Edward
The truck is a monster.
And I love it. Who would have guessed?
It's big and it's red and it's faded like an old pair of jeans. I have no idea what year it is, and my dad's not saying. Probably afraid of scaring me off the thing, but no way. I love this old clunker.
It makes a huge roar when he turns the key in the ignition for me in the dark at 7 am; with the drizzle coming in at my collar, and the whole street socked in with sheets of cold white mist, and no hope of ever seeing any sky, even when it does finally get light. In Phoenix it would be light enough to see everything at this hour. But not in Forks. Too far north. Too much rain.
"Gotta go, kiddo. I'm gonna be late. Radio works, too, check it out."
"Thanks, Dad." I mean it. I want to get in right away, and not just because I'm getting wet outside. The thing fits me, somehow. Big blocky fenders, square old cab, dead dull paint job and all. I don't even mind the smells. Tobacco, gasoline … and peppermint, of all things. The inside is clean (somebody must have put in a good afternoon's work for that, I bet), it's dry, and it's warmer than I was expecting.
"Oh, and Bells," – my dad has the window of his cruiser down, and he's leaning out to make sure I can hear – "don't try to push her past 55. Fourth gear doesn't work that good."
I should have known. Chief Swan's daughter is not going to get picked up for speeding. And she has a ton of iron between her and any other vehicle, God forbid. I wonder if Uncle Billy was also in on this plot to get me a guardian behemoth? And I don't even care. I'm already looking at the truck as my refuge against the first day in a school full of strangers.
I sort of know where the High School is. I mean, it's not like I was blindfolded on my visits here those other summers. And where else would it be but "just off the highway"? But I still almost miss it amongst the big, dark pines that hide its one playing field. It just doesn't feel like a school to me. Instead of a big, sprawling building with a massive parking lot, it's a bunch of smaller, brick, almost house-like buildings, with little parking lots scattered among them. Which if you ask me is really poor planning in a town where it rains every day. I bet their absentee rate is sky high.
Everything about the first day at a new school is torture, and I'm not expecting anything but.
Where to park? Try to follow the other cars.
Luckily, my big red monster doesn't stick out too badly. Most of the cars are pretty vintage, or else rough and ready: trucks, vans, a jeep with monster wheels. The only exception is a totally sweet little silver Volvo C30, parked away from all the others. No surprise there. Can you imagine the lawsuit if someone ever scratched that car? I don't want to imagine it being my door that makes contact, so I park in the opposite corner of the lot.
Which means I have a long trek to the middle building, which has a small but helpful plaque on it saying, "All visitors check in at front office." So far, so good. I don't have to ask for directions. My big poufy parka is the right color, kind of a gun-metal gray that blends in with all the other parkas and raincoats I see, although there are a few of those red and black hunter checks that must be mandatory for backwoods towns. And the hood is keeping the rain off me and hiding my face at the same time. All good.
The front office is very bright and cheerful. Feels more like Middle School than a High School. The lady at the desk is big and motherly with frizzy brown hair. She's wearing a purple T-shirt, which I guess must be a school booster shirt, because it has the words "Go Lightning!" scrawled across it in furiously orange, zig-zaggy letters.
"I'm Isabella Swan." I try not to make it sound like a question; honestly, I do. The woman's eyes light up anyway. I'm expected. What did I expect? Daughter of police chief's flighty ex-wife returns to Forks for junior year. Whisper, whisper, whisper.
"Here you are, dear." Class list, schedule, school map, sign-in slips – she goes over everything with me, even highlighting the best route from class to class. She really is very considerate, and I try to pay attention, I really do. But it's all just too much, and I've done it too many times before, and my eyes are glazing over from sleep deprivation, and I just wish I were already sitting in my seat in the first class so I wouldn't have to run the gauntlet of getting there.
I walk out feeling like I have a brand across my forehead: "New Kid." Or maybe "Prodigal" is more like it, but I have a feeling that's too big of a vocabulary word for this place. And besides, as far as the kids in school are concerned, I've never existed until today.
"So, hey!"
I freeze. Just like the deer must have, blinded by the headlights, right before the logging truck smashed into it.
"I'm Jessica." A hand is shoved toward me. Very pale, so at least I'm not the only albino here. A quick glance around at the other kids in the hallway shows that all of them look like they haven't seen the sun in a while.
I manage my best smile, "I'm Bella," and shake her hand. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.
"Chief Swan's your dad, right?"
"Yeah."
"I knew that 'cause my cousin's his dispatcher."
"Cool." I know how to say it with a shrug, just making conversation. And not letting on that I detect more conspiracy by meddling adults. A crowd is gathering. Must be her posse. This is where the fun begins. Faces swimming before my eyes, names sliding out of my head as soon as they're said, like slippery little minnows too small for the net. I'll get them all straight eventually, and be bobbing my head and smiling stupidly in the mean time.
"So, welcome to Forks," a tall, black-haired anorexic-looking girl is saying.
"Yeah, where the sun don't shine!" A tow-head with very carefully gelled spikes, and a roundish face.
"Jesus, Mikey, you've been saying that since we were in eighth grade."
I must have just made his day, being new and all, and never having heard his little joke before.
Turns out I'm in the same English class as they are, first period, so they sort of usher me around. It's okay. Could be a lot worse. The day slides by in a blur. Third period already, and running to the science building because the drizzle has decided to become a downpour. I have a feeling that "Mikey" would like to have me run under his poncho, but I have cover of my own, and anyway … I'm not ready to reveal to everyone quite just yet how clumsy I am. I tend to step on people's feet in close quarters. Or worse yet, trip and splat my face in the mud.
The heat in Forks High School doesn't work too well, so a lot of the rooms have at least one or two heat reflector fans strategically placed to help out. In Biology, they have one each at the front and rear of the class. Handing my attendance slip to Mr. Molina gives me an excuse to stand right in front of the one by his desk, even if only for a moment. It feels so good to be warm.
I scan the room while he gets my stuff together to give me.
Generic, black-topped lab tables, the high stools for seats, eye-wash sink and fan hood in the back. It feels familiar. I just wish that I could have been put in Physics instead of Biology, which I've already taken before. But there are no openings. Just like this school has no AP French, so I have to take first year Spanish with all the freshmen. There are no empty seats in this class either, except for one. Jessica and her crew are already shuffling over to their various seats around the room. The only open space is next to … I turn my eyes quickly back to the teacher, and the big heavy textbook and two workbooks he's handing me.
The boy.
I can barely breathe he's so beautiful. Pale, pale skin, like porcelain. His hair isn't long, but it's rebellious. A kind of rich, soft brown with bronzy accents. He has a slender, graceful build that layers of clothing can't quite disguise. His eyebrows are very straight, and his dark, dark eyes are … we only make eye contact for a moment. He snaps his gaze away from me, too, even faster than I can. But in that moment I see – Terror? Hatred? Fury?
Why?
I'm fumbling with the books, and the strangeness of his gaze almost but not quite distracts me from the glimpse I've had of his lips. They're soft, and red enough to contrast sharply with his face, and oh God, I would give my life right here and now to kiss him on the mouth, just once. Just once. Me who has never kissed, never even wanted to kiss anyone. Ever.
And the universe is forcing me to sit next to him. It's so wrong.
Eyes on feet. Don't trip. Do not trip and do not pass out. Breathe. I pick my way down the aisle to the Siege Perilous that awaits me. From the edges of my non-vision, I see that he has left his seat and is speaking in an inaudibly low voice with another boy two rows in front.
"Mr. Cullen, what are you doing?" The teacher's voice calls everyone to attention. I'm almost there, but reflexively stop, too.
"I'm trading seats with Josh." Even his voice is beautiful.
"That won't be necessary."
"Yes it is!" Maybe it came out louder and more forcefully than he'd intended, but his body language has nothing in it of backing down.
"And why is that?" I can see that the teacher is one inch short of losing patience. So is the boy, because he just blurts out –
"She stinks!"
Amidst general laughter – at me, at him, what does it matter? – Mr. Molina says, "Go back to your seat, Edward. Now."
I do not drop my books. I do not trip over the backpack that sits halfway into the aisle just in front of the last desk. I do not cry. I do not look at the boy as he slides, with no good grace at all, back onto his stool. I don't look anywhere but at my stuff as I put my things down, get myself settled and pull my notebook out. The titters are dying down. I'm biting on the inside of my lower lip to keep a grip. Too hard, it turns out. I can taste the blood running into my mouth. Damn, damn and double damn! No one can see that my lip is bleeding because it's on the inside. But it might swell. God Almighty, the last thing I need now is a fat lip.
How could he say that? How could he be so cruel? Even if I do smell, what did I ever do to him that he should humiliate me like that? In front of everyone. On my very first day. The worst part of all is that I can't check myself to see if I do smell. Everyone would see, and then I'll really never live it down. I took a shower last night. How bad can it be?
And there he is, still making a spectacle. His stool is as far away to the side as he can move it without being off the desk completely. And he's sitting as far to the edge of his stool away from me as he can without falling off. I can still hear the occasional giggle, as one or another classmate glances at us. And all the while I'm sucking very discreetly on the inside of my lip because it's still bleeding. Not much, but enough that I can taste it going down. It's starting to throb.
My eyes are straight front. Blackboard, notebook. Notebook, blackboard. But there's such a thing as peripheral vision. And "Edward" isn't quite out of the edge of that. He isn't looking at me, either, but God, if looks could kill, I'd be a goner. He's ostensibly taking notes, like me, holding his pencil so tightly that I think the tendons in his hand might snap. And his left hand, too, is clenched in a fist on his thigh, knuckles white, white, white. If he has any fingernails at all, they're going to leave marks. I hope you draw blood, I think viciously. At least then we'd be even.
His face has a strange pinched look, and every once in a while his nostrils flare. News flash: shouldn't do that if you don't want to smell someone. He might be trembling, but his whole body is wound so tight, arching from where he's sitting on the stool to where his wrist is braced on the desk for writing, that it's impossible to tell. I wonder if he's even breathing.
After an eternity, the class is over, and he's out the door and gone before I've even gotten my books into my backpack.
Girls' bathroom. Must get to girls' bathroom. Undetected, that would be the hard part; since I have to pull out the office lady's helpful map to get my bearings. But I finally find it and duck into the handicapped stall. More room for me to crouch on the floor. I find that I'm shivering. Whether from cold or emotion I don't know. I put my face into my parka hood, but no tears will come. I don't want to make any noise, so I really need to let everything out through tears, but – nothing. It's like I'm frozen. It's horrible. I finally give up and pull out my little mirror (you know, for zits and food stuck in teeth) to check my lip. The bleeding has stopped, but it's tender, and it does seem to be getting a little swollen. If it doesn't get any worse, maybe no one will notice. I hope.
"Bella, you in there?"
Oh, dang. Jessica. I guess I should be grateful. At least I remember her name.
"Just finishing." Quick sniff at my shirt. Nothing offensive. Deep inhale. Still nothing. Only a little of the "Purple Sage" body wash I'd brought from Phoenix. And it's not clashing with my hair because I use the same shampoo. Maybe some stray body heat might have warmed it up a bit, but there's no sweat smell. Or maybe it was the slight damp from having run in the rain? But that's not my fault. And I can't be the only one. What is his problem?
I flush the toilet to keep my cover, wipe my face on the lining of my parka, and come out. No dice. Jessica has me nailed.
"He's just a stuck up bastard and nobody likes him anyway, so don't even listen to him."
I just shrug. "Whatever."
But Jessica's okay. I pop a handful of Tic-Tacs just in case, and follow her out.