TWILIGHT

First sight II

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 i***t. 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.