Ahead of Time

by originella

Eighteen-year-old Bella Swan is feeling stagnate in her life. She has a part-time job at her father's dental practice, a younger brother, an older brother, and two loving parents, but something seems to be missing. When she finds a mysterious handsome man in her father's yearbook, combined with his unwillingness to give her any information, Bella makes it her mission to find him.

1. Bats in the Belfry

Chapter One: Bats in the Belfry

Crazy. That's the first adjective that comes to mind when you're attempting to convince other people that time travel is possible. Of course, when I first heard the notion myself, that's the only adjective that was readily available to me. Yet I knew that controversy had the capability of getting involved with every topic out there, especially when you're a teenager, when you want to debate and debunk every little thing. One just had to be on the look-out for it, especially when it came to our assignments and how we could complain and/or potentially get out of them as a whole, if they met all the "ridiculous" criteria.

When we all of us were assigned a decade in our history class to study and do a report on, I knew that there would be a few stragglers who would balk at such a thing. Our teacher would tell us by email who had the best in the class, which I thought was a better alternative than simply saying it during class time. I was given the 1980's, which was a blessing in disguise, as both my parents attended high school during that incredible era in time. All I could think of was getting all the details right; I didn't care if mine was the best in the class—I just wanted to ace the paper. We had two weeks in which to compile research and to write our papers, and then it was time to turn them in. Each paper had to be a minimum of two pages and a maximum of five pages, and at four and a half pages, I thought the length of my piece was perfect.

I turned in my paper on its correct due date with everyone else and managed not to allow it to cross my mind for over a week. After yet another session of history class a week later, I headed to lunch with my two best friends, Jessica and Angela, as usual, and barely glanced at what lay inside my plastic bag. I held onto it tightly as I breezed through the lunch line with them, the formality of keeping them company falling on blind eyes as they each paid for their lunch. We made our way to our customary table by the massive window in the cafeteria, where we all placed the various food containers we had that afternoon center stage.

"When do you think we'll have our results back?" Jessica asked the two of us in a casual manner as she put her fork into a particularly bright green lettuce leaf. "Mr. Volturi has had them for plenty of time…"

"He's got three other history classes," Angela puts in, blowing on a bite of chicken noodle soup, sending a waft of savory-smelling steam in our directions. "Give him some time."

I casually chew a bite of my sandwich before swallowing. "What decades did you two have again?" I ask.

"The fifties, so post-war period," Angela replies, popping a bite of hot soup in her mouth before chewing it and swallowing. "It all seemed pretty calm, but the poor women had to repopulate after the casualties…"

"I had the Roaring Twenties," Jessica replies, an embittered annoyance at the back of her tone as she tossed her blonde hair in a moment of disdain. "My Grandmother Olga went on and on for a week and a half about how privileged us kids are nowadays and how grateful we should be that we're not on rations."

"What are rations?" Angela asks.

Jessica shrugged. "I don't know—something to do with food."

"I hope you put what they really were in your paper," I said quietly, wrapping up what was left of my chicken pesto wrap and returning it to my bag. "Volturi will downgrade you if your definition isn't correct, or sloppily written…"

"Do you know what rations are?" Angela asks.

I pick up my bottle of water and sip it slowly; I return the cap to its proper place and run my fingers along the delicate ridges. "Yeah," I said quietly.

Jessica drums her perfectly manicured fingers upon the surface of the commonly sticky lunch table, fixing me with a cold, glacier-like look. "If you did, where were you when I was writing my report?"

I gritted my teeth, unscrewing the cap again. "I was writing my report," I reply patiently, sipping my bottle of water. "I mean, it's a midterm, remember? If we fail a midterm, we'd have to make up all the points somehow. Consider that assignment compared to five other class workloads and the finishing touches on a senior project—it's a lot to take in."

Jessica sighed, taking another couple bites of salad, its leaves barely soaked with her favorite fat-free vinaigrette dressing. "I know you're right, I'm sorry. My parents have been fighting a lot recently and I think they may end up getting a divorce. I shouldn't be taking it out on you, I know that."

Angela sighed as well. "Well, at least you don't have a single mother who is your principal breathing down your neck all the time," she muttered. "Well, at least now that I'm eighteen and can potentially dig up some information on my father."

"And what about prom?" Jessica asks, Angela's curiosity about her biological father being swept under the rug, as always. "We have to worry about that. The dress and the shoes and a limo…so much to consider."

"And a date for Bella," Angela says, nodding in my direction.

Immediately, I choke on a sip of water and shake my head, folding up what is left of my lunch in an effort to distract myself. I don't even bother eating my rice krispy treat, as I still have memories of each krispy rice piece getting stuck in my braces, which I'd just gotten out about six weeks ago. "No, thank you—no date for me."

"We can't go to the prom with our guys and leave you to dance alone on the sidelines," Jessica says, her trademark whine hidden in the back of her statement.

"I won't be dancing alone," I reply hotly.

"Because you're going to ask someone?" Angela asks.

"Let's not be too hasty—maybe somebody asked her," Jessica puts in.

I shake my head at the both of them, becoming entirely annoyed with this very trivial line of conversation. "No, nobody asked me."

Angela's dark brows knitted together at my statement. "Well, if you're not dancing alone, and nobody asked you to prom… I mean, what are you going to do there, Bella? Stand by the wall all night?" she demanded.

I roll my eyes, tempted to smack the table. "No, neither," I say, rolling my shoulders. "I wasn't asked, and I won't be asking anyone."

"Bella—" Jessica begins.

"I won't be standing by the wall, or the punch bowl, or the snack table—"

Angela averted her eyes. "Sorry…"

"I won't be doing any of that because I'm not going."

"Not going?!" cried Jessica. "Why?!"

"Well, for one thing, it'd be a waste of money because even trying to look pretty much a foreign thing to me." I shudder at the whole institution of it. "Besides, I have far too much work to do as it is. I'm doing six class workloads, plus there's my work at Dad's practice five times a week after school for three hours, my senior project finalization, and then I have my book list and essay to write before starting at the University of Washington in September." I run a hand through my long, brown hair then, for it seemed as if none of them truly understood what I was getting at—that, quite soon, we would be onto bigger and better things, and none of this objectively mattered. "I don't have time to waste money and to dance around looking like a complete idiot for the mandatory four hours before being potentially felt up in some seedy motel room. Sorry."

Jessica's expression is perturbed at my run-on statement, her silver eyes wide. "You're not actually suggesting that—"

"No, I'm not suggesting that you or Angela or Mike or Ben will look like complete idiots at prom," I reply, knowing I have to keep my tone patient. "You're good couples and they treat you right. Plus, I'm friends with them both, so it doesn't make it weird. You two go and have a fun time while I surround myself with work."

"You sure?" Angela asks.

I nod. "Positive," I reply.

. . .

I hop in my silver Prius when school lets out, letting out a customary honk to my younger brother, Jasper, who is a sophomore and on his motorcycle. Jasper and I each work as part-time receptionists/assistants at our parents' dental practice, Swan's Smiles's, located in Downtown Forks. It is in a grand old building made from expensive bricks and, if one were to stand in the suite of offices on the top floor, you could see Lake Crescent in La Push.

The practice itself is open Monday thru Friday, except holidays, from nine a.m. until six p.m., except on the eve of a holiday, where we would close our doors at three-thirty sharp. Jasper's and my parents started the practice after graduating from the School of Medicine, the medical division of the University of Washington. They'd met their eighth-grade year, at Forks Junior High School, and had become fast friends immediately thereafter. The friendship had grown into an attraction by high school, and by the time their junior year rolled around, they were an established and exclusive couple. The pair of them were married the summer after their graduation, before they attended the university medical school, and were a part of the graduating class of 1984. After a small loan from our paternal grandparents, the practice was born and soon became one of the best businesses in town.

I was born in January of 1996, and it seemed that I was everything my parents had wanted in their lives. Initially believing that children were out of the question for them—as they had waited nearly a solid decade after their marriage to conceive me—the two of them thought that it would never happen. But happen it did, and my younger brother Jasper debuted on the scene on the first day of November, in 1997.

After that, they decided that they were through with having children, yet they adopted our older brother, Emmett, from Los Angeles after meeting him during a family vacation. Emmett was being educated at School of Medicine as well, and was just as good a student as our father had been during his college days. The plan was for Emmett to take over the practice upon graduation, and to marry his fiancée, Rosalie Hale, a local girl whose father was a partner in the big law firm in town, where Rosalie would eventually take over as well.

I left the school parking lot and made my way down the quiet side streets before turning on the road outside school, Spartan Avenue, and turned onto South Forks Avenue. I passed Mocha Motion, a coffee shop hangout, a hardware store, and the art center, sports stores, and other things that tourists seemed to like to frequent whenever they found themselves in town, which was virtually never, due to our abundance of rain, which seemed to turn people off. I made a left on Campbell Street and Ash Avenue, where my parents' dental practice was located in the same prime location it had been when it was initially opened, a generous parking lot included.

I parked in my designated parking place before leaning forward and popping open my glove compartment, slipping on my nametag lanyard which also worked as a key card for the employee entrance. I hesitated for a moment, running my hands over the steering wheel, and remembering what my father had told me about hard work, and how far it could ultimately take you. I fixed myself a look in the mirror, my chocolate brown eyes staring right back to me, and shook my head at my reflection, slamming the mirror shut.

I put my bag on over my shoulder, knowing that I could easily get some schoolwork done during my break. I got out of the car, locking it automatically behind me and making my way across the parking lot. The sun beat down on me, which was a rarity for these parts, and I managed to methodically tip my sunglasses downwards to shield my eyes for the three-yard walk from my car towards the employee entrance, located around the back of the building. I scanned my key card and let myself in, taking down my sunglasses for the security cameras and going to my station, behind the appealing cherry wood desk in the reception area. I waved to Senna, who I would be relieving of duty, and she smiled gratefully.

"Right on time," she said, signing out of her employee account. "I'll tell ya, honey, these patients just have the most interesting stories…"

"Oh, really?" I ask, setting my things down on the opposite side of the desk and logging in to the second computer. "How's that?"

"A man came in before noon for a root canal—pretty routine, if I do say so myself," Senna replies, folding her hands on her ample belly and shaking her head. "Gave his name, and mercifully, he had an appointment."

"Really? He did? That's a relief," I say, peeking over my shoulder at her. "Did he say what caused the injury to his mouth?"

"Skiing accident, but I thought otherwise… Although I suspect your father thought so too and worked him in," says Senna with a smile.

"He's always doing that," I say with a chuckle at the back of my voice as I pull up the appointment calendar for the day. "Let's see, Thursday," I mutter to myself as I manage to locate the right day. "Here we are… Looks like Bruce Greenstein should be arriving for his three-thirty anytime now…"

"Oh, yeah, yeah, I remember him," Senna says, straightening her natural weave as she makes sure her computer has logged out appropriately. "He's the new owner of our darling little sports emporium, it seems…"

"Old man Stephenson was finally bought out?" I ask casually, scanning the calendar for more appointments that day.

"Apparently," Senna replies as the main door opens. "Jasper Charles Swan!"

My brother grins sheepishly as I look up at him and automatically purse my lips in a moment of impatience, and I already know what he's about to say. "I'm really sorry about this, Senna," he says, automatically locking his motorcycle in his own spot in the parking lot. "Forgot my ID badge behind the counter again. Toss it to me so I can go in the right way? Please?"

"Only because your father is swamped that he can't be bothered," Senna groans as she gathers her things, tossing Jasper his ID badge. "You have a good day, sugar," she says to me, flashing her perfect smile.

"He'll see it on the security camera footage, you know," I mutter, grinning back at Senna as I motion for Jasper to move out of the way as a paying customer approaches the desk from the parking lot. "Good afternoon, and welcome to Swan's Smiles's," I say as Jasper rolls his eyes when he thinks I'm preoccupied and slips out the main door. "And do you have an appointment with us today, sir?" I notice from the corner of my eye that Jasper has gone completely, and I know full well that Senna has met him at the employee entrance.

"Bruce Greenstein," he says, putting out a hand.

"Bella Swan, nice to meet you," I say, shaking it.

"Dentist's daughter?" he guesses.

"Right you are," I say, checking him in. "All right, good to go… A hygienist should be with you in the next five to ten minutes. If you would like, please partake in a complimentary stick of gum, or a glass of water—lemon wedge optional, but not required. You can also use the bathroom, or feel free to brush your teeth with a courtesy toothbrush, opposite from the bathroom," I tell him with a smile.

"Thanks very much," Mr. Greenstein says. He pops a stick of winter green gum into his mouth and heads for the bathroom. He returns in about three minutes and picks up a Men's Health Magazine with a rugged-looking Russell Crowe on the cover. As he flips through it, an amused smile on his face, there is a silence until Jasper finally makes his appearance known, and slips beside me and onto the other computer.

"That's the new Sport's Emporium owner?" he asks casually, kicking his bag underneath the desk and logging in to his employee account. "He looks pretty normal—an improvement from old man Stephenson."

"Shh!" I hiss at him, annoyed that he would say something so within earshot, especially given that this Greenstein guy was supposedly new in town. "Dad needs all the new customers he can get—you know that. I mean, sure, we're the only dental practice in town, but still. We don't want any kind of competition."

"Sorry, sorry," Jasper mutters, logging in to his account completely and managing to pull up the appointment calendar page. "I get it, really, Bella. Mom and Dad both make good livings, which is why we've got a nice house, and Emmett's on full-scholarship with a car, and you have a car, and I've got…"

"Your bike?" I ask, giving him a sideways grin, and shake my head at him. "Your sweet baby, Motorcycle-Bike?"

"Hey!" Jasper says in mock-anger, and crosses his arms to really sell the show. "That's Mister Motorcycle-Bike!"

I roll my eyes, the phrase boys and their toys filling my mind as I scanned through further appointments that afternoon on the appointment file on the computer. "That bike is seriously your baby…everyone in town knows that. What does Maria make out of all this?"

"Maria couldn't handle it," Jasper says quietly.

"How's that?" I ask, watching as one of the hygienists, Heidi, steps forward and calls Bruce Greenstein into the back for his appointment.

"We broke up last week," Jasper says as Bruce Greenstein and Pauline file past the receptionist desk in an orderly fashion. "We broke up at the big bonfire—which you missed because you're clearly antisocial."

"Yeah, that's why," I mutter, scoffing as I continue looking through appointments, and find that Jessica's younger brothers—Jasper's best friend, Eric, as well as the youngest in the Stanley family, ten-year-old Seth—are due for their six-month cleaning. "Seniors have a much larger workload, mister. Trust me—when you get there, you'll know."

"Eric and I want to buy the local auto body shop," Jasper tells me. "I've told everyone this plenty of times."

I look over at Jasper and sigh; we'd been told by the family early on that although Emmett was going to inherit the practice, if we got the necessary education, we would be able to have a part of the practice ourselves. Although I was still undecided about everything in life—other than graduating and my acceptance into the University of Washington—I still knew that a college degree was necessary. "I'm not saying you wouldn't make good money at that job," I reply, forcing my voice to remain gentle so as I wouldn't cause Jasper any form of teenage angst—he literally wouldn't be able to handle it. "You'd make great money—especially if you and Eric were a success—but you should really go to college…"

"I take shop at school; I volunteer there whenever I'm not scheduled here," Jasper snaps back at me as the main door opens again. "Let me be me—I never liked the whole book thing… Hello, welcome to Swan's Smiles," he says with a rather effervescent air to the patients. "How may I help you?"

"Claudia Webster, checking in for my daughter, Amanda," says the mother, who appears to be in her thirties, along with her daughter, who looks as if she's in elementary school.

"Of course," Jasper replies, pulling up the appointment calendar on his computer screen and checking to see if the information is all correct. "And it's just the cleaning today for Amanda, Mrs. Webster?" he asks.

"Yes, that's right," she replies.

"Very good," Jasper says, flashing a smile to Amanda before filling out that she had arrived over ten minutes before her appointment. "Just through that small door there is the kids' area—full of books. I think the film playing in there today is Frozen if you're interested."

Amanda brightens at that, dropping her mother's hand and immediately making a dash for the children's area.

Mrs. Webster looks visibly relieved that her daughter is occupied; she remains at the desk for a moment longer before Jasper finishes with her, before turning around and getting onto her electronic appointment calendar. Claudia Webster had an air of business about her, and I guessed she worked at Forks C.P.A.'s, based on the fact that authority seemed to cling to her like a warm blanket. I'd seen Amanda Webster coming into the practice before; hyperactive to the core, I assumed that her mother worked long hours, and I wondered if her mother had hired a nanny or a governess for her.

We had several more customers flit in and out of the practice that afternoon, and when five-thirty rolled around, Dad came out from his office and told us that we should do a final check of the appointment logs. Jasper and I did so, and we neither of us saw any further appointments in the book; with the technicians sent home, Mom making sure all the instruments were clean, and Dad going through the books and the security footage, it was almost time to get home.

Relief flooded through me; it hadn't been too terribly busy that afternoon, so I'd managed to finish my homework during the lull of the work day and in some of my mandatory employee breaks. Fifteen minutes later, Jasper and I were told to shut off the computers and lock the main door, whereupon we scanned our badges and left the building, leaving Mom and Dad to lock up the back and finish with everything else. We had a cleaning crew come three times a week, so there wasn't much to do—they came twice during the business week for a preliminary clean, and once during the weekend for a deep clean.

You never did like the smell of lemon, I admonish myself as I wave Jasper off in the semi-darkness of the parking lot. I got into my car and faintly heard his motorcycle fire up from inside the enclosed walls. I leaned back against my seat, savoring the quiet around me, and saw my mother and father locking up the employee entrance of the practice from behind me. I saw my mother turn around to listen to something my father was saying, and then throwing back her head in a moment of humor. Shaking my head, I turned the key in the ignition, navigating my way from the parking space and honking my horn at them, before waving briefly and taking the back way out of the parking lot. I drove down Calawah Way, and make my way up the hill and towards Merchants Road, where many semi-affluent members of town live.

Our house is a beautiful Colonial with old-fashioned brickwork and cream-colored pillars on either side of the trio of stone steps, which lead all the way up to the ordinary rectangular-shaped front door. On either side of the house, other than the bay windows on the second floor, are two garages—three in the standard size, plus a larger one, where my parents kept their two cars. My father had a sleek black Cadillac, while my mother owned a sophisticated-looking red BMW, a present from my father at Christmas three years ago.

Emmett, Jasper, and I each have one of the smaller garages to ourselves; although Jasper doesn't have a car, he does have our parents' permission to use his space to fix up his friends' cars for a pretty decent profit. His room is literally a shrine to the car itself—not just one car, but cars in general; he would die if anything happened to his hands or to his brain; hands to complete the task, brains to remember how it's done, or to come up with a more efficient way to complete said task in a cheaper or potentially life-altering manner.

Once I've reached the top of the hill, I turn right and keep going until the numbers on the houses reach four. I continue on towards the cul-de-sac, where our house is in the dead back center. I go around the roundabout and head up the driveway, and pop open my garage automatically in one swift movement. I let out a groan as it opens, slamming my head down onto my steering wheel as the light flickers on when I see the white Porsche convertible parked dead center in what has always been known as my garage.

"Dammit Rosalie!" I shout, shutting off my car, effectively blocking her in, and smirk ever so slightly at minorly inconveniencing her as well. I make a grab for my backpack, hopping out of the vehicle and making my way up the rest of the driveway, stomping as I go. I walk in through my garage and troop through the side entrance which leads to the basement stairs and up to the main floor. "Hey!" I shout as I head upstairs. "Anyone home?"

"In here!" Emmett calls from the kitchen, where I smell the mouth-watering smell of steaks cooking on the back barbeque, and I realize that me not eating my entire lunch was a bad way to go—I am officially hangry. "Hey, little sis," he says as I make it up the rest of the stairs, pulling me into a hug. "How was your day? And work? Only a few more months to go now and then my baby sister is officially an all-grown-up high school graduate—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah—cut the big brother chit-chat. I'm really not in the mood to hear any of it right now," I say in a firm tone, pulling myself out of his arms and scanning the gourmet kitchen for Rosalie and coming up dry, the irritation on an empty stomach leaving an altogether bad taste in my mouth. "Tell me—where's your fiancée?"

Emmett sighs, towering over me, running a hand through his brown hair, which is several shades darker than mine. "In the living room," he replies.

"Good," I say, throwing my backpack on one of the seats with a mighty slam at the bar and stomping in there. "Rosalie," I say, and find my mouth flapping open when I see that not only is she painting her nails on the high-priced couch, but our bulldog, Churchill, is sleeping next to her (drooling, of course). To add insult to injury, Rosalie has turned on our living room flat screen to Keeping Up with the Kardashians.

Rosalie turns around then, her perfect blonde hair like the plume of an angel's halo as she does so, her blue eyes flashing in fiery ambivalence. "Bella, darling—my soon-to-be little sister!" she crows like some kind of sadistic lark, hell-bent on catching its prey, before getting to her perfect size-five feet and swiftly capping her pristine dark green Christian Louboutin nail polish that is worth what I make in three hours while working for my dad. "Darling, darling, darling!" Rosalie gushes at me like she's some old Hollywood starlet, or a modern hairdresser, as she struts towards me in her platform heels—inexplicably never tripping and falling—and throwing her arms around me. "I can't believe that exactly one week after your graduation, I am going to be your sister!"

I nod, nearly choking on her Chanel perfume, thankful that I am able to get her vice-like grip of her likely still-wet nails off from around my neck and just managing to plaster on a smile as she looks down at me. "Yeah, um, sure," I say, stepping back.

"Oh, it's just been so hard coming up with everything… Oh!" she says, her voice rising half an octave as a thought comes to her—surprisingly, she had plenty, it was comprehending them that proved to be the difficult part. "I know I told everyone months ago that Alice was going to be my maid of honor—she is my sister, after all. But I was hoping you'd be a bridesmaid? Will you, Bella? You will, won't you? Please say you will?" she asks.

"What about your cousin, Tessa?" I ask her.

Rosalie waves it away, air-drying her nails, effectively killing two birds with one stone. "Had a falling out."

"How?" I ask. "You two are so close…"

Rosalie rolls her eyes, turning back towards the T.V. as Kim or Khloe or Kanye or somebody says something seemingly important to whoever. "Tessa says that she needs to be home right now because she and Will—her husband—have to go to the hospital…"

"Is everything okay?" I ask, ignoring the T.V.

"Something called a D&C," Rosalie says, waving it off before deciding to add another coat of nail polish to her nails. "The recovery period is said to be a bitch…"

I take a moment to shake my head at her callousness and ignorance before taking a small step towards her. "Listen, Rosalie… You parked in my garage again…"

Rosalie automatically reaches into her purse with her free hand and tosses her keys behind her, which inexplicably end up in my hand, nearly stabbing my palm in the process. "I trust you, Bella," she said without looking at me. "You're probably parked behind me, right?"

I nod. "Yeah…"

"Good. Pull your car out to the street and then move my car," Rosalie says rather plaintively, all the while migrating her vision from the reality show and painting her nails—which I hoped she would get yelled at for. "Emmett and I are just staying for dinner and dessert and then he has to get back to the dorms and I have to get home."

I nod. "All right, then," I reply, walking back into the kitchen to get my keys before heading outside to do Rosalie's dirty work. As I head back towards the kitchen, I roll my eyes at Emmett, who mouths, "Be nice". Whatever he saw in Rosalie I seriously had no idea, I thought to myself as I made my way back down the stairs and into the side door, leading ultimately to my garage and seriously considering keying Rosalie's sleek carriage, but ultimately deciding it was better if I didn't. Emmett and Rosalie's chemistry seemed to be off the charts, of course—it had to be considering she got that six-carat diamond—but she was a total airhead.

I mean, we all knew that the reason she even got into the law school division of University of Washington was because her father had to have made a call, I reasoned with myself as I unlocked my car and hopped inside. I drove into reverse and out onto the street, my headlights illuminating the street in front of me as I perfectly parked my car temporarily onto the street. Getting out, I walked back up the driveway and towards Rosalie's car—which she named White Shadow because she fancied herself as some deep individual full of intellectualism—and was more than a little tempted to ram it somewhere. However, I merely pulled it out of my garage and down the driveway, before putting my car back where it belonged.

"Maybe it'd be nice if Rosalie were to simply fall asleep," I muttered to myself as I shut the garage behind me. "Because then the sweepers could justifiably and legally come and haul off poor, poor White Shadow away…" I laughed maniacally to myself as I made my way back upstairs, my nose following the completely intoxicating and overwhelmingly good smell of steaks cooking.