And here we have the next chapter. Hopefully, I made a sufficient enough first impression on this story for everyone to continue to read. Thanks for reading, and extra thanks to my reviewers. My schedule for updating will be a new chapter out, on average, every other day. Sometimes it may be the next day, or a few days later. Enjoy this chapter. :) Edward's first appearance.
A blush rose up the sides of my neck, warming my skin, as I pulled into the school parking lot of Forks High and every eye turned to gape at me. I wasn't sure if it was because I was driving my gift from Charlie—the old Chevy truck—or if it was because they had never seen me before. The school's population rested around 500, which was a third of how many kids were at my middle school, and with so little students, it would be easy to pick out an unfamiliar face or car. All the parking spots semi-close to the school were taken, and it was starting to rain, to my delight. After I parked in a spot far from the school entrance, heads around me shot up to stare at me when I awkwardly climbed out of the car, holding my pale green backpack to my chest. I pulled my hood up over my hair as a feeble shield against the rain pouring from the dark skies.
I kept my eyes firmly on the ground as I hurriedly walked through the lot: for two reasons. First off, the pavement was slippery from the rain, and I didn't want to risk a typical 'Bella maneuver' when I would fall flat on my face. Not exactly the first impression I wanted to make on my peers. The other reason was the more obvious one—that I was too shy to meet the eyes of any of the students in the lot, and I didn't really want to know when they would die. My hood was drenched by the time I was halfway down the parking lot and I was shivering from the cool wind that was biting straight through my wet clothes. Hopefully the school's heater was working.
The cars in the parking lot were what I had expected high school kids to drive: the usual beat-up Toyotas and the occasional Mazda, most with small dents and maybe a square or two of peeling paint. Beside them, my car looked ridiculous in its glorious rust and size and old-fashioned model. Towards the end of the lot were three very surprising vehicles: a shiny silver Volvo that couldn't have been more than a year old, a large red Jeep Wrangler that had mud streaked on its tires from its owner using it for off-roading, and a very flashy BMW convertible, even more obvious because of its bright red paint job. I didn't ogle the cars too much as I walked by, but my eyes were glued on them long enough to determine that no high school kid should drive or even have access to such fine automobiles. I had eliminated the possibility of a teacher owning them—the teacher's parking spots were on the other side of the school, according to the roughly drawn sketch Charlie had made for me that morning to assist me through parking.
Finally under the cover of the building, I slipped my hood off and combed a finger through my brown hair, feeling far too conspicuous as I was gawked at by the dozen students that were nearby. I tried to avoid looking at them, but I couldn't entirely evade it; and I could have informed the boy to be careful on April 24th, 2020, but I didn't. Ducking my head to steer clear of their inquiring eyes, I hastily walked towards the room that was marked on my map to be the front office.
"You must be Isabella Swan," the secretary said the instant that I was in her view, before I could even open my mouth to make introductions or inquiries.
Blinking away my surprise, I merely nodded and rubbed my chilly hands together, savoring the warmth of the office. It couldn't have been colder than sixty-five degrees outside, but when you compare it to the hundred plus that it would be in Phoenix, the difference was more pronounced.
"Here's your schedule, dear," the woman said. I stepped forward to accept the paper from her, noting that her name tag marked her name to be Mrs. Cope. "You need all your teachers to sign here," she added, indicating an empty space beside the names of my classes. When I nodded, she continued, "And just turn that in at the end of the day. A map of the school is on the back of your schedule, and I'm sure the student body will be willing to show you to your classes, dear. Have a good first day, Isabella."
"Thanks," I told her quietly, deciding against correcting her and saying that I preferred 'Bella.' She nodded once and returned her eyes to the computer screen in front of her; I took this to my cue to leave.
Once outside, I studied my schedule for a few minutes, flipping the paper over multiple times to match up a classroom number with a specific location in the school. By the time the bell rang, I had an idea of the general direction of my homeroom, and was headed off in that direction. In the hallway, I passed by the classroom twice before noticing the tiny lettering above the door that read 201. Slightly embarrassed, I slipped through the door and into the classroom.
Immediately the focus of everyone's eyes, I ducked my head and crossed the front of the room to hand my slip to the teacher. He accepted it, pressing it against his leg to have a solid writing surface, and signed his name with a flourish on the paper. I started to head towards a few empty desks in the back of the room, but he stopped me with a hand, and I stood in the front of the room, mortified at being the center of attention.
Once the tardy bell had rung, he rang a bell on his desk to capture the class's attention, but he already had it—or rather, I already had it. "Good morning, class," he said with a small smile. "This is Isabella Swan. She's new here, and I expect that you all will be a good help to her when she needs it. Isabella, after class you can pick up your book from my desk, and welcome to English 12 Honors. You may take any vacant seat; we have no absences today." Blushing, I nodded and quickly retreated into the shelter of my long hair as I walked down the aisle, plopping down into the first empty seat I came across, which happened to be beside a blonde boy with such bright blue eyes that I wondered if he wore colored contacts. His skin looked like most teenagers' did: acne, and of course, the numbers reading, "11232059" across his forehead, conspicuous to only me.
"Hey, Isabella, I'm Mike. Well, Michael, actually, but you can call me Mike," the blonde boy said too enthusiastically, smiling at me, unintentionally displaying his uneven teeth. Tentatively, I smiled back, thinking that this was going to be a long period if he kept up with that sort of behavior.
"Call me Bella," I said, and he beamed, looking at me adoringly. I instantly regretted it; I should have phrased it in a way that signified the fact that I wasn't flirting with him. "Everyone does," I added as a light afterthought, andfelt bad once I saw his face crumble. I kept quiet after that, and turned my attention to the lesson; the teacher, Mr. Sheak, was lecturing on reoccurring Shakespearean themes.
Mike, however, didn't take my gentle hint, and continued to whisper to me, to the oblivion of Mr. Sheak and to my annoyance. When the bell rang at the end of the period, I held in my whoop of delight, instead settling for a soft sigh of contentment, which Mike took to be a sigh of disappointment. "What's your next class?" he asked enthusiastically as I gathered my things and headed to the front of the room for my textbook.
I checked my schedule before replying, "Biology with Mrs. Phillips." Mr. Sheak handed me a textbook, and I placed it in my backpack—the school had no lockers, instead, you had a set of books for home and every class already had books in it, much like my middle school back in Arizona.
He beamed, and I tried not to show my dismay. "I have her next, too. I can show you the way, Isabella." I politely ignored his calling me by the wrong name, and he wouldn't have paused long enough for me to protest, anyways. "Where'd you move from?" he asked energetically as we left the room, him practically dragging me.
"Phoenix, Arizona." I noted his surprise with little of my own—looking at myself, I wouldn't assume I came from any place sunny, either. I was of average height, thin, but not overly so and certainly not the muscular, in shape kind of thin; I was more of the 'lucky genetics and fast metabolism' kind of thin. My skin was pale; I could never get a solid tan, no matter how much I was outside. The brown, slightly curled, hair of mine was no extraordinary feature; my hair was pretty, I suppose, because of how healthy it was—I had no split ends or anything like that. My eyes were brown as well, and maybe a tad too large for my face.
This tidbit of information set him off on a tangent of how he went to Disneyland once and the heat shocked him. I simply tuned his rambling out, and followed him into a classroom. Once again, I attracted the attention of every student in the room, and bashfully evaded looking at any of them, silently handing my slip to Mrs. Phillips and waiting nervously while she signed it. "Welcome, Isabella," she said warmly in a high voice, passing me the paper back. "You may take a seat by Mr. Cullen." She gestured towards a vacant seat in the third row.
I heard Mike groan with disappointment, but I ignored him as I headed towards the seat, looking at the 'Mr. Cullen' I was to sit by. Somehow, I kept my jaw up, despite the fact that it nearly dropped to the floor at the sight of him. He was utterly gorgeous. It sounded wrong to say about a boy, but there was no other adjective that could possibly begin to describe him. He had tousled bronze hair that was obviously not gelled into its disarray, and such pale white skin. His face was flawless and perfect—angular nose, square chin, soft lips, and dark lashes framing his dark eyes. His eyes appeared almost black, but they probably were just a very dark brown, unusually so for his lighter hair. But something stopped me dead in my tracks when I looked at him, and it wasn't his inhumanly good looks.
The numbers on his head.
They read "09281918." I assured myself that it was impossible, that I had misread it. I was barely aware that I was standing, frozen, in the aisle way, blocking the people behind me from reaching their desks. I couldn't hear their muttered complaints; my entire being was studying the Cullen boy's forehead. He turned to face me, his dark eyes glaring at me, and the numbers taunted me on his forehead: 09281918. He died September twenty-eighth, nineteen eighteen. Over a hundred years ago.
I promptly fainted to the floor.
I know, it wasn't the cafeteria scene. She'll have that eventually, and Jessica Stanley will come into the story to explain the Cullen's story. Bet you were expecting the cafeteria scene, and, as a writer, I don't usually like delivering what people are expecting. :) But thank you very much for reading, and please review! Have a great day.
Mel.