Thankfully, my dad showed up soon after Mrs. Baker left, allowing me to get out of the house.

"You want to eat at the diner?" my dad asked as I unbuckled my seat belt. I nodded, watching him pull off a parallel parking job I could never hope to match, considering my klutziness.

As we sat down inside the diner, waiting for the waitress to take our order, Charlie looked around awkwardly before asking, "Any boys you've left behind I should know about?"

I blinked, tempted to laugh it off, before realizing that he was actually serious – dare I say, he was worried. It was sweet. I shook my head, suppressing a happy grin. He relaxed visibly. "You don't need to smile about it!" I exclaimed, moving on to a new topic – what I needed to pick up at the grocery store later.

Lunch was a pleasant burger-and-fries affair, which was delicious. The two of us didn't say much, but neither of us minded. It was nice.

It was about a half an hour later that the waitress came with our check, and Charlie's lunch hour was nearly over. We said our good-byes, and he reminded me to text him at five-thirty, when he got off work, so he would know where to pick me up. I was about to leave when he stopped me and handed me two twenty dollar bills. "For whatever you want to eat," he signed. I was genuinely surprised – I had planned on using some of my own money.

"Thanks, Dad."

He flushed.

Downtown Forks wasn't very large, perhaps three blocks by five blocks at the most, with shops spotting the blocks surrounding that. Enough for an afternoon of browsing, definitely, and it went right by the High School, which I was looking forward to seeing.

I spent a little while poking through thrift stores and a large-ish family owned book store with an interesting variety of novels. There wasn't much to see, though, and soon I found myself walking up to the high school. It wasn't huge, like the mainstream school I used to pass on my was to PDSD, but it wasn't tiny. It was a pretty 1920's style brick building, two stories in the front, one everywhere else, with bright red doors and accents on the brown bricks and pale cement blocks.

Brightly-colored flowers grew in tall bushes near the windows, and short green shrubs lined the walkway to the main doors. There was a tall flagpole, and a large wooden sign proclaiming "Forks High School Home of the Spartans" in raised yellow letters.

It was pretty. I hoped it was as nice as it looked – I'd heard a lot of stories from classmates that had been mainstreamed back in Phoenix, and very few of them were good. It made me feel relieved that I would be having an interpreter; some of the students I'd spoken to had been sent to hearing schools straight away, not knowing how to talk or speech-read at all – several of them didn't even sign,then.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I was winding myself up for nothing, everything would go fine. I'd like the school, the other students would be nice enough, and the teachers wouldn't make faces at my interpreter.

Shrugging my shoulders, I walked toward where I vaguely recalled seeing the grocery store an hour earlier.

Thank whatever God there was for the magazine racks.

It was five o'clock when I finished getting almost everything on the grocery list – I'd pick up the refrigerated foods and vanilla ice cream just before heading to checkout, I didn't want any of it to go bad or melt. I ended up adding National Geographic, Time, and Cooking Light to my shopping cart before checking out.

At five-thirty, I was standing in line, waiting to check out, and texting Charlie. 'At grocery checkout. Will be out front when done,' I typed. I jumped when a hand suddenly flapped itself into my field of vision, and an irate checkout girl scowled at me.

"Quit texting, Jeez!" she frowned. "Your total is $36.58."

"Thirty-six fifty-eight?" I repeated, wanting to make sure I'd gotten everything. The girl rolled her eyes and nodded, taking the money when I handed it to her. She handed me my change, and a few minutes later, Charlie picked me up in the police cruiser.

"I met a girl at the store," I told him, once we'd reached a stop light. "She was the checkout clerk. She got annoyed when I texted you."

Charlie's eyebrows rose. "Oh? What was her name?"

I shrugged. "Don't know. I didn't see her name tag. She had blonde hair, cut short, with freckles, and maybe brown eyes?"

My dad nodded. "I think I know her. Heather Young – her brother is one of my officers. Are, uh, you two friends, now?"

"I don't know yet."

He seemed confused by my answer, but let it be as the light turned green and we drove the last mile or so to the house.

.

That night, Charlie managed to fix the DVD player, and the two of us had fun watching Shakespeare's Twelfth Night in ASL. I had fun; Twelfth Night was my favorite play, and Charlie liked it, too, so we both had fun.

Once the movie was over, we ended up ironing out what my chores were going to be. I was surprised; I had a lot less to do here than in Phoenix. I only had to clean up after myself, clean the bathroom every other week, and help with dinners. Other than that, Charlie just wanted me to add to the grocery list whenever we ran out of something.

It was nice.

The rest of the month passed quickly, the school Open House happened, where I got to meet my interpreter and teachers, and soon summer vacation ended. August thirty-first dawned foggy, with lots of stumbling around at too early an hour to try and find my light switch. I ended up dressing half-blind, but my clothes turned out rather well for it, in my opinion. It's hard to go wrong with jeans and t-shirts, after all. And it would hopefully make it easier for my interpreter to find me – I doubted many hearies would be walking around with a 'Warning: DEAF! And Proud Of It!' shirt.

Charlie drove me to school on his way to work at six, since we still needed to get me enough driving hours for my license, which meant that, thankfully, there wasn't anyone besides a few teachers to see the cop car pull up in front of the building. If there had been any students, I'm certain I'd have died from embarrassment. 'Oh look, the weird new girl got taken to school in a cop car! She's from a big city, so I guess she must be on parole or something!'

I was eternally grateful that that didn't happen. Instead, I had breakfast in the cafeteria, and ended up walking into my interpreter, Pamela, name sign 'think' with a P. I nearly fell over her when I got up to throw my spork and cardboard food tray away. She didn't mind, and laughed it off when I apologized. We looked at my class schedule together, and made sure to see where everything was before school started.

While we were doing this, I saw everyone getting up from their seats, and heard the school bell ring. After confirming that we were going to Homeroom first when Pamela asked, the two of us set off.

I can do this, I lied to myself feebly. No-one was going to bite me. I finally exhaled when we reached the classroom, and stepped inside. I glanced nervously at Pamela, and toyed with the sleeves of my dark gray hoodie. There was a nameplate on the teacher's desk declaring the balding man to be Mr Mason – my English teacher first period, as well as Homeroom.

Trying not to show my nerves, I walked up to the desk. "Excuse me?" I said. The tall, balding man turned around, eyebrows raised in interest. "I'm Bella Swan, is there assigned seating?"

Mr Mason started speaking very quickly, and I glanced at Pamela, who was already signing, to my relief. "Oh! The Deaf girl! Yes, I mean, not for Homeroom, but I remember seeing your name on my roster for first period – I'll be putting up a seating chart on the overhead then." I nodded, and looked back to Mr Mason, who was staring bemusedly between me and Pamela.

"I beg your pardon, but if you can speak, why do you need an interpreter?" he asked.

I blinked for a moment. "I'm sorry – did you just ask why I had an interpreter?" I asked, to make sure I'd read his lips correctly. He nodded. Okay, then. "I can speak, but to understand what you're saying, I need to speech-read, to see your lips. If I'm lucky I can read about sixty percent of what you're saying, but that's not enough to do well in your class. So, I have an interpreter. He name is Pamela. She's standing right next to me."

I winced as soon as I said that. It was probably rude, but Pamela was standing right next to me, and personally, I felt insulted that Mr Mason asked, even if, logically, I was glad he didn't just assume that because I could talk I could hear. I couldn't hear, so how did he think I was going to learn anything from his lecture? Osmosis?

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that," I told him, and ducked my head as I walked to a pair of empty seats near the door. I pulled out a book to read, and was just starting to get into it, when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

"Hi!" the boy said cheerfully. He was gangly, a sort of acne beard and black hair that fell into his face. "You're Isabella Swan, aren't you?" He asked eagerly.

"Yes," I told him. "Call me Bella, though." I tried not to jump in surprise when at least four people turned in their seats to look at me. I felt like some sort of creature on display in a zoo; it was uncomfortable.

The boy grinned, holding out his hand. "Cool! My name's - are you in - first?"

My brows furrowed. "Can you say that more slowly," I asked. "I didn't catch everything you said."

He blinked rapidly, before shrugging a little and repeating himself, this time staying still in his seat. Apparently his name was Eric and he wanted to know if I was in English first, like him. "Good to meet you," I told him. We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, until the bell rang, and two-thirds of the students scrambled out of the classroom.

Meanwhile, Mr Mason had put up the seating chart for first period, and Pamela left to take advantage of the passing period to go do – something. I wasn't sure what. I assumed she had to go to the bathroom, because I couldn't think of anything else she might want to do at a school.

The rest of the day passed quickly, with locker assignments in second period (Government), French in third, and Trigonometry in fourth. There was one girl in my French and Trig classes that was nice enough. She was slim and short, with dark blonde hair and pale gray eyes.

She asked a lot of questions about signing and why I decided to go to a mainstream school rather than a Deaf school, once I told her that that was an option. The answer was simple – I didn't want to literally live at school five days a week, and only see my dad on weekends and holidays. If that had been the case, I would have just stayed in Phoenix, rather than insist on moving to Forks as soon as my mother got engaged.

Her name was Shannon Harmon, and we ended up talking all the way to lunch, at which point she introduced me to her friends. Ben, who was lanky with very blonde hair and an earring; Maria, a happy-looking girl with dark hair and lots of eyeliner around her green eyes; and a freckly girl named Faith, who had ink on the sides of her hands and very choppy red hair.

Introductions went around, and I felt myself relaxing; this wasn't half so bad as I'd feared it would be. The four other teenagers didn't really mind repeating themselves, and while it was annoying when Ben suggested writing everything down, overall things went pretty smoothly. Halfway through lunch, Faith asked about how to spell out names in ASL, which led to an impromptu lesson in finger spelling in exchange for directions to the art room, which wasn't marked on my map of the school.

Of course, I ended up having Biology II before Art class, but at least now I knew where it would be.

Pamela was waiting for me outside the Biology classroom. When we entered the classroom, half of the familiarly black-topped tables had students in them. I frowned, silently hoping that I wouldn't end up having to sit alone. I walked up to the teacher's desk to have my schedule signed, and get my text book from Mr. Banner.

The man handed me my book with a no-nonsense set of instructions, and a brief smile – apparently he had a Deaf granddaughter in Seattle, and she'd just started attending the Deaf school there. He said he didn't know much sign language, but he knew enough to introduce himself and talk to me a little, and I smiled.

Soon, the bell rang, and Mr. Banner started pairing students up by lottery – we all wrote our names on a slip of paper, crumpled it up, and he pulled them out of a hat on his desk. I was seated at the frontmost center desk with a shy looking girl named Angela. Everything went normally until the boy that had been in front of my desk moved to his own.

The guy behind him was beautiful. He had gorgeous messy bronze hair, and he looked like a model – post-Photoshop. I stared. Was he real? Or was this just a very nice hallucination?

But as I watched him, he went rigid, and his head snapped to look at me, with the strangest expression I'd ever seen on his face – it was hostile, furious. I looked away quickly, shocked, and stared at my blue spiral notebook, with the sign for 'Science' doodled on the front in silver Sharpie. I was certain I must be bright red. I flicked my eyes up again, and his fists were clenched. I noticed that his eyes were black – coal black.

Mr. Banner sent him to his seat a minute or so later, and I determinedly did not look at him after he'd passed my desk, bewildered by the antagonistic stare he'd given me.

Pamela waved to catch my attention from her spot at the front of the room, having noticed my – I suppose it could be called interaction – with the gorgeous, hostile boy. "Are you okay?" she signed. "You look upset."

I nodded, plastering a smile on my face for good measure. I'd had lots of practice bluffing at Renee's. "I'm fine." I told her. "The boy, with the red-brown hair, was just glaring at me, and I got upset. I'm ok, though,, don't worry about it."

The interpreter nodded, and soon class started, and I couldn't stop myself from looking back at the boy once or twice. Each time, he was glowering, eyes full of revulsion, and I had to look away; I felt sick to my stomach. It couldn't be anything I'd done. He didn't know me from Eve. He didn't even know my name.

Was this his normal behavior? I questioned how he had any friends if that were the case. I glanced back at him one last time, and regretted it instantly. The phrase, "If looks could kill" ran through my mind, and it had never seemed more apt. I flinched away from his look, shrinking in my seat and jotting down the last of my notes before the bell rang, and suddenly the boy was gone, stalking past my desk with an almost inhuman speed.

I sat frozen in my seat, staring blankly after him. He was... awful. It wasn't fair – I hadn't done anything to him. What, did he see my shirt and decide a Deaf girl didn't belong in a mainstream school or something? It wasn't fair. I began slowly gathering up my things slowly, trying to block the anger that filled me, for fear my eyes would tear up – I had always hated that reaction in myself. For some reason, my temper was hardwired to my tear ducts, and I hated it; it was a humiliating tendency.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

I looked up to see a very short girl with light brown hair and eyes looking at me with concern. "Are you okay?" she asked. I was surprised to see honest compassion in her eyes. I nodded slowly, ad she gave me a tentative smile. "Well, if Edward gives you any trouble, don't feel afraid to report him – I've never seen him act like that, but it isn't right. What's your next class?"

"Umm," I stammered, looking down at my schedule. "Art 101," I smiled. She perked up. "I have photography, they're in the same classroom. Do you want me to show you how to get there?"

A quick glance at my map answered that question for me. "Yeah. Thanks."

"No problem."

It was becoming a good day.

.

So, tell me, how was it? A decent follow-up chapter? And questions on what was written? Seriously, feel fre to ask away! PM, Review, whatever. Just let me know.

Hope you liked it, and remember to EatYourRikkios! :-)