Disclaimer: I own nothing! Not Twilight, Shakespeare, Greek Mythology, nor "We Shall Overcome."

Thank you to inthestars for betaing and being generally awesome!

A/N: This started out as a crackfic which quickly became it's own entity. PLEASE REVIEW.

"Bella?" Renée's voice made a muffled vibration through the bathroom door as she shuffled her feet and pressed her face more closely into the threshold--as if that would somehow amplify her voice or unlock the knob.

"Honey? Sweetheart? Is--is everything oh-kaaay?" She sputtered, drawing out the last word with a concerned whine.

Inside the bathroom, I curled into the rounded corner of the empty bathtub, hugging my knobby knees to my chest.

Why? Why? Why do bad things always seem to happen to me just when I think that my luck has changed?

Renée's voice sounded further away when she spoke next. "Listen, Bella. I don't know what's wrong, and I cannot help you from the other side of the bathroom door!" She huffed, irritation crowding out the worry from her voice.

"MOM... I'm... fine." I knew it would not appease Renée, but I needed to buy more time.

Can't she tell that I don't want to talk right now? That I don't want to taint her oh-so-great-news about Phil, and Florida, and Happiness with my own awful, horrible, wretched news?

I whimpered into my jeans, a shudder coming from my lungs instead of the pouting and self-indulgent exhalation that I had intended.

"Bella!" Renée's voice echoed through the thin door, "I heard that! You are not 'fine!'

If you don't let me in, so help me, I'll get Phil and have him take the door off its hinges!"

I gazed up at the peachy spackled walls of the bathroom, my eyes drifting to the narrow white tiles lining the upper edge of the paint, and then to the desert landscape mural surrounding the tiny window that I had painted last year, complete with red rock mesas and towering saguaros. The window was open a crack, and the hot Phoenix air seeped into my sanctuary. A drop of sweat trailed from my forehead, tickling a path down my eyelid and mixing with the swell of salty, stinging tears. I wiped away all of the unwanted wetness, annoyed when the tears only returned.

School is out, on summer break, finally all the time in the world to draw and paint. Everything had been going so well... I thought, at least. Of course, I was wrong! Nothing ever goes that smoothly for me. Stupid Bella.

Might as well concede defeat and face the troops.

A seemingly innocuous envelope from the faculty chairwoman at Phoenix's Art Academy, also known as "my second home," had abruptly changed everything. The letter within both broke my heart and terrified me. No more scholarship money meant no more school. Which meant back to North High. Which meant... James. I shuddered as I pulled myself out of the tub.

Opening the door, I launched myself into Renée's arms, suddenly grateful that my mom, my best friend, was around to give the comfort that until that moment I had not realized I desperately desired. As I tucked my head under her chin, she shushed my crying.

"Sweetie, tell me all about it. Please?"

I nodded, and Renée moved us to the sofa, clutching me to her chest as I proceeded to explain how everything had gone wrong.

---

I can't sleep. I hate not being able to sleep when all I want to do is close my eyes and make the world go away. "To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub..."

"No, I'm not suicidal, that one doesn't fit." However, I may have questionable sanity, seeing as I'm talking to myself about the--ugh. Stupid line, from stupid soliloquy, said by stupid Hamlet, written by stupid Shakespeare... stupid... everything. God, Bella, you are being so melodramatic!

I grimaced and turned over to punch my pillow, but stopped mid-roll as I suddenly caught the low murmur of Renée's voice coming from somewhere outside my door.

Phone? I paused and listened carefully.

No other voices. Phone.

Ever curious, I quietly slipped out of bed... and promptly stubbed the little toe on my right foot against the solid oak nightstand, audibly gasping in pain.

Fuckfuckfuckfuck! OWW. Don't talk! Don't talk! Shhhhhhh!

Be stealthy, dammit!

I cringed and breathed deeply as the pain passed, and then moved cautiously toward the door. I gripped the handle tightly, rotated my wrist slowly, and pulled my door open an inch. Hunkering down on the floor, I cupped my ear toward the sound of Renée's voice.

"...yes, of course I know that—don't tell me how to be a mother, Charlie! You haven't been through half of it! Ugh... Yes—yes. I know. I know! She was too young, I know..."

Ah. Right. She's talking about me. With Charlie, of all people. 'Well he is your father,' an inner voice that sounded suspiciously like Renée chided. Not that he knows how to be that, but still. I know he cares. But what is this 'too young' business?

I huffed indignantly, but stayed quiet and still.

"Really, Charlie? Oh, that would be—well, I'll have to talk to her of course, but, geez, that would be so great. Okay. Okay. Yes, I'll give you a call tomorrow. Thanks so much. Okay, goodnight."

Renée hung the phone in the cradle next to the sofa and dropped her arms down into her lap, releasing a big sigh. Turning her head toward my door, she smiled tiredly.

"Bella," she sang, "you can come out now!"

Dammit.

Renée's musical laughter sounded from around the corner. "You couldn't be surreptitious if your life depended on it!"

There goes my lifelong dream of being an international undercover agent for the C.I.A.!

Blushing and scowling, I lifted myself up from the carpet and skulked into the living room. "I don't know what you're talking about. I was just going to the bathroom." I lifted my nose into the air haughtily, trying (and utterly failing, I suspected) to convey innocence. I'm a horrible liar.

"And that wasn't you who almost woke the entire neighborhood with your huffing and puffing three minutes ago? Did you trip on something? You know you should just turn on the light, darkness doesn't help someone who normally trips over herself during the day--"

Annoyed and scowling again, I abruptly cut off Renée as I decided to confess my apparently inept attempt at nocturnal skullduggery.

"Fine, you're right, I stubbed my toe, I was listening, you caught me, end of story."

Renée raised an eyebrow and patted the cushion next to hers.

Flopping down, I raised my eyebrow in return.

Silence.

"Um... are you really going to make me ask?" I laughed, incredulous.

"No, no, no, sorry. I was just spacing out for a moment. Lost in my thoughts, you know."

"Yeah, I know. You."

"Hmph. Well, Bella, as you may have gathered, I was just talking to Charlie. He's invited you up to Forks—if you want to go, that is. No one is going to make you do anything of course; you're old enough to make your own choices."

"Oh, I'm old enough, am I?"

"Ah--you heard that." Renée faltered, but continued. "Sweetie, listen, he--Charlie--your dad--he just mentioned things from the past, nothing recent."

"Ah. So. He knows about...?"

"Yes hon, he knows about... James." She paused, knowing that I'm not particularly fond of the name. "No more than his poor mind can handle, mind you, but he knows." Suddenly wary of my response, Renée was on the defensive. "I just thought--it would be better to tell him, you know? He has a right, as your father--."

"Yeah, mom. It's okay." Was it? Yeah, I guess so. It didn't make much of a difference now.

"Bella honey, listen. You don't have to go. It's okay. I'm sure Charlie would love to see you, but he can always wait until the end of summer for your California trip. I just thought that maybe you'd like to go, considering that Phil and I are going to be in Jacksonville, probably in a hotel for a while. You know."

Renée furrowed her brow, but then looked hesitantly hopeful as she waited for my response.

"Yeah, okay. It's just for the summer, right?"

No answer. That's not good. Renée? Mom? Hello? Yah in there? I love you, but sometimes...

"Well, here's the thing, Bella, I was thinking," Renée paused, and then gushed the rest of her thoughts, "that maybe you might want to stay there for the next year?" She shuffled her hands in her lap, as my eyes widened comically.

She's got to be kidding.

Still nervous, she continued. "I spoke to whatshername in the business office at the Arts Academy, and she said that they really don't have the money to give you another year--I mean, that was an amazing scholarship, and the school costs a fortune; you know if I could send you there with my own money, I would, sweetie, right? Of course you do. It's just that--I think maybe you should... not go back to North, and we already tried to get you redistricted, but that was impossible because the schools are so full, and I have no idea what's going to happen with Phil and Florida, and I think maybe you should have a little bit more stability than that, honey."

Forks. As in Forks, Washington. Also known as 'the Boondocks,' 'the Boonies,' 'Hicksville,' and 'the Sticks.' 'The Styx' is more appropriate. Forks equals death. Just call me 'Persephone' and launch me into my own Greek myth. Forks? Mom, really? I mean, summer is one thing, but a whole friggin year? I'll lose my mind! Granted, 'Persephone' was only in the Underworld three-quarters of the year... and that would make Renée 'Demeter,' except that she has the blackest thumb in the world, so that doesn't work. Okay, on second thought, never mind. I've clearly already lost it.

"Uh. Well. I'll think about it, okay?" Riiiiiight.

"Oh good, Bella, thank you! Well, I'll call Charlie tomorrow to let him know that you'll be coming for the summer--he'll be thrilled to see you."

"Yeah mom." My mind was whirring with too much noise, and exhaustion was creeping in on my eyes. It had been a long, emotional day. "I'm gonna go to bed I think, okay?"

"Of course, sweetie, get some sleep. I'll see what I can do about getting your flight booked."

Back from my failed espionage mission, I crawled under the covers of my comfy, familiar bed in my cozy room. Which I was really going to miss. Profoundly. I laid there, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars patterned abstractly on my ceiling, wondering if Charlie would let me paint the house like Renée had allowed. Probably not. I wasn't sure if I would be able to sleep at all, when I slowly drifted away on thoughts of planes, paint, and a sense of groundlessness having nothing to do with flying that left me feeling uneasy, even in my unconscious and restless dreams.

---

When the light filtered through the pale curtains hanging from my windows, I rolled over and covered my face. When my alarm went off, letting me know that if I did not get up, I'd be annoyed with myself, I slapped it upside the head and rolled over again.

I did not want to get up. A small, out-of-tune voice in my head began singing:

"We shall not, we shall not be moved

We shall not, we shall not be moved

Just like a tree that's standing by the water

We shall not be moved."

Too late. Brain's strong with civil rights-era folk tunes. No more sleeping in for you!

Ugh. I just wanted my brain to shut up. I could feel the grogginess settling behind my eyes, and my head felt like it weighed twenty-five pounds. My mouth was dry and pasty. To someone else, this might be a hangover. To me, it was normal--for a morning after a crying jag.

I hate crying.

Resigned to my fate amongst the living, I dragged myself out of bed and through the door to the bathroom. Renée was sitting at the dining room table, papers strewn all across the mottled wood surface, calculator in hand.

How does she do it? She goes to bed after me, wakes up before me, and still manages to be normal. I do not get it. I think I must have missed this particular gene.

Renée looked up, coffee in hand, and smirked knowingly at my walking corpse.

I hate morning people.

After a shower, a tiny breakfast, and several glasses of water to re-hydrate myself from my previous day's 'water loss,' I began to feel normal. For me. Normal is overrated. Memories of yesterday had been filtering into my brain all morning, and it was not pleasant; however, I had gained clarity in my sleep. The letter... the pit of anxiety in my stomach from imagining attending North again... avoiding James--and how impossible that would be once he discovered my return; anyone would have been frazzled in my situation, I reasoned.

I was sad enough that I would lose the safe haven that I had developed for myself over the last year at the Arts Academy, "officially" called Phoenix Arts Academy and Secondary Training, (PAAST). The administration always encouraged the use of the name "the Arts Academy," but most of the students affectionately referred to it as "Paste", and they clearly appreciated the artistic implication. The past year had essentially been art therapy.

But the gruesome prospect of losing my haven, and being forced into James' company again? It was as if everything that I had gained had been stolen, and I could not help but be... angry... about it.

I took out my brushes and centered my easel in the brightest spot of my room. I yanked out my box of oils and bottle of turpentine, and went to work. This is how I vent. Some people throw fits. Some throw fists. Some eat. Some run.

I paint.

Charlie had no artistic talent, latent or otherwise, but Renée had always had an eye for images and colors. She and I both had always experienced the world through vivid pictures, and consequently there had always been an ease of communication between us. There were times when she would say "Bella" and wave her arms in the air, and I would know precisely what she needed. She said it was because I paid attention to her. I always thought that we always had a special link, but she was probably right.

I let the sticky colors on my multitude of brush bristles wash over me and drown out my internal monologue. I had been working on this particular painting since Renée, Phil, and I had visited the Boyce Thompson Arboretum State Park a few weeks ago. I had sketched and taken a few pictures, but neither medium was comparable to images that I held in my head. The colors of the desert flowers were stunning. The fiery reds, oranges, yellows, pinks, and purples of petals and the dusty green agave left an indelible portrait in my mind. I would undoubtedly be taking this with me to Forks.

The next days came and went similarly. I slept, ate, drank, showered, and painted, moving on to a new landscape. Phil came over; Renée bought my plane ticket. She said it was the least that she could do given that she wasn't going to see me for a while. I sniffled quietly at the thought of leaving her for an extended period, but I didn't let her know. I had been avoiding packing my things, content to live in my bubble for just a few days more.

Then Renée came along and popped it.

"Bella, honey?" she queried as she peered into my room.

"Yesh ma?" I tried to speak with a paintbrush gripped between my molars like I were an eccentric tango dancer, dancing with my paints... alone. 'Stop being so morose,' I told myself. I was sure that I had paint all over my face. Oil is a bitch to remove, but the idea of my messy appearance cheered me. Artists love messes.

"Honey, have you started packing? You leave in two days." I glanced up at her; Renée now stood squarely in the doorway, her posture erect, but her head cocked slightly to the side. She looked overly concerned.

I removed the paintbrush from my teeth. "Uh... no, not really. But I have a list." A mental list.

"Well, I don't want to pressure you, but... if I were you, I'd get a move on."

I'd been so immersed in my landscapes and colors for the past several days that I had managed to forget about James. Somehow thinking of Forks and Charlie and leaving... and that weird idea of me staying in Forks for a year... got me thinking about him again. Maybe, just maybe it won't be as horrendous as I'm predicting! Maybe Forks will be okay this time. At the very least, I'll be far, far away from the person I'd like to avoid. And it's not like Charlie is going to bother me too much.

I begrudgingly wrote out my list that evening, and began packing my belongings, saving my myriad art supplies for last. I was almost out of gesso canvas primer and carnelian, but for once, I did not have money to spare for paint—I was saving for a car. I realized that I would need to find a new art store, doubting the possibility that one had cropped up in Forks during my several-year absence. A girl can dream, right? Ha. Fat chance.

At the airport, I gave Renée a final hug goodbye, and assured her that I wanted to see Charlie, which was true, for once. 'I'm not an ungrateful daughter,' I mentally protested with the disapproving Renée voice in my head.

The jumbo jet flew directly over the grand canyon, which was stunning, but I fell asleep soon after. We arrived at Sea-Tac nearly four hours later, and I boarded what looked like an experimental aircraft from the 1920s for a harrowing hour-long flight to Port Angeles. I truly was grateful to see Charlie when we landed.

The drive in the Chief's Police cruiser was quiet, with the exception of Charlie's occasional attempts at conversation. I should have felt badly; I wasn't making it any easier for him. He and I had never been good communicators with each other.

"So, err, Bells." Charlie stiffly turned his head in my direction. "You look good."

"Thanks, dad."

Silence.

"You still painting?" He asked, his eyes, head, and body remaining straight ahead.

"Yeah, dad."

Silence.

"There's a truck for sale in La Push." Charlie nervously tapped his index fingers against the wheel, and continued to focus intently on the road.

Now we're talking, old man.

"Oh, yeah? How much?"

"Well," he stammered, "well, it's sort of free." Some radar or computer in his fully equipped cruiser loudly beeped, making me jolt in my seat, and a fuzzy transmission came through. Charlie quickly turned the switch down, and the static faded.

Oh. Free. I don't know enough about cars for that to be very good. I tried to think of a way to brace Charlie for the impending disappointment.

Charlie glanced quickly at me and saw my pained grimace and doubting eyes.

He quickly sought to fix his apparent mistake. "What I mean is, Bells, I already bought it. I know you're not too big on that, but... I thought you might like it." I turned fully toward him, and took in his afflicted visage. Only us Swans are so uncomfortably awkward about giving and receiving gifts. Geez.

I was stunned. "Wow, dad! That's awesome! Umm... it runs okay?" I asked him, hopefully making my point.

"Bel-la," he scolded, "I wouldn't put you in a vehicle that wasn't safe! Who do you take me for? Billy—you remember Billy Black, right?" I nodded, vaguely making up a face out of various features. I didn't remember. "Well, Billy and his son Jake rebuilt it—the engine is great, and it doesn't drive too fast." He said with a pleased grin.

Stupid meddling Chief of Police. There would be no drag racing in Forks, that's for sure. Not that I would.

Then I realized—wow—that was quite a few words, Charlie. Good job.

As we pulled into Charlie's gravel drive, I realized that I hadn't yet thanked him for the truck. Feeling like an ass, as we climbed out of the cruiser and made our way to grab my bags and large trunk of art supplies, I caught Charlie's eye and told him how much I appreciated his thoughtfulness.

My dad, sweet gentleman that he is, blushed.

He recovered quickly, though. As he awkwardly held out his arms to me in what I realized was a request for a hug, he quietly, and with more genuine emotion than I had ever heard him speak, murmured, "Welcome home, Bells." I returned his hug, and a real smile lit my face.

He's not Renée. But maybe he'll do.

Maybe this summer won't suck after all.

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