TWILIGHT (The Twilight Saga, Book 1)

"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.