Author's Note: Thanks to miss.dramatikkkk, Seul Lune, and Catisrad for reviewing! I just realized that I accidentally had anonymous reviews disabled, so I fixed that; sorry about that, guys. :-) Also: I forgot to put in a disclaimer in the first chapter, so here goes ::clears throat importantly::

Twilight, Esme Platt, and Charles Evenson all belong to Stephenie Meyer and her publishers. Mr. and Mrs. Platt, Margaret Platt, and Hester and William Evenson all belong to me, until such a time as Stephenie lays claim to them, upon which I will bow at her feet and probably cry. David Copperfield belongs to Charles Dickens.

Now, onto Chapter Two!

2. The Evensons

Just as I was leaving the washroom, I heard the doorbell. I walked down the corridor and reached the staircase in time to see my mother answer the door I heard a cacophony of greetings, mostly coming from my mother and Mrs. Evenson.

"Good evening!"

"Good evening, Miriam, darling! How marvelous to see you again!"

"Do come in, the night air must be chilling you to the bone!"

"Why, thank you!"

Laughter.

I hurried down the rest of the steps so I could take their coats from them. Amidst the bustle of the Evensons' entrance, Mrs. Evenson spotted me.

"Ah, Esme, darling! How are you?"

My father and Mr. Evenson were old friends, and I knew I had to be at my most gracious. I did find it aggravating, however, that even though I was already sixteen years old, Mrs. Evenson seemed to be under the impression that I was still a toddler. More specifically, as though I were a precocious little girl who had dressed up in her mother's clothes and was holding a tea party. No doubt she would laugh at me at least three times before she even properly got through the door. Nevertheless, I was polite. "Very well, thank you. And yourself?"

"Haha! Oh, isn't she just darling! I'm fine, sweetie, just fine!"

There she goes. I almost expected her to bend down and pinch my cheeks. "May I take your coats?" I asked, ignoring her chuckles.

"Oh! Well, aren't you just the most helpful cherub? William, look at this: she wants to take our coats!"

"Well, then, for heaven's sake, give her your coat, Hester. Esme, how are you?" I had always liked Mr. Evenson. He was very practical, like my father, but he wasn't as serious. Mr. and Mrs. Evenson both slipped out of their coats and handed them to me, and then Mrs. Evenson turned slightly and spoke over her shoulder.

"Charles, give Esme here your coat; she wants to be the one to hang them up."

The Evenson's only son, Charles, stepped forward between his parents and handed me his coat, which he had already removed. His dark eyes flashed down to meet mine. Immediately, I felt my stomach give a violent twist, and I had the sudden fear that I was going to be sick. That would be just what I would need to forever cement my puerility in Mrs. Evenson's mind – to vomit on her shoes. Margaret, my second cousin and best friend, once told me that if you hold your breath you won't be sick… or did she say keep breathing? I was still struggling to remember the conversation when I came to my senses and realized that I had been standing there, staring at Charles and his coat for at least fifteen seconds. I blinked, forced a smile, and added his coat to the pile draped across my left arm.

"Please excuse me," I whispered, and headed off in the direction of my parents' bedroom.

Once inside, I carefully spread the coats out on the bed, trying to slow my heartbeat. What was it about Charles that had triggered such a response? Granted, we weren't the best of friends; in fact, I hardly knew him, but I certainly didn't dislike him. I was at a complete loss, but at least the feeling of nausea had passed. I took a deep, calming breath and went to rejoin the throng.

However, when I returned to the hallway, it was deserted, except for my mother. She looked beautiful, but that was not unusual. My mother was quite beautiful, and always had been, or so I've been told. But she looked exceptionally stunning tonight, with her forest green dress and her hair done up. I hoped that one day I would look like her. After all, I did take after her looks more than those of my father. Mother and I had the same dark gray eyes and the same hair color: a light tawny. My father fondly referred to us as his honey and his caramel. At least, he used to. Recently, I had noticed that my father had been much sterner with me than he usually was. He had used to chuckle throatily whenever I did something childish, like riding my uncle's horse bareback, jumping from the willow into the pond in the backyard, or coming home completely filthy after getting into a mud fight with Margaret. Lately, however, he had taken to scolding me, telling me to act my age. I still loved my father desperately, of course, but I sensed a rift developing between us, and I was very afraid of it.

My mother smiled at me. "Is there something on your mind, Esme?"

There were a lot of things on my mind: does my father hate me? Why do I get sick when I look at one of our dinner guests? What happens to David Copperfield after he is born on a Friday? Do you hold your breath or not when you want to keep from throwing up? But none of them was exactly passing conversation as my mother and I strolled our way into the dining room, so I just smiled and shook my head.

She stroked my cheek lovingly and said, "You look very pretty tonight, Esme," then she turned and headed for the dining room.

The light from the hallway ricocheted off one of the windows, turning it into a mirror. In a brief moment of vanity, I eagerly looked into it, hoping to see my mother smiling back at me. I thought perhaps I looked like her a little… just around my mouth.… My eyes widened. Did we have the same bone structure? … Maybe if my cheeks were a little rosier…. I pinched at my cheeks, and then turned on my heel and headed for the dining room, hoping to follow after my mother in more ways than one.

I sighed and sank down in between my warm covers. It had been a long evening. I had tried to be as invisible as possible, which wasn't easy considering that Mrs. Evenson had insisted on trying to draw me into conversation. I was a very shy person, except when I was around Margaret, when I became someone entirely different. I was outgoing and outspoken, even funny at times. I could express myself sarcastically and sardonically, as I sometimes felt the need to do when I was frustrated, and Margaret could always make me laugh with her raucous imitations of whomever I was frustrated with. Her inborn knowledge of human nature was such that, even if she had never met someone before, she could accurately imitate aspects of their personality perfectly. I had suffered through the limelight as best I could, holding onto the thought that, by this time tomorrow, Margaret and I would be laughing at everything I was currently enduring.

In spite of the comforting knowledge that soon the evening would be a memory tainted with the colors that Margaret would surely add to it, I was still discomfited. I had not been imagining it: Charles had been the reason for my feelings of unease all evening. At random moments throughout supper, I would glance up and find him looking at me. Always, he would drop my glance immediately, without acknowledging the fact that he had been caught staring, except for once, when he and his parents were leaving.

I had gone to retrieve their coats from my parents' bedroom, hoping I was imagining the prickly feeling of being watched, but as soon as I had rounded the corner on my return to the hall, I saw him looking at me. His eyes had followed me the whole way to his mother's side, whereupon I handed her coat to her. She had taken her coat and her husband's with, "Oh! You're such a doll!" When I handed Charles his coat, his eyes had bored into mine, and I had met his gaze once more. This time, he had held my eyes, and when I tried smiling weakly at him, the strangest look had come into his eyes. He had looked almost… hungry. I wondered if he had gotten enough to eat, but I didn't have the courage to ask. I had felt overpowered, and I was forced to break eye contact. A moment later, when I glanced up from under my lashes, he had a look of triumph about him, and I felt a shiver run through me.

I shivered involuntarily once more, even though the night was warm and I was nestled comfortably in my sheets. I rolled over restlessly, trying to induce sleep by closing my eyes and pretending to be tired.

Why me? Why was he staring at me? He'd never taken an interest in me before. And I wasn't imagining it.

I sighed and opened my eyes, staring at my moonlit wall. I was in for a long night.

Another Author's Note: Well, what did you think? I will do my best to respond to every review I receive, unless I forget (ask anyone: I have the memory of a goldfish).