[ STARDUST, VOLUME I ]
Chapter I ; A little more than kin,

❝A little more than kin,
and less than kind.❞
Hamlet | Act I, Scene II
William Shakespeare

WHEN I WAS A LITTLE KID, I used to believe in wishing on stars. And if I had to estimate, I'd say I spent at least three nights a week looking out my window and wishing. Wishing on shooting stars was the true practice, the one that actually worked, but I was never told it. We didn't have access to any books or browsers. I came up with one of my own in the dark hours of night when I was a hopeful, contemplative little girl. I took the brightest star I saw, named it Daisy, and then I closed my eyes and made a wish. I wouldn't say what I wanted aloud, but it would repeat in my head, even when I was asleep and meant to be thoughtless. That blanket canvas of black when my mind floated through space, not a single idea in orbit. Vacant dreams, I used to call them.

I grew up in foster care. I wasn't a child Cinderella beaten, called names, or emotionally abused, but every pair of guardians I encountered were neglectful. They did the same to their own children. We had to make our own food. We didn't have anyone to help us bathe. We had to dress ourselves. We rode the bus to school and back. We only had each other for company. As young as I was, it was a struggle to make ends meet. It was a pain to get myself up, help the younger kids get ready, and go to school and ignore other kids when they asked me why my hair was uncombed and my mix-matched outfits were shabby. I couldn't just outright say I didn't have a traditional household to kids that grew up happy and unaware of life's horrors. I couldn't admit why I was so mature for my age. We were kids. No one knew the difference unless they lived the difference. Almost everybody my age thought all kids had a mommy and daddy. The only ones who understood were the silent ones, the ones who stewed in their traumas but never said a word.

I didn't have any friends, aside from other kids stuck in negligent households right along with me. And I always had to leave them at one point. Foster parents were temporary, so it was bittersweet whenever the goodbyes came. I knew it was coming, but I couldn't help but want to stay—even with parents who only liked the money that came from powers that couldn't care less. I was irrelevant to their lights, but it felt like I meant something with those kids who latched on the first older face that gave them the time of day. They cried when seeing me go, clinging to my legs as I stood silently and dejectedly at the door with my threadbare knapsack in tow. Every house was the same, but every goodbye was hard.

As young and as simple-minded as I was, I was always in a headspace beyond my years. You had to grow up fast in a broken system, just as you would a broken home; neither were too dissimilar from each other. Staying oblivious wasn't an option. You learned in a dog-eat-dog world, you were the only person who had your best interest in mind—the only person who would stay to save you from drowning in fight-or-flight. Depending on others was an unaffordable hazard. And though it scared me, I had to be the one there to catch my own fall. Trust and love were difficult to give willingly after years spent disappointed at every turn. I didn't even know how to reciprocate them. I never had a chance to reciprocate them.

Then one day, things changed. Not in a way I'd expected. In a way, it was the very thing I'd wished for that night Daisy was a blazing glory in the sky.

They changed for the better. For my better.

After spending my first eight years alive jumping boats, sinking or swimming wherever I went, it came as a shock when I was adopted. The months that followed were foreign territory. Having someone who actually wanted to dress me, who took me out to celebrate when I got a good report card, who learned to braid hair just for me, who showed me off to his friends, who got me presents every Christmas—it felt surreal. And I couldn't believe he'd fought for the right to be my guardian after they'd told him a single father wasn't a good homelife situation for a little girl. He fought for me, some quiet little girl with bruised knees and frizzy hair. I'd given up on being happy.

The day I became Madeline Swan was transformative. And it was a day I'd like to keep forever close to my heart.

But it wouldn't be very personal if I shared it, now would it?

January 15th, 2005
Outside the Swan House

WITHIN MY first few months of being in Forks, I learned how much I loved to hike. There were so many trails here, ones that led to and from the woods, and the atmosphere—while rainy and dreary—was nothing more than I could ask for. I loved the rain, I loved the cold, I loved the trees. I loved nature, really. I felt more at home in the woods than I had anywhere else in my life, besides here in Charlie Swan's house. And my Dad—Charlie—was more than eager to show me around and take me on a tour of the forested terrain surrounding Forks, my permanent home. He used the opportunity to take a hunting party through the woods and bag a buck, and Harry Clearwater from the reserve came too, but it was fun. Particularly when I ended up tumbling down a hill and got mud and leaves all over my face. They teased and prodded at me the entire way home.

Hiking became a passion of mine. I spent every weekend out somewhere, putting foot to land and foot to land, and I sometimes even went into the woods after school to spend my evenings there. After I was given a camera for Christmas a few years back, I started snapping away memories of every place I visited. I was always making new discoveries in the woods. Nothing ever stayed the same. During autumn and winter, the leaves changed and drifted through the air to the ground, the muck turning white and crunchy, with crisp, biting winds making thick jackets a necessity. I went in there expecting a wonderland of wintry delights but got something eerie and dreamlike instead.

I loved it so much I couldn't even complain about my frostbitten fingers.

It was 2 in the afternoon and I'd spent my entire morning taking pictures of the leafless trees. I'd also spotted wolf-prints, something I hadn't ever seen before, and I was eager to show them to my dad. I didn't know we had wolves this close to home. As I was shaking out my boots covered in muck, leaves, and snow-grit, camera strap hanging around my neck, Dad was just coming from the house. He had a huge grin on his face.

"Maddie!" he called, catching my figure by the empty road and approaching me. I stopped stomping the gravel, returning his smile. His happiness had always been contagious; he was usually so unhappy that smiles were a rare commodity. "You remember Bella, don't you?"

There were a lot of names in my head, ones that didn't matter and ones that used to before things forever changed. When I thought about the name Bella, thinking about the name in relation to my adoptive father, what popped in my head was a pretty brunette with sharp chocolate-brown eyes and a pale complexion. A slender frame and quiet demeanor. Someone who looked a lot like both her parents, but especially her mom, just with longer hair. "Bella? Your daughter in Arizona?"

Dad nodded, nearly jumping on his toes. He was more than happy; he was ecstatic.

"Is she coming to visit again?" I asked him, never dropping my smile. Bella was really nice when I first met her, and she stayed that way every time she came to visit in the summer. She wasn't very extroverted, and she was older than me by a little over a year, but I never let our differences make us anything less than somewhat-siblings. I don't think she did either. We weren't cordial just for our Dad's peace of mind, contrary to usual somewhat-siblings relationships.

Time could change even the smallest things, though. We hadn't seen each other in years. I had to keep that in mind in reminiscing over my memories with her.

But jeez, it was hard not to share Dad's contagious excitement about whatever this was.

"More than that," Dad said, another, larger grin budding on his mouth. "She's coming to stay. Go to school in Forks, just like you do."

"Really?" I probably looked just like him—elated, with a dumb smile stretched across my face. "When?"

"She'll be getting here on Monday, starting school with you on Tuesday," he said, before his smile dropped. "I wish you weren't a sophomore, so you could help show her to her classes. She'll need a friend."

I flapped my hand, trying not to bounce up and down. I was so inconsequentially excited. "No, no, I can help her!" I told him. "I may be a sophomore, but I know most of the rooms. It's a small school."

"Great—great." Dad's smile curved back up, and he slithered an arm around my shoulder. When I continued to stare up at him, nearing a breaking point on containing my exaltation, he must have noticed; my feet were forced up the slope of our front yard, skidding on the gravel before they could even think to mobilize on their own. Dad walked us back towards the house. "Wanna know what homecoming gift I've got for her?"

The door snapped open. It was old and wobbly with a tiny, fogged-up window, and it made a creaking noise when Dad jerked it from its lock. As the two of us disappeared into the house, I said, "Of course!"

Nothing more than a scene from a movie, the door slammed shut behind us and our words fell into dust, just like our extinct bodies.

I was happy for him. He'd missed out on so many years of his daughter's life, only getting the glimpses she and Renee allowed him. She'd leave for home one summer end with long-running pigtails and mischievous eyes; she'd come back a year later with her hair cropped short and a soft, nervous demeanor I wanted to know what she looked like now. She was such a gorgeous person from the few memories I had of her, inside and out. Dad never stopped his gushing and repenting, to me, to Billy, to Harry, to everyone. I was so, so overwhelmed with this desire to know her.

As a sister. As a best friend.

I hoped with all my might she'd welcome back a family she hardly knew, even if this entire trip was just an inconvenience for her. That her unhappiness at being swapped back and forth had evaporated, and she was excited to come here. She was the one who wanted to come in the first place, right? Surely it wasn't Renee's idea. If it was—

Stop the nonsense. She'll want to know you!

Time didn't change everything, right?

Dad's rambling was all white noise in my head, but I smiled and nodded my enthusiastic head alongside his words until I had whiplash, wolf-prints long gone from my thoughts.

Bella would want to know me. Know us.

January 17th, 2005
Madeline Swan's bedroom, kitchen

I WOKE UP on the day of her intended arrival thinking about mountains and how much I wanted to visit New Hampshire. Bella wasn't a priority, not in my muddled, semi-conscious mind. Only after I'd gotten up and dressed to go for a walk, ignoring Dad as he hummed and chittered to himself along the thin hallway walls, ignoring my six-in-the-morning fatigue, did her impending arrival even rise to the forefront of my priorities. I realized—she was coming home today. And while my father would be going to the airport to wait for her, I was expected to attend Forks High, holding my excitement at bay.

I couldn't hold it now.

"Dad!" I called, rushing down the stairs. Each step was fast and a blunder, none calculated, per se, as they were mindless. No response came from my father, even as I ventured into the kitchen. Upon seeing him buttering toast I felt less frantic. He's not gone. He's just… lost in thought. It took several seconds to calm my breathing. My heart was pounding against my ribcage like it was in a race against time. "Hey. Dad. Can I come with you to pick up Bella?"

There was a light I'd never seen on him, in him, and it only brightened when he looked at me. "Maddie, you have school," he said, but the way he said it was strange. Like he was delivering news that he'd won the lottery. "Bella'll still be here when you get back."

Aw, I thought, feeling like a blubbering child who was told she couldn't have the newest Baby Alive. I probably looked the part, too. "But..." I gnawed on my bottom lip. "What if you guys go out to eat or something? I don't have a key to the house."

"If we did that, you'd come too, kid," said Dad, his butter knife limp against his toast. It was probably cold by now.

The amount of incredulity in his tone made me feel embarrassed.

"Oh. Oh, okay." I nodded. And kept nodding. I nodded until it felt like my head was coming loose from its screws. "That's good."

Dad examined me from head to toe, his warm brown eyes coming to rest on my face. I had my hair pulled into a braid, face like Oil Central. I was wearing my warmest attire—a pair of too-big snow dungarees I'd gotten for Christmas one year and a triple layer of sweaters. My snow boots were crusted in muck and grit. There wasn't anything telling about me, not really, but it wouldn't take much brains to know where I was going. Not with a police officer for a father.

That very look on his face twisted, first a grimace than a smile, with humor crinkling at his eyes. "Again?" was all he said.

"I always take a hike before school."

"It's thirty-two degrees outside, Mads."

"So?"

Dad just shook his head. Arguing with me always turned out to be useless, much like speaking with a marble statue. "Alright, alright. Go on then. Are you coming back after your run or what?"

It was going to be more a walk than a run, considering the temperature and considering my choice in dresswear, but I didn't bother correcting something so irrelevant. A smile on my face, I pointedly looked back at my shoulders, where a backpack was nowhere to be seen. Not even the strap of a travel bag was visible. My only possession was my compass, which I had in my pants' pocket.

Dad caught the hint. "Coming back to get your school books?"

I nodded.

"Alright." Dad nodded back. It was a morning ritual, actually, something we had to do lest the universe's balance spiral out of control. "I'll leave the door unlocked. I would let you take my key for the day, but I can't leave it to you in good faith. What happened to your last one? Was is the toilet, or losing it down a ravine? I never could keep track. This last one was your tenth."

"My last, last one? My purse got stolen," I said grimly, thinking back on my collection of state landmark pins that decorated my jean crossbody. That purse had been my pride and joy, and having it stripped away from me by a thieving thief in fifth period left my heart irreparable. "That reminds me... I need a new purse."

There was an urgency here now, especially after I glanced over and saw the time. 6:20 AM. School was in less than two hours. Dad had to go and pick up Bella. I had to go take my walk. Meaningful tasks, but one was more important than the other—as evidenced by Dad's unusual enthusiasm. He was acting so different.

"Well, I'll see you later, kiddo," he said, ignoring my last comment. "With Bells."

I returned his smile. "Don't lock me out!" I joked, a little bit scared he'd do the exact opposite, but I left anyway. I walked out that door that always creaked and slammed, nerves fried but standing at attention, and shivered upon meeting a brisk, unwelcoming gust of wind. It's like Mother Nature was saying, Go away, human. Even the trees felt cold.

Before I left for my daily session with nature, I took one last glance back at the door. I thought about Bella, and how she'd be here—of all places—when I got home from school. I was so excited to see her again. Would she look any different? Last I saw, she was normal—or as normal as a teenage girl could be. She was quiet and reclusive. What was she now?

I was going to find out in less than ten hours.

January 17th, 2005
Forks High School - Cafeteria

I KNEW the school was going to be abuzz with the news of a newbie by tomorrow morning, but I was desperate to keep it under wraps. However, Dad was excited. When he got excited he liked to talk. By first period I'd already had three different people ask me about my sister. In a small town with a school that maxed out at four-hundred students, new people were rare. Especially a new person who was the Police Chief's biological daughter.

After an eventful first half of the day that consisted of dodging too-invasive questions and snoozing through a Shakespeare documentary, I thought I was in the clear. I'd made it through the lunch line and sat at my usual spot in the middle of the cafeteria, when it happened. Alone for all but two minutes, someone sat down. This person was joined by four others. Before I could jump up and leave, clean-cut cuticles appeared on my arm, the hand that accompanied them gripping tighter than necessary. Tighter than a father would his youngest daughter in a crowd.

I nervously looked up. It was Lauren.

Lauren was your average small-town beauty: she had eyes like green emeralds and hair the texture and color of corn-silk. Whenever she talked, her words were deliberate, careful, and sugary-sweet. Her voice had a nasal-like quality to it, and I found myself staring at her nostrils, waiting for her to cough. Was she sick? It was allergy season.

Why she was here, at my table, wasn't a question I even had to think about after how the early morning went. Lauren Mallory was no stranger to gossip. She must have heard about Bella, some way or another, from our tiny town's gossip gallery.

Lauren leaned in too close for comfort, where I could see every oxidized pore in microscopic detail, and said, "We heard your step-sister's coming to town, Madeline. This one's biological, right?"

The friends who'd accompanied her huddled close, curiously staring at me. When my eyes flickered around, I could name them all. There was Jessica, and Mike, and Eric, and Angela. Tyler wasn't with them, but I saw his head peaking around browsing bodies from a table over. Each one of them was fully attentive. They were interested in what I had to say, and it made me nervous. They made me nervous. I had never felt like I measured up to any of them. I was never the prettiest or the smartest or the funniest girl. I was just Madeline Swan, the introvert who spent more time on the neighboring reservation than her own home.

"She—" My voice came out like a croak; I cut myself off abruptly. I swallowed. "She's biological, yeah."

"What does she look like?" Lauren eyed my hair and face. I hadn't gotten the chance to do my make-up this morning so the sparse imperfections on my T-zone and cheeks were on full display. "Blonde, brunette? Blue eyes? Brown? Skinny, fat? Tall? Short?"

"Jee, Laur, sounds like you're interrogating her," Jessica said with a snort. But her eyes twinkled, a sign she wanted to hear my answers, too.

"So?" Lauren prompted.

Like anyone who wasn't very good in confrontation, I had three telltales for being nervous: chewing my lip, glancing around for a threshold to level my stare on, and saying stupid things I didn't think over before blurting out. Worst case scenario, all three would come into play. With Lauren Mallory at my table, it was difficult not to be a sweating, nerves-wracked mess. At her expectant stare, I stammered, "You—you'll see tomorrow."

Eric groaned—as did Mike. "Dude," said Eric, mirroring the table's collective disappointed stare. "Come on—what does she look like?"

"Human," I said—fast, too fast. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Lauren's hand disappeared from my arm. Before I could say some lousy apology, her head popped up in front of mine. While seemingly innocent in nature, her eyes cut deep, a threat hidden behind a smiling mouth. I'd never been at the mercy of her before, but with a new girl on the horizon, someone I knew better than any of our ignorant peers, she had to make sure she'd be no threat to the hierarchy set in place. High school was like the thunder dome, and Bella was an unclear opponent, with an ally on the perimeter. "Is she ugly?"

I don't like this. "No," I said. "She's not ugly."

"Is she pretty?" Lauren's lip curled.

"Uh… yes," I said hesitantly.

Eric nudged Mike in the stomach, grinning. His eyes were wide as lightbulbs when he looked over at me. "Pretty, huh?"

I grimaced. "Yes. Very pretty. But I, uh, have to go. I have—rehearsal." It wasn't a lie. I did have rehearsal. A rehearsal with the bathroom mirror for how to deal with further confrontations, since I was leaving this one in near-tears. Lauren was boy-crazy, Jessica was a follower, Angela was a coward, and the boys were eager for a lady unfamiliar with their antics to woo. I may have been nice by high school standards, but I wasn't stupid. None of them were my friends.

Would Bella be their friend?

Lauren and Jessica whispered to one another, eyes circling back to me every few seconds. I felt so uncomfortable that I could cry.

"See ya, Swan," called out Mike as I got up and hurried away. Him and Eric were laughing like hyenas, the sound following me through the too-loud, too-bright cafeteria. There was nothing funny about this situation.

Except me. Except how I handled bullying.

Only after I escaped the cafeteria did I realize I left my tray behind, as well as my dignity.

High school sucked.

January 17th, 2005
Forks High School - Public Restroom, Car Lot
The Swan House - Front Yard

GETTING HOME proved to be more of a hassle than it needed to be. I spent the entire last period after holding back tears through fifth and sixth period crying in the bathroom, bare face reaching a stage of blotchy that was far from fixable, and only when the bell rang did I snap out of my slump. I'd been here for an hour. I was all cried out by the thirty-minute mark. When the bathroom door slammed open and a group of chittering girls entered, I knew it was time that I cleaned myself up and made for home.

You're being childish, I thought, wiping my nose with a tissue I had in my bag. I was sitting cross-legged and fully-clothed on the toilet, staring at my dirty Chucks. A grown girl wouldn't cry. I let my emotions get the better of me. All because a group of popular kids made me feel like the dirt underneath their shoes. All because I hated my cowardice. I was passive, letting everyone else play kickball with my head.

Dad wouldn't be happy when he got notified of my absence in seventh period. Hopefully the school didn't notice.

Dad hated when I pulled these stunts because it usually meant I was in bad shape. He had Bella, though. Maybe that would lessen the blow, whenever and wherever it came.

Just get up. Stop moping.

I didn't remember getting up.

I left the bathroom, and left the school, and left the car lot. My feet took me places my mind wasn't ready to process and dissect.

Have you ever seen a snake after its head been chopped off—wriggling and twitching, all nerves and no sense? Mindless but body still alive? That's how I felt. I felt headless. And more than that, I felt like the sad, quiet child back in foster care, my uncombed hair the target for the quips of kids who didn't know any better. Was that what Lauren wanted? Did her and her friends say those things intentionally? Did they want to hurt me?

I was naïve to think anything different.

By the time I got home, I wasn't in perfect condition, but my face had cleared enough that it wouldn't be obvious I'd been crying. There weren't any tear-tracks, and my cheeks weren't swollen. My eyes were barely puffy with a dribble of snot the only evidence of my bathroom breakdown. It'd take a detective to sniff out my deception, from my crooked smile to the hopscotch-step gait. I was always good at playing characters.

Dad and Bella were out front when I got there. They weren't alone, evidenced by the tall, long-haired figure and his wheelchair-bound father standing by Bella's homecoming gift, a beat-up pickup truck.

I inched closer. Everyone's attention transferred to me.

"If it isn't Little Miss Maddie Swan," said Billy Black, Dad's dearest friend, with a warm smile. When I got close enough, he rolled a few feet over. I leaned down to embrace his middle. He gave warm, loving embraces—as did his son.

Billy lived on the reserve and was the Quileute Chief. He had an inviting aura with laugh lines all around his face and had been in a wheelchair for months after his fight with diabetes took a turn for the worse. I'd known Billy since Dad first adopted me. He was just as much of a constant as Dad was.

They hung out quite often. Outside of working himself to death at the station, Dad only had two activities he relished: going on fishing trips with Harry Clearwater, his and Billy's other friend, or inviting Billy over throughout the seasons to watch sports games. Football, basketball, baseball—as long as they had each other's company and a pack of beer in the fridge, the game itself didn't matter. They clinked beers and swapped stories, all the while rooting for whichever team they preferred. Usually different. Some friendly competition never hurt anyone, Dad always said.

Occasionally I'd join them, clueless but willing to participate if it meant coming out of my room. Most of the time, though, I'd just sit in my room and talk to Jacob or the pretty-eyed boy that completed our trio.

My eyes turned to the tall figure standing by Dad. Jacob, Billy's only son of three children, with black hair that went down to mid-waist and eyes dark like roasted peanuts. He was tall and lean, with a deep voice that made me feel like I was talking to a college junior instead of someone my age. Sixteen in mind and heart with mature, adult-grown physicality. He was a conundrum.

And he'd wanted my sister since we first made mud-pies, over eight years ago. That still applied. I saw it in the too-close proximity. I saw it in the star-eyed gaze. I saw it in the puppy-dog visage. He was still head over heels with the girl who never gave him more than a passing glance.

"Yo, Mads," said Jake, eyes practically beaming as he approached me. I traded one Black hug for another, this one carrying me up onto my toes. "Look what the cat dragged in."

I peered around his shoulder, where Dad was standing by the rust-red 1953 Chevy pickup he'd been gushing about for days. Beside him was… Bella? Oh gosh, she looked different. She was pale as a ghost, standing translucent under the skylight. Her brunet hair gave her an ethereal glow, eyes dark in contrast to her skin, and she was of a slender, petite build. The strangest thing about her was the dark, gothic-toned clothing. The lack of a smile, the annoyed aura. The way she looked like she hated everything and wanted to disappear.

There wasn't a single memory I had of her where she looked so sullen. But here she was, petulant—like she'd rather be in the Sahara Desert dying of thirst than here in Forks, Washington.

I stared at her, picking apart each unfamiliar detail, scrutinizing her until I was way past subtlety. This socially improper examination went on until I realized the glare she had on her face. Directed at me. Directed at Billy, Jake, and Dad. Directed at everyone and everything, as long as they were in the vicinity. Like a chip on her shoulder was slowly eating her away and our none-the-wiser gusto pissed her off.

She wants to know us, my mind chanted, desperate to think it as fact. I was desperate. More desperate than I'd ever been to have someone like me.

"Hi!" I waved, smiling

I didn't receive a wave or a smile back.

Bella's face grimaced, like she couldn't stand being here any longer. "I'm going to my room," she snapped.

"Bells, what's the matter? I—" Dad tried, face twisted like this wasn't the first snip he'd received today, reaching for her. Her anger had followed overhead like a cloud from the airport to her new home.

I knew next to nothing about this new Bella, but I did know enough to see she wouldn't accept coddling even if the rejection killed her.

Bella dodged his hand, glared at each of our speechless faces, and stomped towards the house. She had a fury to her walk, one that couldn't be faked. When she opened the door, she propelled herself inside, and the squeaky hinges screeched as the door slammed shut behind her.

I didn't know what to say. I assumed today couldn't get any worse, but I was sorely mistaken.

"Is she okay?" asked Jake, awkwardly.

Dad shook his head wordlessly. Billy rolled over to him, staring up with a frown, looking sorry and guilty all at once. When Billy placed a reassuring hand on Dad's arm, he didn't fight it; he leaned into it like Billy's comfort was the only thing keeping him standing. And he stared at me, with that same sad expression Billy bore, like he wanted to say all sorts of things but knew nothing about deliverance.

I had so many questions I wanted to ask. The one most gutting was the very one none of us could answer.

What's wrong with Bella?

January 17th, 2005
The Swan House - Outside Bella & Maddie's bedroom

I KNOCKED on the door three times. There came no answer, not once. I said her name. I asked what was wrong. I knocked again. I tried to be gentle, tried to put myself in her shoes.

Nothing but an unamicable, unbearable silence.

I stood outside for a while afterwards, staring at the door, thinking about Bella's hostility and wracking for reasons. Was she unhappy to be here? Was she depressed? Did her and Dad have a bad relationship? Did something happen with Renee before she hopped the plane to Seattle?

What could possibly have led to her looking like she did? Why hadn't she said anything to me? Why was I locked out of my own room?

You didn't do anything wrong, I reasoned. Unreasonably, illogically, I believed the opposite.

After an hour of looking and feeling stupid, I heard someone walk up the stairs. Dad's solemn figure appeared seconds later. He'd begun his trek down the hallway. He was dressed in a pair of plaid lounge pants and a black T-shirt, his messy black hair a mop atop his head. Obviously ready for bed. When he saw me, he came to a full stop, face falling into a pinched look of despair.

"Still no luck?" he asked.

I shook my head miserably.

"She'll come around, Mads," Dad said quietly, reaching out a hand to squeeze my shoulder, but it was obvious from his tone he was trying to assert hope for himself, not me. I had to remind myself he was hurting too. He didn't know how to help her. He thought he was her problem. He knew she didn't want to be here. All assessments we shared—burdens like dumbbell-weighted shoulder-pads.

That light I'd seen in him just this morning had diminished completely. The darkness that itched and scratched at him now, turning him navy blue like the evening moon painted the heavens every night, had shattered him completely, reverse-cycling him back into the fragilely-healing father I first knew him as. He'd slowly been picking up the pieces left in his ex-wife and estranged daughter's wake. I was here doing my damnedest to help. Bella's aggressive attitude brought the two of us back to square one.

I glanced at the door, lowering both my head and voice: "Are you okay?" I asked him.

Dad's face fell. Sure, he'd already looked stricken, but my words broke the thinly-crafted front of being OK he put up for my sake. "I just want her to be happy here," he said. "It's hard when she's only here because she has to be."

I'd suspected since I first saw her disgruntled glare, but having it confirmed hurt deeply. I swallowed hard and said, "I do too, Dad. I don't know how to help her."

More troubling was how we'd get her to accept help.

Dad stared at me, eyes broken, looking like he wanted to attempt drawing knuckles on the door too, before he sluggishly walked to his room. The door closed softly behind him as he locked himself up for the night.

I followed his example, but not without one last glance at my bedroom door, second (or third—maybe fourth) thoughts about the rage-filled girl behind it running through my mind.

I slept on the couch that night. Or attempted to, at least. I stared up at the ceiling and thought about Bella, whose voice I'd heard one full sentence from before she shut us out completely. A hateful sentence. An I-don't-want-to-be-here sentence. I had been excited to come home, thinking the words from Lauren were nothing compared to what Bella and I would get to talk about. I was happy, excited, in thinking I'd finally have a friend, someone to sit with at lunch every day and gush about my boyfriend to.

All until I got here to realize: Bella wasn't the same girl I remembered from three summers ago.

She wasn't shy and quiet or happy and mischievous. She wanted to be home in Arizona, not here in cold, dreary Forks. She didn't know us. She didn't want to know us. Or Forks, her temporary home. What little hope I had dwindled, and it came to me that I foolishly assumed time wouldn't change her. But it did change her. She wanted nothing to do with what her alienated family had to offer her, rejecting us with no hesitation.

We could hang the moon for her, and it still wouldn't matter.

In all the swirling thoughts that accompanied Bella's hostile homecoming, I think that's what hurt the most.