Windows down, my father and I cruise through the blistering Phoenix sun. I watch the perfect baby blue sky with a somber smile and a heavy heart. I already miss the sun, the light. I look at the hooded flannel on my lap, my fingers lightly tracing over the edge of my sleeveless t-shirt. I bid my freckled arms farewell, clutching the green and gray cover to my chest. My only other carry-on is my phone and earbuds. I face northward, to my distant destination.
All the way in Washington state, a town named Forks exists, protected by a thick covering of clouds and rain. When I was a baby, my father escaped from its oppressive shade, though he sent me back every summer for 14 years. I stopped visiting the north between fifteen and now, content to see my mom over Skype instead. Looking back on it, I think I hurt really her doing that.
It is to Forks that I now exile myself — an action that I take with a frog in my throat and fear creating crescent indents on my lip. I'm so used to the heat and sun of Phoenix, a day where sixty degrees is warm sends a shiver down my spine.
I'd better get used to shivering.
"Beau," my dad, Rene, says putting his little car into park, "I'm going to say this again; you don't have to go. I mean, you're so close to finishing school, you won't even need to worry in a couple years."
I face my father, Rene Dwyer, a thin man with the wide, electric, childlike blue eyes, and force a smile. His light brown hair just barely blows in the breeze, and I clutch my flannel to my chest. It's absolutely cruel of me to leave him. My erratic, harebrained father who can barely cook, or clean. Or pay his bills. How can he fend for himself out there? I consider accepting his offer right as logic cuts in. He's married, has Phillipa. He'll have food, gas, and someone to call when he needs a shoulder.
Rene doesn't need me, not like he used to.
"Pops, I want to do this," I lie, letting my hair fall in front of my eyes. "You know I can't stand traveling so much, and this way I can focus on school." And you won't be trapped in Phoenix while your wife goes on the adventure you crave. He looks visibly relieved at that, his hands even reaching to rake his shaggy hair from his face.
"Alright. This is just … sudden. I'm going to miss my all star." I mentally cringe at the nickname. I haven't played in years, I want to remind him. But I don't. I let him win this round.
"I'm going to miss you too, Pops. I'd better get in there before the plane abandons me. I love you."
"I love you too. Text when you get to your mom's house," he reaches over and gives me a squeeze on my shoulder. I want to hug him, but I'm already cutting it close … I grab my belongings and head to the doors.
It's a four-hour flight from Phoenix to Seattle, another hour in a small plane up to Port Angeles, and then an hour's drive back down to Forks. I spend the entire time blasting music, singing softly to myself and drawing the view in my little sketchbook. It's a little dizzying, but it keeps me from thinking about the hour I'll be with my mom. I'm dreading it.
My mom, Charlie—short for Charlotte—is a sweet, friendly woman, and has been really nice about the whole situation, even seeming genuinely excited for me to move in with her. But after three years just talking over the computer, things are bound to be awkward between us. We aren't talkative to begin with, and I'm not the jock Rene tried to make me be. Knowing this, I can't help but wonder if we'll even have something to connect over.
I … don't know my mother. The woman who brought me into this world. That's just pathetic.
We land in Port Angeles to a light sprinkle of water, thunder far off in the distance. I pull the hood up on my flannel and take my bags, eyes scanning the parking lot for a car or truck with Charlie beside it.
Charlie is waiting for me beside her cruiser. I cringe, feeling my cheeks wrinkle, but approach as fast as I can manage. I don't like all the eyes turned in our direction. I don't like how everyone can see Charlie's police uniform, or her doors that label her as the chief, the head honcho. I pray there are plenty of used cars for sale as I walk to her.
To my surprise, Charlie approaches me and throws her arms around my chest, standing on her toes to press her cheek to mine. It's warm, it makes my heart swell. I embrace her in return and chuckle, letting my soul slowly flow back into my skin.
"My little Bo boy... if I can even call you that." She snorts, rocking back to her heels. I notice her dark, chocolate brown hair, bottomless eyes, and warm smile as she slowly shrinks to my chest-level. Last I saw her, I was at her shoulders.
How the turn tables.
"Oh, shut up." I playfully hit Charlie's shoulder, and we go toward the cruiser. "It's good to see you too, Ma." I don't call her Charlie to her face, I'm not allowed. But the word 'Mom' leaves a weird taste in my mouth. This is going to be an adjustment.
I take my bags and my case and start toward the trunk, insisting to Charlie that I could handle the load. Sure, my balance it a little off, but what's the worst that can happen? Always underestimating the scenario, my foot manages to find the singular pot-hole in the lot and send me to my face, and my duffel of clothes to fly out of my hand.
As I work to my feet, I hear a man curse loudly. I take the instrument case in my hand and settle it and my suitcase in Charlie's back seat as I search for the AWOL bag. A man is on the ground, rubbing his ass with a sour look on his face.
"Oh God! I-I'm so sorry, sir." I rush to him, getting my bag and helping him to his feet. He's a businessman, a stern look in his eyes as he glances me over and scoffs.
"Just watch where you're going, punk." I nod, skittering back to the car and slamming myself in the front passenger seat with the bag still at my chest. Charlie settles beside me, taking the duffel and tossing it in the back before starting the car.
It takes twenty minutes for the silence to break.
"I've got some news. Do you remember Billie Black any?"
"Billie..." I chew my lip, searching my memories for any mention of her. I can see a beach, a tall woman with long black hair and a loving smile. And a gaggle of little boys by her side. I grin and nod my head. "From La Push, right?"
"Yeah! She and I would go hiking or fishing, you and her young'uns would play in the sand. Well, as of a few years back, ole Billie is wheelchair bound. Meaning her Chevy is for sale. It's an old truck, yeah, but it's got a good body and runs fine."
"How old is old, Ma? I don't know if I can afford to fix it after I buy."
Charlie's cheek quirks, her brow raising. "You buy?"
"I've been saving to get myself a car … I've got about $1,500 set aside for it."
"Ahh. Well, the truck is old enough to be your grandpa." Oh no... "And you can use your money to buy some clothes. Two cases?" She glances in the rearview mirror. "And a guitar. What's in the suitcase, anyway? Bricks?"
"I-I have a lot of books, and uh … pencils. I've got plenty of clothes, Ma."
"You're going to need more than one jacket, a few pairs of jeans, and some button-downs, Bo boy."
"How in the world did you..." Click. "Wait, why don't I need to pay for the Chevy?"
"Because I already did!" She beams with pride, as much as one can beam without a smile playing on their lips. "Billie should be dropping it with her youngest about the time we get home."
"You're serious? Oh my God! Ma, thank you," I gawk and laugh, still in awe that Charlie had even considered buying something so extravagant for me. And yes, a potential rust bucket is extravagant in the Charlotte Swan dictionary.
"Well, now, you're welcome," she mumbles before returning focus on the road. Seems she's embarrassed by my thanks. I lean over and plug my phone into the AUX port, and we sing along to the same music she introduced me to a decade ago. After a while, we both stop to simply vibe along, and I glance around my new surroundings in pure terror.
It's so green — an alien planet.
It's breathtaking. The trees morphing together, living watercolor of hunter and forest greens, shocks of amber trunks breaking through. The golden sun rays glitters among the topmost foliage, my eyes following it upward. The longer I look, the closer to Forks I become, the less vibrant the world is. A strangely teal film smothers the world, from my shirt to Charlie's gray uniform. I don't remember this part of my visits. I stare at my hands, mouth agape. This … this isn't right.
We pull up to the small, two-story house Charlie had bought with my father 20 years ago. The early days, the only days, of their marriage were spent in this weirdly green yellow house. There, with a long, lanky body leaned against it, is my new truck. Without thinking, I step out of the still-moving cruiser and trip over my own legs.
Lucky for me, the body against the truck isn't still, and with a cry from us both they prevent me from face planting beside the tires.
"You know, my mom said you may fall for me, but I didn't think it'd be literally." I brush myself off, ignoring the stranger's words so I can focus on my truck.
Faded red, with rounded fenders and a bulbous cab. It's much older than I imagined, and seeing the massive dents in the bed's side should make me wary, but I can't help but love this thing. The Thing. I rap on the metal, solid iron, and grin wickedly.
"I could destroy so much in this..."
"Ha!" The boy cackles, holding his stomach. "I like you already. I'm Jake," he extends his hand. "Jacob Black. I haven't seen you in forever, Beau."
"Likewise." I shake his hand, glancing down a little to his face. Soft cheeks, dark yet bright eyes, and a bit of acne tell me all I need to know about this pubescent Quileute. He's a baby. "You're a lot smaller than I remember."
"I'm amazed you remember me at all." He rolls his eyes, tightening his ponytail. "Nice hair, by the way. Comb it much?" I reach up and pull my hair back in time for him to notice my mom. "What's up, Chief Swan?" Jacob looks over my head, waving.
"You didn't drive here alone, did you, Jake?" Charlie inquires with a knowing tilt of her head. "You know that's illegal, you're only 15."
"If you didn't witness it, you can't bust me."
"Yeah, yeah." I watch her head for my belongings and jump in, taking both cases with ease into one hand, and then lean further in to pick up a parting gift from my step-mom, Phillipa — a bass guitar. "I have hands too, Beaumont."
"I-I got it, Ma" She exchanges a glance with Jacob. I clear my throat, shifting the subject. "So, uh, 15? Will I be seeing you in the hallways?"
"Nah, I go to school on the reservation." Jacob stands straight, still just around my cheekbones. God, am I shorter than anyone? I feel my spine creaking downward to compensate "I just came out to drop this thing off and pick up some meds for my mom. Which I already have," he shakes a CVS bag in his hand, "so I'll head home in a sec. If I can bum a ride from the Chief."
"Man... I was hoping I'd have one familiar face."
"Don't worry your curly little head, I'll be visiting plenty with Mom. She and Charlie spend almost every Saturday together. It's pretty romantic."
"Cute," I turn to Charlie, who is standing with her arms crossed, and my face makes a stupid grin. "We gotta do girl talk when you get back. I'll get settled in, Ma. See you around, Jake!"
"See you, Beau!"
"I regret letting you two meet..." Charlie says right as I close the front door with a laugh.
It only takes a few steps to get my ass upstairs. My bedroom faces west, looking out over the front yard. It's familiar, considering it's been mine since I was born. I slide over the wooden floor in my socks, eyes glossing over the blue walls and off white, moth-eaten curtains at the window. Pieces of my childhood, worn with time. There are a few differences from the past; a bed pressed lovingly against the wall to my right, pillows sprinkled about the purple blanket. I unpack my two cases, setting what few clothes I brought in the pine dresser, my laptop on the desk that is definitely second hand, and my collection of graphic novels on the small shelf that doubles as a nightstand.
Lastly, with a shake of my head, I settle the cherry-red bass on a stand Phillipa made sure to send with me, standing it beside the desk.
I go to the armchair still tucked away in the corner and flop, pulling my hair over my entire face so I don't have to look at my situation. It's nice to be alone, even if it's just until she drops Jacob off at La Push. A relief to stare dejected at the ceiling, listen to the sheeting rain, and softly sob into my hair. I'm all out of when's and maybe's. Tomorrow, I'll have to face being the new kid.
Forks High School has a frightening total of three hundred and fifty-seven—now fifty-eight—students. Students that have known each other since pre-k. Whose families have been together for generations past. My class in Phoenix had over seven hundred kids, and I barely knew five of them.
How will the people here see me, the new boy from a big city? Would I be a curiosity? A freak? No doubt, they're expecting a tall, buff football or volleyball player, not an overlong beanpole who can't walk a straight line and or look people in the eye.
I stand and trudge to the bathroom, intending to tuck my few necessities in the vanity and shower caddy, glancing through my tresses as I go. I pass the dirty mirror, and I can't help but stare. I touch my hollow, pale cheek, a stark contrast to my dark hair, the eyes that look so innocent on my father looking ghostly in my eye sockets. I don't know if it's the light or just my mind showing me sallow, ghastly skin. What sunburn and freckles I do have are already fading away, melting into the cold, blue haze that covers everything in this town.
The evening goes by in a muddy rush as my brain goes over the disaster that no doubt awaits me in the morning. New people with old friends. There won't be room for me. Not that I have a chance at finding my clique, anyway. I couldn't even fit in the the stoners at my old school, and they liked everyone. I've narrowed the reason down to me. Being overlooked while drawing in some far-off corner of the school, my headphones always on full-blast. Not getting the attention of any other student because they never thought I was worth it — or so it seemed.
I'm starting to think my brain has a virus.
Before I can make it back to my room, Charlie calls me down for dinner. Going down the stairs, a warm and savory scent hits my nose. I peek into the kitchen, laughing when I see her plating lasagna for us both at the small table. I grab some cherry soda out of the fridge, not noticing that my favorite drink — canned cold brew — is already on the bottom shelf. I switch drinks and rattle the can.
"You went all out, didn't you? Last time you cooked for me, it was Taco Bell." She laughs, playfully flicking the bird. "You know I'm right."
"Yes, I remember that night. We both had food poisoning. But, after you went home, I figured it would be wise to take some cooking classes. And watch the food channel from time-to-time." I walk over and peck Charlie on the cheek. "Hey now, no need to get mushy."
"I'm just proud of you, Ma. And here Pops told me you'd be helpless and I'd have to cook here too. I have plenty of experience, after all." She freezes for a split moment and shakes something off her shoulder.
"Yeah, and that is what I've been trying to prevent. You're my kid, you ain't cooking for me. Charlotte Swan isn't helpless, and don't let no one tell you otherwise. Now, sit down and eat your food. It's made special. Meat-free, double cheese."
It's well past midnight when I finally drift off to sleep, able to muffle the pounding of the rain under my thick pillows. It comes like it always does; slowly, starting at my toes and making its way to my brain at a crawl. Then its fingers lace around my neck, clawing at my veins, and pull me under.
In my sleep, I'm haunted by bright, pulsing red eyes. A feathery touch, hands around my wrists, at my throat. Freezing lips at my neck, laughing, mocking me. And... a whisper.
"You're mine..."
Breakfast with Charlie is fairly quiet. We munch on the eggs she made, and she a plate of bacon, her nose deep in the newspaper while I stare at the temperature gauge in horror. I remember how I felt in Arizona. When 60 was the lowest measured temperature for some winters. I would shiver so hard my teeth clattered. It's in the middle of winter, deep into January, and the high is still under freezing.
After a few minutes of gathering her keys and gun, Charlie pecks my cheek and wishes me a good day. She didn't leave much for me to clean up, so I hurry up the stairs to get dressed.
When the time to leave hits, I speed through the drizzle and hop inside The Thing. Nice and dry, with plenty of space for my bulky backpack. I turn the engine and check the radio clock. If I had just thought, I could play a CD on my ride to school. But at least the radio itself works. I blast the local rock station and back out of the drive.
Finding the school wasn't difficult, despite never being there before. Like the other major buildings, it is just off the highway and had the most obvious WELCOME sign on the entire road. Forks High School in massive red letters that are both eye-catching and ominous.
The campus is strange, appearing more like a line of cloned houses with old brick than an actual school. It doesn't have the same feel as an institution, feeling isolated with the endless green of the forest encasing it. But one thing that makes me like it better than my old school is the total lack of fences and metal detectors. Phoenix's paranoia always had me on edge.
I park in front of the first building I see, the lot empty. I figure it's either for the staff or completely off-limits. Still, the door says Front Office. Better to run in, get directions, and run out than to wander the school like a lost puppy. Carefully, I step out of the truck cab and have to catch myself on the door, my sneakers slipping from the sidestep, almost sending me to the pavement. On the plus side, no one is around to see that... I gather myself up and start toward the door.
Taking off my hood, I get a look around the office. It's small, bright, and has the faint smell of nail polish remover. The only sounds are the ticking of the clock and the click of someone's fingernails on a keyboard. I approach the desk, a man looking up at me with a paternal smile.
"Can I help you?"
"Hi, yes. I'm Beaumont Higginbotham-Swan, I start today," I'm taken back by the awareness that fills his eyes at the mention of my name. There don't seem to be many Swans in the area. Well, at least I had a minute of anonymity. "Is it okay to just … have it say Swan? The full name is a bit of a mouthful."
"I'll email your teachers, son, don't worry."
I stay in the school's warm office longer than I intend to, stuck in endless chatter. The secretary, who really needs to touch up his roots, explains my schedule and shows me the best routes around the strangely scattered complex with a chipper voice. I cringe at every "Beaumont", but there isn't much I can do about that. Not everyone needs to know my preference, especially people I don't want to get close to.
"Now, you have a wonderful first day, and come back if you need any help. Okay, Beaumont?"
"Y-yes, thank you. Bye." I take the papers in my hand and head back into the rain, my head low. People have already arrived, despite school not starting for another half hour. To my relief, I blend in pretty well with everyone — heavy parka and hair hidden in the hood was a smart move this morning. By the time I get back to the Thing, it seems the entire school has filled in. The large population of older vehicles fills me with an odd sense of comradery.
Yes, these are my people. Those of shitty gas mileage and cabs that smell like mildew.
I drive around the school, filling into the traffic line until I'm led to an empty spot in Student Parking and cut the engine, ignoring the glares from tired students as it startles them awake by how loud The Thing is. Before I even think about getting out, I examine the map, trying to memorize it. The last thing I want is to have my nose in it all day. But for good measure, I tuck it in my front pocket. Pulling the bag with me, I carefully slipping from the cab of the truck. I inhale and let myself calm. I can do this. It's just school. No one's going to bite me. I pull up my hood and melt into the crowd of teenagers.
I focus my attention on the parking lot, counting the rust buckets that look to be in worse shape than mine ever could be, pride boosting my step with every number. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen … hang on... I stop in my tracks, standing off to the side of the walkway so others can move around me. This one stands out, locking my eyes on it. It's silver, and while I can't see the make, it is a lot newer than the other student vehicles around it. In near perfect condition, too.
"Must be a rich kid," I snicker to myself, now looking for my destination.
I manage my way to the cafeteria, building three right in front of me with its garish bright yellow "THREE" in large letters at the east corner. My breathing quickens as I approach the door, nerves really starting to get to me. Everything that could go wrong flashes before my eyes. I could fall in front of the class, stammer my name out. I could knock someone over without even seeing them...
I shake the thoughts from my head and follow two black raincoats into the building, making myself as small as possible. The three of us part ways a few feet in, I head to the right and them to the left. The classroom — my homeroom and English class — is small, somewhat dim, and crowded by people hanging around the coat rack. I copy two girls who are hanging their coats up in front of me and head to the teacher.
The thin, aging woman with bad acne and a name tag that identifies her as "Mrs. Jameson" rips my student slip from my hands without care. Then she perks up, looking at me in surprise. She gawks for a moment and then signs it, files it, and points me to the one empty desk in the corner. Knowing my face is cherry red, I count my blessings for the lack of forced introduction and go straight to my seat.
I take out my school notebook and my small notebook, opening both to an empty page. I can feel the eyes of my classmates on the top of my head. Once my butt hits the seat I curl up, knees on my chest, and examine the list of required reading. As expected: Bronte, Shakespeare, Chaucer … I've already read most what she's assigned to me. All I need to do is go over the notes I'd taken already. Hell, I could even edit my old essays. Even if it is cheating, it saves me the effort
I zone out from her lecture, drawing in the margins of my notebook. Eyes, squiggles, smiles with sharp teeth and forked tongues … before I know it, I've drawn a demon in the middle of the notebook page
The bell rings me back to reality, and I see a thin, gangly girl with black hair lean across the aisle to my desk. Her smile is friendly, but the sudden movement catches the attention of everyone within four feet of us. I gather my things, looking down at my desk. I know it's rude, but a random girl wanting to talk to me isn't something I'm comfortable with.
"You're new, right? I haven't seen you around before."
"Yeah, I am. Beau Swan," I extend my hand, and she shakes it with gusto. "Nice to meet you."
"Oh, you must be Chief Swan's kid!" She shakes her head like it's obvious — which it is — and chuckles. "No wonder Mrs. Jameson didn't bother introducing you. I'm Erica, by the way. Erica Yorkie. So, where are you headed?"
"Government, building six. Why, you going to show me around?" I pull my bag onto my shoulder, laughing softly at her expression. "Don't act so surprised, there's no other reason to approach the new kid in school."
" … that's a fair point. And yeah, if you need. My next class is in four, so it wouldn't be much of a detour."
"I'd appreciate it, Erica. This place is kinda weird."
"Tell me about it," she shakes her head. We grab our jackets, and she stops me from putting mine on like normal. "Like a cloak. Trust me, you'll want more protection than just the hood." She demonstrates, and leads us through the rain to the even-numbered buildings across the courtyard. I cling to her backpack to keep from getting lost. We practically kick the doors to building six down once it's in sight. Erica laughs and musses her already disheveled hair.
"Ah, I love the cool breeze. Wakes you up."
"I don't think I've seen this much rain in my entire life." I pull my hood down, spotting my next classroom from the entryway. "I grew up in Phoenix. It rains maybe four times a year max." Erica's eyes grow huge.
"That sounds … horrible. N-no offense! I just can't even imagine that."
"On the bright side, we get plenty of sun," I answer honestly. Erica squints, looking me over. "What?"
"Seems it missed you completely, Beau." She chuckles, her entire face crunching together. I have to roll my eyes, though I laugh too. "Which is honestly impressive, considering your height." She waves her hand over me, and I pull back a bit. "Let me guess, SPF 100?"
"Yeah, pretty much. I've always been prone to burning." She halts and motions to the door. "Oh, we're here."
"Yep. And with that, I wish you luck. I gotta hurry before Mr. Unger counts me as tardy. See you around, Arizona!" She winks, turning on his heels and waving as she runs to her building. I smile and return the wave. Excitable, but tolerable. And surprisingly nice. I might have misjudged this place.
I shake my head and go to the next room.
The rest of the morning passes quickly. My Trig teacher, Ms. Varner, is the only one who made me stand in front of the class and introduce myself. It doesn't take long for me to hate the class and teacher, though I already hated her based on subject alone. After ten minutes of stammering out my favorite books and hobbies … which no one cares about … I'm ready for murder.
Two classes in, I recognize a few of the faces. Not so much their names, mostly because they don't come up to talk to me. Well, except for one person...
This tiny boy I share both Trig and Spanish with, with beautiful chestnut curls and doe eyes. Jesse Stanley, a perky guy who's up to my ribs, can fill my silence with every bit of gossip and know-how about Forks High School during the walk to the cafeteria. I can't keep up with him, but he doesn't mind. He keeps his hands clasped together, his tenor voice the only one I can focus on, and almost drags me to what he dubs the "usual table". Slowly it fills.
Jesse introduces me to all of them, but goes so fast I'm barely able to hold on to the names. Erica, however, I know right away. Everyone's eyes lock on me just long enough for my anxiety level to churn my stomach. One boy, the first person who comes close to me in height, changes the conversation to summer vacation. I'm finally able to pull out my little notebook, humming and doodling absently.
A massive temperature drop sends a shiver down my spine, pulling my attention a few tables away. My eyes widen as I look at them. My mind is lit with inspiration, as though the Muses looked down on me with pride. But my hands refuse to move.
They sit in the corner, in direct sight of my table. There are five of them. Not talking, barely eating, staring in different directions. Their clothes are neat, in muted colors, and they appear well off. But none of these things draws me to them.
There are two girls. One is dark-skinned, with long dreadlocks. She towers over the others, lean and toned with a pleasant smile, and no doubt a laugh that could warm anyone's heart. Her clothing softens her appearance and covers her arms completely. Even in the few seconds I look at her, she tugs his sleeves down slightly, keeping it just along the bottom of her palms.
The second girl looks to have a natural tan, and honey hair that might be dyed because of the warm, brown roots. She wears baggy clothing that only makes me wonder how her body is built … and then look away because of how perverted that thought was. Her face cloaked by the soft waves of her hair.
The last girl is the shortest of them, with a messy bun that shines like copper flame in the muted indoor light. Her body is thin, but not to any extreme, and there's something about her angular face that seems … almost ill. She has over-ear headphones on, her eyes closed and mouth moving to unheard lyrics. In total bliss. I swallow hard at the sight of her thin lips forming a smile.
The boys are exact opposites. The tall one is statuesque, with a figure to combat the likes of Bond-era Sean Connery. If he wasn't sitting there, I would swear he jumped off a highly edited magazine cover. I take him as proof that perfection exists. His hair is golden, undercut and even, with a slight pink glimmer to it. The short boy is pixie-like, with feminine but strong features, his black hair shaved down to the scalp, and his pie-eyes staring into space like he's engaged in a contest with a ghost.
There is no way he's old enough to be in high school...
So different, yet exactly the same. The ones with light skin appear almost luminescent, the one with dark skin has an oddly blue undertone. And their eyes … I have no clue if the red-haired girl is the same, but the four sets I can see are solid black, like a shark. And they look exhausted, bruise-like circles surrounding the sharp whites of their eyes. Like they've been awake every night for the past 17 or 18 years. And so inhumanly designed. The very air around them draws you in, and I can only imagine their voices are like a song.
They're beautiful. They're terrifying.
My curiosity fills to the brim.
"Who are they?" I ask Jesse, my mind swimming. He looks over to see who I mean, though considering my tone and lack of local knowledge, I'm pretty amazed he even has to look. I follow his gaze, locking eyes with the red-haired girl.
We stare at each other for a solid second, her head tilting. I feel a buzz in my skull that makes me flinch, and her eyes widen in surprise. She turns away before I can fully register the movement. Deeply unsettling. I look at my tater-tot loaded tray, Jesse snickering in my right ear.
"That would be the Cullen Clan. Well, so we call them. Only two of them are Cullens. You've got Emmaline, the tall one with the dreads. Then there's Alex Cullen, the small one who looks like a 12-year-old, and the Hale twins — Roland and Jasmine. I think they're Dr. and Mr. Cullen's foster kids." He whispers so softy I have to lean in to understand him. It's like he expects them to just appear out of the air right beside us.
"Roland and Emmaline seem close," I mutter, a stupid pang of envy striking my chest.
"Oh! That's because they're a couple. Like, live together and everything. Or, so I've heard. Uh … hey Erica, what's Emma's last name again?"
"How should I know?" Erica protests through a mouth full of burger.
"You take the same chemistry class!"
"Doesn't mean I pay attention to her." She swallows the bite. "What I do know is the girl is a total joker, but smart as hell. Half the time she finishes the work before I get done with the first question."
She goes off on a tangent with how she wishes Emmaline — Emma — would tutor her in that class, but I focus on the name. Matter of fact, all of them have uncommon names. Or, well, unpopular ones. They sound like they belong to grandparents rather than teenagers. Though none of them really look like teens. I don't dare turn around to double-check that analysis. If the redhead is looking over here again...
"It kind of sucks that Dr. and Mr. Cullen can't have their own kids, but hey, at least they get a chance to have a family." Jesse smiles at that, leaning on her hand. "I don't know how long they've had Alex, but he is super nice. Always helps with the dances, so does Roland. Really, the only one that doesn't socialize at all is Edith." He says her name with such venom it makes me jump.
"Uh … Wh-which is Edith?" I look back at them, meeting eyes with the red-haired one at the same moment. Her face mirrors mine in curiosity, and even a pinch of confusion. Like I fail to meet some expectation she has. The buzzing returns to my head and I tear myself away with a groan. I don't like this... Jesse's finger crosses my vision and it leads me right to the same girl, who is — thankfully — not looking over here anymore.
"That's Edith, doctor's little sister. How weird would it be to go to school with your aunt?"
"They're all … very nice looking." I can't bring myself to say what I mean. Beautiful. Breathtaking. Angelic. Unnatural.
"Oh, definitely. But I wouldn't bother trying to mingle. Other than Emma and Alex, they don't talk much. Especially not Edith. Arrogant asshole won't even look at people when they speak to her." Jesse huffs, shaking his head. "At least Jasmine will nod or make a grunt, but Edith? Nothing. It's like no one exists but her."
"You're sure it's not something else entirely? I mean, maybe she's just shy."
"Oh please, Beau! A chick that hot being shy? A likely story." And just like that, he changes the subject.
To avoid any more awkwardness, I join in, chuckling and talking about homework and the building arrangements. The Cullens keep appearing in my mind, bordering on obsessively. After a while, the five leave the table en masse. Their movements are too fluid, too well-timed. The one called Edith makes one last glance at me before vanishing from sight. My gut churns, it wants me to avoid them. I doubt I'll listen.
When we enter the next classroom, a boy from the table named Angel tells me to wait for the teacher in front.
"I-I'm sorry, Beau," the giant in pastel stammers, looking at his feet. "She's super weird about seating people." he shuffles in place, and I reach up to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. Angel looks at my hand, then at me, his sweater tickling my fingers.
"Don't worry about it. You just sit, I'll be fine." Angel nods and sits beside his partner, a blonde girl with jelled hair. A familiar girl with jelled hair. One that sat and stared and me and Jesse during lunch, but never bothered with an introduction. How rude.
I lean against the whiteboard while I wait for the teacher and look around, noticing all but one person has a partner. Next to the center aisle, I recognize Edith Cullen and her unnatural features, headphones still covering her ears. The teacher lays a hand on my shoulder and says my name. From my peripheral vision, I see Edith snap to look at me. Her face morphs into something terrifying — and is gone in a flash.
I hate this class.
My brain buzzes like a hive of a million panicked hornets. Dr. Molina, as she introduces herself straight off, hands me my books and points me to the single empty seat. My head is too busy for me to ask to work with no one.
I walk down the center, almost trembling, to my seat. I pull the chair as far away from her as I can and sit, pulling out my science notebook with a locked jaw. I greet her without turning, but my eyes disobey my order not to look.
Her eyes are a dead, deep, inescapable void. I shiver, scribbling in the margins of my notebook with my head straight-forward. I see the Cullen girl shift, leaning away from me, scooting to the very edge of her chair and facing the window like something smells foul. It doesn't take a Sherlockian level of deduction to realize something about me disgusts her.
I let my hair block her from view, making a dark curtain between us. I turn my ears to Dr. Molina's lecture, writing every important detail on cellular reproduction that I can pick up. I realize a few minutes in that I studied this already in Phoenix. God, did we just go at a lightning rate out there? I stop my writing and start drawing. Jesse. A weird looking Cheeto that Erica was eating. The scrunch of Angel's nose when he laughed during lunch. The eyes of the girl sitting beside me …
And try as I may, I can't stop myself from peeking through my screen of hair at her. Slowly, but surely, her upper body relaxes. She even sits at the center of the stool after fifteen minutes. But her hand remains clenched at her thigh, veins bulging an eerie bright blue under her ghastly, flawless skin. If you didn't see the insignificant details, you would think she is just another bored student. I swallow and hope that I'm new enough to exchange science classes.
Though taking the same time as the others, my first Biology lecture feels like it will never end. I try to convince myself I just want to get home, but my locked focus on the overly tense figure next to me proves I'm lying. She never fully relaxes. She's solid as a statue. I don't even think she's breathing. Is this how she always is? Maybe I judged Jesse's anger too harshly. I hesitate a glance over at her, facing her. The glare that I meet pulls the breath out of my lungs, turns my blood to ice.
Toward the end of the class, Dr. Molina hands papers back, complimenting Edith on her accomplishment and offers her a soft, motherly smile as she sets the paper down and quickly searches for the next student's assignment. I can't help it, I glance at her paper. 110% — she even got the bonus questions right — and I realize I've been misspelling her name in my head the entire time.
Who the fuck names their daughter Edythe?
At that moment the bell rings loudly, and the much fancier Edythe Cullen is out of her seat. Towering over me at this angle, she is away from the desk and out of the classroom door before the sound of the bell has even registered with anyone.
I gather my things, grumbling under my breath about how arrogant she must be. I have to sit for a moment and breathe. I don't want to cry, and the tears in my eyes threaten to fall. I reach for my sketchbook with shaking hands.
"Hey, Beau!" I turn, Angel and his lab partner approach me with friendly grins. "This is Michelle Newton, she's from California."
"No way?" I chuckle, taking her offer for a handshake. "I used to vacation there as a kid."
"Oh, sweet!" Michelle says in an overly excited volume of voice. Maybe it's her jelled curls, maybe it's her impression, but this gal reminds me too much of a Golden Retriever. "It's good to meet you, Beau. I'm on my way to gym class. What about you?"
"Same here," I say, cringing. "I'm not looking forward to it."
"Eh, no one likes it. Chances are it'll be volleyball for the millionth time. Just try to get hit, you'll be fine. C'mon, Coach Clapp makes late people run suicides instead." I nod and follow her and Angel, losing him about halfway down the hall. So far, she's been quiet, but once he's gone, Michelle supplies most of the conversation. She's oddly relatable. She moved out of California at ten, and misses the sun just as much as I do. Turns out, she's in my English class too, but she had to talk to the teacher about the reading.
"I've done most of it already if you need help, Michelle." I offer, pulling the list from my binder. "You can go over my old notes, I'll even let you copy them in your own words. Easier to understand that way."
"Seriously? Wow, thanks, Beau. Were they part of your old school?"
"Yeah, we went fast for some Godforsaken reason. Though a lot of what we read, like the works of Chaucer and Shakespeare, have summaries and modern translations that make it easier to understand. I read those in my free time back home to get my grade back up."
"Not exactly my idea of a good time, but I get that."
As we enter the gym, he asks, "So, did you stab Edythe Cullen with a pencil? I've never seen her act like that." I cringe, especially at Michelle's emphasis on her behavior. "I mean, Edythe's never been a social butterfly, but she's not hostile either. Just … weird."
"She's really never acted like that before?"
"Not that I can remember. She looked like he was in pain or something."
"I don't know why, honestly. I never even spoke to her..."
"That's just freaky," Michelle lingers with me a bit, confusion on her face. "If I'd been next to you, I probably would have talked your ear off." We both laugh. She departs when I enter the boy's locker room. I think about Michelle's words as I wait for the coach to bring me my gym clothes.
I keep my eyes trained on the floor, ignoring the occasional snicker and point aimed my way. I've heard it all my life, but never more so than after middle school, when showering after gym became a requirement. Too lanky, too soft, too thin, too tall … I wrap my arms around myself until the booming voice of an older man pulls my attention.
Coach Clapp gives me my uniform, but tells me I don't have to play today. He explains that they're in the middle of a match and it's gotten heated, so if I want to I can either watch or take a study period. Without hesitating, I ask for a library pass and rush my way to the lone building.
I settle at a corner table, away from the other students. I pull out my iPod and sketchbook, playing soft music as I take my thoughts from today and decorate the page. Soft curves, shadows that heighten contrast, smooth and even lines. It isn't until I'm half-way finished that I realize just what I've been drawing to summarize my day. Or, rather... who.
I continue with the drawing, not wanting to waste the paper. I focus on her features, her behavior … the odd buzzing that happens when she's around becomes a cloud around her head. A kind way to illustrate it, considering how it makes my head itch and eyes water.
As I draw, I hum along with the song, not noticing when another person appears across from me. I look up, jolting from my skin as Edythe Cullen motions for me to take out my earbuds. I slam the book closed before doing so.
"C-can I help you?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
"I would like to … apologize. For how I acted, so … I'm sorry, Mr. Swan. I … you … good luck with whatever that is." She stammers, motioning to my sketchbook, and turns on her toes, disappearing as quickly as she appeared.
The last bell rings. I slowly make my way through the crowds with homework in tow, using the scenery to take my mind off all the weirdness of today. The air is lighter, much colder. My breath appears in front of me like smoke. Everything around me appears metallic from the sheen of water. Before I realize it, I'm opening the door to the Thing, warmth embracing me like an old friend. Like a second home in this strange, unusually blue hole.
I check to be sure I'm the only person within ten feet before covering my mouth with my backpack and letting out a scream. All the bottled-up energy makes the truck shake, I have to stop myself from accidentally flipping it over. I huff a couple times before being torn from my panic by a cellphone buzz. It's a text from Rene. I grit my teeth and open it.
"How did your first day go, all star?"
I hide behind my hair and let out a loud groan. Oh, dear lord, how do I answer that?