January 17, 2005
My mom drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down. It was seventy-five degrees in Phoenix and the sky was baby-blue, despite it being January everywhere else. I had on my favourite shirt on—the Monty Python one—that my mom had got me three Christmases ago.
Olympic Pensilvania—Washington State (northwest.) A small town named Forks exists under relentless clouds and rain. In this insignificant town, it rains more than any other place in the United States of America. My mom escaped from this depressing gloom with me, when I was a few months old. I'd been forced to spend a month here, every summer, until I was fourteen. Then, I started making ultimatums: me and Charlie, my dad, vacationed in California for two weeks, instead.
Yet somehow, I found myself exiled to Forks for the rest of my high school education. A year and a half. Eighteen months. It felt like a prison sentence. It was a prison sentence. Eighteen months, hard time. When I slammed the car door behind me, it made the clang of iron bars being locked into place.
Maybe a tad melodramatic. Like my mom said, 'I have an overactive imagination.' And, of course, this was my choice. Self-imposed exile.
Didn't make it any easier.
I loved Phoenix. I loved the blazing sun; the dry heat and the big, brawling city. I loved living with my mom, where I was needed.
"You don't have to do this." My mom said to me—the last of a hundred times—just before I got to the TSA spot.
My mom says we look so much alike that I could use her as a shaving mirror. It's not entirely true, but I don't look like my dad, either, at all. Her chin is pointy and her lips full, which is not like me, but we do have exactly the same eyes. On her they're so childlike — so wide and aqua-blue—which makes me look like her brother rather than her son. We both get that from time to time, though se pretends not to, she loves it. On me the pale blue is less youthful and… unresolved.
Staring at those worried, wide eyes so much like my own, I felt panicked. I'd been taking care of my mom my whole life. I mean, there must have been a time, probably when I was in diapers, that I wasn't in charge of the bills and paper-work and cooking and general level-headedness, but (unsurprisingly) I couldn't remember it.
Was leaving my mom to fend for herself really the right thing to do? But, it seemed like it was, during the months I'd contemplated this decision. Now, it felt like all kinds of wrong.
Of course, she had Phil these days, so — fortunately — the bills would probably get paid in time; there would be food in the fridge; gas in the car and somebody to call when she was lost… She didn't need me as much, anymore.
"I want to go." I lied. I'd never been a good liar, but I'd been saying this so much, it actually sounds convincing.
"Tell Charlie I say hi."
"Will do."
"I'll see you soon," She promised, "You can come home whenever you want—I'll be right back as soon as you need me." But I knew how much that would cost her if I was to do that.
"Don't worry about me," I insisted, "It'll be fine, great even. I love you, Mom. She hugged me tightly, for a minute, then, let go, as soon as I walked through the metal detectors.
Five hours… Three long hours from Phoenix to Seattle and another hour in a small plane up to Port Angeles, and then… Another hour in the car with Charlie down to Forks. Flying has never really bothered me; it was the hour in the car with Charlie that I was worried about.
Charlie had been pretty cool and decent about the whole thing. He genuinely seemed pleased to see me; live with him and kind-of permanently for the first time. He had already got me registered for a high school and he was going to help me buy a car.
But… It would be awkward. Neither of us are what you would call hail-fellow-well-met—probably a fundamental thing to be, when living with my mother. But aside from that, what is there to say? It wasn't like I kept the way that I thought about Forks a secret, anyway.
The only problem was that Charlie doesn't know that I'm gay. My mom does, she was really cool with it. I think that she could already tell, but anyway. Charlie is kind of old fashioned, I guess, and I don't know what he'd think. God, save me!
When I landed in Port Angeles, it was raining—no surprise there. Goodbye, sunshine. Charlie was waiting for me with the cruiser. This I was expecting, too. Charlie: Police Chief Swan to the good people of Forks. My primary motivation behind buying a car, despite my serious lack of funds, was that I hated driving around in a car with red and blue lights on top. It slows down traffic, really slows down traffic.
I stumbled off of the plane to walk into Charlie's lumbering, one-armed hug. "It's good to see you, Beau." He smiled, automatically steadying me. We patted each other's shoulder's, embarrassed and stepped back. "You haven't changed much. How's Renée?"
"Mom's great. It's good to see you, too, Dad." I wasn't supposed to call him Charlie to his face.
"You really feel okay, leaving her, I mean?" We both knew that this question wasn't about my own personal happiness, it was whether I was okay with leaving my responsibilities for Renée. The reason why Charlie'd never fought my Mom about custody; he knew that she needed me.
"Yeah… I wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure."
"Fair enough."
I only had two black duffel bags. Most of my Arizona clothes would be too permeable for the Washington climate. My mom and I had used our skills to pick out my winter wardrobe, which was very little. I could handle both of them, but Charlie insisted that he took one.
It threw my balance off, not that I was ever balanced , especially since my growth-spurt. As I exited — well, tried to exit — my foot caught the edge of the door so my bag hit the man trying to get in.
"Sorry." I mumbled. The guy wasn't much older than me, but he was a lot shorter than me. He stepped up to my chest, his chin raised high; I noticed tattoos at either side if his neck. A small woman with dyed black hair looked at me from his other side, menacingly.
"Sorry?" She repeated like I had offended her.
"Er… Yeah?"
Then, the woman noticed Charlie in his uniform. He didn't even have to say anything; looked at the guy, who backed up a half-step and suddenly seemed a lot younger; the girl's red lips settled into a pout. Without another word, they ducked around me and headed into the diminutive terminal.
Me and Charlie both shrugged at the same time. It was weird how we had the same mannerisms when we didn't spend a lot of time together. Maybe it was genetic.
"Found a good car for ya; really cheap." Charlie announced, as we were strapped in the cruiser and on our way.
"What kind of car?" I asked, curiously, suspicious of the way he said 'good car for you' as opposed to just 'good car.'
"Well, it's a truck, actually." He said, "A Chevy."
"Where did you find it?"
"Remember Bonnie Black down at La Push?" I shook my head, trying to recall it. "She and her husband used to go fishing with us during the summer." He prompted.
That's why I didn't remember her. I do a very good and clean job of wiping everything painful out of my memory.
"She's in a wheelchair now," He continued, when I didn't respond, "so she can't drive anymore, and she offered to sell the truck to me really cheap."
"What year is it?" I asked. His face dropped and his expression changed. I could see that this was one of the questions that he was hoping I wouldn't ask.
"Bonnie's had a lot of work done on the engine."
Did he really think that I would give up that easily?
"When did she buy it?"
"1984, I think."
"Did she buy it new?"
It took a few seconds for him to respond, "No. But the earliest, for when it was new, had the be the fifties or sixties." He admitted, sheepishly.
"Cha—Dad, I don't really know anything about cars; I wouldn't be able to fix it or have the money to have someone repair it…"
"Beau, really, the thing runs great. They don't build stuff like that anymore."
The thing, I thought, to myself. It had few possibilities, but still had them.
"How cheap is cheap." That part was the deal killer.
"Well, I kind of already bought it for you, as a gift." With a hopeful expression on his face, he glanced at me, smiling, sheepishly.
Wow. Free!
"I was going to buy myself a car; you really didn't need to do that."
"I don't mind. I want you to be happy here." His eyes were on the road when he said that. He had never really been able to express his emotions out loud. Like father, like son.
"That's amazing, Dad! Thanks. I appreciate it." I said. No need to ask that he was talking about impossibilities. It wouldn't help anything for him to suffer along with me.
"You're welcome." He mumbled, embarrassed.
We exchanged a few more comments about the weather, which was wet and stared out of the window.
Many people would probably think that it was beautiful, but I didn't. Everything was green: the trees—which were covered in moss, both the trunks and branches and the ground was a blanket of green. Even the air was green, with the leaves floating down the road.
It was too green—like an alien planet.
Eventually, we made it to Charlie's. He still lived in the same small, two-bedroom house, that he had bought in the early days of marriage with my mother. Those were the only type of days that they had in marriage together—the early ones. There, parked on the drive-way was a new (well, new to me) truck. It was a faded red, almost an orange-type-of-colour, with big curvy fenders around the cab.
I loved it! I wasn't a car guy, at all, so I was surprised by my own reaction. I didn't know if it could run, but I could definitely see myself in it. It's like one of those solid iron monsters, that never gets damaged — like at the scene of an accident and the paint was unscratched, surrounded by pieces of a foreign car that it had just crushed and destroyed.
"Wow…" I stared, in awe. "It's awesome! Thanks, so much!" I kind of let some of my 'gayness' slip there, but who cares. I just got an awesome car—well, truck really—for free. Not only was the truck strangely cool, I wouldn't have to walk two miles in the rain to get to school every morning until I bought a car. And, I wouldn't have to accept a ride in the cruiser (which was obviously, a worse-case scenario.)
"I'm really glad you like it." He mumbled, embarrassed again.
It took one trip to get all of my suitcases upstairs. I slept in the west bedroom, which had a window that faced out onto the front yard. The room was familiar. There was a secondhand computer and blue-and-white checked curtains. There was one small bathroom that me and Charlie were going to share. Joy.
One of the best things about Charlie: he doesn't hover. He left me alone to unpack and settle in—which would have been totally impossible if my mom was here. I liked being alone; it was nice not to have to put on a fake smile or look comfortable; a relief to gaze out of the window and let my thoughts become dark.
Forks High School had only three hundred and fifty-seven students—now fifty-eight. There were more than seven hundred people in my junior class alone, back in Arizona! Almost everyone had grown up together—their grandparents had been toddlers together, their parents together an then us together. I would be the new kid from the big city. I would be something to stare at and whispered about.
If I had been one of the cool kids, I would could make this work for me. Come in all popular and prom-king-like. But I'm not that guy. I'm gay, shy and really, really clumsy; don't forget the ugly part. I'm not the football star, class president, not the 'bad boy' on a motorcycle or the lacrosse star. I was the kid who looked like he should be good at basketball, until I start to walk. I was the kid who was shoved into lockers until I'd (finally) grown eight inch. The kid who was too quiet and pale, who didn't know anything about gaming, cars and baseball statistics or anything that was traditionally male interests.
Unlike the other guys, I didn't have a lot of free time for hobbies. I had a checkbook to manage, a clogged drain to snake and a week's groceries shopping to buy.
Or I used to.
So, I didn't relate to people well my age. I just didn't relate to people at all, period. Even my mother, who was the closest person to me on the planet, never really understood me. She was supportive about the whole being gay thing…
"What?" Charlie asked, confused. I glanced at him, dazed. Crap! I had said that last bit aloud.
"I'm gay…" I said. It sounded like a question, though.
Charlie just shrugged and said, "Okay." And left.
Anyway, I felt like I was the only one in the world seeing the things I see. Like, what everyone saw as blue, I saw green or if they saw green, and I saw blue. Maybe, there was a glitch in my brain.
But the cause didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was the effect. Tomorrow would just be the beginning.
I didn't sleep well that night, even after I got my head to, reluctantly, shut the hell up. The constant sound of the rain and the wind across the room and on my window wouldn't return to the background. Pulling the old, tatty quilt over my head, and later the pillow, I was hoping that it would drown the noise out. But, I couldn't fall asleep until after midnight, when the rain had calmed down, only to a light drizzle.
When I woke up, think fog was all I could see, out of the window. You could never see the sky here; it was like that prison cage I had been imagining.
Breakfast was Charlie was quiet. He wished me good luck at school and I thanked him, even if I his hope was a waste of time. Good luck tended to avoid me: I said that I was gay out-loud and Charlie heard. Charlie set off first, going to the police station—that was technically my new mom. After he left, he sat at the oak table, on one of the unmatching triplet-like chairs. Nothing had changed. My mom had painted the bright-yellow cabinets eighteen years ago. In the family room was a picture of my mom and Charlie, in Las Vagas, at their wedding. Next, a picture of mom and Charlie, me in the middle, when I had been born—taken by a nurse—followed by the lineage of school photos, up to this year. Now, they were embarrassing pictures. From acne, to back haircuts and the braces (don't forget the braces). I would have to see what it would take for me to get Charlie to remove them, when I was staying here.
It's hard knowing that Charlie still wasn't over my mom. It made me really uncomfortable.
I didn't want to be early for school, but I couldn't stay in the house with all my will. I put on my jacket and stepped outside into the rain.
Inside the truck, it was nice and dry. Either Jacob or Charlie had cleaned it up, but the seats still smelled faintly of tobacco, gasoline and peppermint. The engine stated quickly, but loudly. Luckily, the antique radio still worked.
Finding the school wasn't that difficult. It was difficult to realise that it was a school at first but the massive sign kind-of gave it away. Where were the metal detectors and prison cells and the barbed-wire fences?
I parked by the first building, which had a sign over the door reading, 'FRONT OFFICE'. No-one else was parked there soI was sure it was off limits. But instead of circling the parking lot like an idiot, I decided to ask for directions.
Inside, it was brightly lit, and a lot warmer than I had imagined. The office was small, with a little waiting area.
A woman looked up from behind the desk and asked, "Can I help you?"
"I'm Beau Swan." I informed her. The recognition was visible in her eyes.
"Of course." She said. I was the Chief's son. Of course. She dug the leaning stack of papers. "I have your schedule right here, Beaufort, and, also, a map of the school." She passed me a stack of paper over the desk.
"Um, it's Beau, please."
"Oh, sure, Beau." She went through the classes with me and highlighted the best route on the map and she gave me a slip to give to the teachers to sign, which I was to give back at the end of the day. She smiled at me with hope, like Charlie, that I would like it here. I smiled back as convincingly as I could.
Walking back to my truck, I noticed that other students had started to pile in. I drove through the parking lot, following the line of traffic. Most of the cars were old like mine; nothing flashy. The nicest car here was a brand-new silver Volvo, and it stood out. I cut the engine, as soon as I was in a spot, so that the earsplitting volume wouldn't draw more attention to me than it already had.
I tried to memorise the map of the school in the truck: I wouldn't have to carry it around with me. I stuffed everything into my backpack, sucking in a huge breath, slinging the bag over my shoulder. It won't be that bad, I lied to myself. Seriously, though, this wasn't a life or death situation—it was high school. Well, high school kind of is life or death. It wasn't like anyone was going to bite me. I finally exhaled the breath that I didn't know I was holding in, and stepped outside, into the wilderness.
I pulled my hood down, over my face, as I walked to the sidewalk, which was crowded with teenagers. My plain, ebony-back jacket didn't stand out, thankfully, though there wasn't much I could do about my height. I hunched my shoulders; kept my head low. Once I made my way around the cafeteria, building three was really easy to spot. A large '3' was painted neatly on a white square on the east corner, I noticed, as I followed two unisex coats through the door.
The classroom was small. The people in front of me stopped to hang their coats up on a long row of hooks. So, I copied them. They were two girls, one a porcelain-coloured blond, the other also pale, with light brown hair. At least my skin wouldn't stand out here.
I took the slip up to the teacher (a slim woman with thinning hair—whose desk had a nameplate, identifying her as Ms. Mason). She gasped and gawked at me when she saw my name. Discouraging, much. I could feel the blood rushing to my face and I knew that there would be splotches across my cheeks and neck. Luckily, she sent me to an empty desk, at the back of the classroom and I didn't have to introduce myself. I tried to fold myself into the chair and desk, trying to look unsuspicious.
I thought it would be harder for my new classmates to stare at me when I was sitting at the back of the classroom. But, somehow, they managed. Keeping my eyes down on the reading list the teacher gave me, I realised it was pretty basic: Brontë, Shakespear, Chaucer and Faulkner. I had already read everything. That was comforting…and tedious. I really need to ask my mom to send me a folder of essays, or would she said that was cheating. While the teacher rambled on, I contemplated some of the different arguments between me and her.
When the bell rang, a pale, skinny girl, with skin problems and slicked ebony-black hair, leaned across the aisle to talk to me.
"You're Beaufort Swan, aren't you?" She said, giving me the impression of an overly helpful, chess club type.
"Beau, please." I corrected and everyone within the three-seat radius swivelled around to look at me.
"Where's you next class?" She asked.
Checking in my bag, I said, "Um…Government, with Jefferson," I told her, "in building six."
Curious eyes darted towards me.
"Oh," She perked up, "I'm going there, too. Maybe, I could show you the way." Definitely over-helpful. "I'm Erica, by the way."
"Thanks." I forced a smile.
Before heading out into the drizzle, we received our coats back from the hangers. Several people seemed to walk too close behind us, like they were trying to eavesdrop or something. I hoped I wasn't getting paranoid.
"So, this is a lot different than Phoenix, huh?" She asked, curiosity visible in her eyes.
"Very." I replied.
"It must have been sunny a lot, wasn't it? Does it rain much there?"
"Three or four times a year."
"Wow! What was that like?"
"Sunny." I told her, the sarcasm dripping in my voice.
"You don't look very tan."
"My mother is part albino."
Uneasily, she studies my face; I stifled a groan: the clouds and a sense of humour weren't very compatible. A few months of this means I'll probably forget what sarcasm even is.
We ambled back around the cafeteria, to the south buildings by the gym. Erica followed me to the door—despite the fact that it was clearly marked.
"Well, good luck." She said as I touched the cold handle. "Maybe, we'll have some more classes together." She sounded hopeful.
I smiled at her—in what I hoped wasn't an encouraging smile—and made my way inside.
The rest of the morning passed in the same way. My Trigonometry teacher (Ms. Varner), who I would have disliked anyway just because of the subject she taught, was the was the only one who made me stand in front of the class and introduce myself. I can imagine what it would have looked like: going splotchy red and me stuttering and mumbling and, on my way to my desk, I tripped over my own foot.
After a couple of classes, faces started to become familiar. Some were braver than the others and would introduce themselves and ask me questions about how I was liking Forks. I tried to be diplomatic, but I usually just lied a lot. At least I never needed a map.
In every class, the teacher started out by calling me Beaufort, but I immediately corrected them; it was extremely depressing. It had taken me many years to live down Beaufort—thank you so much Grandpa, for passing away months before I was born, so my mom felt obligated to honour you. No one at home even remembered Beau was only a nickname. Now, fortunately, I had to start all over agin.
One guy sat with me, in both Trig and Spanish and he walked with me to the cafeteria for lunch. He was short, not even up to my shoulder, but his untamed, curly hair made up for that bit of height. I couldn't remember his name, so I smiled and nodded as he rattled on about the teachers and their classes. I didn't try to keep up.
Sitting at the end of a full table were me and him, with many other friends of his—who he introduced me to. I tried to remember all of their names, but as soon as he said them, they had left my memory. They all seemed to think that it was cool that he had invited me. The girl from English, Erica, waved at me from across the room, and they all laughed and sniggered. Already the butt of the joke. A new record; a new title. At least none of them seemed mean-spirited about it.
It was there, sitting in the cafeteria, trying to make conversation with seven inquisitive strangers, that I first saw them
They were seated in the corner of the cafeteria, where that were sitting the furthest away from me possible. They weren't talking, the weren't eating, though they had a full tray of food in front of them. They weren't gawking at me, unlike most of the other students, so it was safe to stare at them. But it was none of these things that caught my attention.
They didn't look alike, at all.
There were two girls. One I could tell was really tall, even sitting down, maybe as tall as I was—her legs went of for forever literally. She looked like she should be the captain of a volleyball team, and I'm sure that you wouldn't want to mess with her or her family. She had dark, curly hair, pulled back into a messy ponytail.
The other had the colour of honey hanging to her shoulders. She wasn't as tall as the brunette, but was still probably taller than most guys on my table. It looked like she would have been a model or a famous actress. She looked like one of the actresses in a film I watch a couple of weeks back. Looking at her, I thought that it had been played by this girl.
There were three guys opposite. The taller one—who was definitely taller than me—looked around six-five, maybe even taller; he was the school's star athlete type-of-looking person. And prom king. And the guy who always had dibs on whatever equipment he wanted in his room. His straight gold hair was wound up into a bun on the back of his head, but there was nothing feminine about it.
One of the other guys had dark hair, buzzed so short, it was just like a shadow across his scalp.
The smallest one, but still a good couple of inches taller than me, had hair between the colour red and brown, but different than either. Bronze, almost, and kind of metallic. He looked the youngest of the five, who looked like they should have been in college, easily.
Totally different, yet, they were exactly alike. Everyone of them were unrealistically pale, definitely the palest of all of the students in Forks. Paler than me: the albino. All of their eyes looked black, from where I was sitting. They all had deep, bruise-like shadows under their eyes. Maybe, all five had just pulled an all-nighter. Or, they were still recovering from a broken nose. All of their features were straight, angular, perfect.
But that wasn't why I couldn't look away.
They were all…beautiful and perfect. They had the faces that you see on photoshopped magazines; the ones you never see in real life. It was hard to believe that they were real.
The most beautiful of all the people in that room was the smallest guy: the one who had bronze-like hair. I mean, all of them were, but he…he was a different kind-of beautiful. He was unrealistically handsome. Dangerously beautiful. Perfect. My stomach became uneasy; it was an upsetting and disturbing kind-of beauty.
None of them were looking at each other, nor anyone else. It reminded me of how models pose. As I stared, creepily may I add, the one with the wiry skin and dark buzzed hair rose—with his tray in his hand (which had an unopened soda, untouched apple and an untouched everything, honestly)— and ambled away quickly. He walked gracefully, like a professional ballet dancer. My curious eyes glanced to the other four.
"Who are they?" I asked the guy from my Spanish class. As soon as he looked up, he knew who I meant.
When my eyes moved to him, he was staring straight at me. His black eyes: intriguing and his body was masculine and amazing. Crap! I'm staring still. I moved my eyes away quicker than I usually could. I could feel the red splotches form. That quick glance made it clear that he wasn't interested at all.
My neighbour laughed once, uncomfortable, and looked down at the table, like I did, like a mirror.
"Those are the Cullens and the Hales. Royal and Jessamine Hale. Eleanor, Archie—the one who left—and Edward Cullen. They live with Dr. Cullen and her husband."
I glance sideways to 'perfect one', who was looking down at his tray, picking the bagel to pieces with thin, pale fingers. His lips were moving very quickly, like he was talking quietly to his siblings, despite the fact that they were facing away from him.
Weird names. Old-fashions. The kinds of names grandparents had—a bit like Beaufort, for example. Maybe, it was a thing here? Small-town names, maybe? Jeremy! That was my neighbour's name… A totally normal name.
"They are all very…very good looking." Understatement of the year award goes to me.
"Yeah, they really are." Jeremy agreed. "They're all together, though. Like dating—Jessamine and Archie, Royal and Eleanor. And they live together." He snickered and raised his eyebrows, suggestively.
I don't know why, but his reaction made me want to defend them. He just sounded so judgemental. But, what could I say? I don't know anything about them.
"Which ones are the Cullens?" I asked, desperate for the subject to change. "They don't look…well…related, kind-of."
"Oh, they're nor. Dr. Cullen is really young. Early thirties. The Cullen's are all adopted. The Hales—the blondes—are brother and sister, twins, actually, I think. I think they're foster kids."
"They look a little old for foster kids."
"They are now. Royal and Jessamine are eighteen, but they've been with Mr. Cullen since they were little. I think he's their uncle, or something."
"That's amazing—for taking care of them. At such a young age, as well."
"I guess so." Jeremy said, like he'd rather not say anything positive. As if he didn't like the doctor and her husband for some reason…and the way he looks at their adopted kids. Some sort of look sparks in his eyes. Jealousy? "I don't think Dr. Cullen can have kids, though." He added.
Through all this conversation, I couldn't keep my eyes away from him. They continued to look at a wall, and not eat.
"How long have they lived in Forks?" I'm sure it would be impossible for me to miss them during my summers here. Was there?
"They moved here two years ago, from Alaska."
I felt a strange wave of pity and relief. Pity: as beautiful as they were, they were outcasts—kind-of like me. Kind-of. And relief that I wasn't the only newcomer here; definitely not the most interesting, by far.
The perfect boy looked up to meet my gaze, this time obvious with curiosity. Looking away, his gaze looked like he was looking for some unanswered or unspoken expectation or answer.
"Who's the guy with the reddish-brown hair?" I asked. I tried to glance, casually, in his direction. He was still staring at me, but not gawking. He looked frustrated. I didn't understand. I looked down/
"That's Edward. Yeah, they're all hot. But don't waste your time. Apparently, no one is good enough for them." Jeremy said, sadly and sourly. I wonder which one had turned him down. And how many times…
I pressed my lips together to suppress a smile. Then, I glanced at him again. Edward. His face was turned away, but it looked like he might be smiling, too, from the shape of his cheek.
Several minutes later, the four of them left the table together. They were all graceful—even the 'golden prom king'. It was strange to watch them in motion together. Edward didn't look our way.
I sat with Jeremy and his 'group' longer than I would've if I'd been sitting alone. I didn't want to be late any class on my first day. One of my new acquaintances, who politely reminded me that her name was Allen, had Biology II with me next hour. We ambled to class together in silence. He already had a partner, in fact. All the tables were filled but one. Next to the centre aisle was Edward Cullen, sitting adjacent to the only single empty seat.
My heart started beating faster than usual, seeing him.
As I walked to the teacher's desk to get my slip signed, I was watching him. Just as I passed, he went rigid in his seat. His face jerked up towards mine so fast it surprised me, startling me with the strangest expression. It was more than angry. A lot more. It was furious. Hostile. I looked away, stunned, going red again. Making my way back to my seat, I tripped over a book in the walkway and had to catch myself on the edge of a table. The girl sat there giggled.
I'd been right about his coal-black eyes.
Mrs. Banner (the teacher) sent me to the open seat next to Edward. I kept my eyes down, as I went to sit down next to him, confused and awkward, wondering why I had these penetrating looks from him.
I didn't look up at all, as I set my book down on the table and took my seat next to him. His posture changed, when I sat down. He was leaning away from me, sitting on the edge of his chair. I sniffed my shirt. It smelled like laundry detergent. I scooted my chair to the right, giving him as much room as I possibly could. I tried to give all of my attention to the teacher. The lecture was on cellular anatomy, something I'd already studied. I took notes carefully, anyway. But, I just couldn't keep ignoring the strange boy sitting next to me. I gave him the occasional glance and his stiff position never changed or softened. Or relaxed, at all. His hand was clenched into a fist, sat on his left knee. He had the sleeves of a cream jumper rolled up to his forearm, flexed with surprisingly hard muscle underneath his pale skin. The skin was clear. Not one freckle; not one scar.
The class seemed to drag on longer than the others did. It was like the day was never going to end. Or was it because I was waiting for his fist to loosen? It was like he was not breathing. Was this how he usually acted? I questioned my judgement on Jeremy being sour to his family. Maybe, he wasn't just resentful.
This couldn't have anything to do with me, could it?
Mrs. Banner passed some quizzes back when the class was almost done. She handed me one to give to him. I placed at the top automatically. One hundred percent… Wow…
I glanced up at him, as I slid the piece of paper across the table. I instantly regret that. He was glaring up at me again, his black eyes full of odium. 'If looks could kill.' That phrase was spinning trough my mind as I flinched away from his hatred.
Making me jump, the bell rang loudly and Edward Cullen was out of his seat, out of the door and out of sight before anyone else. He looked like a dancer.
I sat, frozen in my seat, staring blankly after him. He was so harsh. Should I feel guilty? Why do I feel guilty? I did nothing. How could I have? I haven't even met him. Did I do something wrong?
"Are you Beaufort Swan?" A female voice asked.
I glanced up to see a baby-faced girl, her hair in a blonde ponytail, smiling at me in a friendly way. She obviously didn't think that I smelled bad. She smiled at me, in a friendly way.
"Beau." I corrected her, smiling back.
"I'm McKayla."
"Hey, McKayla."
"Do you need help finding your next class?" She asked, politely.
"I'm headed to the gym. I think I can find it, thanks."
"I'm heading to the gym, too." She seemed overjoyed. It wasn't a coincidence to have to same classes in such a small school.
We walked to class together; she was a talker. She supplied most of the conversation, which made it easier for me. She had lived in California until she was ten, so she understood the thing about the sun and the weather. I also found out she was in my English class. She was the nicest person I had met today.
But, as we weer entering the gym, she asked, "So, did you stab Edward Cullen with a pencil, or what? I've never seen him act like that before, ever."
I winced: I guess I wasn't the only one that noticed. So, that wasn't his usual behaviour. I decided to play dumb, not hard to play, though.
"Was that the boy I was sitting next to in Biology?"
"Yeah…" She replied, "He looked like he was in pain?"
"I don't know… I never spoke to him."
"He's weird. If I was sat next to you, I would have definitely spoken to you."
I smiled at her, before walking to the boys' locker room door. She was kind and seemed to like me. Unfortunately, that wasn't enough to make up for the strange, awkward hour.
The Gym teacher, Coach Clapp, but she didn't make me get changed for this lesson. At home, only two years of P.E. were required. Here, all four years were. My own version of hell. Joy…
I spectated four volleyball games, running simultaneously. I reminisced on all of the volleyball injuries I had sustained during a match.
The final bell rang, at last, and I ambled to the office to return my paperwork. The rain had faded away, but the wind was stronger; colder. I zipped up my jacket and shoved my free hand into my pocket.
When I stumbled into the warm office, I almost turned around and walk back out.
Edward Cullen was stood at the desk on front of me. It was impossible to not notice or recognise that bronze, tangled hair. He didn't seen to realise I was stood behind him. I leaned back against the wall, waiting for the receptionist to be free.
He was arguing with the receptionist, in a low, velvety voice. I picked up the conversation topic quite quickly: he was trying to trade from sixth-hour Biology to another time—any other time.
Was this about me? No… It had to be something else. The look on his face said otherwise. It was impossible for a stranger to take such a disliking to someone so much that they had to trade lessons so they didn't have to sit next to the said disliked person. I wasn't interesting enough to have that sort of reaction.
The door opened again, a gust of wind gushing through. The girl that came in out something in the desk and walked back out. Edward Cullen turned around slowly to face me, slowly, like in a horror movie when the victim had just realised that the serial-killer was walking right behind them, and they turn around to face the said murderer. It looked like he was going to point a gun at me and shoot. His face was ridiculously perfect. My heart started to race. The oddest thrill of genuine fear rushed through me. He turned back to the receptionist.
"Never mind, then." He said, smoothly, his voice like silk. "I can see that's impossible. Thank you so much for your help." He turned on his heel, walked out and didn't even glance at me.
I stumbled up to the desk, my face white for once, instead of red.
"How did your fist day go, son?" He asked, curious.
"Fine." I lied, muttering. My voice cracked and he seemed unconvinced.
When I finally arrived back at the truck, I was the one of the last people still there. It seemed like a haven. It was the closest thing to hime that I had in this wet, green hell. I sat inside the truck for a while. But, I was soon cold and wanted to make my way home. So, I turned the key and the engine roared to life. I headed back to Charlie's house, trying to think of nothing at all.