The next day, I awoke relatively early. I had about an hour before I needed to leave, but that wasn't enough time get started doing homework, so I decided on housework. I was overdue on laundry.
As I was filling the wash Carrie appeared, decked out in fishing apparel, her usual weekend activity.
"Hey kid," she smiled. "Beach today?"
"Yep," I affirmed. "Fishing?"
"Skydiving," she said, completely deadpan.
I just stared.
"My usual crew passed," she said, snickering, "so I am going to be closer to home. Are you going to be back for dinner? Because I might not be."
"I got it, mom," I said. "I don't know how long it will be, but I'll be home before curfew. Oh, I'm planning on driving up to Seattle next Saturday."
"What about the dance?" she asked without missing a beat.
I occupied myself with pulling laundry detergent to hide my scowl.
"I don't dance," I said, aiming for not morose and landing some near inflectionless.
"You didn't ask anyone?" she asked.
If she was going to ask, I was going to answer.
"No," I said brusquely, "I didn't, nor would I if it hadn't been girls choice."
"But why?" she pressed.
"Mom," I complained. "Why is now the time you choose to pry? I told you, I'm not dating. I don't dance, and I don't go to dances. I wouldn't, even if I was dating."
"I'm just asking," she said in the tone that all mothers seem to be gifted with at birth. My birth, not hers. "I can ask. You don't need to get all disgruntled."
"I am not disgruntled!" I said in a tone that just about anyone other than me may or may not call disgruntle.
Her eyes went wide, then knowing.
"Oh," she said. "Okay. I see."
"What?" I asked, my voice going up an octave. "You see what?"
"Oh nothing," she said, her knowing expression deepening. "Nothing at all."
"Mom!" I invariably whined.
"I'll see you later, Benny," she said, her tone utterly patronizing.
The front door closed and I slammed the washer door with a huff.
After the laundry was running, I tidied my room, which ninety percent was already done by picking up clothes, and the rest was finished with some light shuffling around of book bags and bedding before deciding I could vacuum. Finally, I put on some layers I could take off If I got warm, since the forecast called for some sun, and headed for my truck.
It had been returned the day before, just as Edwina had said it would, with the keys in it. I realized that she had been the only person other than me to have driven my truck since I had gotten it, which seemed like it should have been a big deal, especially since I wasn't there to make sure she didn't wreck it. Though, once I had thought about it, I realized that I really didn't mind at all.
I found Newton Outdoor Outfitters easily enough; it was just off the highway. I found that the group was already forming up once I had got there. Lauren, Angelo, Taylor, and Jesse were already there when I pulled up, and Mickie and Brenda made it there shortly thereafter. There were more than enough for us to need to take the van that Mickie had borrowed from her parents. Taylor had arrived in her new Jeta since her parents had to sell her old van for parts. My truck was fine. The dent in the back panel was barely noticeable.
"Come sit up front," Mickie said.
I smiled, glancing at Jesse. The resentment was obvious as he tried to look away.
"Sorry, Mickie," I said pleasantly. "Jesse called shotgun before you got here."
"He did?" asked Lauren.
"Oh," said Mickie disappointedly. "Oh, but we weren't all here yet. That doesn't count."
The discomfort on my face wasn't entirely faked, "I don't want to be rude. Maybe I'll get it on the way back or something."
As we all moved to the van, Jesse whispered, "You didn't need to do that."
"Do what?" I asked. "You didn't call shotgun?"
He tried not to look pleased. Unfortunately, that left me stuck between Lauren and Taylor. I kept my mouth shut, wishing I could of at least sat next to Angelo.
The drive wasn't long, and soon we had parked and unloaded. I wished I could have brought something, but when I called Mickie the night before, she insisted that I bring nothing, saying she and her mom loved putting picnics together for her friends. Eventually, I agreed, and now I was glad. The food she brought out was obviously put together by people who owned an outdoors store and enjoyed the outdoors more than most of the people who came into their business. It was neatly organized, everything put together with a methodical structure for ease of distribution and eating, everything looking and tasting great. Anything I could have brought would have paled in comparison to what they had supplied.
After we had set up a spot on the beach and eaten a few snacks, a few people brought out a Frisbee and others sort of generally played, running up and down the beach. Soon, it is just Angelo and me, sitting watching the others.
For a moment, I was inclined to say something, make some small talk, but as time passed, it became clear that we were both comfortable just sitting together, not needing to speak if nothing needed to be said. I was thinking of getting up and going for a walk when he said, "I saw you sitting with Edwina Cullen yesterday at lunch."
He didn't say it as though he were digging for gossip; he seemed interested if anything, and the fact that he waited until the others weren't really in earshot spoke volumes.
"Yeah," I said. "She invited me over, so I sat with her."
"She doesn't do that very often," he said. I got the feeling that this was a bit of an understatement.
"Yes," I agreed. "She has been acting a bit strangely."
He nodded, "I wonder why that is."
I shrugged, smiling, "If you figure that out, please, please let me know."
"She could just like you," he said.
I felt rather flummoxed, "What? No... she could... I... What?"
He laughed, but it was a good-natured thing, "I saw you yesterday. You two were pretty locked in together. If it had been a date, from where I was sitting, it looked as though it went rather well."
I didn't respond. I didn't need to. I didn't need to justify my position or explain or theorize or validate or anything. After a couple of seconds, Angelo stood, brushed sand off his pants and asked, "Have you seen a driftwood fire?"
"No," I said, standing myself.
"We'll wait until it's closer to dusk, that way you can get the full effect," he said. "What would you like to do now?"
Jesse and Mickie joined us, and we hiked up to the tidal pools, basins of rock and sand that are cut off from the ocean by the tides, filled with their own miniature ecosystem. I could watch them for hours, trying to discover all the little animals and watch them going about their daily routines, but even Angelo could only show so much interest. Luckily, my first fall was still when he was around, and he steadied me before I could do more than bloody my knee. Unluckily, the second fall comes after the others had already headed back. Aside from being a bit wet, I wasn't badly hurt. It was just a few scratches and a cut on my forearm. By the time I made it back, they were about to start the fire.
"They were impatient," explained Angelo with a laugh.
"Are you alright?" asked Jesse, seeing how wet I was and catching the tears in my shirt.
"I'm fine," I said, rolling the tattered sleeve up to show him. "I'm not even bleeding anymore."
Mickie dug around and found a first aid kit. A dollop of antiseptic and large band-aid later, I was sitting before a blue fire with a towel around my shoulders.
"Generally," said a boy I didn't recognize, "you're only supposed to go in the water if you have your bathing suit on."
I looked around and realized that about a half dozen other people have joined our little group, locals from the La Push Reservation. Some were noticeably older, like nearly ten years older, but one of them, a younger girl, tall and rail tie thin, caught my attention and looked familiar.
"Do I know you?" I asked, and half of my friends fell quiet.
She smiled broadly, "Yeah. You bought a certain truck off of my mom."
I blinked, "You're Belinda's daughter. Jay-something."
She looked rather pleased, "Not bad! You probably remember my older brothers, though, Rob and Randell."
"Barely," I said. "It's been... what, seven years?"
"Eight," she said, "but who's counting?"
She sort of timidly came over, crossing around the fire, "Can I sit here?"
She faced a spot next to me.
"Sure," I said, scooting to make room. She had a loping step, and given her height and weight, my guess was she was on the tail end of a massive growth spurt that the rest of her body hadn't caught up to. But now that she was closer and I could easily see her, I was starting to remember her more clearly.
"Jocelyn," I said.
"Not bad," she said again. Her voice was rough but still sounded a bit younger than fifteen, if I remembered correctly.
"How's Belinda?" I asked.
"She's doing good," she said. "Still rolling around."
I heard about the car accident that had killed her dad and put her mother in a wheelchair. It happened around the last time I saw them, maybe shortly after.
"So," she said, "what's it like being back? It's gotta be weird."
"It might be," I said, "but I'm not sure if it would be weirder if things actually changed around town or not."
She laughed, "You're telling me. Do you know how long my family's had that truck? Neither do we!"
I laughed, "My truck, older than bloodlines, stretching back, so old those who knew its lineage have long since passed."
She laughed too.
"It runs great," she said. "I loved working on it, but I just didn't want to have to keep it, you know? I didn't want to be stuck with it, not have a choice."
"Then I'm glad I could help you out," I said.
"Hey Ben," Lauren belted out, and from his tone, I could tell that what he had to say wasn't going to be enjoyable.
"I was just wondering," he said, his voice snide as he sat beside Taylor, "why someone didn't think to invite any of the Cullens on our picnic. Maybe someone should have asked them."
"The Cullens don't come here."
The voice that boomed across the flames was authoritative and deep, silencing most conversation in the area. I looked over to see a young woman, easily the oldest one here, looking to be in her early to mid-twenties. She was tall, more than six feet, and broad, muscular and wearing less protection against the cooler winds blowing off the waves before us. She had two other women with her, standing with her like guards or something, similarly in dress and appearance. Something about it struck me as odd but significant. After an additional beat or two of silence, the talking resumed, and I turned my gaze back to Jocelyn.
"What was that about?" I asked.
"Oh," she said dismissively, but covertly. "That's just Sam. She runs with a weird crowd that buys into our legends a bit more than most. She didn't mean anything by it."
"Okay," I said, "but what does that have to do with the Cullens?"
She looked uncomfortable, and cast her eyes around at everyone near us, "That's just some old superstition."
Jocelyn knew something. I could tell. There was something going on here, something that might shed some light on Edwina.
I got an idea.
I stood, ditching my towel and holding out a hand to Jocelyn.
"Come walk with me," I said.
She excitedly took my hand and stood, and we started walking down the beach.
"Here," she said, and we found a large driftwood log, which we leaned up against, the night just starting to encroach around us.
"So tell me," I said, now that we had the beach to ourselves.
"I don't know," she said, sounding uneasy still. "I don't want you thinking we are a bunch of bass-ackwards natives."
I don't know why, but I knew that I was close to something. The way Sam said the words she did was like... like she was a parent, doling out an edict that needed to be followed for our own good, without argument. It was so defensive, it sort of reminded me of Edwina, doing something for my own good without really telling me why. I didn't like it. I wanted answers.
"Please, Jocelyn," I said, trying to be persuasive. "Please, just tell me."
Her eyes went wide, her mouth falling open a little. She made up her mind and said, "Sure, sure. But don't call me Jocelyn. Call me Josie. It feels so formal, so girly."
I looked at her skeptically, "What, and Josie isn't girly?"
She smiled back at me, challengingly, "Don't start on my name, Benny."
I shut up. She barked a laugh.
"Okay," I said, "so tell me. What's this superstition?"
She squinted, thinking, "It isn't a superstition so much as a scary story."
"A scary story?" I said, making my voice low, playing along with the shift in tone the conversation was taking.
"Have you heard any of our legends?" she asked. "The legends of the Quileutes?"
"No," I said, interested in spite of myself.
"There are older stories," she said, her own light, "that say we were once amazonian spirit warriors. Then there are more recent stories, stories about our protectors, sacred wolves. It is illegal to attack wolves anywhere on the reservation. Then there are other stories, stories about the natural enemies of the wolves, stories about the cold ones."
Suddenly, that day returned to me, that day in Biology, reaching for the microscope, her touch on my hand, the shock of it, but something I hadn't really noticed over the intensity; the cold.
The coldness of her, against me, under and above me, that day she saved me.
"Cold ones?" I asked, sounding awed and nervous.
"Yeah," she said, starting to ham it up in response to my reaction. "You might call them... vampires."
I stilled, staring at her, "...vampires?"
She snorted a laugh, "Yeah. They were our enemies for many, many years, but three generations ago, a group of them came on to our lands who said they weren't interested in killing humans. They said they wanted peace between us, so we worked out a treaty with them. They were to stay off our lands, just in case they couldn't control themselves, and neither of us would reveal the others' existence to the white folk."
She snickered, poking me. I was still. I was trying to make sense of this; how long ago was three generations?
"So," I said, my voice croaking, "The Cullens are cold ones, like the ones in your story?"
"No," she said ominously. "They are the same ones."