Full Summary: Hockey-obsessed tomboy Isabella Swan has never been the object of a guy's affection before. So, when the hottest boy she's ever seen moves in across the street and starts treating her like she's the center of his universe, naturally she's going to be a little skeptical. But everything starts to make sense when girls who look just like Bella start dying all around the city. Obviously the new guy is the killer, and of course he only likes her because he wants to slice her into tiny pieces... Right?
|Edward|
I've been in Michigan for exactly six hours and twenty-three minutes, and I already know I hate it here. The air is so thick you can almost drink it, and there are too many trees. Everywhere you look it's trees. Trees and concrete.
If the hot, humid air and trees aren't enough to suffocate me, the thought of having to live with a bunch of uncultured, simple, Middle Americans will definitely do it.
After driving all around the Detroit metro area today looking at houses, I've learned that these people's idea of sports cars are either Mustangs or Camaros, and fine dining equals Applebee's and Outback Steakhouse. I'll never see a decent California Roll again.
And will it kill them to listen to something other than hip-hop?
Just as we're passing yet another dilapidated strip mall, we turn into a neighborhood called Brookhurst.
"I know you're just going to love this one," the real estate lady cries from the front seat. "This neighborhood in particular has so much character!"
"What do you think Edward?" My aunt, Esme, asks while meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror.
One word comes to mind: hell. Technically, the map says Hell is about an hour Northwest of here, but still. This is close enough. Of course, I can't exactly say that to my aunt. I'm the one who picked this shit city. Seriously, what was I thinking?
I shrug noncommittally. "It's not Beverly Hills."
"But that's the adventure, right Edward?" Esme sounds like she's trying to convince herself more than me.
I can tell from the look on her face at each of the last five houses we've looked at that she is just as impressed as I am.
"Okay, here we are!"
The real estate lady is way too perky for her own good. I sort of want to stab her. I might be subconsciously considering it, because as we walk up to the front door of what I pray will not be my future residence, my knife has somehow found it's way into my hand and I'm flipping it open and closed. Esme usually gets on my case when I do that.
I tuck the knife back in the pocket of my jeans, and when the real estate lady goes to show my aunt the kitchen I wander up stairs where I won't hear her voice anymore.
I guess the bedrooms are decent sized enough, but whoever decorated this place—back in what I can only imagine was like 1972—had a thing for nasty shag carpet, wood paneling, and wallpaper the colors of red, burnt orange, and gold. It's like someone puked up autumn inside this house.
I've seen enough. I don't care if I'm a spoiled, rich brat from Beverly Hills. This whole idea that we experience middle class is bogus.
I'm literally heading out of the bedroom with the purpose of marching downstairs to demand that Esme forget this asinine plan and take me home when, suddenly, someone in the neighborhood decides to disturb the peace with Social Distortion.
My curiosity betrays me. I forget about my current mission and wander over to the window.
The music is coming from the house directly across the street, and the upstairs window that mirrors the one I'm standing in is wide open.
I lean against the window and wait to see if I can catch a glimpse of the neighbor. Despite the good taste in music, I do not want to be stuck living across the street from some tool. I really don't have much tolerance for most people my age. Guys especially.
A heavy backpack flies out the window onto the roof above the garage, and then a tall brunette wearing a sports jersey big enough to drown her follows it.
My breath catches in my lungs. She's gorgeous. But she's the kind of gorgeous that doesn't know what she is. Her long, straight, silky brown hair is pulled back into a haphazard ponytail, exposing a long, slender neck. I can't see her eyes, but even from all the way across the street I can tell that her full, pink lips are perfect for kissing. I can't really see her figure underneath her baggy clothes, but as she settles in against the side of her house, I can tell she has a leanness to her that suggests she's a serious athlete.
She's doing her homework on the roof, blaring rock, and eating what can only be mint-chip ice cream. She has a can of Redi-whip sitting beside her, but she doesn't put it on her ice-cream like a normal person. She takes a bite of ice-cream and then chases it with whipped cream sprayed directly from the can into her mouth.
I'm completely mesmerized by this odd girl, and, oh, how I want to be that can of whipped cream. No, I want to take that can of whipped cream and…
I jump when I hear voices come up the stairs behind me. I pretend to be checking out the closet space when Esme and the real estate lady enter the room.
"So…?" Esme asks. I can hear the hope in her voice.
She knows I'm not thrilled to be moving, and that I'm even less thrilled with having to downgrade from the posh lifestyle I'm accustomed to. The poor woman wants so desperately for me to find something I like.
I've found something I like, alright. But it isn't this shitty house.
"Yeah," I say, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. "I might be feeling this one."
Esme's eyes light up. "Okay," she squeaks, trying to contain her relief. Sometimes it's hard for her to dial back her intensity. "Well, you just take all the time you need. Get a feel for the place. We'll take a quick walk down the street and check out the neighborhood a bit."
"Sounds good."
"Okay." Esme jumps forward to wrap me in an excited hug. "Love you, Edward. You're an amazing kid."
I try not to roll my eyes. Or smile. My aunt can be ridiculous sometimes. Always trying to makeup for my childhood. Always wanting to make sure that I know I have someone who loves me. I'll never admit it to her, but I love the affection. It doesn't even embarrass me anymore. Love you too, Esme. "See you in a few minutes."
After I'm sure my aunt and the real estate lady are gone, I go back over to the window. To my relief, the brunette girl is still sitting there. Her empty bowl of ice-cream is set aside now, replaced with a can of Dr. Pepper. Not even diet. I didn't realize girls can eat ice cream and drink regular soda. Her head bobs along to the music, and whatever she's scribbling in her notebook looks more like a drawing than any math problem or book report.
A big yellow school bus zips down the street then and stops a few houses away. A minute later three guys come clomping up the street, laughing obnoxiously. I tense when I realize they're headed for her house.
Is one of these idiots her boyfriend?
"Swannnnnnn!" they all three call out in unison.
I relax a little. That doesn't seem like boyfriend behavior. Especially not when one of them addresses her next as, "Dude!"
"Dude! Where've you been? You totally missed it! Someone messed up Gabby Reese's face this morning. She's gonna have a fat shiner for prom."
The girl, Swan—I assume it's a last name—puts down her soda. "I didn't miss it, dillweed. I did it."
Did what? Mess up that girl's face?
"You did not!"
My mystery girl shrugs. "She questioned my sexual preference in a highly offensive way, so my fist questioned the proximity of her face in an even more offensive way."
I feel my eyebrows hit the ceiling. She says it so casually, and smiles, not proudly, but like she finds the whole ordeal amusing.
I've never seen a girl more relaxed, more natural. So comfortable in her own skin.
"Hence my absence at school today," she continues to explain. "I got sent home with a three-day suspension." .
One of the guys turns to the first one and holds out a hand. "Pay up, loser. I told you that was Swan's handiwork."
The first one coughed up his due ante and then said, "Hey, Swan, just what is your sexual preference, anyway?"
Quick as a flash, the girl takes off her shoe and whips it at the guy's head. He dodges it, but only barely. Both her arm and her aim are impressive. "What's yours, jackass?"
Everyone laughs, even the girl. Even me. It's really quite something to watch. She is something.
After a minute they all settle down and one of them says, "So, what's up? Are you grounded now, or what?"
"Don't know. It was really weird. When my mom picked me up from school I got a stern talking to, but then the travel agent called about her cruise and she forgot all about punishing me. She just dropped me off at home and went back to work."
"Sweet. Then get down here and let's go. It'll probably be your last chance to get in a game before we leave for the summer because your ass is toast when your mom gets home and realizes she forgot to lay down the law."
I wonder what kind of game they mean and I absolutely loathe them for taking her away. But that's what they do.
She crawls back inside her house, and, without bothering to close her bedroom window, reappears on her front porch and begins lacing up a pair of in-line skates.
Before she can leave, a car comes to a screeching halt in her driveway, making her friends scatter like bowling pins.
"Bella!" a petite girl in a short skirt, with the same hair color as my mystery girl, calls as she waves goodbye to the car full of girls who just dropped her off.
Bella. Her name is Bella. Bella Swan. It's such a cutesy name, but I still like it. It softens her up somehow.
The new girl continues to complain loudly as she forces her way past Bella's friends to the front door. "Can you please not let your band of losers loiter where people can see them? It's humiliating. And did you really punch Gabby Reese in the face? If I lose my junior prom court nomination because of you, I will seriously kill you."
I laugh for several reasons. First, because of the look Bella gives her friends behind her sister's back. And, second, because, for the life of me, I can't understand how these two girls can possibly be related. Or, maybe, more accurately, how they've survived this long without killing one another. Living across the street from them would never be boring, that was certain.
"Bite me, Alex," Bella says. "I only hit her because she called you a boyfriend-stealing, cheerleader wannabe who probably paid people to nominate you for junior prom princess. I was defending your honor. I swear."
Alex shrieks, believing the lie, and dashes into the house. No doubt to call her girlfriends for moral support and do damage control.
Bella and her friends don't wait until she's gone to fall to the ground laughing. They're still trying to get a hold of themselves when my aunt and the real estate lady come walking back up to the house. They eye Bella and her friends curiously, and Bella watches them right back, the interest evident on her face too.
I can tell Bella is wondering about who might move in to the house across the street from her, and consequently into her life. Without having to consider it, I know the answer. Me.
I'm going to move into this house. I'm going to plunk my bed right down beneath this very window. Then I'm going to make Esme live in this shit-hole city until Bella is ready to move to California with me.
I go downstairs to meet my aunt, hoping to get a better look at Bella and maybe see what her reaction to me is. But she's already gone when I get outside, skating away down the street with her friends.
She never looks back.
"So, is this the one? Can we stop looking?" Esme asks when she sees me.
I look back at the house and then glance up at Bella's open window. This is definitely the one.
I nod. "We have a winner."
A/N: I love Twilight and true crime - why not combine the two? :)
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