Eventually we made it to Charlie's. He still lived in the small, two-bedroom

house that he'd bought with my mother in the early days of their marriage. Those

were the only kind of days their marriage had — the early ones. There, parked

on the street in front of the house that never changed, was my new — well, new

to me — truck. It was a faded red color, with big, rounded fenders and a bulbous

cab. To my intense surprise, I loved it. I didn't know if it would run, but I could

see myself in it. Plus, it was one of those solid iron affairs that never gets

damaged — the kind you see at the scene of an accident, paint unscratched,

surrounded by the pieces of the foreign car it had destroyed.

"Wow, Dad, I love it! Thanks!" Now my horrific day tomorrow would be just

that much less dreadful. I wouldn't be faced with the choice of either walking

two miles in the rain to school or accepting a ride in the Chief's cruiser.

"I'm glad you like it," Charlie said gruffly, embarrassed again.

It took only one trip to get all my stuff upstairs. I got the west bedroom that faced out over the front yard. The room was familiar; it had been belonged to me

since I was born. The wooden floor, the light blue walls, the peaked ceiling, the

yellowed lace curtains around the window — these were all a part of my

childhood. The only changes Charlie had ever made were switching the crib for

a bed and adding a desk as I grew. The desk now held a secondhand computer,

with the phone line for the modem stapled along the floor to the nearest phone

jack. This was a stipulation from my mother, so that we could stay in touch

easily. The rocking chair from my baby days was still in the corner.

There was only one small bathroom at the top of the stairs, which I would have

to share with Charlie. I was trying not to dwell too much on that fact.

One of the best things about Charlie is he doesn't hover. He left me alone to

unpack and get settled, a feat that would have been altogether impossible for my

mother. It was nice to be alone, not to have to smile and look pleased; a relief to

stare dejectedly out the window at the sheeting rain and let just a few tears

escape. I wasn't in the mood to go on a real crying jag. I would save that for

bedtime, when I would have to think about the coming morning.

Forks High School had a frightening total of only three hundred and fifty-seven

— now fifty-eight — students; there were more than seven hundred people in

my junior class alone back home. All of the kids here had grown up together —

their grandparents had been toddlers together.

I would be the new girl from the big city, a curiosity, a freak.

Maybe, if I looked like a girl from Phoenix should, I could work this to my

advantage. But physically, I'd never fit in anywhere. I should be tan, sporty,

blond — a volleyball player, or a cheerleader, perhaps — all the things that go

with living in the valley of the sun.

Instead, I was ivory-skinned, without even the excuse of blue eyes or red hair, despite the constant sunshine. I had always been slender, but soft somehow,

obviously not an athlete; I didn't have the necessary hand-eye coordination to

play sports without humiliating myself — and harming both myself and anyone

else who stood too close.

When I finished putting my clothes in the old pine dresser, I took my bag of

bathroom necessities and went to the communal bathroom to clean myself up

after the day of travel. I looked at my face in the mirror as I brushed through my

tangled, damp hair. Maybe it was the light, but already I looked sallower,

unhealthy. My skin could be pretty — it was very clear, almost translucent-

looking — but it all depended on color. I had no color here.

Facing my pallid reflection in the mirror, I was forced to admit that I was lying

to myself. It wasn't just physically that I'd never fit in. And if I couldn't find a

niche in a school with three thousand people, what were my chances here?

I didn't relate well to people my age. Maybe the truth was that I didn't relate well

to people, period. Even my mother, who I was closer to than anyone else on the

planet, was never in harmony with me, never on exactly the same page.

Sometimes I wondered if I was seeing the same things through my eyes that the

rest of the world was seeing through theirs. Maybe there was a glitch in my

brain. But the cause didn't matter. All that mattered was the effect. And

tomorrow would be just the beginning.

I didn't sleep well that night, even after I was done crying. The constant

whooshing of the rain and wind across the roof wouldn't fade into the

background. I pulled the faded old quilt over my head, and later added the

pillow, too. But I couldn't fall asleep until after midnight, when the rain finally

settled into a quieter drizzle.

Thick fog was all I could see out my window in the morning, and I could feel the

claustrophobia creeping up on me. You could never see the sky here; it was like

a cage.

Breakfast with Charlie was a quiet event. He wished me good luck at school. I

thanked him, knowing his hope was wasted. Good luck tended to avoid me.

Charlie left first, off to the police station that was his wife and family. After he

left, I sat at the old square oak table in one of the three unmatching chairs and

examined his small kitchen, with its dark paneled walls, bright yellow cabinets,

and white linoleum floor. Nothing was changed. My mother had painted the

cabinets eighteen years ago in an attempt to bring some sunshine into the house.

Over the small fireplace in the adjoining handkerchief-sized family room was a

row of pictures. First a wedding picture of Charlie and my mom in Las Vegas,

then one of the three of us in the hospital after I was born, taken by a helpful

nurse, followed by the procession of my school pictures up to last year's. Those

were embarrassing to look at — I would have to see what I could do to get

Charlie to put them somewhere else, at least while I was living here.

It was impossible, being in this house, not to realize that Charlie had never

gotten over my mom. It made me uncomfortable.

I didn't want to be too early to school, but I couldn't stay in the house anymore. I

donned my jacket — which had the feel of a biohazard suit — and headed out

into the rain.

It was just drizzling still, not enough to soak me through immediately as I

reached for the house key that was always hidden under the eaves by the door,

and locked up. The sloshing of my new waterproof boots was unnerving. I

missed the normal crunch of gravel as I walked. I couldn't pause and admire my

truck again as I wanted; I was in a hurry to get out of the misty wet that swirled

around my head and clung to my hair under my hood. Inside the truck, it was nice and dry. Either Billy or Charlie had obviously

cleaned it up, but the tan upholstered seats still smelled faintly of tobacco,

gasoline, and peppermint. The engine started quickly, to my relief, but loudly,

roaring to life and then idling at top volume. Well, a truck this old was bound to

have a flaw. The antique radio worked, a plus that I hadn't expected.

Finding the school wasn't difficult, though I'd never been there before. The

school was, like most other things, just off the highway. It was not obvious that

it was a school; only the sign, which declared it to be the Forks High School,

made me stop. It looked like a collection of matching houses, built with maroon-

colored bricks. There were so many trees and shrubs I couldn't see its size at

first. Where was the feel of the institution? I wondered nostalgically. Where

were the chain-link fences, the metal detectors?

I parked in front of the first building, which had a small sign over the door

reading front office. No one else was parked there, so I was sure it was off limits,

but I decided I would get directions inside instead of circling around in the rain

like an idiot. I stepped unwillingly out of the toasty truck cab and walked down a

little stone path lined with dark hedges. I took a deep breath before opening the

door.

Inside, it was brightly lit, and warmer than I'd hoped. The office was small; a

little waiting area with padded folding chairs, orange-flecked commercial carpet,

notices and awards cluttering the walls, a big clock ticking loudly. Plants grew

everywhere in large plastic pots, as if there wasn't enough greenery outside. The

room was cut in half by a long counter, cluttered with wire baskets full of papers

and brightly colored flyers taped to its front. There were three desks behind the

counter, one of which was manned by a large, red-haired woman wearing

glasses. She was wearing a purple t-shirt, which immediately made me feel

overdressed. The red-haired woman looked up. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Isabella Swan," I informed her, and saw the immediate awareness light her

eyes. I was expected, a topic of gossip no doubt. Daughter of the Chief's flighty

ex-wife, come home at last.

"Of course," she said. She dug through a precariously stacked pile of documents

on her desk till 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 to

show roe.

She went through my classes for me, highlighting the best route to each on the

map, and gave me a slip to have each teacher sign, which I was to bring back at

the end of the day. She smiled at me and hoped, like Charlie, that I would like it

here in Forks. I smiled back as convincingly as I could.

When I went back out to my truck, other students were starting to arrive. I drove

around the school, following the line of traffic. I was glad to see that most of the

cars were older like mine, nothing flashy. At home I'd lived in one of the few

lower-income neighborhoods that were included in the Paradise Valley District.

It was a common thing to see a new Mercedes or Porsche in the student lot. The

nicest car here was a shiny Volvo, and it stood out. Still, I cut the engine as soon

as I was in a spot, so that the thunderous volume wouldn't draw attention to me.

I looked at the map in the truck, trying to memorize it now; hopefully I wouldn't

have to walk around with it stuck in front of my nose all day. I stuffed

everything in my bag, slung the strap over my shoulder, and sucked in a huge

breath. I can do this, I lied to myself feebly. No one was going to bite me. I

finally exhaled and stepped out of the truck.

I kept my face pulled back into my hood as I walked to the sidewalk, crowded

with teenagers. My plain black jacket didn't stand out, I noticed with relief. Once I got around the cafeteria, building three was easy to spot. A large black

"3" was painted on a white square on the east corner. I felt my breathing

gradually creeping toward hyperventilation as I approached the door. I tried

holding my breath as I followed two unisex raincoats through the door.

The classroom was small. The people in front of me stopped just inside the door

to hang up their coats on a long row of hooks. I copied them. They were two

girls, one a porcelain-colored blonde, the other also pale, with light brown hair.

At least my skin wouldn't be a standout here.

I took the slip up to the teacher, a tall, balding man whose desk had a nameplate

identifying him as Mr. Mason. He gawked at me when he saw my name — not

an encouraging response — and of course I flushed tomato red. But at least he

sent me to an empty desk at the back without introducing me to the class. It was

harder for my new classmates to stare at me in the back, but somehow, they

managed. I kept my eyes down on the reading list the teacher had given me. It

was fairly basic: Bronte, Shakespeare, Chaucer, Faulkner. I'd already read

everything. That was comforting… and boring. I wondered if my mom would

send me my folder of old essays, or if she would think that was cheating. I went

through different arguments with her in my head while the teacher droned on.

When the bell rang, a nasal buzzing sound, a gangly boy with skin problems and

hair black as an oil slick leaned across the aisle to talk to me.

"You're Isabella Swan, aren't you?" He looked like the overly helpful, chess club

type.

"Bella," I corrected. Everyone within a three-seat radius turned to look at me.

"Where's your next class?" he asked.

I had to check in my bag. "Um, Government, with Jefferson, in building six."

There was nowhere to look without meeting curious eyes."I'm headed toward building four, I could show you the way…" Definitely over-

helpful. "I'm Eric," he added.

I smiled tentatively. "Thanks."

We got our jackets and headed out into the rain, which had picked up. I could

have sworn several people behind us were walking close enough to eavesdrop. I

hoped I wasn't getting paranoid.

"So, this is a lot different than Phoenix, huh?" he asked.

"Very."

"It doesn't rain much there, does it?"

"Three or four times a year."

"Wow, what must that be like?" he wondered.

"Sunny," I told him.

"You don't look very tan."

"My mother is part albino."

He studied my face apprehensively, and I sighed. It looked like clouds and a

sense of humor didn't mix. A few months of this and I'd forget how to use

sarcasm.

We walked back around the cafeteria, to the south buildings by the gym. Eric

walked me right to the door, though it was clearly marked.

"Well, good luck," he said as I touched the handle. "Maybe we'll have some

other classes together." He sounded hopeful.

I smiled at him vaguely and went inside.