Chapter 5 - The Father

Bella

On Monday, everyone at school said Edward Cullen had a nervous breakdown during his sixth period Chemistry class. When he didn't show up to school on Tuesday, they whispered that his parents had sent him to Western State Hospital (the psychiatric facility near Tacoma) for treatment.

So it comes as somewhat of a surprise on Wednesday morning when I find him sitting in the back of my first period class - like nothing out of the ordinary had happened just two days prior. He wears a jean jacket with a popped collar, looking cooler than he should considering he's surrounded by the drab interior of a high school English classroom.

As I take a seat several rows ahead of him, I can't help but compare this Edward Cullen to the one I saw on Monday afternoon. I had been watching a storm roll into town when I heard Ms. Saffle call Edward's name out loud. My interest in the storm vanished in an eye blink. I immediately snapped my head around to see if my ears had played a trick on me. They hadn't.

Edward Cullen was in fact my new classmate.

I found him standing stock-still in the middle of the room, his posture perfectly straight. But, oddly enough, the very first thing I noticed were his eyes. They were a warm yellow gold, like lit candle wicks. Before I could fully appreciate the beauty of the shade, his black onyx pupils began widening. Soon they enlarged to such an extent that his gold irises were banished to just a thin ring around the outer edge. It was like looking at the sun during a solar eclipse.

And, for approximately one second, I could have sworn those flaming black eyes of his were doing the unthinkable - watching me.

Much later I realized how dumb it was for me to think that way. I'm Bella Swan. No boy at Forks High (especially one who belongs on the cover of a Sears catalog) would ever bother giving me a second look unless I was dying. He had to have been staring at something else.

But what happened next I still can't explain. Edward had been standing there like a frozen frame on a video tape, his expression tense and dark. A moment later, he was dropping his books to the floor like they had scalded his fingers. Then, he jetted out of the door without even giving a backwards glance to the teacher.

The room instantly exploded around me as people came up with theories on what could have triggered his sudden exit. By the end of the day, the entire school buzzed with the story of how Edward Cullen lost it during Chemistry class.

Of course, the stories being passed around weren't entirely true. Edward didn't throw a tantrum, like I heard one person claim. Edward also didn't burst out crying, scream out random swear words, or dramatically notify the teacher that he no longer wanted to live. It's sad how easily people ate up those lies. In reality, all Edward really did that fateful day was turn his back on our teacher and leave the school campus without permission. That doesn't sound so bad. Heck, sometimes I wish I had the guts to do that, too.

Unfortunately, most people around Forks aren't interested in the facts. Why bother with them when it's more fun to jazz things up with a few made up details? Some say Edward had some sort of adverse reaction to his medication and that's why he acted so weird that day. A boy in my Calculus class came up with the additional theory that the medicine is for suppressing Edward's urge to set buildings on fire. People liked that idea so much that now everyone assumes it's the truth. As for myself, I don't know what to believe anymore.

There's only one bright side to this whole situation. Despite Edward's new reputation as the school's resident pyromaniac and nut job, he remains much more popular than me.

Go figure.

Today I peek over my shoulder and find Edward with his hands clasped tightly together on top of his desk. His face points straight ahead at the chalk board even though the teacher isn't here yet. When a couple of girls stop by to say hello to him, he gives a quick nod of acknowledgement but doesn't actually look at them. They must see his reaction as a positive sign, though. The girls begin flirting and trying to chat up Edward like he's Mr. Quarterback. He remains stone-faced and unreachable the entire time, never uttering a sound. It takes approximately two minutes for the girls to accept he isn't going to talk. Eventually, they abandon their efforts and take to their seats behind me. In loud whispers, I hear them complain about how much of a bummer it is that Edward's psychological disorder makes him so moody.

Minutes later, Mr. Brown shuffles into class. He's wrinkled like a prune, almost as short as I am, and rarely shows happiness unless he's assigning someone extra homework. Also, he's arguably the school's strictest teacher. Even though the bell hasn't rung yet, the few students who are still up and talking with their friends immediately scramble to their seats to take cover.

"Textbooks out," the teacher orders as he sets his briefcase beside his desk. "Page 238. We're reading 'A Rose For Emily' today."

For roughly twenty minutes, we quietly read the short story to ourselves. Then it's what everyone but me in the room dreads - question and answer time. This is how it usually goes. Mr. Brown asks a question about the book or short story we just read, the student he calls upon answers the question wrong, and then the teacher turns to someone else to give the correct response - usually me. Volunteering in a library every Saturday for the past four years and possessing absolutely no life outside of the house has given me the advantage of knowing a ton about classic literature. So even if I didn't have Swan as my last name, I probably would have ended up as the outcast at school anyway. Being the teacher's pet and class know-it-all doesn't exactly add anything beneficial to your social resumé.

A couple of questions into the discussion, Mr. Brown spots an unconscious David Bernard snoring away at the back of the class. The boy's head is tilted at an angle while a river of saliva leaks from the corner of his mouth. Mr. Brown leaves the comfort of his chair, marches up to David, and slaps shut the boy's opened textbook. The sound jars David awake. His glazed over eyes gradually focus on Mr. Brown's frowning face. David goes from dazed to terrified in less than two seconds.

"As I was saying, David," the teacher grunts down at him, "the death of Miss Emily Grierson's father left her penniless and alone. All she had left to her name was the decaying ruins of her family's mansion. What did the narrator mean when he said of the townspeople, 'At last they could pity Miss Emily,'?"

David sits there just as lost and confused as when he first woke up. "Uh...I t-think it's open to interpretation," he stutters.

"Then provide me with your interpretation, Mr. Bernard," the teacher fires back impatiently.

David slumps down into his seat. "I don't have one."

Mr. Brown puts his hands behind his back and nods his head. "Perhaps you will come to understand the question better once you've written your two page report on the story. I expect it to be on my desk by tomorrow morning." He turns away from David's pouting face and scans the room for his next victim. A wooden smile appears on his face. "Mr. Cullen. Why don't you try answering this one, please."

The entire class cranes their necks around to look at Edward. He's staring down at his textbook, not moving a muscle. "I believe the narrator was hinting at the townspeople's insincerity," Edward begins quietly, lips barely moving. My jaw flops open like a moron at the silky smooth voice that just came out of his mouth. It's warm and seductive, as though he gargled with honey and rose petals before school today. Teenage boys aren't supposed to sound like that.

"The townspeople did not truly pity Miss Emily," he continues. "Years of jealousy over her great wealth had them rejoicing in her downfall. However, saying that you have found joy in someone else's misfortune isn't socially acceptable. The townspeople covered up their satisfaction by claiming they 'pitied' poor Miss Emily." Edward lifts his head and glances around at some of the occupants of the room, his expression hardening into a slight scowl. Finally, his steady gaze centers on the teacher. "They often feign their sympathy to your face, yet gossip mercilessly about you behind your back. It's a flaw in human character which often occurs in small towns."

Mr. Brown stands stunned, eyes unblinking. His wiry brows are the first to recover, wiggling like worms on his forehead. "Ah. Uh, yes. Very good, Edward." He gruffly clears his throat and tries to stand taller. "That was a... fascinating way to put things. Thank you." Turning his back from Edward's piercing eyes, Mr. Brown fires off another barrage of questions at a girl who has only about ten brain cells left to her name.

When the bell rings at the end of the hour, Edward is the first one out the door. I don't see him again until the clock strikes noon. Upon entering the cafeteria, I see him sitting by himself at the same table that he claimed on Monday. A string of people wander up to him during the lunch period, but he repeatedly rejects their company. He shoots each person a frosty glare within moments of them opening their mouths to talk. Most of them make a quick getaway after that, allowing him to go back to what he had been doing prior to their appearance - which is staring listlessly down at his lunch tray and playing with his food.

Chemistry class is much different than it was on Monday. Edward is as cool as a cucumber this time around. As soon as he walks through the door, Ms. Saffle springs up to assist him. She asks in at least five different ways if he's feeling all right today. Edward answers her using only head nods and vague grunts. Once she's satisfied that he isn't going to have another breakdown, she allows him to find an empty desk in the back corner of the room. And, just like he did at the end of English class, he's gone as soon as the bell sounds.

Seventh period Calculus comes and goes. I grab my book bag and head out the exit door, relieved to finally be free from school for the rest of the day. A steady stream of students pour outside with me, but a traffic jam on the path leading to the parking lot slows us down to a crawl. People are pointing their fingers towards the street and talking quietly amongst themselves. Curious, I stand on the tips of my toes to look over their heads. My heart sinks at what I see.

A familiar box-shaped police cruiser is pulling into the student parking lot.

The fact that Chief Charles Swan decided to show up at the high school today isn't happy news. Ordinarily when he comes here, it's with the intention of flexing his police muscle and to remind the teenagers in town who's boss. So, me being seen in close proximity to him right now wouldn't be a good idea. It would only result in advertising my relationship with him and helping everyone remember why they all need to hate me right along with him. While everyone is distracted, I duck down and try to sneak out of the crowd before anyone can spot me. A few feet away, I come across a large, flower-less hydrangea bush. I jump in without hesitation. It's green, leafy, and a perfect place for me to hide until my living nightmare is over.

Meanwhile, my dad parks and steps out of the driver's side of his patrol car. He's decked out in all the typical law enforcement garb. His uniform is clean and pressed to perfection. A metal police officer's badge displayed proudly on his chest shines like a beacon, drawing everyone's eye. But, the drooping mustache frown he always wears has him looking more like Yosemite Sam than Wyatt Earp. Sadly, the grumpy cartoon character matches his personality a little too well.

Charles acknowledges no one as he marches up to a sleek, black vehicle parked two spaces away from the patrol car. He circles the vehicle twice while he studies it. Seventy percent of the students who happen to be outside take the opportunity to hop into their own vehicles and escape the campus before Chief Swan can try to single them out for misbehavior. The rest are too scared to flee, as though they think moving even an inch will put them on the Chief's radar. While I secretly watch my dad examine the black car from the safety of my hiding place, my forehead scrunches together in wonder. I've never seen a car like this at school before. It's aerodynamic, sporty, and features a Jaguar emblem on the back. It's beautiful. There's no rust stains, scratches, or dents anywhere. The vehicle is obviously new and very expensive. What teenager at Forks High would be able to afford that thing?

Then, stepping out from the small crowd of bystanders, comes my answer.

Edward Cullen.

He strolls across the parking lot, one hand in his pocket while in his other arm he carries a couple of books and a Trapper Keeper. Soon, Edward comes face to face with the policeman who has taken up position in front of the black car's door.

"Name, please," my dad barks without introduction.

"Edward Cullen."

"Cullen? So, you must be a part of that new family that moved to town."

"That is correct. And you are?"

"Chief Swan." My dad jerks his thumb at the Jaguar. "This your car?"

"Yes, it is."

"Hmm. That's very interesting, because I received a report this morning about a vehicle blaring music as it was entering the school grounds. Your car is the only one here which matches the description."

He stops speaking and waits for the boy to give a response. Edward chooses not to say a word.

Charles nods knowingly and purses his lips. "I'm gonna have to ask you to allow me to search the vehicle," he demands.

Edward stares back silently for a few moments. "Why?"

Charles folds his arms over his chest and straightens his posture further. "Because, based upon what I've seen and heard today, I suspect a crime has been committed. You can either allow me to search it right now, or we can waste time in waiting around for the search warrant to be issued. But it'll happen eventually. I guarantee it. Judge Vance is always so helpful when it comes to upholding the law. So, I'm fine with either option you choose to go with. I've got all day."

Edward's jaw tenses for a fraction of a second. Then he strides forward and unlocks the car door. Once it swings open, he catches Charles' eye again. "Search it...if you must," he replies, almost arrogantly.

Charles slides into the car and goes immediately to work. He looks through the glove compartment, under the front seats, and on the dashboard. His hands are full when he exits the car again minutes later.

"Just as I thought," he announces. "There was a cassette still in your car's tape deck, plus seven more stashed in the glove compartment. Don't you know it's illegal for a person your age to have cassette tapes in this town?"

Not waiting for a response, Charles walks towards the patrol car. Edward follows and watches the police chief dump his stash of cassettes into the passenger seat. "Says who?" asks Edward.

Charles swivels back around and closes the patrol car door behind him. A cocky smirk ghosts across his lips. "Me, the city council, and Ordinance 30-4, that's who. Minors 21 years of age and under are prohibited from possessing any musical device, including but not limited to: cassette tapes, records, 8-tracks, and/or musical instruments. Breaking the law results in the confiscation of the contraband and a twenty-five dollar fine for each offense. And seeing as how some of these cassettes look to be filled with rock music, that means you've earned another fine for playing a genre known for its harmful influence upon our young people. That's an additional one hundred dollars. So...what do you have to say for yourself?"

The bronze-haired boy listens to the charges with an empty expression, his two inch height advantage giving the impression that he's looking down his nose at my father.

"Is that all?" Edward exhales, his tone steeped with boredom.

For the second time today, Edward Cullen has made my jaw drop. He didn't try to come up with some lame excuse to explain away his guilt. He didn't beg for mercy either, like what most of us teenagers in Forks would do in this situation. Instead, he's acting like paying off around three hundred dollars worth of fines is no big deal!

Who is this guy?

Charles' superior smirk drops away from his face. Anger visibly broils underneath his skin. For a split second, I expect my dad's head will explode and rocket off into outer space. Whipping out his citation pad, he quickly scribbles out several tickets and rips them out. He takes a step forward, slaps the slips of paper into Edward's outstretched hand, and curls his mustachioed lip into a snarl. "That's all for today," he snaps back. "But you should be aware that we take the law seriously around here. Just because you're new in town doesn't mean you'll get special treatment. I'll be sure to keep my eye on you from now on."

"How very kind of you," Edward deadpans. He leans his face slightly to the side, one brow arching. "Am I free to leave now?"

Charles remains calm enough to give a blunt head nod in response to the question. With nothing else left to say, Edward saunters casually over to his black car and drives away. My dad does the same - except he stomps up to his patrol car, slams the door, and zooms out of the parking lot so aggressively that you'd think there was a robbery in progress down at the diner.

As for myself, I remain well hidden in the bushes until the coast is clear. Several students who stayed to watch what happened are left scratching their heads as they leave the student parking area. A couple of them sound excited. Everyone else voices the concern that the new guy's blasé attitude might piss off Chief Swan to such an extent that he'll be forced into action, resulting in even more strict laws to further our misery.

Oh well. At least we got some good entertainment first.

I unlock my bike and pedal away from school. A part of me wants to go to my meadow to relax and read for a little while. It sounds perfect, especially since it isn't raining. But, I can't today because we're running low on a few essential items at the house. A trip to the supermarket is unavoidable. Before I head over to the store, I drop off my school books at home, take some cash out of the household expense jar hiding under the kitchen sink, and lastly, grab my coupon organizer so we can save a few bucks. Then I'm back on my bike.

The Thriftway has several cars scattered in the parking area today. That's a lot when you consider this town only has around three thousand citizens to its name. I lean my bike near the door, pick a shopping cart at random, and weave my way down the aisles. I'm walking along - searching for a particular brand of peanut butter I have a 25 cent coupon for - when I suddenly hear a metallic bang loud enough to wake the dead. At the same time, my cart shudders violently in my hands. To my horror, I discover that the front of my shopping cart has rear-ended someone's rear end.

Holy crap. I hit someone!

"I am so sorry!" I screech, my face piping hot from embarrassment. "I wasn't paying attention to where I was going and-"

The words die in my throat as soon as the person I crashed into twirls around. She wears white slacks, a lemon-yellow silk blouse, and a pair of large pearl stud earrings. The outfit looks like something you'd see on Dynasty instead of a grocery store in Forks, Washington. But all I can really see is her lily-white face, bright amber eyes, and a dimpled smile that could melt the polar ice caps.

"It's all right. No harm done," the beautiful woman consoles, sounding eerily like Snow White in the midst of singing "Whistle While You Work". I double check to make sure there are no song birds perched on her shoulder pads. There's none at the moment.

The woman sticks her Isotoner-gloved hand out towards me. "Hello. I'm Esme."

Placing my trusty coupon organizer in my cart, I give her hand a quick shake. "Bella."

"Oh my! That is a lovely name. You don't hear of Bella very often." Esme pauses a moment as she looks me up and down. "Pardon my curiosity, but you look so young. Do you by any chance still go to school?"

"Yeah. I go to Forks High."

Esme's pale face seems to brighten under the florescent lights of the store. "You might be familiar with my son then. Edward Cullen? He's a new student there."

The obvious gives me a giant slap in the face. Good looks and unusual yellow-gold eyes? Haven't I noticed those traits somewhere before? Of course the most jaw-droppingly handsome boy I've ever seen is the adopted son of the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Why didn't I put two and two together sooner? They're probably even related somehow. Like, aunt and nephew maybe. It makes sense.

"C-cullen?" I stutter, suddenly more nervous than before. After all, my dad just targeted her son for the crime of possessing a few cassette tapes. I doubt she'd be thrilled to hear she's fraternizing with that man's daughter.

"Yes. Edward's a junior this year. Have you met him yet? Let's see. He has reddish brown hair, he's tall for his age..." Esme squints as she adds an additional piece of information. "And he's quiet. People often make him - umm...a little shy?"

She believes that she needs to describe Edward in order for me to know who she's talking about? Ha! Little does she know that he has been the only thing our school has talked about for the past three days.

I swallow the built-up saliva blocking my airway and try nodding as casually as I can. "Oh. Yeah. I-I've seen him. And I think I have a couple of classes with him now that you mention it."

Esme's smile grows by fifty percent. "Is that so? Which ones?"

"AP English and Chemistry."

Esme lifts both of her manicured eyebrows. "You take advanced classes? You must be an excellent student then."

My shoulders give a weak shrug. "I try."

Humor sparkles for a moment in her eyes. "That sounds like something Edward would say." She glances down into my cart. "And I see you must be independent, too. I don't recall ever meeting a teenager grocery shopping by themselves before."

Wow. Esme sure is friendly. She's practically a chatterbox in comparison to her son.

My nose wrinkles at my cart. "Eh. I don't shop because I want to do it. I do it because it's my job. It's usually up to me to keep the kitchen stocked since I'm there most of the time anyway. We try to divide the work load at my house."

"That's still an important chore for you to take on all by yourself," Esme replies. "Grocery shopping is a dying art, you know. So often you see it fall only to the mother of the household. And that's a travesty. Her children grow up having never learned how to shop on their own, or even how to budget properly. You have an advantage over other young people seeing as how you already know how to do those things... Do both of your parents work?"

A tiny pang in my heart makes its presence known. I try to suppress it before Esme notices. By instinct, I slide on my mask of indifference to hide my feelings. "No. Uh. My mom... she's...um...dead."

Esme's gloved hand covers her mouth, golden eyes round with emotion. "Oh no. How terrible. I'm sorry to have brought it up."

"It's all right. She's been gone a long time." But it still hurts - almost as much as it did when I was seven. Some things never change.

"Well... I'm sure she would be proud to see how responsible you've become," Esme replies gently.

"I hope so," I mutter.

"I know so," Esme insists. "We mothers often think alike." She lifts her wrist and glances at her white gold Rolex. Her face grimaces. "Oh, look at the time. I'd better get going and finish my shopping if I want to get dinner on the table soon." She pauses a moment, her red lips moving as if they want to add something else. Instead, she gives a quick shake of her head and sighs. "It was so nice to have met you, Bella. You're the first person I've spoken with since we moved here."

And you're the first person I've spoken to that could be mistaken for Miss America 1985.

"Thanks. It was nice meeting you, too," I say instead.

A sly smile gradually slides up her face. "And I'm looking forward to us running into each other again some time soon."

Huh. Esme is a beauty queen AND a comedian.

The heavy mood around me immediately lifts. My face splits into a matching grin. "Yeah. But I think next time it should be your turn to hit me with the cart. It's only fair."

A soft laugh bubbles from her throat. "We'll have to see about that when the time comes," she jokes. Esme grabs her shopping cart and glances over her shoulder at me. "Goodbye, Bella," she calls out, her fingers fluttering in a quick wave.

I lift my hand for a moment in return. "Bye."

My eyes follow her as she saunters down the grocery aisle. She begins humming to herself, the melody sounding abnormally sweet in this music-deprived town. I find myself pushing my cart behind her just so I can listen. I notice that her shopping technique is a little unusual, though. Without breaking her stride, her hands scoop up jars and cans from the shelves. She doesn't stop to compare prices. She doesn't check the labels. She doesn't even make sure the cans are undented. It's like she doesn't care what she's buying and she just throws in whatever her hands happen to come across.

Canned fruit.

A box of crackers.

Spam.

Pickled pig's feet?

My forehead wrinkles at that particular product. Today I saw Edward Cullen turn up his nose at the slice of pepperoni pizza on his lunch tray. He didn't even touch it. Yet, at home he possibly eats something that floats around in a jar of murky vinegar water? I know cafeteria food isn't the greatest...but still. Pizza vs feet. It isn't a tough choice.

I notice Esme shops faster than I do, too. While I am periodically forced to check my shopping list and search for certain products on the shelves, she zooms down the aisles like a race car driver. Her cart fills up within a handful of minutes. By the time I make it to the checkout line, I find that Esme finished her shopping long before and has already left the premises.

I tote my paper sacks of groceries outside and cram as much as I can into my bike's front basket. The rest I stuff inside my empty book bag. I pedal through town until I reach a long, winding road. It features lush trees, flowering shrubs, and not much else. Years ago, some developer envisioned cutting down the forest in this area of town and building a huge subdivision. That never materialized. There are exactly two houses on this lonely street, both originally built as the subdivision's model homes. One is the Swan residence. Across the street is the house of our neighbor, Mr. Castleberry.

And that's the first and only person I see as I pedal towards home. Mr. Castleberry is crouched on his knees and hunched over his beloved flowerbed. Pulled weeds lay scattered around his ankles. I notice the hedges are cut too, a few of the leaves stuck in his gray hair. His hobbies include gardening, reading the comics section of the newspaper, and talking about how much rain we got yesterday. Exciting stuff for a retiree in Forks.

He carefully rises up from the grass and spots me nearby. His mouth breaks into a denture-smile. I slow down and stop in the street, my feet sprawled on both sides of my bike to maintain my balance.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Castleberry," I say politely. "I can tell you've been working hard. Your front yard looks great. Maybe my dad should ask you for advice on what to do about sprucing up the flowerbeds at our place."

Mr. Castleberry's head cocks to the side, confusion clouding his happy face. "What?"

I'm only twenty feet away from him and he can't hear a thing. When is this man finally going to admit he needs to wear his hearing aid?

I sweep my arm all around as I yell louder. "I said the yard's looking GREAT!"

He takes a good look at his surroundings. Awareness slowly dawns. "Ah. Yes. You're right. I didn't realize it's getting so late. Better put up the lawn mower before dark. Thanks for telling me, sweetheart. My eyes aren't as good as they once were."

I let the misunderstanding go with a sigh. "You're welcome."

My house is quiet when I unlock the front door. I flick on the lights in order to bring some life into it. The groceries are put away in their proper place in the kitchen. Afterwards, I stop to check on how much time I have left before my dad will show up for dinner. Approximately thirty-five minutes. I decide to forego making a home cooked meal and go with something easy instead. Hungry-Man frozen dinners. They're bland, boring, and (even if you follow the directions to warm them up) some of the food remains stubbornly ice cold. Just like Charles Swan. It's a very symbolic meal when you think about it.

The oven timer dings seconds after my father walks into the house. He follows his normal routine after coming home from a hard day's work. His gun belt gets hung on a hook near the door first. Next, he trades his uniform shirt for an old flannel. The last thing he does is walk to the kitchen and take a seat at the table.

Then it's time for the hardest task of all.

Acknowledging that I exist.

"Isabella," he greets by way of a simple head nod. Before Mom died, both of my parents called me Bella. She came up with the shortened version of my name a few days after I was born. Now that she's gone, I'm known as Isabella around this house. Charles Swan remains the only person in Forks who calls me by the formal name printed on my birth certificate.

"Hi, Dad," I reply back. As I say this, he decides to make eye contact with his daughter - for three whole seconds. He must be feeling sentimental tonight.

With that mushy display of affection out of the way, my father lowers his head and digs into his dinner. The only sounds in the room are the scraping of our forks against the aluminum TV dinner trays and occasional chewing sounds.

I begin stirring the mashed potatoes in front of me and allow my mind to wander. I've been thinking a lot about something lately, but I remain undecided on what I should do.

The dance.

It's early March right now. Depending on if Todd is still willing to take me or not, I have until May to figure out how I am going to sneak out of the house, meet my date, go to the dance, and get back home without Charles finding out about any of it. I'm pretty sure I can get out of the house just fine, but I'm not as confident about pulling the rest off without a hitch. As the town police chief, my father has some sort of sixth sense when it comes to tracking down people who have broken the law. If he were to discover the existence of a chaperone-less, dance party nearby, he would bring the hammer down on the entire town. And I would be no exception.

Then there's the matter of what I'm going to wear that night. I don't have much to choose from in my closet except sweaters, shirts, and pants. I need a decent dress. Badly. Forks doesn't offer much when it comes to places to buy clothing. Port Angeles is where you'll find department stores and a few boutiques.

I have to get there somehow.

My only transportation is a bicycle - one that would probably fall apart if I were to try to pedal the fifty-five miles to and from Port Angeles. And I can't hop into a car and drive there myself since I have no driver's license. Thanks to my father's adamant refusal to allow me to take the test, I'm stuck with my bike for now. I would ask Ms. Linda to take me but she has problems of her own. Her car died a couple of weeks ago and she's having to carpool to the library for the time being. So, I am in desperate need of a ride. Unfortunately, almost all of my options are limited to the whims of the man currently sitting across the table from me.

I glance up from my crappy meal to gauge my father's present mood. He's reading the newspaper while shoveling in his dinner, like he's afraid someone's going to take it away from him if he slows down. At least he isn't grumbling to himself tonight, nor is he scowling at everything in sight. This is about as pleasant as he gets.

It's now or never.

I try to gulp away my nervousness before I chicken out. "Um...Dad?"

Charles stops mid-chew and looks up from his newspaper, vague surprise showing on his face. We rarely talk during dinner. Heck, we rarely talk period. "Hmm?" he grunts.

"Will you be going to Port Angeles anytime soon?"

He quickly swallows down his food and nods his head. "Uh-huh. The Clallam County Law Enforcement Conference will be held there at the end of June. I'm a speaker this year."

That conference is more than three months away. His definition of "soon" must be a lot different from mine.

"Oh," I say softly, trying my best to conceal my disappointment.

He spears a couple of green beans with his dinner fork but doesn't eat them yet. "Why did you want to know?"

A glimmer of hope has me sitting up straighter in my chair. He's asking a follow-up question, something he rarely does with me. Maybe this isn't a lost cause after all.

"Well... it's getting warmer now that spring has arrived, and I need new clothes. I was thinking about going to Port Angeles to buy some things. A few short-sleeve shirts. A couple of pairs of lightweight pants. You know, things like that." Plus a dress for a super secret dance that you can't know about, I think to myself.

He shakes his head dismissively. "No need to go all the way to Port Angeles for that. Just go to Frannie's. They'd appreciate the business."

I cringe on the inside. Frannie's is the tiny clothes store in downtown Forks which caters to women fifty years of age and older. It isn't quite what I had in mind. Ms. Linda is just a few years shy of that age and even she avoids the place. I trust her fashion judgement.

"But I don't think they carry much in my size," I offer as an excuse.

"I doubt that," he replies. "Mrs. Duncan is about the same height and weight as you, and I know for a fact that she shops at Frannie's all the time."

Yeah. He's right. But Mrs. Duncan is also the seventy-four year old organist for the Forks Episcopal Church. Of course she doesn't mind shopping at a store which still carries pillbox hats and dresses that don't fall above the kneecap.

I release a heavy sigh. It's useless. I should have known Charles Swan wouldn't understand my needs.

In spite of my frustration, I give a wan smile in return. "Never mind, Dad. Frannie's just isn't my kind of store, I guess. I'll just try to catch a ride to Port Angeles soon and get what I need while I'm there." There's a girl in my History class who hasn't outwardly expressed any hatred towards me yet. She also has a car. If I slip her twenty dollars plus cover the gas expense, there's a small chance she might be willing to drive me to Port Angeles. Money works wonders sometimes...

Charles' fisted-hand slams down on the dinner table, rattling the silverware. "Absolutely not," he barks out, stern eyebrows sewn together. "You are not traveling on that highway without me - and you're especially not getting into a car with some reckless teenager behind the wheel."

"But-"

"No buts," he breaks in. "You know how I feel about teenage drivers. If you need clothes, go to Frannie's. End of discussion." He picks his discarded fork back up from the table but pauses before eating. His accusing stare drills through me, numbing my insides. "And I'd better not hear that you disobeyed me, Isabella. Remember, I know a lot of people around here. If someone sees you traipsing off to Port Angeles, I'll be sure to find out about it. Do you understand me?"

My gaze drops to the aluminum TV dinner tray in front of myself. "Yes," I whisper.

"Good. Now, pass me the ketchup, please."

Without looking, I slide the glass bottle across the table. Then I resume what I had been doing earlier - eating a tasteless meal with my father and wondering what I should do next.

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A/N- Isn't Chief Swan just a ray of sunshine in this story? Sigh...

As a fun side note, did you know microwaveable TV dinners didn't become available until 1986? I could have sworn they came out earlier than that, but Google told me that I remembered wrong. Instead of the plastic trays of today, the dinners came in metal trays. It took anywhere from thirty to forty-five minutes to cook the average frozen dinner in the oven. How did we survive? XD

Next Chapter- We get to witness some of the above events through Edward's perspective (while also peering into the minds of the people around him, of course). And, Edward decides to take a break for once and go someplace quiet to listen to some rad '80s music. He ends up getting a surprise instead.

Thanks for reading! :-)