The next morning, a pallid, sallow face stared back at him from the mirror. Despite the shower and a shave, Beau still looked exhausted. The rain returned before dawn; it seemed that even nature was working against him today.
Beau tilted his face this way and that, tracing the new, slight crookedness of his nose, forcing his thoughts away from the night it was broken. That was all behind him now. Here, with his new start, it could be an interesting, charming quirk of his rather than a badge of shame.
Breakfast with Charlie was a quiet event. The chief was up early, scrambling eggs and frying bacon, all before his son even rolled out of bed. Beau raised an appreciative eyebrow when the plate was set in front of him. He had grown used to skipping breakfast all together, eating a big lunch at school, then snacking in the afternoon until practice. This was a nice change.
"Thanks, Dad."
"Sure, kiddo. You'll need it for your first day."
The chief wished him good luck on his way out the door. Beau thanked him, knowing this hope was wasted. Good luck tended to avoid him.
Beau sat at the old square oak table in one of the three unmatching chairs and examined the kitchen, with its dark paneled walls, bright yellow cabinets, and white linoleum floor. Nope. Nothing had changed. He knew his mother had been the one who painted the cabinets in an attempt to bring some sunshine into the house. Maybe he would continue her work if he had nothing else to do, which, in a town this tiny, seemed like a given.
Beau stood and washed his plate at the sink. When that was done, he moved into the living room, studying the pictures over the small fireplace. The row of them began with his parents' wedding photo, continued to a family portrait the night he was born, and, embarrassingly, concluded with his school pictures up until last year. His T-ball photo was at the center, featuring a younger Beau (minus his two front teeth), beaming at the camera.
It was impossible, being in this house, not to realize that Charlie had never gotten over Renée. Growing up, Beau pinned it on the lack of available women his age in Forks. But now he knew it was something else entirely and that was too bad. His father was still young. Renée had found love again; maybe one day, Charlie would, too.
Beau knew he could no longer delay the inevitable. He donned his parka and Mariners cap, then hurried to the truck—that, in the moment, he decided to name Big Red—where the interior was warm and dry. Either Billy or Charlie had cleaned it up, but the tan upholstered seats still smelled faintly of tobacco, gasoline, and peppermint. Beau thought these scents gave the truck character.
The engine started quickly, roaring to life, then idling at top volume. The antique radio worked, a plus that he hadn't expected.
His school in Phoenix had the feel of an institution. They had plenty of funding to install the best security in the area. Chain-link fences and metal detectors were as ubiquitous as the cameras dotting the corners. But none of these things were present at Forks High School. The school itself, which was slightly rundown, had been sectioned off into a handful of identical brick buildings. Beau parked in front of the one marked Front Office and cut the engine.
The interior was warmer than he expected, brightly-lit, with big, leafy plants he disliked immediately. Too high maintenance. His desert succulents were far superior.
The office was staffed by an older woman wearing glasses. Her eyes flicked upwards as he approached. "Can I help you?"
"I'm Beau Swan," he said carefully, watching the recognition light her eyes. He was expected, already the subject of gossip. Son of the chief's flighty ex-wife, home at last. The woman introduced herself as Ms. Cope.
"Of course, Beaufort, I have your schedule right here, and a map of the school."
"Beau, please," he mumbled as color flooded his cheeks. Beaufort was the protagonist of a romance novel Renée discovered in her short tenure as the chief's wife. She dove into books to sate her loneliness, and soon, inspiration struck. Other than the decidedly old-fashioned name, she gave Beau a love of books that was rivaled only by playing baseball.
Ms. Cope helpfully went through his schedule. She highlighted the best route to each class on the map, then gave him a slip each teacher had to sign, which he was to return at the end of the day. She smiled and hoped, like Charlie, that Beau would like it here in Forks. He smiled back as convincingly as he could.
Other students were starting to arrive when he returned to the truck. Beau got in and followed the line of traffic around the school. He was glad to see that most of the cars were older, like Big Red, nothing flashy. At home, Beau and Renée lived in one of the few lower-income neighborhoods that were included in the Paradise Valley District. It was a common thing to see a new Mercedes or Porsche in the student lot. The nicest car here was a shiny Volvo, and it stood out. Still, he cut the engine as soon as he was in a spot, so that the thunderous volume wouldn't draw attention.
Beau studied the map for a moment, trying to memorize it now to avoid overusing it later. Here his grand plan seemed to fall apart around his ears. Gripped by a sudden panic, he held the steering wheel with shaking hands. The irony of running away to a small town to hide, only to be noticed by everyone immediately, hit him in the stomach like a punch.
I can do this, he lied to himself. Eighteen months. It's only eighteen months. No one is going to bite me.
Beau wished this march to class came with a walk-up song. All the pros in the MLB had them. He considered his favorites as he went, disappearing effortlessly into the sea of arriving students. Once inside the classroom, he hung up his jacket, removed his Mariners cap, and quickly smoothed down the hair underneath.
Mr. Mason gawked when he saw the name, but fortunately, sent Beau to an empty desk without introducing him to the class. It was harder for his new classmates to stare at him in the back of the room, but somehow, they managed. He kept his eyes on the reading list. It was fairly basic: Bronte, Shakespeare, Chaucer, Faulkner. He'd already read everything. That was comforting . . . and boring. Beau wondered if his mother would send him the folder of old essays, or if she would think that was cheating. Renée was a teacher and had a moral code about these things. He mentally went through different arguments they might have about it while the teacher droned on.
When the bell rang, a gangly boy leaned across the aisle. "You're Beaufort Swan, aren't you?"
He looked like the overly helpful, chess club type, but Beau was grateful that his first interaction with a classmate was a friendly one. "Yep, I'm Beau."
Everyone within a three-seat radius turned to look. "Where's your next class?"
"Government, with Jefferson, in building six."
"I'm headed toward building four, I could show you the way . . . I'm Eric," he added.
"Thanks."
"So, this is a lot different than Phoenix, huh?" Eric asked as they walked. A couple of people were following close behind them, as if trying to hear every word. Beau felt his neck burning at the attention. His mother had given him a haircut a few days before he left home, and he missed the extra inches, if only to hide the evidence of his embarrassment.
"Very."
"It doesn't rain much there, does it?"
"Three or four times a year."
"Wow, what must that be like?" Eric wondered.
"Sunny."
"You don't look very tan."
Beau used to be tan all the time. His skin always warmed to a golden brown after hours of practice in the sun. Then he spent this past summer hiding out in his house, leaving only for grocery shopping and the occasional shift at Phil's father's moving company.
"My mother is part albino," Beau said, realizing too late that Eric missed the joke completely. It looked like clouds and a sense of humor didn't mix. A few months of this and he'd forget how to use sarcasm.
Beau forced himself to smile; he didn't want to come off like a jerk. First impressions were everything.
"Well, good luck. Maybe we'll have some other classes together."
The rest of the morning was about the same. The Trigonometry teacher, Mr. Varner, who Beau would have hated anyway just because of the subject he taught, was the only one who made him stand in front of the class and introduce himself. It reminded him of the evenings he spent on the pitcher's mound, with the batter, catcher, umpire, and crowds staring at him. Waiting for the pitch—waiting for his next move. He took a deep breath and delivered.
Beau started to recognize several people as the day wore on. There was usually someone braver than the others who would introduce themselves and ask questions about how he was liking Forks. He tried to be diplomatic, but mostly just lied a lot, which he was used to doing by now. At least he never needed the map.
A curly-headed girl who sat next to him in Trigonometry and Spanish took it upon herself to give him a tour. He followed her to the cafeteria for lunch, smiling and nodding as she prattled on their teachers, classes, and the best places in town to hang out. He didn't try to keep up; she seemed content just to have an audience.
They went through the lunch line and soon joined a full table of her friends. Beau tried in vain to remember all their names. The group seemed impressed by the curly-headed girl's bravery in bringing Beau into the fold. The boy from English, Eric, waved at him from across the room.
It was there, sitting in the lunchroom, trying to make conversation with seven curious strangers, that Beau first saw them.
They were sitting in the corner of the cafeteria. There were five of them. They weren't talking, and they weren't eating, though each had a tray of untouched food in front of them. They weren't gawking at him, unlike most of the other students, so it was safe to stare without fear of meeting an excessively interested pair of eyes. But it was none of these things that caught and held his attention.
Of the three boys, one was big—muscled like a serious weight lifter, with dark, curly hair. He reminded Beau of the Army recruiters who perched in the hallways at Phoenix. The second boy was leaner, leonine, with honey blond hair. The last had a lanky build and a head of untidy bronze-colored hair. He was more boyish than the others, who looked like they could be in college, or even teachers.
The girls were opposites. The tall one was the type one saw on Sports Illustrated, the kind that made everyone, Beau included, take a hit on their self-esteem just by being in the same room. The short girl was pixielike, thin in the extreme, with small features. Her hair was a deep black, cropped short, and pointing in every direction.
And yet, the five were all exactly alike. Every one of them was chalky pale, the palest of all the students living in this sunless town. Paler than him, the alleged part-albino. They all had very dark eyes and dark shadows under those eyes—purplish, bruiselike shadows. As if they were all suffering from a sleepless night, or almost done recovering from a broken nose; Beau knew that feeling intimately. Though their noses, like the rest of their features, were straight, perfect, and angular.
But all this was not why he couldn't look away. He stared because their faces, so different, so similar, were all devastatingly, inhumanly beautiful. They were faces one never expected to see except on the airbrushed pages of a magazine. Or perhaps painted by an old master as the face of an angel. It was hard to decide who was the most beautiful—maybe the perfect blonde girl, or the bronze-haired boy.
Definitely him. Beau was unable to tear his eyes away from that one.
They were all looking away—away from each other, away from the other students, away from anything in particular. As he watched, the small girl rose with her tray—unopened soda, unbitten apple—and walked away with a quick, graceful gait. Beau watched, amazed at her lithe dancer's step, till she dumped her tray and glided through the back door, faster than he would have thought possible. His eyes darted back to the others, who sat unchanging.
"Who are they?" Beau asked the girl from Spanish class, whose name he still did not remember. He picked up his own apple and took a bite, wondering why the small girl had thrown hers away. This one, at least, was delicious.
As she looked up to see who he meant—though already knowing, probably, from the tone—suddenly the boy looked at him, the boyish one, possibly the youngest. He looked at the girl for just a fraction of a second, and then his dark eyes flickered to Beau's.
He looked away quicker than Beau could. In that brief flash of a glance, his face held nothing of interest—it was as if his name had been called, and he'd looked up as an involuntary response, already having decided not to answer.
"That's Edward and Emmett Cullen, and Rosalie and Jasper Hale. The one who left was Alice Cullen; they all live together with Dr. Cullen and his wife."
Beau glanced sideways at the beautiful boy, who was looking at his tray now, picking a bagel to pieces with long, pale fingers. His mouth was moving very quickly, his perfect lips barely opening. The other three still looked away, and yet, it appeared that he was speaking quietly to them.
Strange, unpopular names, he thought. The kinds of names grandparents had. That he had. But maybe that was in vogue here, small town names? He finally remembered that his neighbor was called Jessica. That was a perfectly common name. There were two girls named Jessica in his history class back home.
"They are . . . very nice-looking." Beau struggled with what he assumed was the understatement of the year.
"Yes!" Jessica agreed with another giggle. "They're all together though—Emmett and Rosalie, and Jasper and Alice, I mean. And they live together." Her voice held all the shock and condemnation of the small town. But if he was being honest, it would have caused gossip, even in Phoenix.
"Which ones are the Cullens? They don't look related . . . "
"Oh, they're not. Dr. Cullen is really young, in his twenties or early thirties. They're all adopted. The Hales are brother and sister, twins—the blondes—and they're foster children."
"They look a little old for foster children." The Cullens were nothing like the foster family that lived next door to him and Renée in Phoenix. Beau had seen many come and go as he grew up, while they waited for the state to decide their next steps. He played streetball with a few of the boys over the years, making himself a darling of Mrs. Santos, who was all too happy to send over plates of food for his trouble.
"They are now, Jasper and Rosalie are both eighteen, but they've been with Mrs. Cullen since they were eight. She's their aunt or something like that."
"That's really kind of nice—for them to take care of all those kids like that, when they're so young and everything."
"I guess so," Jessica admitted. She seemed reluctant to agree even about something as selfless as that.
Beau got the impression that Jessica didn't like the doctor and his wife for some reason. With the glances she was throwing at their adopted children, he thought she might have been jealous of them. It was hard not to be, though. Not everyone looked that perfect in high school. He touched the bridge of his nose self-consciously at the thought.
"I think that Mrs. Cullen can't have any kids, though," Jessica added, as if that lessened their kindness.
His eyes kept flickering to the table where the strange family sat. They continued to look at the walls and not eat. "Have they always lived in Forks?"
Surely Beau would have noticed them on one of his summers here, in passing at one of the few restaurants the town had, or maybe on one of the baseball diamonds where he and Charlie played endless rounds of catch. The youngest one looked quick on his feet. A shortstop, perhaps.
"No," she said in a voice that implied it should be obvious, even to a new arrival like him. "They just moved down two years ago from somewhere in Alaska."
Beau felt a surge of pity, and relief. Pity because as beautiful as they were, they were outsiders, and clearly not accepted by the other students. Relief that he wasn't the only newcomer here, and certainly not the most interesting by any standard. People would move on from him soon enough, which was exactly how he wanted it.
As he examined the Cullens, the youngest looked up and met his gaze, this time with evident curiosity. As Beau looked away swiftly, it seemed that his glance held some kind of unmet expectation.
"Which one is the boy with the reddish brown hair?" Beau kept his voice casual. The boy was still staring, but not gawking like the other students had today—he had a slightly frustrated expression.
"That's Edward. He's gorgeous, of course, but totally stuck-up. Apparently no one in Forks is good enough for him." She sniffed.
Beau wondered what made him earn her displeasure. A romantic rejection? A joke taken the wrong way?
Edward's face was turned away now, but his cheek appeared lifted, as if he was smiling.
After a few more minutes, the four of them left the table together. They all were noticeably graceful—even the big, brawny one. It was unsettling to watch. The one named Edward didn't look toward them again.
Beau sat at the table with Jessica and her friends for the rest of lunch. One of the girls, Angela, had Biology II with him the next hour. The two walked to class together in companionable silence. She was shy, too.
When they entered the classroom, Beau removed his Mariners cap, too-used to teachers asking him to remove it. He watched Angela go sit at a black-topped lab table, where she already had a neighbor. In fact, all the tables were filled but one. Next to the center aisle, Beau recognized Edward Cullen by his unusual hair, sitting beside the only available seat.
As Beau walked down the aisle to get the slip signed, he watched Edward surreptitiously. Just as he passed, Edward suddenly went rigid in his seat. He stared with the strangest expression on his face—it was hostile, furious. Beau looked away in shock. He stumbled over a book in the walkway and had to catch himself on the edge of a table. The girl sitting there giggled.
His eyes were black—coal black.
Mr. Banner signed the slip and handed him a book with no nonsense about introductions. Beau could tell they were going to get along. Of course, Mr. Banner had no choice but to send him to the one open seat in the middle of the room—the one next to Edward Cullen. Beau looked down as he sat, bewildered by the antagonistic stare waiting for him.
Edward's posture changed at once. He leaned away, sitting on the extreme edge of his chair and averting his face like he smelled something bad. Unsettled, Beau sniffed the collar of his t-shirt. All he detected was the Irish Spring he used this morning—Charlie's preferred brand of soap. It seemed like an innocent enough odor.
Beau tried to pay attention, but the lecture was on cellular anatomy, something he'd already studied. He couldn't stop himself from peeking occasionally at the strange boy next to him. During the whole class, Edward never relaxed his stiff position on the edge of his chair. His hand on his left leg was clenched into a fist, tendons standing out under his pale skin. This, too, he never relaxed. The sleeves of his white shirt were pushed up to his elbows, and his forearms were surprisingly hard and muscular under the light skin. He wasn't nearly as slight as he'd looked next to his burly brother.
The class seemed to drag on longer than the others. Was it because the day was finally coming to a close, or because Beau was waiting for that tight fist to loosen? It never did; Edward continued to sit so still it looked like he wasn't breathing.
What was wrong with him? Beau questioned his earlier judgment on Jessica's bitterness at lunch. Maybe she was not as resentful as he thought. Maybe Edward just weird, or had some kind of chemical imbalance. Socially awkward or something.
It couldn't have anything to do with me. He didn't know me from Adam.
Beau peeked one more time and regretted it instantly. Edward was glaring at him again, his black eyes full of revulsion. As Beau flinched, the phrase if looks could kill suddenly ran through his mind. At that moment, the bell rang loudly, making him jump, and Edward was already on his feet. Fluidly he rose—he was much taller than he appeared—and was gone before anyone else was out of their seat.
Beau sat frozen in the chair, trying to quell the surge of panic he felt. Did Edward know something about him? Had he figured it out?
Beau knew his type. Once boys like that knew Beau was gay, all bets were off. The silent treatment, pranks, harassment, slurs, hazing—Beau felt his right hand curl into a fist at the onslaught of memories—he'd experienced it all. He supposed he should have expected this reaction, but not so soon. Not on the first day.
It wasn't fair. Beau gathered his things and tried to extinguish the anger rising in his chest. The whole point of moving here was to reinvent himself, but exactly one day in, he was already failing at it.
"Aren't you Beaufort Swan?"
A blond guy stood at the end of the table. His hair was gelled into those tragic spikes that everyone but Beau seemed to like. But he had a friendly face.
"Beau," he corrected him, shaking the outstretched hand, but inwardly, Beau's mind was elsewhere.
"I'm Mike."
"Hey, Mike."
"Do you need any help finding your next class?"
"I'm headed to the gym, actually. I think I can find it."
"That's my next class, too." It wasn't that big of a coincidence in a school this small.
Mike supplied most of the conversation along the way. Beau let himself relax, inch by inch, grateful to listen rather than talk for the time being. Then the subject returned to his new lab partner.
"So, did you stab Edward Cullen with a pencil or what? I've never seen him act like that."
Beau shook his head. "Is that normal for him? We didn't say two words to each other."
"He's a weird guy. Anyway, don't take it too personally, man, they treat everyone like that."
They again. The Cullens. He was beginning to understand their social unpopularity.
Mike pointed to the Mariners cap. "Do you play?"
"Some," Beau nodded politely. "Pitcher."
"Me too," Mike laughed. "Couldn't hurt to have a backup."
Beau didn't miss the territorial edge in his voice. He shrugged and tried to sound offhand.
"I don't know if I have the time to play, honestly. I still have to catch up on the semester, you know?"
That seemed to placate his new friend. Mike launched into a play-by-play of the last season as they walked, oblivious to Beau's growing hesitation. He swallowed as they passed across the threshold into the gym. The other boy darted into the locker room with clear enthusiasm. Beau stood, studying that door, until someone brushed past and pulled him out of his reverie. The door was painted blue and gold, just like his hat, and he took some comfort in it.
There was nothing to be afraid of, Beau scolded himself as he searched through his bag for the slip. It's not the same.
Coach Clapp shook his hand vigorously when they met. He and Charlie had gone to high school together, Clapp explained, often teaming up in this very gym. Beau smiled, amused, knowing this was probably the case for most of the parents of his classmates. It was the type of town that people stayed in forever.
Clapp signed his form but didn't make him suit up. That was a pity; Beau might have braved the locker room if it meant spiking a volleyball and pretending it was his deskmate's head.
When Beau returned to the office, he fought the urge to turn around and walk right back out. Edward Cullen was there, arguing with Ms. Cope in a low, attractive voice. He was trying to trade from sixth-hour Biology—the class they shared together—to any other time.
Beau felt his jaw drop. He couldn't believe this was about him. It had to be something else, something that happened before he went to Biology. The look on Edward's face must have been about another aggravation entirely; Beau was just casualty of his bad day. It was impossible that this stranger could take such an intense dislike to a person he didn't know.
Edward turned suddenly, noticing his presence, and stared at Beau with piercing, hate-filled eyes. A thrill of genuine fear went through him. The look only lasted a second, but it chilled him more than a freezing wind. Edward turned back to Ms. Cope.
"Never mind, then. I can see that it's impossible. Thank you so much for your help."
Beau dropped his gaze and waited for the eventual slam of the office door. Ms. Cope, surprisingly unperturbed, waved him over. "How did your first day go, dear?"
"Fine," he murmured, removing his hat respectfully in her presence. The visor twisted like it always did in his hands, stubbornly refusing to lose its shape. "Just fine."
Big Red was the the last car in the lot. He was grateful; the truck was a haven in this damp green hole. Beau sat inside until he was cold enough to need the heater. He turned the key and soon the engine roared to life.
Beau headed back to Charlie's house, fighting tears the whole way there.
A/N: Thanks for reading!