1. FIRST SIGHT
My mother drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down. It was seventy-five degrees in Phoenix, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. I was wearing my favorite shirt – red and short-sleeved. I was wearing it as a farewell gesture. My carry-on item was a parka.
In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, a small town named Forks exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. It rains on this inconsequential town more than any other place in the United States of America. It was from this town and its gloomy, omnipresent shade that my mother escaped with me when I was only a few months old. It was in this town that I'd been compelled to spend a moth every summer until I was fourteen, that was the year I finally put my foot down; these past three summers, my dad, Charlie, vacationed with me in California for two weeks instead.
It was Forks that I now exiled myself – an action that I took with great horror. I detested Forks.
I loved Phoenix. I loved the sun and the blistering heat. I loved the vigorous, sprawling city.
"Edward," my mom said to me – the last of a thousand times – before I got on the plane. "You don't have to do this."
My mom looks like me, except with a heart-shaped face and laugh lines. I felt a spasm of panic as I stared at her wide, childlike eyes. How could I leave my loving, erratic, harebrained mother to fend for herself? Of course she had Phil now, so the bills would probably get paid, there would be food in the refrigerator, gas in the car, and someone to call when she got lost, but still…
"I want to go," I lied. I'd always been a bad liar, but I'd been saying this lie so frequently lately that it sounded almost convincing now.
"Tell Charlie I said hi."
"I will."
"I'll see you soon," she insisted. "You can come home whenever you want – I'll come right back as soon as you need me."
I could see the sacrifice in her eyes behind the promise.
"Don't worry about me," I urged. "I'll be great. I love you, Mom."
She hugged me tightly for a minute, and then I got on the plane, and she was gone.
It's a four-hour flight from Phoenix to Seattle, another hour in a small plane up to Port Angeles, and then an hour drive back down to Forks. Flying doesn't bother me; the hour in the car with Charlie, though, I was a little worried about.
Charlie had really been fairly nice about the whole thing. He seemed genuinely pleased that I was coming to live with him for the first time with any degree of permanence. He'd already gotten me registered for high school and was going to help me get a car.
But it was sure to be awkward with Charlie. Neither if us were what anyone would call verbose, and I didn't know what there was to say regardless. I knew he was more than a little confused by my decision – like my mother before me; I hadn't made a secret of my distaste for Forks.
When I landed in Port Angeles, it was raining. I didn't see it as an omen – just unavoidable. I'd already said my goodbyes to the sun.
Charlie was waiting for me with the cruiser. This I was expecting, too. Charlie is Police Chief Swan to the good people of Forks. My primary motivation behind buying a car, despite the scarcity of my funds, was that I refused to be driven around town in a car with red and blue lights on top. Nothing slows down traffic like a cop.
Charlie gave me an awkward, one-armed hug when I stumbled my way off the plane.
"It's good to see you, Eds," he said smiling as he automatically caught and steadies me. "You haven't changed much. How's Renée?"
"Mom's fine. It's good to see you, too, Dad." I wasn't allowed to call him Charlie to his face.
I only had a few bags. Most of my Arizona clothes were too permeable for Washington. My mom and I had pooled our resources to supplement my winter wardrobe, but it was still scanty. It all fit easily into the trunk of the cruiser.
"I found a good car for you, really cheap," he announced when we were strapped in.
"What kind of car?" I was suspicious of the way he said "good car for you" as opposed to just "good car".
"Well, it's a truck actually, a Chevy."
"Where did you find it?"
"Do you remember Billy Black down at La Push?" La Push is the tiny Indian reservation on the coast.
"No."
"He used to go fishing with us during the summer," Charlie prompted.
That would explain why I didn't remember him. I do a good job of blocking painful, unnecessary things from my memory.
"He's in a wheelchair now," Charlie continued when I didn't respond, "so he can't drive anymore, and he offered to sell me his truck cheap."
"What year is it?" I could see from his change of expression that this was the question he was hoping I wouldn't ask.
"Well, Billy's done a lot of work on the engine – it's only a few years old, really."
I hoped he didn't think so little of me as to believe I would give up that easily. "When did he buy it?"
"He bought it in the 1984, I think."
"Did he buy it new?"
"Well, no. I think it was new in the early sixties – or late fifties at the earliest," he admitted sheepishly.
"Ch – Dad, I don't really know much about cars. I wouldn't be able to fix it of anything went wrong, and I couldn't afford a mechanic…"
"Really, Edward, the thing runs great, they don't build them like that anymore."
The thing, I thought to myself…it had possibilities – as a nickname, at the very least.
"Hoe cheap is cheap?" After all, that was the part I couldn't compromise on.
"Well, son, I kind of already bought it for you. As a home-coming gift." Charlie peeked sideways at me with a hopeful smile.
Wow. Free.
"You didn't need to do that, dad. I was going to buy myself a car."
"I don't mind. I want you to be happy here." He was looking ahead at the road when he said this. Charlie wasn't comfortable with expressing his emotions out loud. I inherited that from him. So I was looking straight ahead as I responded.
"That's really nice, Dad. Thanks. I really appreciate it." No need to add that me being happy in Forks is an impossibility. He didn't need to suffer along with me. And I never looked a free truck in the mouth – or engine.
"Well, now, you're welcome," he mumbled, embarrassed by my thanks.
We exchanged a few more comments on the weather, which was wet, and that was pretty much it for conversation. We stared out the window in silence.
It was beautiful, of course; I couldn't deny that. Everything was green: the trees, their trunks covered with moss, their branches hanging with a canopy of it, the ground covered with ferns. Even the air filtered down greenly through the leaves.
It was too green – an alien planet.
Eventually we made it to Charlie's. He still lived in the small, two-bedroom house that he'd bought with my mother in the early days of their marriage. Those were the only kind of days their marriage had – the early ones. There, parked on the street in front of the house that never changed, was my new – well, new to me – truck. It was a faded red color, with big, rounded fenders and a bulbous cab. To my intense surprise, I loved it. I didn't know if it would run, but I could see myself in it. Plus, it was one of those solid iron affairs that never gets damaged – the kind you see at the scene of an accident, paint unscratched, surrounded by the pieces of the foreign car it had destroyed.
"Wow, Dad, I love it! Thanks!" Now my horrific day tomorrow would be just that much less dreadful, I wouldn't be faced with the choice of either walking two miles in the rain to school or accepting a ride in the Chief's cruiser.
"I'm glad you like it," Charlie said gruffly, embarrassed again.
It took only one trip to get my stuff upstairs. I got the west bedroom that faced out over the front yard. The room was familiar; it had belonged to me since I was born. The wooden floor, the light blue walls, the peaked ceiling, the yellow curtains around the window – these were all a part of my childhood. The only changes Charlie had ever made were switching the crib for a bed and adding a desk as I grew. The desk now held a second-hand computer, with the phone line for the modem stapled along the floor to the nearest phone jack. This was a stipulation from my mother, so that we could stay in touch easily. The rocking chair from my baby days was still in the corner.
There was only one small bathroom at the top of the stairs, which I would have to share with Charlie. I didn't dwell so much on that fact.
One of the best things about Charlie is he doesn't hover. He left me alone to unpack and get settles, a feat that would have been altogether impossible for my mother. It was nice to be alone, not to have to smile and look pleased; a relief to stare dejectedly out the window at the sheeting rain.
Forks High School had a frightening total of only three hundred and fifty-seven – now fifty-eight – students; there were more than seven hundred people in my junior class alone back home. All of the kids here had grown up together – their grandparents had been toddlers together. I would be the new kid from the big city, a curiosity, a freak.
Maybe, if I looked like boy from Phoenix should, I could work this to my advantage. But physically, I'd never fit in anywhere. I should be tan, sporty – a rugby player, perhaps – all the things that go with living in the valley of the sun.
Instead, I was ivory-skinned, without the excuse of blue eyes or blond hair, despite the constant sunshine. I obviously wasn't an athlete; I didn't have the necessary hand-eye coordination to play sports without humiliating myself – and harming both myself and anyone else who stood too close.
When I finished putting my clothes in the old pine dresser, I took my bag of bathroom necessities and went to the communal bathroom to clean myself up after the day of travel. I looked at my face in the mirror as I ran my hand through my untidy, damp hair. Maybe it was the light, but already I looked sallower, unhealthy. My skin was very clear, almost translucent-looking.
Facing my pallid reflection in the mirror, I was forced to admit that I was lying to myself. It wasn't just physically that I'd never fit in. And if I couldn't find a niche in a school with three thousand people, what were my chances here?
I didn't relate well to people my age. Maybe the truth was that I didn't relate well to people, period. Even my mother, who I was closer to than anyone else on the planet, was never in harmony with me, never on exactly the same page. Sometimes I wondered if I was seeing the same things through my eyes that the rest of the world was seeing through theirs. Maybe there was a glitch in my brain.
But the cause didn't matter, all that mattered was the effect. And tomorrow would be just the beginning.
I didn't sleep well that night. The constant whooshing of the rain and wind across the roof wouldn't fade into the background. I pulled the faded old quilt over my head. And later added the pillow, too. But I couldn't fall asleep until after midnight, when the rain finally settled into a quieter drizzle.
Thick fog was all I could see out my window in the morning, and I could feel the claustrophobia creeping up on me. You could never see the sky here; it was like a cage.
Breakfast with Charlie was a quiet event. He wished me good luck at school. I thanked him, knowing his hope was wasted. Good luck tended to avoid me. Charlie left first, off the police station that was his wife and family. After he left, I sat at the old square oak table in one of the three unmatching chairs and examined his small kitchen, with its dark paneled walls, bright yellow cabinets, and white linoleum floor. Nothing was changed. My mother had painted the cabinets eighteen years ago in an attempt to bring some sunshine into the house. Over the small fireplace in the adjoining handkerchief-sized family room was a row of pictures. First a wedding picture of Charlie and my mom in Las Vegas, then one of the three of us in the hospital after I was born, taken by a helpful nurse, followed by the procession of my school pictures up to last year's. Those were embarrassing to look at – I would have to see what I could do to get Charlie to put them somewhere else, at least while I was living here.
It was impossible, being alone in this house, not to realize that Charlie had never gotten over my mom. It made me uncomfortable.
I didn't want to be too early to school, but I couldn't stay in the house anymore. I donned my jacket – which had the feel of a biohazard suit – and headed out into the rain.
It was just drizzling still, not enough to soak me through immediately as I reached for the house key that was always hidden under the eaves by the door, and locked up. The sloshing of my new waterproof boots was unnerving. I missed the normal crunch of gravel as I walked. I couldn't pause and admire my truck again as I wanted; I was in a hurry to get out of the misty wet that swirled around my head and clung to my hair under my hood.
Inside the truck, it was nice and dry. Either Billy or Charlie had obviously cleaned it up, but the tan upholstered seats still smelled faintly of tobacco, gasoline, and peppermint. The engine started quickly, to my relief, but idling, roaring to life and then idling at top volume. Well, a truck this old was bound to have a flaw. The antique radio worked, a plus that I hadn't expected.
Finding the school wasn't difficult, though I'd never been there before. The school was, like most other things, just off the highway. It was not obvious that it was a school; only the sign, which declared it to be Forks High School, made me stop. It looked like a collection of matching houses, built with maroon-colored bricks. There were so many tress and shrubs I couldn't see its size at first. Where was the feel of the institution? I wondered nostalgically. Where were the chain-link fences, the metal detectors?
I parked in front of the first building, which had a small sign over the door reading FRONT OFFICE. No one else was parked there, so I was sure it was off limits, but I decided I would get directions inside instead of circling around in the rain like an idiot. I stepped unwillingly out of the toasty truck cab and walked down a little stone path lined with dark hedges, I took a deep breath before opening the door.
Inside, it was brightly lit, and warmer than I'd hoped. The office was small; a little waiting are with padded folding chairs, orange-flecked commercial carpet, notices and awards cluttering the walls, a big clock ticking loudly. Plants grew everywhere in large plastic pots, as if there wasn't enough greenery outside. The room was cut in half by a long counter, cluttered with wire baskets full of papers and brightly colored flyers taped to its front. There were three desks behind the counter, one of which was mannered by a large, red-haired woman with glasses. She was wearing a purple t-shirt, with immediately made me feel overdressed.
The red-haired woman looked up. "Can I help you?"
"I'm Edward Swan," I informed her, and saw the immediate awareness light in her eyes. I was expected, a topic of gossip no doubt. Son of the Chief's flighty ex-wife, come home at last.
"Of course," she said. She dug through a precariously stacked pile of documents on her desk till she found the ones she was looking for. "I have your schedule right here, and a map of the school." She bought several sheets to the counter to show me.
She went through my classes for me, highlighting the best routes to each on the map, and gave me a slip to have each teacher sign, which I was to bring back at the end of the day, she smiled at me and hoped, like Charlie, that I would like it here in Forks. I smiled back as convincingly as I could.
When I went back out to my truck, other students were starting to arrive. I drove around the school, following the line of traffic. I was glad to see that most of the cars were older, like mine, nothing flashy. At home, I'd lived in one of the few lower-income neighborhoods that were included in the Paradise Valley District. It was a common thing to see a new Mercedes or Porsche in the student lot. The nicest car here was a shiny Volvo, and it stood out. Still, I cut the engine as soon I was in a spot, so that the thunderous volume wouldn't draw attention to me.
I looked at the map in the truck, trying to memorize it; hopefully I wouldn't have to walk around with it stuck in front of my nose all day. I stuffed everything in my backpack, slung the straps over my shoulder, and sucked in a huge breath. I can do this. I lied to myself feebly. No one was going to bite me. I finally exhaled and stepped out of the truck.
I kept my face pulled back into my hood as I walked to the sidewalk, crowded with teenagers. My plain black jacket didn't stand out, I noticed with relief.
Once I got around the cafeteria, building three was easy to spot. A large black "3" was painted in a white square on the east corner. I felt my breathing gradually creeping toward hyperventilation as I approached the door. I tried holding my breath as I followed two unisex raincoats through the door.
The classroom was small. The people in front of me stopped just inside the door to hang up their coats on a long row of hooks. I copied them. They were two girls, one a porcelain-colored blond, the other also pale, with light brown hair. At least my skin wouldn't be a standout here.
I took the slip up to the teacher, a tall, balding man whose desk had a nameplate identifying him as Mr. Mason. He gawked at me when he saw my name – not an encouraging response – and of course I flushed tomato red. But at least he sent me to an empty desk at the back without introducing me to the class. It was harder for my new classmates to stare at me in the back, but somehow, they managed. I kept my eyes down on the reading list the teacher had given me. It was fairly basic: Brontë, Shakespeare, Chaucer, Faulkner. I'd already read everything. That was comforting…and boring. I wondered if my mom would send me my folder of old essays, or if she would think that it would be a form of cheating. I went through different arguments with her in my head while the teacher droned on.
When the bell rang, a nasal buzzing sound, a gangly girl with skin problems and hair black as an oil stick leaned across the aisle to talk to me.
"You're Edward Swan, aren't you?" She looked like the overly helpful, knitting club type.
"Yes," I answered. Everyone within a three-seat radius turned to look at me.
"Where's your next class?" she asked.
I had to check in my bag. "Um, Government, with Jefferson, in building six."
There was nowhere to look without meeting curious eyes.
"I'm headed towards building four, I could show you the way…" Definitely over-helpful. "I'm Elise," she added.
I smiled tentatively. "Thanks,"
We got our jackets and headed out into the rain, which had picked up. I could have sworn several people behind us were walking close enough to eavesdrop. I hoped I wasn't getting paranoid.
"So, this is a lot different than Phoenix, huh?" she asked.
"Very."
"It doesn't rain much there, does it?"
"Three or four times a year."
"Wow, what must that be like?" she wondered.
"Sunny," I told her.
"You don't look very tan."
"My mother is part albino."
She studied my face apprehensively, and I sighed. It looked like clouds and a sense of humor didn't mix. A few months of this and I'd forget how to use sarcasm.
We walked back around the cafeteria, to the south building by the gym. Elise walked me right to the door, though it was clearly marked.
"Well, good luck," she said as I touched the handle. "Maybe we'll have some other classes together." She sounded hopeful.
I smiled at her vaguely and went inside.
The rest of the morning passes in about the same fashion. My Trigonometry teacher, Mr. Varner, who I would have hated anyway just because of the subject he taught, was the only one who made me stand in front of the class and introduce myself. I stammered, blushed and tripped over my own boots on the way to me seat.
After two classes, I started to recognize several of the faces in each class. There was always someone braver than the others who would introduce themselves and ask me questions about how I was liking Forks. I tried to be diplomatic, but mostly I just lied a lot. At least I never needed looking at the map.
One boy sat next to me in both Trig and Spanish, and he walked with me to the cafeteria for lunch. I couldn't remember his name, so I smiled and nodded as he prattled about teachers and classes. I didn't try to keep up.
We sat at the end of a full table with several of his friends, who he introduced to me. I forgot all their names as soon as he spoke them. They seemed impressed by his bravery in speaking to me. The girl from English, Elise, waved at me from across the room.
It was there, sitting in the lunchroom, trying to make conversation with seven curious strangers, that I first saw them.
They were sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, as far away from where I sat as possible in the long room. There were five of them. They weren't talking, and they weren't eating, though each had a tray of untouched food in front of them. They weren't gawking at me, unlike most of the other students, so it was safe to stare at them without the fear of meeting an excessively interested pair of eyes. But it was none of these things that caught, and held, my attention.
They didn't look anything alike. Of the two boys, one was big – muscled like a serious weight lifter, with dark, curly hair. The other was taller, leaner, but still muscular, and honey blond. They looked like they could be in college, or even teachers here rather than students.
The girls were opposites. The tallest one was statuesque. She had a beautiful figure, the kind you saw on the cover of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, the kind that made every girl around her take a hit on her self-esteem just by being in the same room. Her hair was golden, gently waving to the middle of her back. Another was a brunette, her sleek, medium brow hair tied in neat ponytail. Her eyes were almond-shaped, and she was cupping her chin with one hand. Her long, slender legs were crossed in the most elegant way. The last one was short and pixielike, thin in the extreme with small features. Her hair was a deep black, cropped short and pointing in every direction.
And yet, they were all exactly alike. Every one of them was chalky pale, the palest of all the students living in this sunless town. Paler than me, the albino. They all had very dark eyes despite the range in hair tones. They also had dark shadows under those eyes – purplish, bruiselike shadows. As if they were all suffering from a sleepless night, or almost done recovering from a broken nose. Through their noses, all their features, were straight, perfect, angular.
But all this is not why I couldn't look away.
I stared because their faces, so different, so similar, were all devastatingly, inhumanly beautiful. They were faces you never expected to see except perhaps on the airbrushed pages of a fashion magazine. Or pained by an old master as the face of an angel. It was hard to decide who was the most beautiful – maybe the perfect blond girl, or the alluring brunette.
They were all looking away – away from each other, away from the other students, away from anything in particular as far as I could tell. As I watched, the small girl rose with her tray – unopened soda, unbitten apple – and walked away with a quick, graceful lope that belonged on a runway. I watched, amazed at her lithe dancer's step, till she dumped her tray and glided through the back door, faster than I would have thought possible. My eyes darted back to the others, who sat unchanging.
"Who are they?" I asked the boy from my Spanish class, whose name I'd forgotten.
As he looked up to see who I meant – thought already knowing, probably, from my tone – she suddenly looked at him, the chic one, the elegant one, they youngest, perhaps. She looked at my neighbor for just a fraction of a second, and then her dark eyes flickered to mine.
She looked away quickly, more quickly than I could, though in a flush of embarrassment I dropped my eyes at once. In that brief flash of a glance, her face held nothing of interest – it was as if he had called her name, and she'd looked up in voluntary response, already having decided not to answer.
My neighbor snorted in embarrassment, looking at the table like I did.
"That's Isabella and Emmett Cullen, and Rosalie and Jasper Hale. The one who left was Alice Cullen; they all live together with Dr. Cullen and his wife." He said this under his breath.
I glanced sideways at the beautiful girl, who was looking at her tray now, picking a bagel to pieces with long, pale fingers. Her mouth was moving very quickly, her perfect lips barely opening, the other three still looked away, and yet I felt she was speaking quietly to them.
Strange, unpopular names, I thought. The kinds of names grandparents had. But maybe that was in vogue here – small town names? I finally remembered that my neighbor was called Jason, a perfectly common name. There were two boys named Jason in my History class back home.
"They are…very nice-looking." I struggle with the conspicuous understatement.
"Duh!" Jason agreed with another snot. "They're all together though – Emmett and Rosalie, and Jasper and Alice, I mean. And they live together," his voice held all the shock and condemnation of the small town, I thought critically. But, if I was being honest, I had to admit that even in Phoenix, it would cause gossip.
"Which ones are the Cullens?" I asked. "They don't look related…"
"Oh, they're not. Dr. Cullen is really young, in his twenties or early thirties. They're all adopted. They Hales are brother and sister, twins – the blonds – and they're foster children."
"They look a little old for foster children."
"They are now, Jasper and Rosalie are both eighteen, but they've been with Mrs. Cullen since they were eight. She's their aunt or something like that."
"That's really kind of nice – for them to take care of all those kids like that, when they're so young and everything."
"Well, dude, I guess so," Jason admitted reluctantly, and I got the impression that he didn't like the doctor and his wife for some reason. With the glances he was throwing at their adopted children, I would presume the reason was jealousy. "I think that Mrs. Cullen can't have any kids, though," he added, as if that lessened their kindness.
Throughout all this conversation, my eyes flickered again and again to the table where the strange family sat. They continued to look at the walls, and not eat.
"Have they always lived in Forks?" I asked. Surely I would have noticed them on one of my summers here.
"No," he said in a voice that implied it should be obvious, even to a new arrival like me. "They just moved down two years ago from somewhere in Alaska."
I felt a surge of pity, and relief. Pity because, as beautiful as they were, they were outsiders, clearly not accepted. Relief that I wasn't the only newcomer here, and certainly not the most interesting by any standard.
As I examined them, the youngest, one of the Cullens, looked up and met my gaze, this time with evident curiosity in her expression. As I looked swiftly away, it seemed to me that her glance held some kind of unmet expectation.
"Which one is the girl with the brown hair?" I asked. I peeked at her from the corner of my eye, and she was still staring at me, but not gawking like the other students had today – she had a slightly frustrated expression. I looked down again.
"That's Isabella. She's gorgeous, of course, but don't waste your time. The babe doesn't date. Apparently none of the guys here are good-looking enough for her." He snorted, once again, a clear case of sour grapes. I wondered when she'd turned him down.
I bit my lip to hide my smile. Then I glanced at her again. Her face was turned away, but I thought her cheek appeared lifted, as if she were smiling, too.
After a few more minutes, the four of them left the table together. They all were noticeable graceful – even the big, brawny one. It was unsettling to watch, the one named Isabella didn't look at me again.
I sat at the table with Jason and his friends longer than I would have if I'd been sitting alone. I was anxious not to be late for class on my first day. One of my new acquaintances, who considerately reminded me that his name was Aaron, had Biology II with me the next hour. We walked to class together in silence. He was shy, too. A first, I noticed.
When we entered the classroom, Aaron went to sit at a black-topped lab table exactly like the ones I was used to. He already had a neighbor. In fact, all the tables were filled but one. Next to the corner aisle, I recognized Isabella Cullen by her glossy hair, sitting next to that single open seat.
As I walked down the aisle to introduce myself to the teacher and get my slip signed, I was watching her surreptitiously. Just as I passed, she suddenly went rigid in her seat. She stared at me again, meeting my eye with the strangest expression on her face – it was hostile, furious. I looked away quickly, shocked, going red again. I stumbled over a book in the walkway and had to catch myself on the edge of a table. The girl sitting there looked up at me and giggled.
I'd noticed that Isabella's eyes were black – coal black.
Mr. Banner signed my slip and handed me a book with no nonsense about introductions. I could tell we were going to get along. Of course, he had no other choice but to send me to the one open seat in the middle of the room. I kept my eyes down as I went to sit by her, bewildered by the antagonistic stare she'd given me,
I didn't look up as I set my book on the table and took my seat, but I saw her posture change from the corner of my eye. She was leaning away from me, sitting on the extreme edge of her chair and averting her face like she smelled something bad. Inconspicuously, I sniffed my armpit. It still smelt of the lavender body foam I had used to wash myself that morning. It seemed an innocent enough odor. Puzzled, I shifted in my seat and tried to pay attention to the teacher.
Unfortunately, the lecture was on cellular anatomy, something I'd already studied. I took notes carefully anyway, always looking down.
I couldn't stop myself from peeking occasionally at the strange girl next to me. During the whole class, she never relaxed her stiff position on the edge of her chair, sitting as far from me possible. I could see her hand on her left leg was clenched into a fist, tendons standing out under her pale skin. This, too, she never relaxed. She had the long sleeves of her white blouse pushed up to her elbows, and her forearm looked surprisingly hard beneath her light skin. She wasn't nearly as slight as she'd looked next to her burly brother.
The class seemed to drag on longer than the others. Was it because the day was finally coming to a close, or because I was waiting for her tight fist to loosen? It never did; she continued to sit so still it looked like she wasn't breathing. What was wrong with her? Was this her normal behavior? I questioned my judgment on Jason's bitterness at lunch today. Maybe he was not as resentful as I'd thought.
It couldn't have anything to do with me. She didn't know me from Adam.
I peeked at her one more time, and regretted it. She was glaring down at me again, her black eyes full of revulsion. As I flinched away from her, the phrase if looks could kill suddenly ran through my mind.
At that moment, the bell rang loudly, making me jump, and Isabella Cullen was out of her seat. Fluidly she rose – she was much taller than I'd thought – her back to me, and she was out the door before anyone else was out of their seat.
I sat frozen in my seat, staring blankly after her. She was so mean. It wasn't fair. I began gathering up my things slowly, trying to block the anger that filled me.
"Aren't you Edward Swan?" a female voice asked.
I looked up to see a cute, baby-faced girl, her dirty-blond hair in two pigtails, smiling at me in a friendly way. She obviously didn't think I smelt bad.
"The one and only," I smiled.
"I'm Melodie."
"Hi, Melodie."
"Do you need help finding your next class?"
"I'm headed to the gym, actually. I think I can find it."
"That's my next class, too," she seemed thrilled, thought it wasn't that big of a coincidence in a school this small.
We walked to class together; she was a chatterer – she supplied most of the conversation, which made it easy for me. She'd lived in California till she was ten, so she knew how I felt about the sun. It turned out she was in my English class also. She was the nicest person I'd met today.
But as we were entering the gym, she asked, jokingly, "So, did you kill Isabella Cullen's mother or what? I've never seen her act like that."
I cringed. So I wasn't the only one who had noticed. And, apparently, that wasn't Isabella Cullen's usual behavior. I decided to play dumb.
"Was that the girl I sat next to in Biology?" I asked artlessly.
"Yes," she said. "She looked like she was in pain or something."
"I don't know," I responded. "I never spoke to her."
"She's a weird girl." Melodie lingered by me instead of heading to the dressing room. "If I were lucky enough to sit by you, I would have talked to you."
I smiled at her before I walked through the boy's locker room. She was friendly and clearly admiring. But it wasn't enough to ease my irritation.
The Gym teacher, Coach Clapp, found me a uniform but didn't make me dress down for today's class. At home, only two years of P.E. were required. Here, P.E. was mandatory all four years. Forks was literally my personal hell on Earth.
I watched four volleyball games running simultaneously. Remembering how many injuries I had sustained – and inflicted – playing volleyball, I felt faintly nauseated.
The final bell rang at last. I walked slowly to the office to return my paperwork. The rain had drifted away, but the wind was strong, and colder. I tugged onto my jacket.
When I walked into the warm office, I almost turned around and walked back out.
Isabella Cullen stood at the desk in front of me. I recognized again that radiant, shiny brown hair. She didn't appear to notice the sound of my entrance. I stood pressed against the back wall, waiting for the receptionist to be free.
Isabella was arguing with her in a low, attractive voice. I quickly picked up the gist of the arguments, she was trying to trade form sixth-hour Biology to another time – any other time.
I just couldn't believe that this was about me. It had to be something else, something that happened before I entered the Biology room. The look on her face must have been about another aggravation entirely. It was impossible that this stranger could take such a sudden, intense dislike to me.
The door opened again, and the cold wind suddenly gusted through the room, rustling the papers on the desk, tousling my bronze hair. The girl who came in merely looked at me inquisitively, stepped to the desk, placed a note in the wire basket, and walked out again. But Isabella Cullen's back stiffened, and she turned slowly to glare at me – her face was absurdly breath-taking – with piercing, hate-filled eyes. For an instant, I felt a thrill of genuine fear, raising the hair on my arms and the back of my neck. The look only lasted a second, but it chilled me more than the freezing wind. She turned back to the receptionist.
"Never mind, then," she said hastily in a voice like velvet. "I can see that it's impossible. Thank you so much for your help." And she turned on her heel without another look at me, and disappeared out the door.
I went meekly to the desk, my face white for once, instead of red, and handed the same receptionist the signed slip.
"How did your first day go, dear?" she asked maternally.
"Fine," I lied, my voice weak. She didn't look convinced.
When I got into the truck, it was almost the last car in the lot. It seemed like a heaven, already the closest thing to home I had in this damp green hole. I sat inside for a while, just staring out the windshield blankly, trying to compose myself. But soon, I was cold enough to need the heater, so I turned the key and the engine roared to life. I headed back to Charlie's house, thinking about that bizarre girl the whole way there.