."

I become bold, inspired by the yolk's escape. "And if we don't win?"

He glances up from his paper, a stern gleam in his eye, "You will win."

And I know better than to say anything else.

I glance back down at my plate. The yolk is pooling at the edge of the plate, only a few inches away from the egg white. It spent so long in captivity, and it finally burst free at the first opportunity, but now it's lying aimless in the middle of nowhere. It's still so close to home, and all it wants to do is flee further, but the edge of the plate is preventing him. He can't see over it. He doesn't know what exists on the other side. He doesn't know whether the jump will be worth it or not. What if he jumps and hits the floor, splattering into ruins?

He should just stay where it's safe.

"When you boys get home today, you're both helping me scrub this place down from top to bottom," Esme declares as she marches into the kitchen.

"Oh?" Carlisle takes a sip of his coffee, "What's the occasion?"

She freezes, shooting him a vicious glare, "Are you seriously telling me you haven't the slightest clue what, or rather who, is coming in a few weeks?"

The tips of his ears tinge pink. His perfection is marred, but he calmly attempts to maneuver out of his hole, "Well, I know Thanksgiving is coming up, but I thought we were going to my father's house as usual."

Esme's nostrils flare. She thinly attempts to contain her anger, but her narrowed eyes imply that she's seconds away from beating some sense into Carlisle. "Doctor Cullen, I know that somebody of your supposed intelligence should be able to remember who is flying in from England. I know you haven't forgotten about your own daughter."

Everything stills, fearful to move and be caught in the crossfire of the wonderful Mr. and Mrs. Cullen's dispute. Yes, a dispute, not a fight. After all, Cullens are too classy for fights.

An eerie silence sweeps in, so quiet that I would have been able to hear Carlisle's beads of sweat drip onto the floor, but Cullen men do not sweat. Perspiration is for wimps. Cullen men are strong and confident, tough and charming.

"Alice," my father states, as if to test the name out on his tongue, see if the bitter aftertaste has finally faded.

Judging by his frown, it has not, so I spring from my chair to escape the argument. "I'll be home after the game to help you clean, mom."

She thinly smiles at me, "Thanks, dear."

My father clears his throat, "Edward, did I hear you say you will be home after the game? What about Mike's party to celebrate your team's victory?"

"Well, mom needs help cleaning, so…"

"We have weeks before your sister is due, go to the party."

"Oh no, I don't have to if-"

"Go," he snaps, but doesn't really snap, because his voice remains even and calm. "Your teammates expect it of you."

I glance over at my mother and see that she is no longer bothering to veil her anger. She's glaring daggers at my father's head, leaving him barely alive, barely conscious enough to feel the agonizing pain as she roasts his carcass over a blistering blaze.

I know she hates it when my dad undermines her, so I glance at her, wanting her opinion, "What's my curfew?"

"Eleven."

"A respectable hour; it doesn't need to be definitively defined," my dad declares, completing ignoring my mother, "Be safe."

I wonder why he even bothers. I think he's so used to pretending to be the perfect and respectable father for the outside eye in public, that it's crept into our private life. He's grown paranoid, believing that everyone is focused on us, inspecting our façade for even the slightest crack. Even though we're behind closed doors now, and we both know that I have no curfew, he puts forth an act. He pretends to be the stern and loving father during the day, but when I creep through the door in the middle of the night reeking of offensive odors, he will look away.

I know he will because he's done it before.

Besides, I'm the popular and charming, brilliant and successful star-athlete. It's expected that I do a little partying here and there, engage in drinking and girls from time to time.

I play my part perfectly.

A/N: My name's Krystal and I'll keep this short. I've already written the first few chapters and I'll try to update at least once a week. Feel free to review and give any constructive criticism; I'm open to anyone's advice. Also, I don't have a beta, so I apologize for any grammatical errors.