This is an idea that was originally quite different but developed over time in my mind. I will admit that I used to be a hardcore twilight fan a few years ago, but while I never hated it the way some people do, I lost my obsession for it and no longer loved it the way I once did. However, after reading it again I found that I began to love the less central characters like Jasper and Alice more, even preferring them over Bella, Edward and Jacob. I love the potential the characters have, and love exploring them in an alternate universe setting. I do have plans for this fic, provided that people like it, and I therefore hope that it is decent and not too terrible.
I do not own Twilight; the rights to the book Twilight belong to Stephanie Meyer. No copyright infringement is intended, this fic was written merely for recreational/entertainment purposes only.
I was never like the other children but then, I never wanted to be. Their action-centred, violent worlds filled with cheap plastic guns and six-pack bearing idols never appealed to me, and as a result I often found myself the brunt of teasing. As a child, it had always been infantile taunts; calling me a coward or a girl. Growing older, I was subject to far less appropriate accusations, though I developed a thick skin, and they rolled off me like rain on a pane of glass; leaving a slight smudge, but never actually penetrating the surface, failing to absorb. My mother seemed to take my torments far worse than I did, staring down at me mournfully. She assured me it was because I was far more "intelligent" and "gifted" than they were- that they wouldn't understand, couldn't understand my way of thinking. I always thanked her, ever-grateful for the reassurance, but I did not see the point; I was different, and my difference from the others needed no justification. I could handle their mocking taunts, little more than childish words that failed to do any damage. However, one day they took it too far. One day, it escalated from childish taunts into pain. They tore at me, physically and mentally, and sitting there, surrounded by rubbish and trash cans, was when everything changed.
When I changed.
My grandmother always used to tell me that the last flower alive in spring is the most beautiful, because it "never falls with the others, but instead stands long enough to see winter approach". She would take my hand, uttering the phrase which, though technically irrelevant, always made me feel more comfortable in my individuality. I don't know where it came from, whether it was some long-lost proverb or just a phrase she dreamed up, but it was always profound, and I liked the way her eyes would light up when she said it. They were a mystical colour, her eyes; the pale blue of an early morning sky. Even in the end, when every part of her body had begun to waste away, there was a sense of bizarre comfort in seeing her eyes remain as bright and full of hope as they always had, never clouding over.
She once told me I have her eyes. I used to enjoy looking in the mirror and staring at them, almost picturing my Grandmother's carefree smile staring out of the pupils. Now, I avoid looking at my eyes- anything to prevent reminding me of what happened.
I avoid a lot of things these days.
She was one of the few people I felt I could truly connect with. My father was constantly working and my twin sister Rosalie, though I loved her greatly, was always so different to me; more outgoing, confident and blunt, never letting anything stand in her way. I did connect with my Mother, but she was often out the house as well; before Grandmother Whitlock passed away, she was always a social person (similar to Rosalie) attending parties, club functions and luncheons with her large group of friends (friends, might I add, who drifted away when she needed them the most.) So all through my childhood and adolescence I spent long periods of time with my Grandmother, listening to her stories and looking at her photos in her cosy living room, or helping her in the garden, a task she would always reward me with some of her homemade lemonade and sometimes a plate of oatmeal cookies. She was the best Grandmother I could have asked for, and I always felt as though she was the only person in my family who truly understood me.
"Don't let anyone else tell you how to live your life, Jasper," she would smile kindly at me, patting me on the hand with her smaller, almost skeletal one. She never let anyone tell her how to run her life, living it the way she wanted to, and was happy right until th day that her heart finally gave up. She was even smiling on that day, while others cried around her; she told me that it was Okay, that she was going to heaven and we would all see her again. I knew that should have consoled me and it did, a little, but I still selfishly wanted her to stay down here with me, forever. She wasn't just my Grandmother; she was the only person who truly understood me. People who constantly tell me to "get over it" or that "things happen" don't understand. When you lose your rock, the thing that keeps you up and standing strong, you fall and it is near impossible to get back up. It did not help that just a week later, I was subject to extreme humiliation and agony from a group of bullies who took it one step too far. Without even my Grandmother to console me it was the last straw, the breaking point for me.
I developed a thick skin a while ago, and yet each day a new trial forces it to thicken and me to retreat further into my shell. I do not lash out, like so many other adolescent boys in my position would. I do not let my emotions show; I keep my face as smooth as silk, not letting it wrinkle or display any feeling. I keep my eyes- damn it, her eyes- down and try to blend into the background. When I'm with my family I am more alert, but it is a façade; the jokes, the laughs and the smiles all seem far too strained and forced, like I am a shadow of the person I once was. It is difficult; while I remain composed, my insides are constantly faced with turmoil. Our home in Texas, once so comforting and familiar, holds a well of bitter memories; each day, a new page is overturned, and some long-forgotten trinket or mark will open a floodgate. The idea of moving is harsh, and yet in a way also relieving, lifting the burden of painful memories. I do not want to forget her ever, but I no longer want to live in a place where every nook and cranny is filled with the emptiness left behind now that she has gone. Moving is neccessary, anyway; my Father can scarcely afford our house any more, and my mother desires a "fresh start". The idea is typical yet promising; a fresh start, a new place to begin again. Rosalie complained about our destination constantly, complained about the size and lack of culture. However, I found the notion of a small, botanical town appealing; there is a sense of purity and almost cleanliness in such a place.
I barely spoke as I packed, and now I sit in our car, a formerly impressive and currently battered SUV, still silent. It has been a long time since I chatted or spoke idly, keeping a long conversation going. Usually, I just fall silent, short of anything to say. Rosalie, my talkative sister, does enough talking for the both of us.
It is almost two days- a day and eleven hours, to be precise- from our home in San Antonio to Forks, when traveling by car; Money is too tight for the cost of a flight, along with the additional issues of shipping our belongings over, so instead we settled for driving the long way into Washington, a trailer carrying whatever luggage could not fit in our car, stopping for rests at cheap motels and truck stops. I can sense Rosalie's brooding displeasure from the seat beside me, and though I do not share her opinion, I can understand why she is unhappy; leaving our spacious home in a metropolitan city and moving to a microscopic town that nobody has heard of must be hard for someone like her to accept, especially since she has left all of her so-called friends behind. Every few seconds, she checks her phone hopefully, but either reception is down or none of them have bothered to contact her. I did not have any friends by the end, so I did not leave anyone behind. Leaving the school was easy, and I feel as though I can bury what I dub as the trash can incident behind forever... I shake my head. Leaving it behind means I will NOT think of it.
The car trip falls silent soon, Rosalie running out of things to talk about, my father too busy focusing on the road ahead and my mother as docile as she always had been. I have withdrawn, staring out the window and watching the scenery blend from one view to another. I had brought my pencils with me, intending to fill some of the time with sketching, but instead I found myself unable to. Usually, drawing is something that brings me out of my shell a little, however now I find it hard to drum up the inspiration to put pencil to paper. Maybe the nature that is beginning to sprout around us will help inspire me; trees are, after all, musical; mysterious and almost wise.
"It's so rainy!" Rosalie complains as we hear the first light drops on the roof of our car. It always rains in Forks, or so I am told; not heavy showers but a constant drizzle.
"At least you won't have to worry about sunburn," I tease her, though it is halfhearted, as all my teasing is these days. Rosalie rolls her eyes- a darker blue than mine and shaped differently, reflecting my father's.
"My hair will go frizzy," she pouts, and I laugh wryly at this. Sometimes, I wish that I could return to the way I once was- carefree, cheerful; free to joke and smile. But the pain keeps stabbing me, and the empty hole where she once was just seems to get bigger each day. It has been little over a month; I need time to heal and fill the void...
My thoughts are cut off when our car slowly jerks to a stop. The houses here are spread farther apart than in our former suburban area, separated by huge yards of trees and ferns instead of the flat little gardens I was accustomed to. The house is not tiny, but far smaller than our old home; a little white Tudor, half-hidden by the greenery. I have only seen pictures of it before, but it is far more charming in the flesh, and I am already thinking of how I can paint it, or sketch it.
"Welcome home," Mama sighs, and though Rosalie looks slightly disdainful, I can't help the sense of relief that washes over me. This is the polar opposite of our sunny, modern home in Texas, and I like it; now, at least when I look around, I won't be hit with painful memories of my Grandmother.
Alice
The whole town has been buzzing for days since we heard that a new family was moving in. In a smaller area, few people would know or care, but in Forks something like that causes as much drama and gossip as a celebrity visit or murder would in a larger city. I am amused when I hear, and almost pity the poor people; they will be subject to wide eyes and whispering for weeks, until the novelty wears off. What is more exciting is the knowledge that there are twins in the family, and both my age. I would love to meet more teenagers- our school has such a small student body, and it is hard to socialise. Bella and Angela are really the only girls I get along with; the rest of them are stuck up, selfish girls who want nothing more out of life than to wear the tightest shirts they can and shove their cleavage in the faces of any cute boy they can find- boys who are more often than not my brothers. Ugh. I hope that the girl- from what I have heard, the twins are a girl and a boy- is not like those...
Sundays are usually a lazy day for me, the afternoons gloomy with the knowledge that in a few hours school will start again, yet today I am bouncing around, filled with energy. I can't help it; even something small like a new family in town gets me excited. I can not wait to meet them in school tomorrow, and spend more time than necessary trying to envision them. They're coming from Texas; are they going to have a heavy accent? I know it's wrong, but I can't help imagining a family of cowboys riding into town, and giggle slightly at the thought. That would certainly cause raised eyebrows from the more uptight citizens of Forks.
I am bored, though; Emmett and Edward are playing video games on the TV, something that grows extremely dull after a few hours, and for some reason none of my books or magazines appeal to me right now. It's too late in the day to go on a good shopping trip (retail therapy is underrated) and so I loll on my bed, feeling restless. Eventually I wander into the kitchen and find Mom preparing dinner, her caramel hair pulled back from her face and a tasteful apron shielding her clothes.
"What are you making, Mom?" I question her automatically, and she looks up with a smile.
"Linguine," she smiles at me, gesturing to the pasta machine on the bench. I unthinkingly do a little squeal; Mom's homemade pasta is some of the best food in the world, in my humble opinion. As she begins feeding dough into the pasta maker, I prop myself up onto the kitchen counter, trying to refrain from asking about the new Family- the Hales, I think they are called- since I know I have been badgering her about it all week. I can't help it; I've always been curious, and I love meeting new people.
"Mom, do you think they've arrived yet?" I blurt out, and she laughs slightly.
"I don't know, dear," she turns to face me, looking amused. "You're very interested in the Hales, aren't you?"
I nod, a little sheepishly.
"I just think it's cool that after all this time, there are finally going to be some new people to talk to," I tell her eagerly. "And they're my age, too! I wonder if the girl will hang out with us..."
"Maybe the boy will be your type," Mom teases, and I laugh; as nice as it would be, that seems pretty unlikely.
After sitting on the kitchen bench and watching her cook for a little while, Mom presses a handful of bills into my hand and asks me to pick up some milk, since Emmett- typically- has already made his way through a whole pint to accompany a king size package of oreos; I have to smile at my eldest brother's appetite. When she tells me the milk is for some of her home made lemon scones I all but leap off the counter, eager to assist her, since her lemon scones are possibly my favourite dessert of all time. She laughs at my enthusiasm, and promises me I can have the end piece, though I barely hear this since I am almost already in my car. Usually I would drive to the store in Port Angeles, which has far nicer food and a nicer atmosphere, but since it is getting late and I just can't be bothered, I opt for Forks' tiny supermarket. It's not the nicest place, full of people who always seem to get irritable when shopping for some reason and constantly running out of things, but if I'm only going for milk it doesn't really matter.
I can't help snorting when I pull my car into the parking lot and see that they've begun to decorate the store for Easter. It's only early March, but Forks was always overhyped about holidays; the tiny thriftway is already displaying huge piles of chocolate eggs and looks almost like an easter egg, wrapped in brightly coloured streamers and large cartoon posters of rabbits.
Ugh. Tacky.
I hate tacky decorations. Tacky is possibly my nemesis; the opposite of stylish, cheap and crude. I shoot a large yellow cut out of an egg in the window a disdainful look as I enter the store. I like Easter, I really do, but what is the point of draping the stores in cheap paper decor when it is almost 2months away? It's not even as big a celebration as Christmas...
The dairy aisle is near the back of the store, and as I turn the corner, I freeze in my tracks. Living in a small town means that most people in Forks are familiar; I recognise almost every person, even if it is just because I have seen them shopping in here before. And I know the face, if not the name, of every teenager in this town, due to our school's almost microscopic student population.
So, my heart begins racing in excitement when I see a tall, blonde stranger, just a few feet away from me, studying the small selection of frozen dinners in the freezer. He must be the new boy, the Hale kid- Jake, or Josh? I can't quite remember his name, and I can't help watching him curiously. I am suddenly very glad that I came out to get milk today; all day I was looking forward to meeting the Hales, and can't believe my luck in seeing one here. Automatically, I study the boy. He is attractive, but not in a huge-muscled-tanned guy way, the way that most girls prefer. He is very, very tall, and slender, with hair the colour of honey falling into his eyes. Oh! His eyes! When he turns slightly I can see them clearly, despite my distance; a vivid pale blue, like chips of ice...
Get it together, Alice.
I am embarrassed by my sudden enthusiasm for the new boy. He is attractive, yes, but it would be fickle of me to develop a crush after glimpsing him for just a few seconds. I don't even know his name, and have only heard rumours and gossip around him. Still, a small part of my brain reminds me that he will be enrolling in school soon, and will be in my grade... I can't help smiling slightly at that. Yes, I may have only seen him for a few seconds and No, I remind myself firmly, I am NOT developing a crush on him, but it is still an exciting thought that I might get to know this boy. I hope he's in at least two of my classes. I firmly believe that you can assess someone's personality by their clothes, and his, a simple black button-down and grey slacks are tasteful enough, far nicer than the cheap T-Shirts covered in slogans sported by most boys in Forks or the skin tight tops designed to show off every muscle that arrogant guys wear.
The boy starts to turn, and only then do I realise, with a sudden jolt of panic, that I am still staring at him. Unthinkingly, I do the first thing that any self-respecting girl caught staring at an attractive boy would do; I duck down behind the display of hot cross buns on sale, face reddening and hoping that he did not see me. Pathetic, I know, especially since I would usually introduce myself. I am usually a very forward person, and I can not believe that I am reduced to hiding behind stacks of buns and "reduced price" signs. Straightening up, I fiddle with my hair for a moment (while I love long hair, it is starting to grow old and I am considering getting it cut into a pixie soon) before flouncing over to the boy, just as he's shutting the freezer door. I hope he is not annoyed, since some people can find my forwardness rude or just silly.
"Hi!" I trill, face breaking into a larger grin than I'd planned. He seems even taller up close, and there is a faint summery aroma surrounding him.
"I'm Alice Cullen, and you must be..." Damn! What was his name again? I rack my brains for a moment, before the lightbulb goes off. "Jasper! Jasper Hale, right? Welcome to Forks!"
The boy turns, face a mask of curiosity, and when his pale blue gaze meets mine, I feel a tremor down my spine.
Damn. I'm certainly glad that I chose to introduce myself.
Jasper
The thrift way at Forks is tiny, and a small part of me misses our larger, more equipped supermarkets back in Texas. There is hardly anything in here; I can see bare shelves where popular products have run out. And yet, it is almost refreshing; another symbol of just how small this town is, different to anywhere I've even been before. I seek out the freezer, an easy feat due to the size of the store, and look for decent Frozen Dinners. Mama used to cook, but since Grandmother Whitlock's passing she hasn't found the will. All her traditional recipes were handed down to her, and they hold too many memories. Dad hates cooking though he is actually quite good, and Rosalie is the opposite; she enjoys it, but all her attempts turn out burnt or claggy. (I smile slightly as I peruse the shelves, remembering my twin's dreadful attempt to produce a soufflé.) I have not learnt to cook, as far as Mama knows, so therefore we look to frozen foods, pre-prepared meals and fast food as our sustenance. Secretly, Grandmother taught me to cook in her comfortable, familiar kitchen, but somehow I feel those memories of us standing at the stove together are private and therefore do not divulge my culinary knowledge. Now, as I load the shopping cart with whatever decent options there are, I am alerted by a high and very feminine voice, startling me.
"Hi!" A girl says cheerily, and I look away to hide my slight frown; I don't want strangers approaching me. "I'm Alice Cullen, and you must be... Jasper!" she seems to search for my name, and the relief at guessing it correctly is evident in her voice. "Jasper Hale, right? Welcome to Forks!"
Resigned, I turn to face her and engage in conversation, though I cannot help being shocked when I see her. She is tiny, shockingly so, most likely under five feet. Her eyes are huge in her small, delicately pointed face , and they stare up at me curiously, a deep green that reminds me of a cat. Her skin is pale- even for Forks, where a majority of people are pale due to lack of sun- and in a stark contrast, her hair is very dark, almost black, framing her face in slightly haphazard waves. Pretty, but not in any conventional way. She beams up at me, but there is a hint of self-consciousness behind her smile.
This is slightly uncomfortable for me. While there was a time where I would have been more than eager to talk to someone I did not know, nowadays I would prefer to be left to myself. Still, I do not want to seem impolite, so I force myself to speak to her.
"Hey, darlin'," I flash her a smile, though it is halfhearted; it has been a long time since I truly smiled. "Nice to meet you."
The girl seems to notice that my smile is feigned; her own, genuine grin flickers for a moment, and a look of concern dashes across her eyes, before her wide beam returns.
"Nice to meet you too," she tells me. "Are you going to be starting school tomorrow?"
Even though I do not want to engage in a conversation I cannot help but nod, and her smile seems to grow bigger, something I thought was impossible. Her friendliness is, though a little abrupt and uncomfortable, refreshing; most of the Forks populace have done nothing but stare at us like some strange alien creatures. I know we are new in Town, but bulging eyes and blatant whispering makes me feel almost isolated, not to mention it's highly annoying. I realise that this girl is the first person in Forks to actually speak to my face, instead of just throwing wild gossip around behind my back.
"I can't wait!" the girl- sorry, Alice- tells me happily. Most teenage girls I have met before would be saying this sarcastically, but she seems sincere. "Have you met anyone else yet?"
I shake my head, and she seems delighted by the fact.
"You have to sit with us at lunch," she practically orders me, and I am taken aback by how direct she is. Considering I have known her for a maximum of 50 seconds, this seems quite sudden of her to offer this. I was half-expecting to sit alone, picking at my food, the way I had before in Texas. It has been a long time since I properly had friends, and while I appreciate the girl's offer, It goes against the grain for me to accept something like that.
Still, she looks very determined, and almost amusingly so. She places a hand on my arm, eyes widening.
"Please?" she repeats. "I'm sure my friends would love to meet you too."
More friends. More people to talk to, get to know, people who might get to know me and try and help me feel better. Or, far worse, people who might leave me the moment they realise that I have problems. I am still very undecided about this, yet somehow it seems incredibly rude not to oblige Alice.
"Why not?" I tell her after a long deliberation. After all, she seems like a sweet girl, someone who-unlike the rest of Forks- actually chose to speak to my face, instead of just staring at me before whispering gossip behind my back. (Evidently, a new person in a small town is like a shiny new toy, to be ooh-ed and aah-ed at and talked about until the novelty wears off) She seems far more polite than the others, and less judgemental. I just hope that if I do end up sitting at her table with her and her friends for lunch, none of them probe me to speak too much. These past months I have become more of a solitary person and talking is no longer my forte, especially not to strangers. People at school are also hard to trust, and again the memory of the "trash can incident" flashes across my mind.
Aw, look who it is... Did your precious Granny die? Metal lids... Rubbish everywhere... Their hands tearing at my skin...
I shake off the memory, telling myself that I will not think of that. I am sure the people in Forks are not like that (surely there are few teenagers out there as malicious as James, Laurent and Felix were) and besides, I have already told Alice that I will sit with her and her friends. To suddenly go back on it seems incredibly rude.
To my surprise, she actually claps her hands at my affirmation, bringing me out of my thoughts.
"Great!" she tells me, before pausing and looking down at her watch, something I recognise as Guess (only because Rosalie leaves ridiculous amounts of jewellery catalogues around).
"I'd better get going," she looks up, face still lit up and sunny. "See you tomorrow at school!"
I nod my head, lips curled into a false half-smile. Alice picks her near-empty basket up and walks over to the cashier, though her walk is so light it's almost like dancing. I can't help staring after her for a few moments. Although the fact that I have promised to sit with her and her friends at school, when I would much rather prefer to be left to myself, makes me a little unnerved, I cannot help thinking that it was nice for someone to actually take the initiative to approach me and treat me like a person.
Alice
I frown slightly as I leave the Thriftway, turning over my conversation with Jasper in my head. He was kind, and very polite, yet I saw something missing; the smile he wore was a little too wide, and not reaching his eyes. He seemed to hesitate before he spoke, his words too forced. I cannot help feeling intrigued by that. Clearly, there is something underneath the surface, something more to Jasper Hale.
I wonder if I will ever know what it is.