Chapter Three: Paper Faces On Parade
On Monday morning I awoke to the sound of cicadas screeching pleasantly from my alarm clock. Of the many 'nature sounds' that my alarm could play, I needed something that wasn't too mellow or grating to the ear. Between owls hooting and cicadas, the latter's tranquil cacophony reminded me most of home. When mom and I used to sit out back and listen to their pining chorus.
It was strange, how they offered me no comfort.
The room was dark and unnatural and I stared dejectedly out the window to escape it. Engrossed from the near-constant gray cage holding the world in, the subtle fingers of claustrophobia began creeping up my spine. It was suffocating.
When I couldn't bear to watch the sky anymore I clamored out of bed.
After a hot shower, breakfast with Charlie was a quiet event. It ended with him wishing me good luck at school today and I thanked him for the thought. Good luck tended to avoid me like the plague and I didn't expect that would be changing anytime soon.
Charlie left soon after, heading to his job at the police station that was his wife and family.
Another thing I'd made my peace with long ago.
After the front door closed and the sounds of the Cruiser faded into the distance, I sat at the old square oak table in one of the three non-matching chairs. Examining the small kitchen, with its dark paneled walls, obnoxiously bright yellow cabinets, and damaged linoleum floor with a soft sigh under my breath. Nothing had changed about this place.
My mother painted the cabinets canary yellow in an attempt to bring some sunshine into this otherwise dreary house. She truly thought that particular shade, in contrast with the faint green light that touched this entire county, could have possibly added any cheer.
The result left the room covered in a ghastly shade of baby poop – ironically on all days except when actual sunshine touched the kitchen. Which was most days here in 'raintown'. It was one of a thousand silly ideas of hers, though it was easy to appreciate this one.
Despite how I hated the way this ocher color had consumed the tiny room, I missed her a little bit less when I was in it. This comical mistake lessened the hole of her absence in my chest.
As the dull, stinging, ache began to settle over me, I sought out other signs of my mother's influence over this house. Drinking in all the little details she'd left here as I walked from the kitchen to the adjoining living room.
Over the small fireplace was a row of pictures that I paused to study. The procession started with my mom and Charlie looking very happy together in a tiny, Port Angeles, Chapel.
No one would have known, by appearances alone, that my mom was pregnant with me in the picture. Neither one of my parents looked unhappy to have tied the knot, but eventually that changed.
A piece of paper, and the resulting legal hassle, wasn't enough to keep my family together.
The next photo was one of the three of us in the hospital after I'd been born, taken by a helpful nurse, with mom looking exhilarated and worn out. Holding me against her chest in a bundle of light blue blankets that she probably still had in a closet somewhere. My father was in his Police Academy uniform, to the surprise of no one.
The following photos, which were the only pictures on the mantle that I actively loathed, were a progression of all my school pictures up until last year's photo. Which were embarrassing to look at, so I turned every photo of myself around or face down. Simply so I wasn't stuck staring at ugly versions of myself.
In Phoenix, my Mom made a point to only have photos of me that I approved of hung up on the wall. Most of her pictures of me were in albums out of sight. It wasn't like I was ugly or doing anything too out of the ordinary in them, I'd just never liked people staring at me. Having my picture taken was giving someone access to stare at me whenever they liked. It felt almost like a visceral wound unable to close in my psyche, not that I could explain the feeling.
Taking these photos away from my father seemed too cruel a thing. But, if I had no conscience then they'd have been tossed somewhere hard to find the second I got here. A bitter root inside me wondered how long it would take Charlie to notice they were gone.
It was a thought I decided to ignore.
My father wasn't a bad person for devoting himself to the place his friends and family were. Just. Sometimes I wished he'd put more effort into being there for me, too.
Standing there, studying how the house remained practically unchanged for my whole life, the truth was glaringly obvious: Charlie had never gotten over my mom.
He still had photos of her hung up on the wall, not just the ones with me in them, and his eyes took on a brighter sheen whenever she was mentioned. A subtle little glimmer of longing that resurfaced whenever she came up in conversation.
I used to hate seeing that sparkle in his eyes, but now I just felt sorry for him.
Staring at the first photo of Mom and Charlie in the little chapel, incandescently happy, I wondered between the two different ways they showed love. Adventurously, like my mom (who had a penchant for letting relationships fade away like sandcastles once the spark was gone)…or my father.
Who still had her photos up on the mantle. All her changes to the decor unaltered. Pining in his quiet way, forever.
I guess the adventure never faded for him.
Sometimes I wondered whether I'd ever fall in love, and if I did, what sort of love my heart had the capacity to give.
It wasn't as though I'd never liked someone before, though it had never really had a chance to build into anything substantial. Childhood kisses at the age of six weren't something most people tended to count on the docket of past relationships.
All I can say is that it felt like love at the time. Hell, maybe it was.
If there was anything I regretted when Mom and I moved to Arizona, it was that I never got the chance to tell him how I felt or even say goodbye. I suppose that sort of consideration was way over my head as a six-year-old, anyhow. Yet, now I couldn't remember his face or even what his last name was.
Did I still pine after those memories? No, not anymore. But for two or three years that person was all I could think about in my dreams at night. I missed them, our separation left a scar in my heart, and for many reasons…I'd never told my mom about him.
Close as we were, knowing how romantic she was, I guess I figured she'd try and contact my old school and arrange a long-distance play date or something else adorably sappy.
Deep down, I think the real reason I never told her about him was because I knew that he and I were meant to part. I wasn't meant to be that person for him. Even if I didn't understand why, that much felt true.
I'd had crushes since then, but they were fleeting and often unrequited. Probably because having seen me step through every single phase of adolescence, I'd always be seen as that kid with problems who rode the small bus to school.
Finally settling my attention on my most recently sent school picture – featuring an unsightly welt of acne which had decided to grow inside the notch in my chin – I wondered if I ever would be free of stigma.
Maybe I would always be that freak, but at least my skin was clearer now.
A laugh scoffed from my nose to no one. Why was I thinking about love right now?
This place would just suck it out.
Not wanting to think about the haunted memories forever tied to my parent's whirlwind romance and this ramshackle broken home, I turned the final photo of myself around. Pretending, for a moment, that they weren't here and I was somewhere else.
Donning my olive green parka, which felt more like a biohazard suit than a coat, I headed out into the rain.
Keys in my pocket, I rushed through the drizzling rain and toe-deep puddles on the way to my new truck. In Phoenix, the crunching of dry gravel under my feet was a comforting sensation before I left the house for school or errands. Here? The ground was wet, and mushy, and my soles sorely missed the crumble of tiny stones and dust.
Inside the truck, it was nice and dry. For a few minutes, I just breathed in. Preparing myself and remembering all that Jacob had taught me about driving a stick. Ignoring the fact that the cab still smelled like him, too. Simply because the track record of someone actually calling me was slim and one got accustomed to the evanescence of fading friendships.
The tan upholstered seats still smelled faintly of tobacco, gasoline, and spearmint. So, I focused on those instead.
Turning the key in the ignition to get some heat brewing, a soft smile curled my lips as my truck roared exuberantly. Purring in a bubbling rumble as I waited for the heater to kick some heat into the cab.
It was strange to feel a sense of camaraderie from a vehicle, especially a truck that was probably older than my father, weathered from decades of experience, and staggeringly more 'true grit' than I was. Still, I felt almost powerful having this car (since I still needed to get a job, sign the papers, and pay the insurance to really own him).
Somehow, as ridiculous as it was, it felt like this truck was roaring for me. That he was just as over the moon to be 'my' truck regardless of all the previous riders that had parked their ass on this tan bench seat.
Maybe I was being childish, but I felt like this truck had a personality: Honest, bold, down to earth, and loyal. A sheriff from old spaghetti westerns. I felt immaculately safe behind the wheel; like he'd protect me.
From what, I didn't know.
Brushing my fingers over the dashboard, feeling the vibrations of the purr against my skin, my mouth curled into a heady little smirk.
"Good Beastie," I praised, even with his volume level being decidedly more flawed than beneficial.
My beast didn't answer, but somehow I felt he knew. He rumbled at full vroom, clicking and popping under the hood. Sending subtle vibrations all over my body.
Curiously flicking on the radio, I was surprised that it worked, much less that I could find a decent rock station – a plus I hadn't expected to find.
At any rate, it was better than listening to the rain or using my earbuds and risking an accident in an area I wasn't totally familiar with.
Finding Forks High again wasn't all that difficult, as almost all things could be found off the 101 highway. The giant brick building wasn't quite as imposing as the one in Phoenix – it lacked the dread of 'the institution'. There were no chain-link fences, metal detectors, or security guards patrolling out front by the parking lot.
I was also early – arguably way too early – as very few cars were parked in the front row nearest the concrete steps leading into the building.
Were students not allowed to park this close to the front door? I guess it didn't matter if I was the only one here.
Besides, I told myself, once I got set up in the office I could move him.
It was better to park here than circle around dazed and confused, and look like a complete idiot, anyway.
Turning off the ignition and shoving the keys in my pocket, I stepped out of my toasty truck cab and shut the door.
No one was around and it was unsettling and comforting all at once. Perhaps I'd been too hasty leaving the house, I wondered to myself as I took a glance around the parking lot. I'd stumbled into a ghost town.
It was Monday, right?
Walking toward the high concrete steps that led to a path lined with dark hedges, I paused to take a deep breath before I opened the main door and stepped inside.
A pale blue interior with goldenrod-painted classroom doors met me as I surveyed the school. Dark teal paint lined the windowed door that led to the office, making it easy to spot, so without pausing to glance at the billboards of 'pep rallies' and events, I walked right to the office.
Inside, the office was brightly lit and warmer than I'd thought it would be. There was a little waiting area with plastic blue seats, pale gray linoleum floors, more notices and awards cluttering the walls, and a large clock ticking loudly by the door. Plants grew everywhere in large plastic pots – as if there simply wasn't enough greenery outside.
I frowned heavily. How could I possibly have any escape from this clustered forest if they brought it inside with them, too?
The small office was cut in half by a long counter that was cluttered with wire baskets full of papers and brightly colored flyers taped to its front. There were three desks that I could see behind the counter, one of which was manned by a redheaded woman who looked to be around my father's age. She was wearing a dark green t-shirt and a novelty homemade vest with yellow number-two pencils on it. I instantly felt overdressed.
Uncertain if I should take a seat or approach the counter, I stood there awkwardly holding my backpack over my shoulder until she finally noticed me.
"Good morning! Can I help you?"
As unnerved as I was by her chipper enthusiasm, I braced myself and approached the counter.
"Hi, I'm Beau Swan?"
She stared at me in a mild daze, as though that was not enough of an explanation for her. How did she not already know who I was? Surely this tiny town must be starved of gossip? Police Chief Swan's estranged son coming to their local high school? How was this not something on the forefront of her mind?
It took a great deal of restraint not to let my face drip with sarcasm as I blinked in reply.
Finally, she realized who I was. "Oh! Isabeau Swan?"
My face burned with mortification.
"Yeah, Isabeau…" I mumbled, always feeling strange when someone used my full name. It had been so many years since anyone had called me by it that I nearly forgot it was there.
Haunting me forever.
There were several reasons my mom chose this name, in part because she was the type to believe that if stars like 'Drew Barrymore' could get away with having a boy's name, then it was only right and fair that a boy could work with a girl's name. It was probably one of those creative ideas that she should have put more thought into, but she wanted a name as uniquely special as she thought I was. At any rate, it was better than Beaufort, my maternal grandfather's name. He may have been one of the best people to exist in her world, but it was still too close to B'ewwfart.
I shuddered at the thought.
Immediate awareness lit up the woman's eyes as she clicked on her computer mouse and began typing things into the keyboard to pull up my information.
In an effort to avoid direct eye contact, I perused around her desk until I noticed her name tag. Curiously reading the name: Secretary Shelly Cope, in soft silver lettering until she spoke again.
"Of course, of course," she said before digging through a precariously stacked pile of documents on her desk. She kept flipping through paperwork until she found the ones she was looking for. "I have your schedule right here and a map of the school," she brought several sheets to the counter and set them down for me.
Only for her face to take on the same worried fluster that every school secretary made when about to discuss a 'sensitive' topic.
"Now, I just want to reassure you that even though we don't have a Special Ed. P.E program, we were able to get you into sixth period P.E, and your doctor's report was already shown to Coach Clapp. You'll be able to sit down and rest whenever you need to and be excused if you feel an activity is too strenuous."
Desperately hoping that no one just heard her 'comforting' words, I hastily turned around in the office to check. Thankfully, no other students had joined us. Humbled by the mild dose of humiliation, I nodded. Too concerned with myself to dwell on the sympathy I felt for anyone having the last name: Clapp.
"Okay. Sounds good," I mumbled awkwardly. Not wanting to talk about my health with a complete stranger unless I had to.
With a highlighter pen – the annoying pink kind – Shelly Cope went through my classes for me. Highlighting the best routes to each class on the map faster than I could remember them before she gave me a paper slip to have each of my teachers sign.
"Just bring that back at the end of the day, Beau, okay?"
"Yeah. Thanks," I returned as warmly as I could bring myself to fake. Too proud to ask her to repeat herself.
"And welcome to Forks!" Shelly Cope practically cheered, which were the last words I paid attention to before I turned away. She had smiled at me with such hopeful eyes. The same hope Charlie had burned into me this morning: that I might like it here in Forks.
Smiling back as convincingly as I could, it was gone by the time I reached the door.
Other students were starting to arrive by the time I made it back to my truck – and it felt like they were all staring at me.
Who was this new guy? Their faces seemed to ask in solidarity.
One of them continued to stare at me even after I made it back to my truck.
Hastily slipping into the cab, I drove around the parking lot to follow the building line of traffic and find a more reasonable parking spot.
At least most of the cars here were older, like mine. Even with the reassurance that I might not be made fun of for having an ancient truck, I cut the engine as soon as I slipped into an empty spot as close to the outer limits into the trees as possible. Simply so the thunderous bellowing of the Beast's roar wouldn't draw extra attention to me.
Alone, or at least not gawked at as heavily, I tugged my MP3 player out of my bag and shoved the buds into my ears. Threading the chords around the cartilage to further ensnare my ears into a placebo of safety that the sensation provided. As if hiding that tiny hint of skin where the ear met my skull from cold air could shut out the world completely.
School hadn't even started yet, and here I was. Overwhelmed.
Sobering through my song list on shuffle in a repetition of three songs skipped between them for further variety, eventually, a desired hum of strings resounded through my skull. One of many treasured songs that had helped me endure worse trials than this; a protector drawing the curtains around my mind as the seconds ticked on.
There was never a good enough way to describe the intricacies of music and its effects on my soul, but I could try. Even though I felt it was redundant to say when so many understood the feeling without needing to describe it.
Closing myself off like this; distracting my focus from all outward sound, was water for the soul; poison, and wine. The right song could channel a different mood, encourage a new frame of mind, or keep you grounded to the floor. You had to be careful choosing songs, as one change in tone or tempo could drag you down to the depths of the sea. Each growing repetition of beats onto the climax could uplift unto the skies. Or both in the same song or movement, depending on the circumstances.
I cannot profess to be skilled in understanding the sacred intimacies of what makes certain music so very wonderful to different people, but I could try to explain why my own taste was so incredibly eclectic.
In times of trial or anxiety, closing myself off through music was like slipping into a warm bath. It soothed and blanketed what was vulnerable beneath the skin. It was like donning a mask; my need for them arose from the protection these songs provided.
However temporary these little masks endured, for a little while, I was cushioned. Emboldened.
Or even ripped open to let the blood of guilt and vanity drain out into the soil.
I wholly believed that there were and are parts of ourselves that can be toxic to others. From what I understand of it, Buddhism teaches that all life is suffering. That nothing in this world is permanent and thus resisting change is choosing to be unhappy for the sake of keeping what is treasured. While the Bible allegories that it is better to cut off a diseased limb than to allow the rest of the tree to wither and die.
Regardless of the source of a proverb that rang true, every decision one makes creates a reaction. Whether one is spiritual or scientific, it's not hard to agree on that point.
Whether or not fate exists, I believe what we do affects the future. Maybe those things that are inevitable are only made so because of our inability to let go.
But, the unrelenting fact of life, in my singular experience, was that you could willingly make the effort to change yourself for good…or wait for the universe to come smack you down all at once.
Experience had, regrettably, revealed that my full and unbridled self was too much for most people to handle.
So, if my concentrated form was too potent; too unbearable to be endured by society as a whole…
Then the answer, however painful, was to censor myself.
Bathed within the sweet cacophony of voices, strings, flutes, and drums of Mozart's Lacrimosa, I tried to send whatever anxiety, terror, or resentment deep within myself.
Drowning myself a little bit more each time the song repeated itself.
If my mind was a palace with many rooms and realms within them; then what was vulnerable had been sent to the holes beneath the floorboards of the lowest basement of the house.
No one who met me today was going to see me cowering or afraid. In these few brief minutes of reprieve from the waking world, where all sound within the sphere of what I could control funneled into my ears, only the dream existed.
Destroying the dark parts of our souls hurts. Destroying the secret fears of my inner child was a constant, terrible, necessity of being alive.
So, it was a great deal easier to hide it.
I chose songs as I needed them, or even as they needed me, silly as it was to think that way.
When the song had played three times, I opened my eyes, exhaled shakily, and declared myself ready.
The strings of my mask were tied as tightly as I could bear the noose to be.
I was ready to pretend I was normal. That there was nothing strange with me.
The parking lot was already filling up with cars; both student-owned and parents dropping off their 'young'.
Good, I assured myself. A larger crowd would conceal me better.
With one final sigh, I looked at the school map Ms. Cope had given me. Trying to memorize it so I wouldn't get lost before First Period. While I hoped I wouldn't have to walk around with my nose stuck in a map all day, it was no doubt another inevitability of my being here.
Stuffing everything I didn't immediately need into my bookbag and slinging it back over my shoulder, I took in a deep breath. Sucking the air in and holding it in my lungs so I didn't look like a damn chipmunk.
You can do this, I reminded myself with more confidence than I felt.
No one was going to bite me, after all.
Finally exhaling, I stepped out of the truck and locked him behind me. Keeping my face pulled back into the hood of my parka so that it would be harder for others to stare directly at my face. Plus, it would keep the rain from soaking my hair.
The sidewalk between the high concrete stairs and the front door of the school building was already starting to become crowded with teenagers. I could only hope that I didn't stand out too much as I tried to hurry past them.
Once I walked through the front door, pacing down the hall to try and find my first class, I realized that this building wasn't even the only one. There were a few smaller buildings behind it, each connected by overhanging roofs to guard the main pathways against being drenched by the rain. The school was larger than I'd thought it would be. Following the pink line on my paper map, which could have been inter-crossed from another line leading to a different class for all I knew, I walked outside the back door of the main hallway and tried to make sense of it all.
Which was where I was when he found me.
An average-sized, lanky, boy about 5'7. A few inches shorter than me, at 5'11. He tapped my shoulder gently and grinned enthusiastically at me. Noting his appearance, his black hair was stylishly cut along the bottom of his jawline; framing dark almond-shaped eyes. While he wasn't wearing the stereotypical sweater vest and a button-up shirt, he still looked like he belonged to the chess club rather than a welcoming committee.
"You're Isabeau Swan, right? The new guy?"
If there was no other proof that gossip spread like wildfire in this town, the fact that this stranger knew my full name destroyed all doubt on the subject.
I uncomfortably cleared my throat to correct him. "Just Beau."
"Hi! I'm Eric Yoon! The eyes and ears of this place. Do you need any help finding your first class?"
Why was this guy being so helpful? It wasn't that I didn't feel grateful for the inclusion, just that this level of friendliness took me off guard. Was he getting a gift card from the Principal to chauffeur me around?
"Um, sure," I said with an awkward smile. Paper crinkling in my hand as I looked at my schedule again. "Mr. Mason? English?"
His eyes instantly lit up as he beamed at me. "That's my first class! I'll show you the way."
Eric was already moving, so I hurried to keep up.
"Tell me about yourself, Beau! What are your favorite hobbies? What was it like in Arizona?"
Oh, great. He was chatty.
Eric kept turning his head to look at me. Pressured to answer with every glance, I grimaced a smile and awkwardly laughed. "Um. Music, I guess? I read sometimes."
He then reached back to lightly smack my upper arm in what I assumed to be meant as a comforting gesture. It just made this more uncomfortable. "Music? That's awesome! You'll have to give me your top favorites playlist!"
Why? Was he throwing a party for me?
When I didn't elaborate, Eric continued: "So, what do you read? Tell me your favorite series!"
His questions felt off, but not malevolent. Just weirdly insistent, though I sensed genuine friendliness in his looks.
Still, alarm bells went off in my stomach. Enough that I stopped right where I was, staring Eric in the eye and crinkling my brow in concern. Trying to get a better read on him without the necessity of speech, to no avail.
"Just books. Nothing special," I answered vaguely.
After all, if my taste in books was peculiar, it would be better to say nothing about them.
"You don't have to be shy," Eric chuckled. "I host Dungeons and Dragons after school. You won't phase me if you like Harry Potter or Animorphs."
"I'm not shy," I corrected, firmly. Not wanting to be seen as meek or cowardly. "I just don't share things like that."
"Sorry for being nosy."Eric finally seemed to catch on that I was uncomfortable and frowned a little. "I'm just on the school paper and we thought it would be cool to write a feature on you?"
If it were possible for my skin to get any paler – it would have.
"No. Please. God. No." My head wouldn't stop shaking in horror. "Please don't have any sort of…"
Eric raised his hands in surrender, apologetically waving his arms in the air. "Woah, chillax. If you're not cool with it, no feature. Okay?"
I could only beg whatever Gods existed that he wasn't lying to my face. "You promise?"
Eric grinned jubilantly. "Totally. I know what it's like to be the new kid. I'll watch out for you. No pressure."
Finally, I could breathe again. "Thanks, Eric."
"Class is this way," Eric gestured as he led me to another goldenrod-painted door with a large black '3-A' painted on a white square along the east corner.
Feeling my breathing – which had been gradually creeping toward hyperventilation – starting to relax, I approached the door. Holding my breath as I followed Eric through the doorway.
The classroom was small – smaller than I'd anticipated. Eric hung up his coat beside a few other students on a long row of hooks, so I copied him. Intentionally choosing the nail furthest from the door as my eyes darted to take in all the students I didn't know.
My focus on drinking in the classroom only paused because I noticed two girls ogling me. Muttering to each other in hushed, muffled, voices that stopped the moment they caught me staring at them.
The taller girl, with large eyes and a heart-shaped face, was incredibly beautiful by conventional standards. Sleek, near platinum, blond silk framed her pale green eyes that reminded me of fish scales. Glistening from what limited light flooded in from the windows. The other girl was slightly less pale with light brown hair, but still quite pretty.
No doubt they were making fun of me, given how hastily they looked away when I caught them.
Eric seemed to want to introduce me to some of his friends, who each gave a polite or friendly sort of smile or wave, but I pointed to the teacher. Wiggling the note in my hand in a silent gesture to him that I had to get Mr. Mason to sign my slip sheet.
Eric lightheartedly sighed, giving an exuberant grin, before I turned to approach a balding man I presumed to be the teacher.
Mr. Mason's eyes rose to study my face with a strangely rigid expression before he took my slip from the office and scanned it over.
I was just beginning to wonder what the 'look' was for when Mr. Mason answered it for me:
"You're Isabeau Swan?"
The instantaneous gawking and giggling of a room full of students was not an encouraging response.
Great. Not even one period in, and here I was: the laughingstock of Forks High.
Unless I was mistaken, I heard Eric telling people to 'shut up' behind me, but it didn't really matter, now.
The damage was done.
Ignoring the disapproving look from Mr. Mason – who was probably wondering if my mom had been on drugs when she named me – I closed my eyes. Just wishing this damned day could be over already.
Which was when I felt a soft touch against my shoulder. Assuming it was Eric trying to offer his support, I turned around to tell him to stop, only to widen my eyes in surprise at the face in front of me.
I recognized him almost instantly. Those bright baby-blue eyes were hard to forget.
My heart started to panic until his cherub face smiled at me.