BPOV

Breathe in, breathe out, I thought to myself. My sweaty hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turned white, and my breath came out rushed and shallow. I felt the strong urge to turn around and head back home, but I realized that I was nearing the turnoff to Forks High School.

I loathed the fact that I had to go to school here. I was forced to move back to Forks, Washington with my father, Charlie, after my mother, Renee, died. It's not like I didn't love Charlie, it's just the place itself. Here, I felt out of place and alienated unlike in Phoenix. Forks was declared the rainiest (and, in my opinion, depressing) town in America. Everywhere I looked I saw green – green plants, green moss-covered trees and rocks, green grass, and even the overcast seemed green. I yearned for the sun, the vigorous heat, the populated city. But, unfortunately, I couldn't leave until I went to college.

With a defeated sigh, I drove my new (well, new to me at least) truck into the parking lot. I recently bought my truck using my miniscule pool of money. It was old, rusted, and loud. But, hey, it was cheap. What surprised me was the fact that it could still run. I glanced around the lot – it was virtually empty. I quickly parked my truck and took the key out of the ignition, not wanting to attract any unnecessary attention to myself. Bringing my wrist up, I glanced at my watch. It read 6:00. Of course, I thought, internally slapping my forehead. School doesn't start for more than another hour.

Knowing that I was new here, I should be going to the office to get my schedule. I reluctantly got out of the toasty cab after grabbing my bag from the passenger's seat and stepped onto the cold, wet black top. Of course, it was raining, so I walked briskly (I didn't dare run in fear of tripping) into the building. To my relief, the main office was directly to my left – at least I didn't have to stumble around the place looking like an incompetent idiot.

I opened the door and inside was a small, brightly lit room. It was very commercial; grey carpet that was recently vacuumed, cushioned wooden chairs like the ones at a doctor's office, potted plants that added more greenery inside, and a large mahogany desk that dominated the central area. There was a woman at the desk – the name plate read Mrs. Cope – and she was one the phone; she held up her index finger signaling for me to wait a moment. The she pointed to one of the chairs. Quickly getting the gist of her signs, I ungracefully collapsed into a chair and closed my eyes trying to calm myself.

"Sounds great, John. I'll talk to you later, goodbye. Can I help you, dear?" a warm voice asked.

My eyes fluttered open in surprise. "What?"

"Can I help you?" the voice asked once more. I realized it was Mrs. Cope.

"Oh!" I flushed crimson red, embarrassed. "Yeah, um, I'm new here. My name is Isabella Swan."

She eyed me warily. I knew I was the talk of the town. Imagine, Chief Swan's daughter has finally returned to Forks after all these years. "Ah, yes, Ms. Swan. We've been expecting you." Digging through a drawer, she fished out two sheets of paper. "Here is a map of the school, your schedule, and locker number and combination. Right now, it's," she glanced at the clock, "6:07. Class doesn't start until seven fifteen. For now, you should walk through the school and learn your way around. If you have any questions or problems, feel free to ask for a pass and come and see me, alright?"

"Y-yes, thank you," I mumbled. I quickly scurried out of the room and out into the hallway.

The map Mrs. Cope gave to me came in handy – I found my locker and only got lost twice. Hurriedly putting in my combination, I yanked open the locker and stuffed my bag inside and took out a notebook, pencil, and book. I was planning on going to home room early, but something caught my attention. The faint resonance of a piano was lingering in the moist air. I followed it eagerly – the sound was so pure and beautiful that it drew me in like a mosquito to light. It gradually got louder as I got closer, and I stopped in front of a door which was most likely the music room.

The melody died down and the song came to an end. Surprisingly, I was disappointed. Just then, it started again, the sweet sound starting to swell once more. But this time, I was actually familiar with this song; it was Clair de Lune, one of my favorites. This person's version of Clair de Lune was far more superior to the one I had on CD – it was clearer and more wholesome sounding. Curiosity got the better of me and I quietly opened the door wide enough to see who was playing. I gasped and my hand flew to my mouth in shock.

I was stunned because sitting at the piano was the most incredibly gorgeous man I have ever laid eyes on. His hair was thick, lustrous, and well maintained, yet it was casually tousled as if he had run his fingers through it several times. Even in the dull light, it held a rich copper tone. His features were angled, defined, and perfect; high cheekbones, straight nose, smooth lips, and a strong jaw all together gave his face the appearance of a model. No, not a model, an angel was more like it. He had a pale complexion (though not as pale as me) and his skin held no signs of imperfection. Sheathing his lean body was a navy blue cashmere sweater over a light pinstripe button-up collared shirt, dark-chocolate colored brown corduroys, and faded-white worn pair of Nike sneakers. The sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, so I could see the hard muscles wrapping his forearms. I imagined that he was far more toned than he appeared. His long ivory fingers elegantly swept across the keys, effortlessly, and his eyes were closed. His face held a concentrated look as he swayed with the music.

All I could do was sit there in awe of this beautiful man (well, he looked young enough to be a student, actually) while he played ever so gracefully. Many thoughts ran through my head. Who is this? What's his name? What was he doing here so early? The saccharine-like melody rang through the room, echoing off the beige walls. The luscious harmony between the bass and soprano worked marvelously as it swirled around me, filling my whole being. I closed my eyes and let the music take me back to my childhood – Renee used to play classical music in the house all the time. I didn't listen unless it was Debussy or Chopin.

I listened to this mysterious boy play, each piece bleeding into the next. Once the beautiful sound halted, it was as if a "trance" over me had been lifted. I opened my eyes and looked at my watch and it read 6:55. I noticed that there were people in the hallways, chatting and mingling casually with one another and small cliques. The sound of wood scraping against linoleum made me jump. I looked back at him; he had gotten up and turned in my direction. It was there, at that moment, I saw his eyes. They were the most striking color green I've ever seen. They weren't like the dull, pale, boring shades outside. No, they shone like emeralds, and they were bright, alert, and excited. A dark fringe of feathery lashes lined each of the jade spheres.

Just then, the eyes caught my own, his stare raging with confusion and alarm. Our eyes met only for an instant, but I could have sworn I felt something. It was an odd feeling, and I couldn't decipher it. I squeaked inaudibly and dashed away, blending in with the flow of the students who were now rushing to class. I swiftly looked behind me and saw the student run out of the room and jerk his head to the sides, trying to find me. I turned forward again and hurried to class, not looking back again. I walked inside the class and breathed a sigh of relief because I wasn't late. But, as I sat down in an empty seat, I couldn't stop thinking about the mystifying piano man.