I wish I could tell you where this one came from, but all I can remember is thinking of Peter Parker and Gwen Stacy as Twilight characters and pondering that that didn't quite fit. So I imagined Bruce Banner, since he's arguably one of the most dangerous Marvel characters. And who went with Bruce? In my opinion, Natasha makes a much more compelling Bella Swan.

I don't even know, just read it and let me know what you think.

Chapter One: Landing

It's rare that a person really ponders his impact on the world. When you do, it just gets depressing. Sure, everyone wants to think himself important, but the harsh reality is that the average human just doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. The special, the few lucky enough to be able to make a change would often rather squander such a gift for their own selfish interests, leaving the many at their mercy.

And the world just keeps going, moving relentlessly, ruthlessly forward at its brutal pace.

I've never once thought that I would ever hold the power to affect real change. Such a delusion was impractical, a silly notion more suited for my naïve classmates that were still enamored of the American Dream. But I'd woken up from that at a precocious age. While other kids my age had given starry-eyed reports detailing their hopes of becoming an astronaut or an Olympic athlete or the President of the United States, I'd calmly outlined my plan to graduate from high school, attend a reasonably-priced community college where I'd earn a degree in nursing, and find a stable job at a local hospital as an RN.

The teacher had called it "thoroughly depressing" and given me an A+.

That had been the plan, though; comfortable, achievable, and above all, practical. But, three weeks after my seventeenth birthday, life taught me another harsh reality.

You can make all the plans you want, but the world sure doesn't care about them.

…

Bad things happen, and the old platitudes come out. Well-meaning sentiments claiming that everything happens for a reason or when life closes one door, it opens another. The ugly truth, though, is that life just isn't fair. A man can be born into squalor and spend every waking moment of his life hungry, hurting, and miserable, dying without ever having known the faintest glimmer of joy. It happens often, and no one with the power to do anything about it wants to, simply because it would inconvenience them.

That fateful day in January, life was merciful, though. Rather than stepping on me, it settled instead for a comparatively gentle slap in the face—Mom was in jail.

The detectives hadn't told me much, only divulging that she'd been found to be involved in organized crime. The mob, essentially. The tenor of their questions led me to believe that she had been at it for nearly my whole life and had gotten her hands dirty with all sorts of shady dealings.

To her credit, Mom had never gotten me mixed up in that side of her life, and I was thus another victim of this whole debacle. In short order, I'd been questioned, quoted, found to be of absolutely no use in the effort to build a case against her, and subsequently cut loose.

The very next day, I'd said my goodbyes to my hometown of Phoenix, Arizona, and hours later, my plane was touching down in Port Angeles.

I was going to live with Dad in Washington.

…

Every stereotype there is about Russian men was true in regards to my dad.

Standing at an imposing six feet and five inches, Ivan Petrovich would have been intimidating enough by virtue of the fact that he towered over most of the crowd around him. Every inch of the man, however, also bore rippling muscle, padded only slightly by a middle-aged paunch that did nothing to diminish the look. His ever-present beard was thick and fuller than I'd ever seen it before (evidently, he let it grow out during the winter months), flecked with silver hairs that matched the short but wavy mop atop his head. He was, of course, dressed in a tracksuit.

"Natasha, my dear," were always the first words out of his mouth when he saw me, and I could never fight the smile they brought to my face. In seconds, I was wrapped in a brief but tight hug, bringing with it the smell of cigarettes, cologne, and axle grease. For the first time in too long, I felt myself relax; no one gave a hug like Ivan Petrovich. "Let's get you home."

He didn't ask a million questions, he didn't make any disparaging remarks about Mom. What I needed in that moment was home, and he knew it. Dad was perfect in that way; blunt to a fault and absolutely to-the-point. We collected my baggage (he hefted it with ease and hauled it along with us) and made straight for the exit.

As soon as I stepped outside, a dull shiver wracked my body; Washington was frigid and wet, a nearly oppressive chill hanging constantly in the air. It was January, too early for the lush springs and verdant summers I remembered from my visits as a child. This was Washington in the cold grip of winter, damp and ready to sap the heat right out of you.

It was the antithesis to Phoenix, setting the stage for the theme of the next several days.

"You look thin," Dad remarked as he started his old Toyota pickup. "Have you been eating enough?"

"Dad, I eat plenty," I insisted. "I jog, I do yoga."

"Yoga?" Dad asked, his heavy brow furrowing. "What is…yoga?"

"It's like stretches and poses that help exercise muscles without straining them," I said. "It's fun. Relaxing."

"This is a workout routine?" Dad asked. He had only the barest hints of a Russian accent—trained out of him extensively by Grandpa Boris—but the most telling indicator that he was not a native English-speaker was his syntax. Dad had moved to America when he was only a few years younger than I was now, dragged along by Grandpa Boris and Grandma Antonina in a bid to escape Communist Russia in the mid-eighties.

His life had been infinitely more exciting than mine.

"Yes, Dad, it's a workout routine," I answered him with a little smile, my first in a couple of days.

"Good," he said with a satisfied nod. "It is important to remain healthy."

We lapsed into companionable silence for the rest of the ride home; neither of us were much for small-talk. Dad allowed me to pull out my massive CD binder and grace our ride with some of my music. My brute of a PC was equipped with a CD burner and a library full of songs that I had obtained through various legal and less-so means, which meant that I had a mix for every occasion. Popping in a CD comprised mostly of Linkin Park and Paramore, I found myself sinking into a bit of a melancholy as Dad drove the hour-long journey to our final destination.

Of course, I had to count myself lucky that I had not only escaped from this whole situation relatively unscathed (as far as legal matters went, at least) but had family to fall back on. All things said, I was one of the fortunate ones. But the bare fact was, behind a layer of shock, I would eventually have to contend with the fact that my entire life as I knew it had changed. There was no going back to how things had been, no returning to the status quo. It had simply…crumbled away, leaving me to grasp at my only other option.

But, I reminded myself, at least I had an option. I still had one parent left, and Dad was far from the worst example of a good father.

"Did you quit smoking?" I asked him as we crossed the line into Clallam County. Car rides with him in the past had always included at least one lit cigarette and a cracked window, no matter the weather.

"Doctor Rogers told me that smoking in the car is bad for passengers," he said. "I will wait until we get home and have a cigarette on the back porch."

"Oh, Dad, you don't have to – "

"Yes, I do," he insisted. "You are a young girl, you shouldn't live your life in a cloud of smoke."

"Well…thanks," I said, unsure of how else to respond to this show of concern for my health. Mom had never exactly been abusive, but it had been clear growing up that my wellbeing had only been in about the top five of her priorities. On some days, it felt more like the top ten.

Here was Dad, if not giving up one of his oldest vices then putting it second to my own health. It was enough to cause me to choke up in what I'll admit was an emotionally fragile time of my life.

"You are most welcome, sonishka," he said. The word apparently translated vaguely to something like "sunlight" or "little sun", something that meant a lot in Forks, Washington.

Aside from a depressing amount of cloud cover—an approximate two-thirds of the calendar year was spent under overcast skies—my new home was known for little else. Small, cold, wet, and obscured from the sunlight, it was the complete opposite of Phoenix. The stark contrast only served to accentuate the complete shift of my life, from the dry heat and open skies of my past to the oppressively cold and damp clouds of my new home.

Clearly, I still had a lot to reconcile.

"Welcome home," Dad told me as we passed by a sign welcoming us to Forks, Washington (home of the Spartans!) and made a right that led us eventually to a quiet little two-story home right at the end of the road. Next to the house—perpendicular so that it was facing the western wall—a sizable workshop sat nestled up against the forest. And parked in front of the shop, angled so that I got the most perfect view of it as we rolled up, was an old but sturdy-looking vehicle that looked like a cross between a Jeep and pickup. It was two-tone, mostly bright red with white accents, and the boxy design and generally square aesthetic indicated that it was likely an 80s model.

"Nice," I said appreciatively. "Are you fixing that one up for someone?"

Dad worked on cars, doing everything from simple repairs for people in town to fixing up junkers and selling them off for a tidy profit. He was reliable, knowledgeable, and didn't charge the exorbitant fees one could expect from a dealership's garage. This earned him a steady customer base and a respectable position in the hierarchy that necessarily formed within a small town such as Forks. When everyone knew everyone else, a quiet position as a "background character" was dull but peaceful, and Dad was content with his lot.

"I just finished rebuilding the exhaust, actually," Dad told me. "I bought it from Logan, out at the Xavier Institute. Do you remember him?"

I had vague recollections associated with the name, a stocky, stout slab of muscle and hair that would frequent Dad's back porch during my visits.

"The guy that would smoke those huge cigars and annihilate an entire bottle of Stolichnaya in one night?" I asked as we climbed from the truck. "I'm amazed he's still alive."

"Oh, he's doing quite well," Dad said with a fond smile. He'd always liked Logan. "He bought a new Jeep and needed to make room in his garage, so he sold me his old Bronco. It needed a new exhaust and some work on the fuel pump, but it runs like new."

Veering away from the front door, I found myself circling the Bronco (a Ford, I discovered with a look at the emblem on the grill) with unexpected appreciation. Dad had taught me a thing or two about cars (his garage had been a frequent haunt of mine during my visits), but I had never considered myself a "car girl" in the sense that they simply drew my attention.

But this Bronco did.

"Do you like it?" Dad asked, noticing my apparent interest.

"It's a nice car," I admitted with a nod.

"Hm…it's yours."

"…What?"

"Consider it a welcome home gift," Dad said. "You'll need a way to get around town and get to school anyway, and you won't want to borrow my truck every time."

It was a good point, and what teenage girl didn't want a free car from their dad? It was far from a shiny new Volvo, but I wasn't a shiny Volvo kind of girl. Deciding not to argue the point (one thing my dad I shared was an iron obstinacy that only galvanized when challenged), I simply smiled and hugged him, getting a bearlike squeeze in return.

While I would have loved to take my new vehicle for a test drive, there was unpacking to do, and I'd already done enough traveling for one day anyway. The house was exactly as I remembered it, nearly exactly the same as it had been seventeen years ago, when Mom had walked out of Dad's life, whisking us both off to Phoenix.

How soon after she'd left had she taken up her life of crime? I wondered, as I stuffed my clothes into the familiar worn dresser in my bedroom, if it had been the plan all along or if she'd simply gotten desperate and resorted to whatever it was that she was being accused of. Mom had always been an enigma, even to me. Emotionally distant, reserved, and impossible to please, I had given up on having anything resembling a normal mother-daughter relationship with her around the age of ten. The only time she had ever seemed particularly interested in involving herself in my upbringing had been my ballet lessons, and while she had never foisted any expectations on me and become a pageant mom, once my interest in the art had started to wane, so had hers in me.

I think the only reason she had ever gotten primary custody in the first place had simply been the bias of the family court system towards mothers.

Once I was unpacked—and Dad had assured me unprompted that he had a bathroom in his shop that he would gladly defer to if I needed ours for "girl things"—I found the momentum that had been carrying me forward for the past couple of days petering out. There was nothing left to do; the final leg of my journey was over. Now that the wheels had stopped spinning and I was finally able to rest, I suddenly felt all of the exhaustion I had been adamantly refusing to acknowledge catch up to me. Sitting on the bed to take a short break became flopping back on the mattress, which was so comfortable and so familiar as to remind me of simpler times. Many a delightful summer had been spent here, tucked away with Dad in this place so unlike home.

And now, Forks was home, for the foreseeable future.

Without really intending to, I pulled my feet up and curled my legs onto the mattress, pulling the nearest pillow to me and settling in for a nap.

…

When I awoke, the muted white light from outside had grown darker, though the pattering of rain on my window meant that it could have been the passage of time or thickening clouds. Pulling my phone from my pocket (eager to impress the other mothers by providing her daughter with only the best, Mom had bought me a Motorola RAZR for my birthday), I checked the time and found that it was only about four in the afternoon. In January, that normally meant maybe another hour of daylight.

In Forks, that was apparently asking too much. Have some rain.

Aside from the mildly depressing weather, though, things weren't so bad. Flicking the light switch near my bed sent me back in time as the lights I'd strung up over the walls filled the room with a warm glow. Thirteen-year-old me had thought twinkle lights were the coolest thing ever, and when Mom had vetoed such a childish decorative choice, I had beseeched Dad to let me decorate my room in his house with them.

He'd strung them up himself and wired them to a switch he'd installed next to my bed.

Smiling fondly at the memory, I stood from my bed and stretched, letting myself think of the nasty weather as an opportunity for indoor coziness. It was easy to do so with the smell of food cooking downstairs. A perpetual bachelor (barring the single year of marriage to Mom that had brought me into this world), Dad had developed a simple but effective cooking style, sticking to the principle of one meat and two sides. My favorite combination was always deer sausage (usually the product of a hunting trip with Logan, who made the sausages himself), along with fried potatoes and green beans, which I had no doubt was what Dad had sizzling away in the kitchen.

"Sonishka," Dad said as I walked in to see him poking at four fat sausages in a pan. The veggies were frying in a skillet on the adjacent burner. "I saw you napping and didn't want to wake you. You needed your rest."

"I think I smelled the food in my sleep," I told him. "Nothing's gonna keep me away from some deer sausages."

"No one makes them like Logan," Dad grinned. "I asked him once what his secret seasoning blend was, and he said that if he told me, he'd have to kill me."

"That's a bit cliché," I said, settling into a seat.

"I believe him," Dad chuckled. "Set the table for me, sonishka?"

"Oh, yep," I said as I hopped right back to my feet. Dad was a firm believer in dinner at the table, and while other kids might have balked at such a rule—complying only with much sighing and rolling of the eyes—I embraced it. He was attentive, caring, and willing to go to great lengths to ensure my happiness; if he wanted to sit down for a meal with me, I couldn't in good conscience begrudge him that.

Soon enough, the table was set, and Dad served up a generous helping of food on both plates. I ate with gusto, realizing that I was unable to remember my last decent meal. I'd gotten a Cinnabon at the airport, but that had been nearly ten hours ago and hardly classified as a well-balanced meal.

It had been utterly delicious, however.

As we ate, I found myself peering around the cozy little kitchen, which like the rest of the house was virtually the same as I remembered it, frozen in time. It was nice in the tumult that had become my life to find there were still constants to fall back on. Forks wasn't Phoenix, but that was likely for the best right now.

With all the chaos in my life, the all-encompassing sense of familiarity was a breath of fresh (cold, wet) air, and it was something I thought I could find myself getting used to.

…

I slept like a log that night, a deep and dreamless sleep that was almost comatose. By the time I woke up the next morning, I felt rejuvenated; a good meal and a warm bed did wonders, it seemed. There was scarcely time to enjoy the comforts of home, however; I'd come to Forks not only in the middle of the school year but also the week. It was time to get ready for my first day at Forks High.

Go Spartans.

Dad was already out of bed, and I could hear the distant sounds of him running some kind of machine in his workshop as I brushed my teeth and washed my face. Everyone knew everyone in Forks, so my return was likely common knowledge already, and the entire student body would be expecting me today. I had to make sure my first appearance was presentable without looking too ostentatious. One could never go wrong with jeans and a nice blouse, I decided, stepping into a pair of sneakers and making my way down to the kitchen for a bowl of the least offensive cereal I could find among Dad's selection.

A grocery shopping trip was most definitely in order. I doubted Dad had ever even looked at a salad and considered it a food option.

After a quick bowl of Frosted Flakes, I shrugged into the thickest coat I owned (which I had bought for the express purpose of wearing if I ever found myself visiting Forks again), stepping out into the morning air. If the days in Forks were cold, mornings were frigid, with a dense, misty chill hanging in the air. The sun had risen, casting slanting orange rays through holes in the clouds overhead, but things likely wouldn't warm up for a few hours, if they did at all.

Still, it was a beautiful morning, the thick foliage adding a splash of gorgeous verdant green that Phoenix certainly would never have been able to offer. Every cloud has a silver lining, and Forks had clouds to spare.

Tugging open the door of the Bronco, I tossed my backpack onto the passenger seat and slid in. Inside, the odor of cigarette smoke fought valiantly against a slew of lemon-scented cleaning products and polishes. At least the engine was still in good shape, or I assumed so from the way it readily rumbled to life and settled into an idle hum. I ponderously shifted into reverse, waving goodbye to Dad as he saw me off from the door to his shop, and pulled out onto the road.

Forks High School was, naturally, located on Spartan Avenue, a series of small buildings housing the various classrooms where I'd be obtaining my education. I wondered at the design choice, but at least I'd get the occasional breath of fresh air between classes.

Icy footpaths would be a concern in the winter months, but I'd always had good balance.

The main office was its own building, attached to a small parking lot that I carefully maneuvered the Bronco into. I'd only ever driven Mom's car before this, a rather conservative but sporty coup. Making the jump to a boxy SUV would require some adjustment.

Inside, the office was a dull wash of grays and beige, with furniture arranged so precisely that I thought I might have wandered into a dentist's waiting room. A generic motivational poster hung on the only wall not covered by shelves full of knickknacks. Directly across from me, a desk bisected the room not unlike a bank teller's station, and the guy sitting there looked primly up from a computer screen to fix me with a half-smile.

"Good morning," he said in a measured voice. "How can I help you?"

He was probably in his mid-forties, but he looked like a man aging gracefully. His face was precisely clean-shaven, his nondescript brown hair neatly-combed. He looked more like the owner of a bank than a school secretary, but that was what his placard proclaimed him as.

'Phil Coulson, Secretary'

"I'm Natasha Romanoff," I introduced myself. "I'm starting here today?"

"Of course, Miss Romanoff," he said, turning back to his computer and typing a few things. A few mouse clicks later, a printer sprang to life behind him, and he turned to study me while it worked. "How are you finding Forks? Quite a change from Phoenix."

"Quite," I agreed. "It's nice to see Dad again."

"Ivan's a good man," Phil said with a nod. "He's the only one I'd ever trust with my car."

"That's his favorite part of the job," I told him, reaching out to take the papers he'd just printed for me. They were still warm under my chilled fingertips as I turned them over to study the first page. He'd printed out a map of the campus and even drawn me a helpful line in highlighter to my first class, which the schedule underneath told me was English, taught by Mr. Woo.

"There's some emergency medical forms I'll need your dad to sign," Mr. Coulson said with a gesture at the papers. "And some papers your teachers will need to, as well. Standard procedure. The principal's a big fan of forms."

"Not very good for your carbon footprint," I pointed out.

"It's all one hundred percent recycled paper," the secretary said, his disaffected tone and almost vacant half smile never wavering.

"As if it wasn't green enough around here already," I joked as I turned to leave, and though I could have been imagining it, I thought I saw his smile twitch just a bit.

…

Outside, a light drizzle had started, and I was grateful that Dad had thought to replace the Bronco's windshield wipers when he'd gotten it. Consulting the map I'd been given, I navigated toward the student parking area, glad Forks High School didn't require the purchase of parking passes like my old school in Phoenix. With a student body so small (and only a portion of it legally able to drive), I doubted parking was ever scarce.

I decided to avoid the cluster of cars jockeying for the better spots closer to campus and parked in the boondocks, making sure the Bronco was locked before making the trek to the English building with my hood pulled up against the light rain. As I walked, I passed by a conspicuous BMW, a dark red four-door with heavily-tinted windows and gleaming black rims. It was the only car in the lot that looked like it had been purchased new, and the owner had probably spent just as much customizing the thing as he had buying it.

It was a gaudy thing that would have stuck out even in Phoenix. Here, it was downright offensive.

Still. Nice car.

The English classroom was warm and dry, and it was a joy to shrug out of my coat and hang it on the racks arranged by the door. I was directed to an empty seat by Mr. Woo, who welcomed me to Forks and asked if I wanted to make an introduction.

I politely declined.

The lesson commenced, and it became quickly apparent that any fears about having to hit the ground running as far as my education was concerned were groundless, at least as far as English class was concerned. A quick consultation of the year's curriculum (which Phil Coulson had been kind enough to provide for each of my classes) told me that I was quite a bit ahead. In fact, I wouldn't have to worry about the reading until late April, when the class would study Lord of the Flies.

It almost felt like cheating.

Still, I remained quietly attentive, noting which students tended to volunteer answers and which ones at least had the correct response ready when called on. The class clowns were easy to pick out, chattering away from across the aisle to my right. Mr. Woo was quick to bring them back in line, and I noticed that he didn't raise his voice, instead telling them calmly but sternly to "zip it up, boys".

To my shock, they listened; he was a bit goofy, but Mr. Woo seemed to command a bit of respect.

At the end of class, the clowns were the ones to take the plunge and introduce themselves.

"Yo, what's up, I'm Luis," the nearest one said, gesturing over his shoulder at the other boy. "That's my boy Scotty."

Luis was Hispanic, with short wavy hair and the fuzzy beginnings of a mustache on his upper lip. Scotty, like most of the kids here, was wanting for sunlight, with long dark brown hair that he was constantly sweeping away from his eyes. As the class began to file out of the room, several of my classmates tried not to be obvious that they were lingering, curious to get a look at the new girl.

"I'm Natasha," I introduced myself. "I'm not a fan of nicknames, so please don't call me Nat or Tasha or something."

"What's your next class?" Scotty asked, and I consulted my schedule.

"Government with Mr. Barnes," I read off.

"Yooo, us too!" Luis said with far too much enthusiasm. I had a feeling that that was simply his natural state, which was all but confirmed by Scotty.

"Alright, let's dial it down," he said, patting Luis on the shoulder and greeting me with a nod. "Sorry, he gets excited. We can show you to the Government building."

"That would be super," I said. "Thanks."

Luis and Scotty had spent the better part of last year in a juvenile detention center, which Luis was only too eager to share as we made our way back out into the misty morning and followed a concrete walkway to the next classroom. Without being prompted, he went on to explain that they had broken into the school, hacked into the computers, and used the entire sports budget to purchase new instruments for the school band.

"Our buddy Kurt plays the flute, and he was always saying 'Man, these instruments are all jacked up and stuff! I wish the school would buy us new ones.' And I'm like, 'Dude, my boy Scotty's all good with computers, and he can help you out!' And Scotty's like, 'What's up, homes, I'm gonna pull some sick computer hacking stuff so you never even know I was here, but guess who's getting a new trombone, dawg!'"

"That is exactly what I said," Scotty drawled flatly.

"You're lucky you didn't go to jail," I pointed out.

"That's what the lawyer told us!" Luis said with a huge smile, and I simply couldn't help but laugh at his infectious cheer.

We reached the Government classroom, and Mr. Barnes (who was young and grizzled and quite a bit too handsome) directed me to sit where I pleased and do my best to follow along. I was informed by Luis after we sat down that he had been in the Army and served all over the Middle East, and that was apparently how he had lost his left arm.

I hadn't even noticed.

"You hear a lot of gossip for someone who never seems to stop talking," I told Luis.

"Thank you."

From Government, I found my way to Trigonometry on my own (go me), where Ms. Hill had me introduce myself in front of the class. Surprised it had taken this long for a teacher to pull this one, I gave my name and a short rehearsed speech about how I'd lived in Phoenix but found myself moving to Forks due to family reasons—they didn't need to know my family's dirty laundry. Forks was nice, very different from Phoenix, and I was looking forward to living here.

Polite, succinct, and unpatronizing.

In Trig, I met Hope, who was tall, lean, and unsurprisingly on the basketball team.

"I really like your hair," she said, and I smiled, toying with a strand. "Is that your natural color?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Luckyyy," Hope said with a huff as she pulled a lock of her own brown hair in front of her eyes to stare at it cross-eyed. "My parents won't even let me get highlights, so I'm stuck boring and brown."

"Brown hair is cute," I assured her, and she rolled her eyes.

"Agree to disagree," she said with a sardonic smile. "I'm Hope."

"Natasha," I said. "No nicknames, please."

"Natasha," she repeated. "What's your next class?"

"Spanish," I read off of my schedule.

"Hey, me too," Hope said with a smile less enthusiastic but no less friendly than Luis's. In short order, we were on our way back outside, where the sky was now a smooth, pearlescent white.

"They weren't kidding about the cloud cover thing," I observed.

"At least you'll hardly ever have to worry about a sunburn," Hope said. "And you should see it when the sun does come out. We all gleam, it's blinding."

"I'm not sure if you're joking," I admitted.

"I'm totally serious," she insisted. "They did a whole thing in the yearbook last year where they took a bunch of pictures of everyone in the sunlight, and it looked ridiculous. Everyone loved it."

Well, one of the benefits of a small student body meant more bonding experiences, it seemed. Back in Phoenix, it had been cliques, niches, and clubs, to the point that the school felt like a microcosm of the city itself. I'm sure it wasn't perfect harmony here in Forks, but they weren't above the occasional silliness.

Spanish was taught by Ms. Rodriguez, who seemed pleased with my grasp of the language when I introduced myself.

"Hola, Natasha," she greeted me. "Bienvenido a Forks."

"Gracias, Señora Rodríguez," I replied. "Forks es muy hermoso y todos son extremadamente amables."

"Bueno," she said with bright smile. "Toma asiento."

Spanish was the only class so far in which I seemed to be only up to speed rather than having a head start, which was refreshing. I volunteered answers, got myself involved in the class, and generally participated since I didn't feel like I had to let my classmates learn something I already had.

It was…fun.

After Spanish came lunch. Hope was only too happy to lead me toward the cafeteria, which seemed to be at the center of the campus to ensure no one had to walk too far to get a meal. Inside, I ran into a familiar face.

Or, rather, a familiar face shouted to me from the lunch line.

"Ayooo, new girl!" Luis called, motioning me over, and Hope sighed next to me.

"You know them?" I asked her.

"Scott's my lab partner in Bio," she said with a little shrug. "He's a nice guy, but Luis is just a lot sometimes."

"I think it's kind of charming," I mused as we drew closer.

"Trust me, it'll wear thin," Hope said wryly. "Hey, boys."

We joined the pair in line, all four of us grabbing trays. Forks High School employed a buffet-style menu, with a featured item and a rotating selection of à la carte options. Today was lasagna, which was too heavy for me under the best circumstances. School lunch lasagna was bound to be perilous. I opted instead for a salad and (since they looked delicious) a double-chocolate cookie.

"Ooh, they got lasagna!" Luis said excitedly, snagging up a plate and following it with a pretzel, two cookies, and a bottle of Dr. Pepper. "Yo, Scotty, eat something, dawg."

"I got a pretzel," Scotty pointed out as we both grabbed bottles of water from the cooler.

"You can't eat just a pretzel," Luis insisted. "That's just bread, man. Bread and salt. That's empty carbs and sodium. Do you know how bad sodium is for you?"

"You're literally eating the same thing," Scotty pointed out, and Luis gestured at the lasagna.

"And lasagna," he said. "Pasta, that's good carbs. Tomato sauce, that's vitamins. You got sausage, protein. Cheese, for that good milk fat, that's all natural."

"You're saying all this, but you're just eating what I'm eating and also eating more," Scotty said, sweeping aside his bangs.

"I don't even know where to begin," I muttered to Hope, who just shook her head.

"I usually don't," she said.

Hope offered me a seat with her friends, and Luis and Scotty ended up sitting on my other side. I was introduced to Monica and Riley, who studied the boys with twin dubious expressions. Luis waved, and Scotty just dug into his pretzel.

"Monica is on the basketball team with me, and Riley is currently helping me pass Biology because she's a freaking genius," Hope said.

"Even though your Mom teaches the class," Riley said with a smirk, and Hope simply rolled her eyes.

"Right, because knowledge on a certain subject is hereditary, I forgot," she nodded. Riley tossed a balled-up napkin at her before fixing me with a blue-eyed stare. Freckle-faced with bright blue eyes and a mane of brown hair, Riley was the archetypal Girl Next Door, and if she didn't grow up to be a biologist, I was sure she had modeling to fall back on.

Monica was even a bit taller than Hope—I had no doubt she loomed over several of the guys in our class—with skin the color of coffee and sleek black hair kept short and pulled back by a headband. She greeted me with a small nod before turning to engage Hope in a discussion about the week's basketball practice schedule.

"Monica's really serious about the team," Riley explained. "She's actually being scouted for a scholarship."

"Good for her," I said, and Riley grinned.

"Right?" she said. "We're all super proud."

Lunch commenced as most lunches do, and I found myself chatting mainly with Riley and the boys. Monica was a quiet but intimidating presence, and I couldn't bring myself to interrupt her conversation with Hope.

I had just finished my salad and was working on the cookie when they walked in.

A boy led the way, tugging away a pair of sunglasses that were obviously for decoration given the cloud cover outside. His dark hair was short but on the way to becoming long, and he'd obviously carefully styled it to look messily windswept. He was undeniably the leader of this little pack, given the confidence with which he took point. On his arm was a girl with long copper-colored hair and an effervescent smile that gleamed even in the muted lighting.

Following behind him were two blondes, a girl and boy. The boy was burly and looked like he would easily be the star of the wrestling team if he cared to try. His hair fell down past his chin, making him look like he belonged more in a surfing video than a Washington high school. His companion had hair to match, though it fell well past her shoulders. She was only a few inches shorter and probably rivaled Hope for height. She and the surfer boy seemed to be in the midst of quite a heated discussion, though their twin grins implied that it was more lighthearted banter than anything.

Taking up the rear, a lone boy strode into the cafeteria. He was slight, looking like he was actively shrinking in on himself in an effort not to be seen. His hair was as dark as the leader's, though formed into a wavy mass that seemed to defy the laws of physics in its effort to resist any attempts to tame it.

It was like they had wandered off the set of a cliché-packed teen movie about high school life and right into the cafeteria. I had never seen five such distinct human beings in my entire life. All of them were carting bags from Burger King, despite the fact that the nearest one was supposedly a twenty-minute drive across town.

Had a parent met them in the parking lot?

"Oh, the royal family graces us with their presence," Hope said, her tone (from what little knew of her) uncharacteristically snide. Even Monica paused long enough from her basketball obsession to give the quintet a withering look.

Not that they were paying even the remotest amount of attention.

"Who are they?" I asked, and Riley was the one to answer.

"The Rogers family," she said. "Bruce, Tony, and Carol Rogers. And Donald and Wanda Carter."

"They're step-siblings?" I asked.

"Adopted step-siblings," Hope added. "I think Bruce and Tony are half-brothers, but they're all adopted. I think their parents even met on like an online forum for parents that adopt."

"Sort of a spin on the Brady Bunch," I said.

"Yeah, pretty much," Hope said with a nod. "It'd be kinda wholesome if they weren't such snobs."

"How are they snobs?" I asked.

"They just…don't talk to anyone," Monica said. "Like, I'm antisocial, but even I have friends. They just keep to themselves."

"Yeah, they don't talk to anyone, like…ever," Luis added through a mouthful of lasagna. "Plus they're super-rich, like…crazy-stupid rich."

"So they're rich snobs that look down on all the commoners they're forced to share a school with," I concluded, and everyone at the table nodded in agreement.

Of course, I told myself, there were two sides to every coin. But the five siblings seemed loathe to interact with their fellow classmates, at a glance. Aside from going to such extreme lengths simply to avoid queuing up for a lunch, they sat in a far corner of the cafeteria, well away from any of the other tables, and upon settling into their seats, they immediately seemed to shut off the rest of the room, striking up a conversation and avoiding even the possibility of interaction with anyone else.

Such an insular family wasn't extremely uncommon, but in a town like Forks—where there were so few people that even one person going against the grain was singled out as strange—it certainly wasn't likely to win them anything but negative attention. Still, the Rogers-Carter brood didn't look to mind or even notice the various disgruntled mutterings centered on them. Indeed, they barely seemed to readily acknowledge that there was a whole world spinning by.

Rather than believing that everything revolved around them, it seemed as though they didn't even see that there was an everything, that the entirety of their lives began and ended with them alone.

The word solipsism came to mind, but I wasn't sure if I was using it right.

I paid the family little mind as I went back to my lunch, though I couldn't resist stealing the occasional glance over in their direction. To my surprise, a couple of them seemed to have taken notice of our table. The leader boy and the loner that had brought up the rear were both peering in our direction, the former wearing a look of polite intrigue while the latter seemed…alarmed. Such was his look of open concern that I even found myself glancing back over my shoulder to make sure there wasn't some catastrophe happening behind me that I was unaware of. All I saw was a window, wet with a slight downpour that had begun.

Was he just that averse to rain? He was living in the wrong town, then.

"Who are those two on the end of the table?" I asked Scotty, who spared them a quick look before speaking around a mouthful of pretzel.

"That's Tony and Bruce," he said.

The ones that were actually related, I remembered. I wondered what was so terrifying about our table that Bruce was seemingly unable to conceal his discomfort over it. His brother appeared to be giving him a pep talk, and I noticed that he was a very animated speaker. The others seemed intrigued over whatever was spooking their brother, and I noticed each of them making surreptitious glances in our direction.

Was it me? I was the only outlier, the only new development in this stagnant social network. It wasn't unthinkable to conclude that Bruce Rogers's sudden trepidation had something to do with me, though it was certainly highly unlikely and also more than a little conceited on my part.

The mystery would have to wait, though; lunch was drawing to a close, and I had Biology to attend. I foresaw another head start in this class, as a few probing questions at Scotty and Hope on the walk to the building revealed that they had recently gone over material I'd been studying a couple weeks ago.

It was honestly beginning to get annoying; I felt like enough of an outsider without this sense of being constantly off-beat from everyone else.

In the Biology room, I was treated to a curious surprise. Four rows back, seated at the only desk without two students, Bruce Rogers sat looking at me with that same fearful expression, which turned pained when Mrs. Pym (Hope's mother, I was informed) directed me to sit next to him.

Goody.

The walk down the center aisle seemed to take ages as I pondered the coming months of awkwardness, seated next to this strange boy who apparently found my very presence horrifying. Up close, he was actually sort of…cute, I found myself realizing as I sat down next to him. He was slight but not scrawny, and his messy hair was just the right amount of unkempt without looking sloppy. He wore glasses, but the frames were trendy-looking, the thick black square style that had come into fashion recently. Behind them, he had strikingly green eyes.

I figured it was only polite to introduce myself. Maybe I could put him off whatever notion he'd gotten that I was to be feared.

"Hello," I said with a small smile. "I'm Natasha."

"Oh…I'm Bruce," he said. His voice was surprisingly deep, with a pleasant rasp to it. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too," I told him. "I'm looking forward to being your partner."

"My…?" he trailed off, not seeming to comprehend my meaning.

"In Bio," I clarified. "Looks like we're gonna be lab partners."

"Right," he said with a quick nod. "Yeah, sorry."

Okay, he was a total dork. I couldn't help but find it absolutely charming.

Class soon commenced, and there wasn't much time for more chatter. Hope's mother really knew her stuff and seemed genuinely passionate about the subject matter, and I found myself listening intently to her explain concepts that I'd already been taught a month ago. My old Biology teacher hadn't been half this enthusiastic, and my interest in the class had suffered along with most of my classmates'. But Janet Pym was the kind of teacher that deserved her own public access TV show. I'd certainly watch it.

Still, there was a distraction, and his name was Bruce.

I noticed, as the lesson wore on, that my lab partner seemed to grow increasingly agitated, often visibly taking deep and calming breaths. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the chill in the air, and toward the end of the period, he simply got to his feet and hurried from the room. As he swept past Mrs. Pym, she simply shot him a smile of understanding, and none of the other students seemed particularly perturbed by the outburst.

After class, I got the scoop as Hope led me toward the gymnasium. As we walked, Riley joined us, her notebook clutched to her with one arm while she scribbled at some kind of complex diagram with the other. Despite the crowded hallways, she never seemed in danger of walking into someone, always deftly steering out of their way just as they were about to collide. I was fascinated watching her for a few minutes while I listened to Hope.

"He has some kind of heart issue," she explained. "They don't tell us much, but all of the teachers know, and I heard Mom and Dad talking about it one night. It's like dysrhythmia or something. Sometimes his heart just starts beating really fast, and he needs to go give himself a shot of some sedative I guess."

"Oh," I said, wondering how this hadn't merited mention during the infodump at lunch. Still, if it was such common knowledge, maybe it had simply seemed too boring to mention. "Do you think it could be…aggravated by outside factors? Like stress or…a new person in school?"

"Like you?" Riley asked, having finished her drawing and tucked her notebook back in her backpack. "I think you're giving yourself too much credit. He does that at least twice a month."

"Back in freshman year, it was once a week," Hope went on with a bracing smile. "Don't worry, I can promise it had nothing to do with you."

We reached the gym, and I managed to put the matter out of my head as I played a game of volleyball with the girls. Hope's height and athleticism gave her quite an advantage, but the standout performance was from Riley, who I was beginning to think had some sort of extrasensory power. She twisted and maneuvered around the field like a dancer; Mom would cry at her ballet potential.

"Is there anything you're not incredible at?" I asked her during a water break, and she gave me a smile equal parts bashful and goofy.

"Talking to boys?" she said.

"That's adorable," I told her flatly.

The final bell rang after Gym, and I navigated the sea of students out into the parking lot, where the rain had dispersed and left the sky once again a featureless white. While I made my way back to the Bronco, my thoughts turned again to Bruce Rogers. Though I'd been assured that it had been mere coincidence, I couldn't help but feel like my presence had somehow triggered his latest episode. The thought of this being a possibility was surprisingly distressing.

Could there be something there?

Bruce was certainly cute, I had to admit to myself. I hadn't dated much back home (after a slew of disastrous first dates, I'd given up on the notion), and he was far from the "type" I'd gone for, at least physically. There was more to it, though, I mused, climbing into the Bronco and easing out of my parking spot. Bruce had a sort of vulnerability to him, and not just because he was sickly. He seemed…profoundly lonely. Despite having three adopted sibling and a flesh-and-blood brother, I had never met someone that exuded such a detachment from the people around him.

Of course, what did I know? I'd only had half a conversation with the guy.

I was so distracted on the drive home that I almost forgot about my intent to go shopping for some new food options. Thankfully, I remembered enough about the layout of Forks from my various visits that I was able to find my way to the Thriftway fairly easily.

Inside, once again, the place was almost exactly as I remembered it from my earlier visits, save for a few updated logos on the boxes. More than that, the intoxicating smell of the deli's hot food counter wafted enticingly in my direction, pulling me back a few years to days spent shopping with Dad, treating ourselves to potato wedges, cheese curds, chicken tenders, whatever greasy delight was the freshest.

I nearly got myself a combo meal, but it had been so long since I'd had fast food that I was liable to make myself sick.

Instead, I was good and pushed my cart along the aisle to select some healthy options to supplement Dad's pantry. He certainly had the room. While I shopped, I processed the day I'd just had at school.

Aside from Bruce Rogers's oddness (which had been mostly explained), it had been almost completely positive, barring the potential boredom of spending a month or so "reviewing" material I'd already learned. I'd made a tentative circle of friends, and there had been no one particularly unpleasant to deal with. Monica was standoffish, but it wasn't like she'd gone out of her way to be mean or berate me. She just had her own things going on, and that was completely understandable.

All in all, not bad for the first day of my new life.

And maybe, just maybe, I could spin this sudden and drastic change into something positive, something better than before.

Because, really, what could life find in Forks to make things worse?