North Star

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter Two:

Paul

There's another round of uproarious laughter from the back of the cafeteria, and I roll my eyes, irritated beyond belief. It's a group of ninth graders, too cool for school and all that shit, and I can't wait for the novelty of high school to wear off for them. Maybe then, they'll actually shut the fuck up and allow the rest of us to eat our food in peace.

Across from me, Jared sends them an angry glare, and his girlfriend, Anna, laughs.

"Calm your tits, Jay," she says, "They're not doing anything wrong."

"They're disturbing the peace," Jared grunts.

Anna rolls her eyes. "Jesus, I didn't know it was suddenly a crime to laugh."

Jared looks primed to start an argument, Anna does too, and I brace myself to be an unfortunate, unwilling witness to the spectacle. As bewildering as it is to anyone who has known the easygoing, mild-mannered Jared Cameron of months and years passed, it wouldn't be the first time. Jared's been running on a short fuze as of late, liable to blow up at anything and anyone at the slightest of provocation, and Anna is no exception. He hasn't gotten violent, thank God, but I wonder if there's a point I should intervene, and if so, I wonder how I'll recognise it if or when it happens. Moreover, I can't believe it's something I have to consider at all.

Jared Cameron is perhaps my closest friend in this godforsaken shithole, built on the foundation of a lifetime's worth of summer vacations. Our (living) grandparents are buds, and subsequently, I'd spent those early holidays hanging out with him, and over the years, that hasn't really changed. In saying that, I've never known him to be the aggressor in any type of confrontation.

In fact, before this year, I'd have said he was the type to avoid them.

People change, I suppose.

Before Jared can say anything he'll regret, the bell that heralds the end of lunch blares to life, and we gather up our things to leave. I'm done with school for the day, but Jared and Anna both have their online electives to look forward to, and I bid them a lazy salute on my way out.

Outside, the weather is predictably dreary, but I make it to my grandparents' place without getting drenched, so I can't complain. Grandma's on the porch, singing to herself as she knits a baby blanket, but Grandpa's awol, and I assume (correctly) that we'll be having fish for dinner. Again.

"Hey, Pauley," Grandma greets me, and I hate to see the grief in her eyes, "How was your day, baby?"

I bend to kiss her on the cheek. "It was all right, Grams. School, you know. Same old shit, different place, different day."

I'm a new transfer to the Quileute Tribal School, and although the fact I'm one of only 45 students in my grade is something of an anomaly, school is school wherever I go. It's a stepping stone to the future, a necessity to endure until I can reach college, and I can't complain.

Grandma clicks her tongue, disapproving of my language, but she doesn't chide me for it. I think she and I both know I can't handle that shit after my parents' deaths, and moreover, it's not like I've done anything to truly warrant proper discipline. Mostly, my life has fallen into a monotonous routine of school, work, chores, and Naomi, and that doesn't particularly leave much opportunity for rebellion, or whatever else.

It's probably for the best, in any case. I already have an uphill battle ahead of me, tarred by the brush of stereotypes, prejudice, and racism, and I'd rather not have a juvenile record to hamper my ambitions on top of that.

"There's some sandwiches inside," she says, "Ham, cheese, and tomato. Your favourite."

"Thanks, Grams."

I shuffle inside, small and worn, with faded walls and flower patterned furniture. It's hard to imagine my father - gregarious, exuberant, larger than life - growing up in this house, or in La Push, really. It feels too small to have contained all of his personality, all of the spirit inside him, and I suppose it's no wonder that when he left, he never looked back.

If I'm honest with myself, I'll probably do the same, and I feel like a complete ass for it.

I sigh wearily, help myself to one of the sandwiches grams had mentioned, and shuffle into my room.

It's my dad's childhood bedroom, complete with a faded ocean mural on one of the walls. It's small, just like the rest of the house, but the bedroom furniture is my own, and I've finally stopped feeling like I'm intruding on something sacrosanct, on a memorial of the boy my father had once been, or something like it.

It's kind of bizarre, because it's where I slept when I visited on summer breaks in years passed, but it's something different to sleep in your dad's old bedroom when he's alive and in the room next door, and a whole different ballgame to do so when he's dead and buried.

I grimace, finish my sandwich, and get started on what little homework I've been assigned that day. It's tedious and dull, material I'd already covered in Tacoma the school year prior, and I'm counting down the days until my early graduation. Nevertheless, I finish it within the hour, and occupy myself with chores around the house.

"There's a storm coming, Pauley," Grams says from the porch. I'm in the yard, on my knees, weeding her herb garden, and overhead, the weather's actually cleared up from that morning's downpour. I'm perplexed, therefore, but I don't question her, and instead push on before the weather actually takes a turn for the worse.

As I do so, grandpa pulls up in his beat up station wagon, fishing hat on his head and Naomi in the back seat. At 6 years old, she's all arms and legs and a gap-tooth grin, and she beams upon sight of me.

I spend the next hour with her, absorbed in a blow by blow replay of her very first day at her new school. She talks a mile a minute, with exuberant hand gestures and an expressive, open face, and I am reminded, poignantly, of our father. She takes after him in so many ways, takes after our mother in others, and I am struck with the sensation of loss all over again. It's been a year since the accident, and I miss them no less than I ever have, and I wonder if Naomi does, too.

I don't ask. She doesn't talk about them much anymore, mostly at the therapy sessions we have at Port Angeles, and even then, it's not with the same sadness that had cloaked everything in those early days. According to our therapist, Dr Marks, it's because children are resilient, with an admirable ability to bounce back from trauma and tragedy, but nevertheless, I'm in awe of the fact she can smile, can laugh, can thoroughly enjoy every day that passes her by.

Some mornings, i don't even want to get out of bed.

"You should get ready," Grandpa advises, "It's nearly five."

Grandpa is tall and broad, with a head full of grey hair and lines around his eyes. He's only in his late 60's, but he and grams have buried both of their children, and it's aged them both before their time.

While Naomi pouts and protests, I do as I'm told, and before long, I'm on my way out the door, headed to work. It's nothing glamorous, just a waiting gig at La Push's only diner, but it provides employment experience and spending money, and as such, I can't complain.

"Hey, Paul," Harry clearwater greets me. He owns the diner, and he's a cool dude, all things considered. In contrast, his daughter, Leah, is a raging bitch, but because she's fresh out of high school, she generally works the morning shift. As such, I'm not forced to interact with her on a regular basis, which is a relief, since I don't think I'd be able to stay polite for a prolonged amount of time. "How was school?"

He and I chat idly as I clock in, about school and sports and fishing, and I wonder why this guy runs a diner when it's abundantly clear he would rather spend his days outdoors. I don't ask, of course, because not only is Mr Clearwater my boss, it's also none of my business, and I don't really give a shit besides. Each to their own, and all that.

The conversation doesn't last long, in any case, and before I know it, I'm entrenched in serving food and taking orders and making polite small talk with people whom, without fail, remark upon my resemblance to my father, or my grandfather. I suppose it's par for the course in a place as small as La Push, but it's as mentally draining as the dinner rush is physically, so as usual, it's a relief when my shift is over.

"Have a good night, Paul," Mr Clearwater says. "See you tomorrow."

"You too, Mr C," I answer, and tug off the waist apron on my way out.

It's cold outside, the air damp, the scent of sea salt on the breeze. The parking lot has begun to empty as that night's patrons make their way home, and I approach my beat up Jeep with a tired yawn. It's been a long day, and despite myself, I'm ready for bed.

As I make my way home, thunder rumbles overhead, and I think on Grams' words from earlier.

A storm is coming, indeed.

Bella

In Seattle, I used to attend a dance class after school every day. Those lessons kept me busy, kept me in shape, kept me happy, and without a daily ballet, hip-hop, or ballroom dance session to look forward to, I feel somewhat adrift and aimless. I don't know what to do with all the free time that is suddenly at my disposal, and predictably, Charlie notices. I don't really expect anything less from a former detective, but I'm still somewhat irked by my own transparency.

"You should try for a job," he suggests.

"Maybe," I answer, though I'm noncommittal. It's something to think about, at least, and if nothing else, I wouldn't mind some spending money.

"And there's a dance studio here in town, you know? I don't know what classes they offer, but you could probably check it out."

I wasn't aware of that, actually, and a small spark of hope ignites in my heart. It'd probably be too much to expect master classes (that I don't qualify for, anyway), but if there are a few advanced courses…

"I'll look into it," I acknowledge, finish up the last of my orange juice, and shrug on my coat. I tug my backpack over my shoulder and press a grateful kiss to Charlie's cheek. "Thanks, Dad. Have a nice day."

"You too, Bells."

I meet Tyler at the end of the street. He's half asleep, slumped against the street sign, a travel mug of coffee in hand, and he scowls at me.

"How are you so damn awake right now?"

"Good morning to you, too," I laugh, and continue the walk to school. He falls into step beside me, and waits, expectant, for an answer. "If you must know, I wake up at half passed five."

"What the fuck for?"

"This morning it was Yoga," I answer, "Yesterday, it was Tai-Chi. Then I took my time getting ready, enjoyed a nice cup of chai tea before breakfast, and here we are."

"Damn, girl," Tyler shakes his head, incredulous, "You're something else."

"Thanks," I reply, unafraid to own that, "I do try."

Tyler and I chat idly about music and movies on our walk to school, and when we reach the parking lot, we're joined by the others I've gotten to know. Lauren's got a jumbo sized can of Red Bull in hand, and I'm sure Ben's about to fall asleep where he stands.

I laugh at their plight. In response, Jessica offers me a sleepy scowl, though she's more preoccupied by her half-hearted attempts to wrangle her riotous curls into a semblance of order.

"What's everyone doing this weekend?" Mike asks.

I've got plans with Charlie for a Sunday morning fishing trip, but the rest of my weekend is free, and I admit as much. Angela and Tyler have church around the same time, Lauren's got a date on Saturday evening, but everyone else's weekend is a blank slate, and Mike suggests a cookout at his place on Saturday.

"It's supposed to be sunny," Jess reasons.

"I'll have to check with my parents," Ben hedges. Eric and Angela echo the sentiment. Jessica and Lauren are already in, as is Tyler, and I acquiesce on the proviso that I can find a way to actually get there.

"I'll ask Mom, but I'm sure she'll be able to pick you up," Lauren says, "You, too, Ty."

"Thanks, Ren," Tyler answers. I offer her a grateful smile, too, and we disperse as the school bell blares shrilly across the grounds.

I walk with Eric and Angela to Trigonometry, and we're in the midst of a discussion concerning the religious themes in 'Supernatural' when Alice Cullen brushes passed us. She offers me a bright, pearly white smile, and I offer her a discomforted one of my own. I've been a student of Forks High for three days, and I've encountered her at least once during every one of them. I'd like to think it's mere coincidence - Forks High is a small school, after all - but the doubt persists, and I am wary.

I'm not the only one.

Eric shutters theatrically. "God, she creeps me the hell out."

"Yeah, me too," I agree. Angela bites her lip, conflicted, but she doesn't argue.

As we settle in our seats, Mr Cassidy checks off our attendance, and we return to our conversation from a few moments earlier. It somehow shifts to a discussion regarding who was more attractive - Sam or Dean - and I'm amused by Eric's long-suffering grimace as Angela and I debate the subject.

"I'm fairly certain this is objectification," Eric interjects.

"DO you really want to talk about objectification, though?"I parry.

"Yeah, let's talk about objectification," Angela opines.

Eric looks suitably cornered, but he's saved by the tardy bell, and by Mr Cassidy, who proceeds with that day's lesson without further ado. I offer Eric the promise that we'll continue this later, pick up a pen to take notes, and eagerly await our lunch break. With Lauren and Jess present, and the topic of gender objectification on the table, it ought to be interesting.

Author's Note: I'm a bit meh about Paul's POV. I guess because I'm not accustomed to writing it. Thoughts? I hope it doesn't sound too female?

Anyway, there's supposed to be a page break between the POV shifts, so let me know if that one doesn't show up. Also, if there are any formatting issues, or obvious mistakes, really.

Hope you've enjoyed. Thanks for reading. Until next time, -t.