Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight

Chapter 3 - Old Soul

My second day at school is much easier. I bump into familiar faces in every class and Mike and Jessica sit with me. At lunch, I head to the cafeteria with trepidation. I wonder if the Cullen girl is still mad at me, or simply crazy. Jessica tries to distract me with descriptions of epic shopping trips that seem to impress Mike a lot more than I would expect. Jeff joins us in the queue, but I can't help looking at the corner table. Today only four people sit around it. Lynn is nowhere to be seen.

I head to our table, Eric and Angela already waiting for us, with a mixture of relief and disappointment. I'm glad she definitely won't be glaring at me the whole time and I might even be able to focus on what the teacher has to say. On the other hand, I was hoping to at least ask her why she seemed so upset yesterday. The other four nibble on their food and do a good job of ignoring everybody around them. Only Alice, the small girl with a perky hairdo, has a quick look in my table's direction. I decide not to pay attention to them.

Jessica introduces me to more of her friends, and Angela, warming up to me, asks me about the English report I started working on in the morning. Jeff waves to a few buddies on the team and points to me. Here's our new recruit he says. Most of them seem uncertain about how to react. If I'm any good I might make the team better, but that also means I might replace one of them in the starting lineup. Still, everybody seems friendly. After just one day, I feel a lot more relaxed than I expected to be. Forks' small town vibe is making me feel at ease.

In French, as expected I sit by myself. The Cullen girl is still AWOL. After concluding that she's a puzzle I'll probably never solve, I concentrate on French grammar. In history I chat with a colored kid called Tyler. He's also on the soccer team and we head to practice together. He shows me where the dressing rooms are and helps me get a locker. After we change into our gear, loose sweat pants, a t-shirt and of course soccer boots, we head out. The soccer field is between a cluster of low, grassy hillocks and a dense Douglas Firs stand. Some boys are already on the pitch, stretching or trotting about to warm up. The lid of clouds capping the sky has darkened considerably throughout the day, but no rain so far.

Coach Johnson, a wiry man in his fifties, white hair shaved closed to his scalp, waves me over. We chat a bit about my position; in Phoenix I mostly played as a right back but occasionally I was deployed as an inverted winger, on the left, or as a second striker. He tells me about the team's formation and, once all the players have gathered in front of him, we start with some jogging and sprinting drills before balls are introduced and we play a few games meant to improve ball control and one-touch passes or shots. We wrap up the practice with a scrimmage, and I end up on the same team, in red vests, as Jeff, the main striker, and Eric, the left winger. We win comfortably, but I'm stuck playing defense, neutralizing the winger up against me. The contest is not a close one, and I guess the coach gave me a chance to play with the starters. In the dressing room Tyler and Jeff compliment my performance and a few other players come forward to introduce themselves and welcome me.

At night I report to my dad, pleased I seem to be doing well with the team, and field a long phone call from my mother. She bombards me with questions about my first few days in Forks, reminds me that I can go back and live with her any time if I can't stand it here, and waxes poetically about a restaurant Phil took her to. I do a decent enough job of convincing her that I'm fine and when she finally hangs up I go to bed, where I listen to random emo bands in my headphones until I fall asleep, tired from today's practice and the emotional turmoil of beginning a new life in the rainiest town in North America.

The rest of the week glides by. Fortunately, in Phoenix I was in an advanced program so most of the courses are not very challenging. I still sit with my new friends in the cafeteria and meet new people every day. I even memorize most of their names. The Cullens always sit at their corner table but Lynn is nowhere to be seen. I try not to stare at her brothers and sisters, but the few times I do I have a feeling Alice and Jasper were also casting furtive glances in my general direction. I'm still intrigued by their oddity, but try to forget about them, as all the other kids do.

I have another soccer practice on Thursday, and on Sunday we play a hard fought 2-2 tie with a school from a nearby community. A few of my new friends even show up at the game. Jessica, Mike, who seems to be following her around everywhere, Tyler, his sister Ruby, and a few others. I'm playing at the back again, and I assist on a Jeff's goal on a rare forward run; the last ten minutes the coach moves me up front, on the wing, and subs in a defender, but I miss a chance to win us the game at the death. My lob attempt hits the top of the crossbar instead of the back of the net and the referee whistles the end of the game. I spend a few seconds sitting on the damp grass, cursing my rotten luck. Jeff and Tyler drag me back to the dressing room while reminding me that despite the final miss I played a good game.

Monday morning, the beginning of my second week, the alarm clock drags me out of my sleep by brute force. Yesterday I woke up early to go to the game and didn't go to sleep till late. Still groggy, I barely notice that the light in my room seems a little different today. Not sunny, yet brighter than on previous days. I stumble to the window and peer outside. Well, it's not raining. It's snowing. Delicate flakes swirl to Earth from heavens as dark as a moonless night. They look like they are dancing in the wind. I spy two inches of snow on my windowsill.

As is usually the case, dad has already left by the time I walk downstairs, yawning and tugging on a clean flannel, to scour the cupboards for cereals and milk. On the way to school I drive slowly. The snow seems to be thinning but it's only February, in the middle of the semester, and the thick cloud cover conspires with the late sunrise to limit visibility.

In the parking lot, I notice the Cullens' black BMW is already parked in its usual spot. The five of them are milling around it, talking. Yes, five, I suddenly realize. Lynn is wearing dark, simple, unrevealing clothes again. I mostly notice her long hair, its dark hues, and the crystals gleaming dully in her tresses. Jeff waves hi to me as he gets out of his battered toyota corolla.

I shiver in the unusual cold but I can't help smiling. I hadn't seen snow since my childhood and I had forgotten how beautiful it could be. I walk to the main building while the Cullens divide in two teams and stage a quick snowball fight. Students walk by dodging random missiles, when something thumps into my back, fortunately below the collar. I turn around to mock-glare at Tyler, the sniper who has just taken me out.

I reach building 4 without being hit by further projectiles, but also without responding to Tyler's attack and other near misses. I don't even have gloves yet, since in this part of Washington State freezing temperatures are pretty rare, and I really don't fancy dipping my bare hands in snow. Besides, I'm only familiar with snowball fights from the movies. Having been raised in a sun-scorched desert I don't really get the appeal of getting all wet and unnecessarily cold.

The morning classes are uneventful. I meet Mike and Jessica, and Jeff, who still calls me Arizona, introduces me to his sister, Rachel. She stands out because of her hair, cut short and spiky and dyed blue. She's dressed in black, a simple blouse and a long skirt. Not surprisingly, she asks me about Phoenix. Jeff told her I play the guitar and she also rains on me a deluge of questions about music. I'm not familiar with any of the heavy metal bands she likes and eventually she quietens down, disappointed.

The three of us reach the cafeteria. Angela and Eric have taken a large table while we queue to get food. Eric and Mike are talking excitedly about today's weather and teasing each other. The corner table is empty, but soon enough the Cullens make their entrance, laughing and shaking snow off their clothes and hair. I feel like I'm watching a television commercial. They all move so gracefully, like dancers or actors, as they make their way to their usual table. Alice is soon dancing in line for food.

I pay for my meal and go sit with my usual group. Mike's enthusiasm only keeps growing, and he loudly challenges other tables to a massive blizzard war in the quad, after school. Our entire group agrees to join in, except me, of course. Jeff, half-seriously half in jest, hypothesizes that my upbringing, in a sunny land far away, has turned me into a bit of a bore. I believe he actually uses the term 'buzzkill'. I thank him and laugh with him. Suddenly, Mike pulls my sleeve.

"Brandon, man, Lynn Cullen is staring at you." He whispers in my ear.

Surprised, I look in her direction and meet her piercing eyes. I quickly look down, but it's clear she's not angry anymore. In fact, she has gone back to looking confused, or like she's trying to figure something out. She looks different in other ways too. Something is off but I can't quite put a finger on it.

"Mike, is she still looking?"

"Yeah, for sure. Dude, maybe she likes you." Eric says, joining the conversation. I make sure Jessica, Angela and Rachel are engrossed in some private chat of their own, on the other side of our table, and lean toward Mike and Eric.

"Yeah, right, and I'm the president of the United States. Guys, let's be honest, my league and her hers are so far apart I'm not sure I could find hers with a telescope. And last week she seemed really mad at me."

"Nevertheless," Jeff interjects, "she's still looking at you. She doesn't appear angry. Maybe you'll get a chance to talk to her this time."

"I doubt it."

I don't really mind though; Lynn is attractive but so are other girls and she's just about the least friendly so far. I just hope we can at least get along in class. Jessica and I go to French early, and my desk is still empty when I sit down and doodle abstract images on the inside of the book's cover. I hear Lynn pull out her chair and sit down, but, with an effort, keep looking at my book. I imagine galaxies and the emptiness of space between us. It's easy to do, considering how detached their family seems to be from the concerns of the rest of the students.

"Hello." I hear a musical voice next to me and look at Lynn, my doodling forgotten. Her face is open, friendly, and she's smiling. Her long wavy hair, loosely tied in a messy ponytail, is draped over her shoulder. Snowflakes still perch on it. In the fluorescents, this close, it seems brown but with reddish highlights. Her eyes are soft, yet inquisitive.

"My name is Lynn Cullen." She continues, maybe aware I won't be able to remember how to articulate coherent sentences a little longer. "I'm sorry I didn't have time to introduce myself last week."

I finally manage to close my mouth. I know I should say something, but my grasp of the English language, in its spoken form at least, has suddenly become tenuous. She frowns slightly, but soon recovers her composure and tries another smile.

"You're Brandon Swan, right? The whole town had been waiting for you."

"Ah, yes, right; I imagined something like that." I'm more than a little miffed at my father. She peers at me, as if trying to read my thoughts.

Mrs. Morrison enters the class and calls us to order. I thank imaginary deities for her arrival, still unable to string words together. I look away from Lynn Cullen and wonder about her transformation. She is totally polite now and her mood seems much improved. I consider asking her about last week but decide to forget it. I must have misread the situation. Maybe I just reminded her of something unpleasant, or some guy she dated. It's none of my business.

"Before we begin with our lesson, I have to tell you this is a fateful day…. Not quite the day of the Revolution but still…." Mrs. Morrison scans the room, making sure we are all quiet and paying attention.

"You've been studying French for almost four years now. It's time for a real challenge. Your assignment, for the rest of this semester, will involve reading a full novel in French and writing a short report about it. You already have a list of the questions you'll have to answer. We will discuss them in class in the near future."

She opens a box and extracts several paperbacks, and piles them on her desk.

"Please collect the novel already agreed upon," In my case, I was able to select one by email, before moving. We all crowd around the books, find our title and head back to our desk.

Lynn looks at me, once again confused. She also peers down at my book.

"Can I see it?" She asks, uncertain, biting her lip.

"Sure."

She reads the title aloud: "'Les Trois Mousquetaires', by Alexandre Dumas."

Her frown intensifies. Lynn still intimidates me, even in a friendly version, but now I'm also curious, and I've recovered a semblance of composure. Still, I'm not sure what to make of this girl.

"Something wrong? You don't like it?" And then I have a short, nervous chuckle while simultaneously calling myself an idiot; it sounded like the mad cackle of a hyena.

"No, it's not that." She replies frowning. "But this book is hundreds of pages. It's twice as long as any other book on the list we could choose from."

I shrug.

"I don't care how long a book is, I just care about whether it's good or not. This one is pretty famous and I'd always wanted to read it. Since I will enjoy myself, length is not an issue. In fact, the longer the better."

She bites her lip again, amused but still puzzled.

"All of our classmates have chosen the shortest possible texts they could find. Reading is not as popular as it used to be, but it's not just that…. This is supposed to be work, to them." She says this with narrowed eyes, still studying me, before suddenly looking frustrated.

"Oh well, I'm always untrendy. I always find a way to look like a weirdo. None of that comes as a surprise to me." I reply, wondering why I'm being so honest. I suppose I have nothing to lose.

She seems about to ask me more questions but the teacher distributes a handout and she has to desist. Under Mrs. Morrison's attentive scrutiny we work on a few different tasks. We start by finding and correcting grammar mistakes in a French text and then do some fill in the blanks to practice verbs. For the last task in the worksheet we write a few sentences of our own. Each sentence must feature one of the words in a list. This is supposed to keep us occupied for the rest of the hour, but I find it rather easy and there are still fifteen minutes to go when I look up from my paper. A quick glance to my partner reveals she's done as well. She's looking at me again, a neutral expression on her face. I respond with a slight frown. I'm not sure what to make of her sudden friendliness.

The teacher notices us and comes to check our papers. She seems satisfied with our work, but troubled by something. Eventually, she addresses my partner.

"Lynn, did you help our new student out?"

"No Mrs. Morrison. Not at all."

"Did you study this material before, Brandon?"

"We used a different text, but yes, I did. I was in an advanced program in Phoenix."

She nods at me, serious, but finally smiles.

"Okay, I'm glad you're partners then. If all my students were all like you my job would be a lot easier." We make polite noises and she moves on to assisting some of our classmates. Mike seems to be struggling mightily and his partner is probably pretty useless too.

"So, Brandon, what do you think of our constant rain?"

She's talking to me about the weather? What is happening?

"I hate the rain, but love the scenery." A variation on my usual stock reply.

She laughs, softly, seemingly as surprised as I am by the sudden, rill-like cascade of sound.

"You hate the rain… So why would you come to the wettest town in North America?"

"It's a long story… I doubt you'd find it interesting."

"Actually, I would really like to know." Her eyes are eager now, and her voice carries some feeling I can't fathom. "I would really like to understand you." That's a little odd, but kind of charming.

"Well, my father lives here…."

She just waits, her eyes urging me on, asking for more without words.

"My mother got remarried, for one thing."

"So you don't like the guy?" A reasonable guess, but off the mark.

"No, he's great actually. And he makes my mother happy."

"So, she wanted you out of the way then? Shipped you out here so she could enjoy her life?"

It's my turn to laugh.

"Not at all. You could say I exiled myself…"

"Really…" she says, blatantly confused again.

"My mother is great, and she wanted me to stay with them. Her new husband has no problems with me. He even bought me my electric guitar. It's a cheap one but it comes in handy."

"He bought you a guitar?"

"Yeah. Well, he was being a little selfish too. You see, an electric is supposed to be loud right? But if you don't plug it in, or use headphones, it's extremely quiet. The same cannot be said of my classical. Anyways, I'm very grateful to him."

"But if you like him, why did you leave?" She won't let it go, but I find I don't mind her prying.

"He's one of the coaches for a minor league baseball team, and so he travels a lot. My mom stayed home with me, but I know she wasn't happy."

"So you left. That's very generous of you…"

"Hmmm, maybe…" I mumble, cryptic.

"You don't think so?" Puzzled and eager again, another frown creasing her forehead.

"The truth is, I needed a change. I love my mother, but she's always been a bit of a space cadet. The last few years I've had to take care of her, doing her online banking, cooking our meals, fixing her computer, or teaching her how to use it, reminding her that bills needed to be paid, stuff like that. My father is a lot more independent."

"So you are relieved, in a way?" I'm starting to realize I have never met anybody quite like this girl. She just says everything she thinks. She asks questions nobody else has asked me, and she can talk about any topic, no matter how sensitive it might be. I also told her I love my mother, I'm such a geek, but she never batted an eye.

"Yes, you could say that. Living with my dad is almost starting to feel like a holiday in comparison… Besides…" I stop and stare into space, the class out of focus. I hadn't really thought about it until now.

"Besides….. what?" She sounds impatient now, frustrated again.

"I was starting to feel like a third wheel…." I say looking away from her, at my feet. "How much time can you really spend with a happy couple, assuming you are single?" I feel sad now, but fortunately I'm not about to cry. "It was starting to feel rather unpleasant."

"You know," she says slowly, her voice soft, "you don't really sound like a teenager." My eyes are still firmly planted on my scuffed winter boots, so I don't know what her expression is like. I know I don't want her pity and plod along with my tale.

"My mom always told me I'm an old soul. She believes in all kinds of silly superstitions and she claims I have died and been reborn any times. Some kind of seer told her that. Just a charlatan, I bet. She also calls me her 'middle-aged teenager' at times. She thinks it's funny, and true." I finally find the strength to look at Lynn again, and I'm relieved to see she's wearing another confused frown instead of the sappy, sympathetic smile many would resort to in this situation. Once again, she strikes me as more interesting than most girls I've ever met.

The bell rings and as I scramble to gather my stuff I drop the worksheet. Lynn catches it easily, still in the air, and looks at it.

"'La vie est un reve.' She reads. It's the sentence I made to utilize the word 'reve', dream. "Life is a dream."

"It's a quote I like." I explain.

She stares at me, her expression unreadable. Suddenly, I realize why she looks different today… Her eyes seemed darker last week, maybe onyx. But now they're a light shade of amber, or honey.

"Hey," I tell her, "Your contacts look pretty cool. What an amazing hue…"

"Contacts? Me?" She sounds surprised.

"Well, your eyes were darker last week. Maybe you wore contacts then?"

"Oh yeah, right. I did. I'm sorry, I have to go."

And with that, with feline grace she bounds out of her seat and walks out the door. Great job, Brandon. I can always count on you to find a way to repel the pretty girl. Where there's a will, there's a way.

I see Angela in the next class. She sits quietly behind me. Jeff and his girlfriend, Lauren, sit in front of us. Mike is here too; it's a small school. They're all unhappy because the snow has already turned to rain and their plans have been disrupted. I didn't even notice. I'm still a little distracted, thinking back on my conversation with Lynn Cullen.

Her behavior was the opposite of last week, but there was more to it. It was like she was really interested in my life. I'm also surprised I shared so much with her. I don't get it. With anybody else I've been able to stick to very curt replies. Yet, in less than one period, she has learned more about me than most of my other friends, even though I talk to them every day. Maybe it was the directness of her questions, or her obstinate digging for answers….

Eventually I snap out of my abstraction, manage to take some notes, and then head home. In the parking lot, I sneak a glance in the direction of the Cullens. They quickly pile in their black BMW and disappear from view. Lynn is at the wheel, and as they speed by she seems to cast a glance in my direction.

It's my turn to cook and I stir-fry a mixture of thinly sliced beef and vegetables. Dad eyes the plate suspiciously when I serve dinner but in the end wolfs down his portion and clamors for more. My cooking is simple but more palatable than anything my mother ever put on the table.

In the evening I do my homework and practice the guitar a bit. I'm not very good and I have no ambitions, but I want to learn to play some classical pieces I like, including some my mother also enjoyed listening to. Only after brushing my teeth and crawling under my thick blankets, in an old t-shirt and tattered sweat pants, I spare one more thought for today's odd conversation. How exactly did I scare Lynn off? I just asked her about her contacts… I thought girls wanted guys to pay attention to them. She seemed surprised… If she doesn't use contacts, how could her eyes change color? Is that even possible?

Outside, the rain turns to snow again. I fall asleep watching feathery crystals spiral to earth in a slow, hypnotic waltz.