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.　　The rest of the morning passed in about the same fashion. My Trigonometry　　teacher, Mr. Varner, who I would have hated anyway just because of the　　subject he taught, was the only one who made me stand in front of the　　class and introduce myself. I stammered, blushed, and tripped over my own　　boots on the way to my seat.　　After two classes, I started to recognize several of the faces in each　　class. There was always someone braver than the others who would　　introduce themselves and ask me questions about how I was liking Forks. I　　tried to be diplomatic, but mostly I just lied a lot. At least I never　　needed the map.　　One girl sat next to me in both Trig and Spanish, and she walked with me　　to the cafeteria for lunch. She was tiny, several inches shorter than my　　five feet four inches, but her wildly curly dark hair made up a lot of　　the difference between our heights. I couldn't remember her name, so I　　smiled and nodded as she prattled about teachers and classes. I didn't　　try to keep up.　　We sat at the end of a full table with several of her friends, who she　　introduced to me. I forgot all their names as soon as she spoke them.　　They seemed impressed by her bravery in speaking to me. The boy from　　English, Eric, waved at me from across the room.　　It was there, sitting in the lunchroom, trying to make conversation with　　seven curious strangers, that I first saw them.　　They were sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, as far away from where　　I sat as possible in the long room. There were five of them. They weren't　　talking, and they weren't eating, though they each had a tray of　　untouched food in front of them. They weren't gawking at me, unlike most　　of the other students, so it was safe to stare at them without fear of　　meeting an excessively interested pair of eyes. But it was none of these　　things that caught, and held, my attention.　　They didn't look anything alike. Of the three boys, one was big — muscled　　like a serious weight lifter, with dark, curly hair. Another was taller,　　leaner, but still muscular, and honey blond. The last was lanky, less　　bulky, with untidy, bronze-colored hair. He was more boyish than the　　others, who looked like they could be in college, or even teachers here　　rather than students.　　The girls were opposites. The tall one was statuesque. She had a　　beautiful figure, the kind you saw on the cover of the Sports Illustrated　　swimsuit issue, the kind that made every girl around her take a hit on　　her self-esteem just by being in the same room. Her hair was golden,　　gently waving to the middle of her back. The short girl was pixielike,　　thin in the extreme, with small features. Her hair was a deep black,　　cropped short and pointing in every direction.　　And yet, they were all exactly alike. Every one of them was chalky pale,　　the palest of all the students living in this sunless town. Paler than　　me, the albino. They all had very dark eyes despite the range in hair　　tones. They also had dark shadows under those eyes — purplish, bruiselike　　shadows. As if they were all suffering from a sleepless night, or almost　　done recovering from a broken nose. Though their noses, all their　　features, were straight, perfect, angular.　　But all this is not why I couldn't look away.　　I stared because their faces, so different, so similar, were all　　devastatingly, inhumanly beautiful. They were faces you never expected to　　see except perhaps on the airbrushed pages of a fashion magazine. Or　　painted by an old master as the face of an angel. It was hard to decide　　who was the most beautiful — maybe the perfect blond girl, or the　　bronze-haired boy.　　They were all looking away — away from each other, away from the other　　students, away from anything in particular as far as I could tell. As I　　watched, the small girl rose with her tray — unopened soda, unbitten　　apple — and walked away with a quick, graceful lope that belonged on a　　runway. I watched, amazed at her lithe dancer's step, till she dumped her　　tray and glided through the back door, faster than I would have thought　　possible. My eyes darted back to the others, who sat unchanging.　　"Who are they?" I asked the girl from my Spanish class, whose name I'd　　forgotten.　　As she looked up to see who I meant — though already knowing, probably,　　from my tone — suddenly he looked at her, the thinner one, the boyish　　one, the youngest, perhaps. He looked at my neighbor for just a fraction　　of a second, and then his dark eyes flickered to mine.　　He looked away quickly, more quickly than I could, though in a flush of　　embarrassment I dropped my eyes at once. In that brief flash of a glance,　　his face held nothing of interest — it was as if she had called his name,　　and he'd looked up in involuntary response, already having decided not to　　answer.　　My neighbor giggled in embarrassment, looking at the table like I did.　　"That's Edward and Emmett Cullen, and Rosalie and Jasper Hale. The one　　who left was Alice Cullen; they all live together with Dr. Cullen and his　　wife." She said this under her breath.　　I glanced sideways at the beautiful boy, who was looking at his tray now,　　picking a bagel to pieces with long, pale fingers. His mouth was moving　　very quickly, his perfect lips barely opening. The other three still　　looked away, and yet I felt he was speaking quietly to them.　　Strange, unpopular names, I thought. The kinds of names grandparents had.　　But maybe that was in vogue here — small town names? I finally remembered　　that my neighbor was called Jessica, a perfectly common name. There were　　two girls named Jessica in my History class back home.　　"They are… very nice-looking." I struggled with the conspicuous　　understatement.　　"Yes!" Jessica agreed with another giggle. "They're all together though —　　Emmett and Rosalie, and Jasper and Alice, I mean. And they live　　together." Her voice held all the shock and condemnation of the small　　town, I thought critically. But, if I was being honest, I had to admit　　that even in Phoenix, it would cause gossip.　　"Which ones are the Cullens?" I asked. "They don't look related…"　　"Oh, they're not. Dr. Cullen is really young, in his twenties or early　　thirties. They're all adopted. The Hales are brother and sister, twins —　　the blondes — and they're foster children."　　"They look a little old for foster children."　　"They are now, Jasper and Rosalie are both eighteen, but they've been　　with Mrs. Cullen since they were eight. She's their aunt or something　　like that."　　"That's really kind of nice — for them to take care of all those kids　　like that, when they're so young and everything."　　"I guess so," Jessica admitted reluctantly, and I got the impression that　　she didn't like the doctor and his wife for some reason. With the glances　　she was throwing at their adopted children, I would presume the reason　　was jealousy. "I think that Mrs. Cullen can't have any kids, though," she　　added, as if that lessened their kindness.　　Throughout all this conversation, my eyes flickered again and again to　　the table where the strange family sat. They continued to look at the　　walls and not eat.　　"Have they always lived in Forks?" I asked. Surely I would have noticed　　them on one of my summers here.　　"No," she said in a voice that implied it should be obvious, even to a　　new arrival like me. "They just moved down two years ago from somewhere　　in Alaska."　　I felt a surge of pity, and relief. Pity because, as beautiful as they　　were, they were outsiders, clearly not accepted. Relief that I wasn't the　　only newcomer here, and certainly not the most interesting by any　　standard.　　As I examined them, the youngest, one of the Cullens, looked up and met　　my gaze, this time with evident curiosity in his expression. As I looked　　swiftly away, it seemed to me that his glance held some kind of unmet　　expectation.　　"Which one is the boy with the reddish brown hair?" I asked. I peeked at　　him from the corner of my eye, and he was still staring at me, but not　　gawking like the other students had today — he had a slightly frustrated　　expression. I looked down again.　　"That's Edward. He's gorgeous, of course, but don't waste your time. He　　doesn't date. Apparently none of the girls here are good-looking enough　　for him." She sniffed, a clear case of sour grapes. I wondered when he'd　　turned her down.　　I bit my lip to hide my smile. Then I glanced at him again. His face was　　turned away, but I thought his cheek appeared lifted, as if he were　　smiling, too.　　After a few more minutes, the four of them left the table together. They　　all were noticeably graceful — even the big, brawny one. It was　　unsettling to watch. The one named Edward didn't look at me again.　　I sat at the table with Jessica and her friends longer than I would have　　if I'd been sitting alone. I was anxious not to be late for class on my　　first day. One of my new acquaintances, who considerately reminded me　　that her name was Angela, had Biology II with me the next hour. We walked　　to class together in silence. She was shy, too.　　When we entered the classroom, Angela went to sit at a black-topped lab　　table exactly like the ones I was used to. She already had a neighbor. In　　fact, all the tables were filled but one. Next to the center aisle, I　　recognized Edward Cullen by his unusual hair, sitting next to that single　　open seat.　　As I walked down the aisle to introduce myself to the teacher and get my　　slip signed, I was watching him surreptitiously. Just as I passed, he　　suddenly went rigid in his seat. He stared at me again, meeting my eyes　　with the strangest expression on his face — it was hostile, furious. I　　looked away quickly, shocked, going red again. I stumbled over a book in　　the walkway and had to catch myself on the edge of a table. The girl　　sitting there giggled.　　I'd noticed that his eyes were black — coal black.　　Mr. Banner signed my slip and handed me a book with no nonsense about　　introductions. I could tell we were going to get along. Of course, he had　　no choice but to send me to the one open seat in the middle of the room.　　I kept my eyes down as I went to sit by him, bewildered by the　　antagonistic stare he'd given me.　　I didn't look up as I set my book on the table and took my seat, but I　　saw his posture change from the corner of my eye. He was leaning away　　from me, sitting on the extreme edge of his chair and averting his face　　like he smelled something bad. Inconspicuously, I sniffed my hair. It　　smelled like strawberries, the scent of my favorite shampoo. It seemed an　　innocent enough odor. I let my hair fall over my right shoulder, making a　　dark curtain between us, and tried to pay attention to the teacher.　　Unfortunately the lecture was on cellular anatomy, something I'd already　　studied. I took notes carefully anyway, always looking down.　　I couldn't stop myself from peeking occasionally through the screen of my　　hair at the strange boy next to me. During the whole class, he never　　relaxed his stiff position on the edge of his chair, sitting as far from　　me as possible. I could see his hand on his left leg was clenched into a　　fist, tendons standing out under his pale skin. This, too, he never　　relaxed. He had the long sleeves of his white shirt pushed up to his　　elbows, and his forearm was surprisingly hard and muscular beneath his　　light skin. He wasn't nearly as slight as he'd looked next to his burly　　brother.　　The class seemed to drag on longer than the others. Was it because the　　day was finally coming to a close, or because I was waiting for his tight　　fist to loosen? It never did; he continued to sit so still it looked like　　he wasn't breathing. What was wrong with him? Was this his normal　　behavior? I questioned my judgment on Jessica's bitterness at lunch　　today. Maybe she was not as resentful as I'd thought.　　It couldn't have anything to do with me. He didn't know me from Eve.　　I peeked up at him one more time, and regretted it. He was glaring down　　at me again, his black eyes full of revulsion. As I flinched away from　　him, shrinking against my chair, the phrase if looks could kill suddenly　　ran through my mind.　　At that moment, the bell rang loudly, making me jump, and Edward Cullen　　was out of his seat. Fluidly he rose — he was much taller than I'd　　thought — his back to me, and he was out the door before anyone else was　　out of their seat.　　I sat frozen in my seat, staring blankly after him. He was so mean. It　　wasn't fair. I began gathering up my things slowly, trying to block the　　anger that filled me, for fear my eyes would tear up. For some reason, my　　temper was hardwired to my tear ducts. I usually cried when I was angry,　　a humiliating tendency.　　"Aren't you Isabella Swan?" a male voice asked.　　I looked up to see a cute, baby-faced boy, his pale blond hair carefully　　gelled into orderly spikes, smiling at me in a friendly way. He obviously　　didn't think I smelled bad.　　"Bella," I corrected him, with a smile.　　"I'm Mike."　　"Hi, Mike."　　"Do you need any help finding your next class?"　　"I'm headed to the gym, actually. I think I can find it."　　"That's my next class, too." He seemed thrilled, though it wasn't that　　big of a coincidence in a school this small.　　We walked to class together; he was a chatterer — he supplied most of the　　conversation, which made it easy for me. He'd lived in California till he　　was ten, so he knew how I felt about the sun. It turned out he was in my　　English class also. He was the nicest person I'd met today.　　But as we were entering the gym, he asked, "So, did you stab Edward　　Cullen with a pencil or what? I've never seen him act like that."　　I cringed. So I wasn't the only one who had noticed. And, apparently,　　that wasn't Edward Cullen's usual behavior. I decided to play dumb.　　"Was that the boy I sat next to in Biology?" I asked artlessly.　　"Yes," he said. "He looked like he was in pain or something."　　"I don't know," I responded. "I never spoke to him."　　"He's a weird guy." Mike lingered by me instead of heading to the　　dressing room. "If I were lucky enough to sit by you, I would have talked　　to you."　　I smiled at him before walking through the girls' locker room door. He　　was friendly and clearly admiring. But it wasn't enough to ease my　　irritation.　　The Gym teacher, Coach Clapp, found me a uniform but didn't make me dress　　down for today's class. At home, only two years of RE. were required.　　Here, P.E. was mandatory all four years. Forks was literally my personal　　hell on Earth.　　I watched four volleyball games running simultaneously. Remembering how　　many injuries I had sustained — and inflicted — playing volleyball, I　　felt faintly nauseated.　　The final bell rang at last. I walked slowly to the office to return my　　paperwork. The rain had drifted away, but the wind was strong, and　　colder. I wrapped my arms around myself.　　When I walked into the warm office, I almost turned around and walked　　back out.　　Edward Cullen stood at the desk in front of me. I recognized again that　　tousled bronze hair. He didn't appear to notice the sound of my entrance.　　I stood pressed against the back wall, waiting for the receptionist to be　　free.　　He was arguing with her in a low, attractive voice. I quickly picked up　　the gist of the argument. He was trying to trade from sixth-hour Biology　　to another time — any other time.　　I just couldn't believe that this was about me. It had to be something　　else, something that happened before I entered the Biology room. The look　　on his face must have been about another aggravation entirely. It was　　impossible that this stranger could take such a sudden, intense dislike　　to me.　　The door opened again, and the cold wind suddenly gusted through the　　room, rustling the papers on the desk, swirling my hair around my face.　　The girl who came in merely stepped to the desk, placed a note in the　　wire basket, and walked out again. But Edward Cullen's back stiffened,　　and he turned slowly to glare at me — his face was absurdly handsome —　　with piercing, hate-filled eyes. For an instant, I felt a thrill of　　genuine fear, raising the hair on my arms. The look only lasted a second,　　but it chilled me more than the freezing wind. He turned back to the　　receptionist.　　"Never mind, then," he said hastily in a voice like velvet. "I can see　　that it's impossible. Thank you so much for your help." And he turned on　　his heel without another look at me, and disappeared out the door.　　I went meekly to the desk, my face white for once instead of red, and　　handed her the signed slip.　　"How did your first day go, dear?" the receptionist asked maternally.　　"Fine," I lied, my voice weak. She didn't look convinced.　　When I got to the truck, it was almost the last car in the lot. It seemed　　like a haven, already the closest thing to home I had in this damp green　　hole. I sat inside for a while, just staring out the windshield blankly.　　But soon I was cold enough to need the heater, so I turned the key and　　the engine roared to life. I headed back to Charlie's house, fighting　　tears the whole way there.　　===========================================================================　　2. OPEN BOOK　　The next day was better… and worse.　　It was better because it wasn't raining yet, though the clouds were dense　　and opaque. It was easier because I knew what to expect of my day. Mike　　came to sit by me in English, and walked me to my next class, with Chess　　Club Eric glaring at him all the while; that was nattering. People didn't　　look at me quite as much as they had yesterday. I sat with a big group at　　lunch that included Mike, Eric, Jessica, and several other people whose　　names and faces I now remembered. I began to feel like I was treading　　water, instead of drowning in it.　　It was worse because I was tired; I still couldn't sleep with the wind　　echoing around the house. It was worse because Mr. Varner called on me in　　Trig when my hand wasn't raised and I had the wrong answer. It was　　miserable because I had to play volleyball, and the one time I didn't　　cringe out of the way of the ball, I hit my teammate in the head with it.　　And it was worse because Edward Cullen wasn't in school at all.　　All morning I was dreading lunch, fearing his bizarre glares. Part of me　　wanted to confront him and demand to know what his problem was. While I　　was lying sleepless in my bed, I even imagined what I would say. But I　　knew myself too well to think I would really have the guts to do it. I　　made the Cowardly Lion look like the terminator.　　But when I walked into the cafeteria with Jessica — trying to keep my　　eyes from sweeping the place for him, and failing entirely — I saw that　　his four siblings of sorts were sitting together at the same table, and　　he was not with them.　　Mike intercepted us and steered us to his table. Jessica seemed elated by　　the attention, and her friends quickly joined us. But as I tried to　　listen to their easy chatter, I was terribly uncomfortable, waiting　　nervously for the moment he would arrive. I hoped that he would simply　　ignore me when he came, and prove my suspicions false.　　He didn't come, and as time passed I grew more and more tense.　　I walked to Biology with more confidence when, by the end of lunch, he　　still hadn't showed. Mike, who was taking on the qualities of a golden　　retriever, walked faithfully by my side to class. I held my breath at the　　door, but Edward Cullen wasn't there, either. I exhaled and went to my　　seat. Mike followed, talking about an upcoming trip to the beach. He　　lingered by my desk till the bell rang. Then he smiled at me wistfully　　and went to sit by a girl with braces and a bad perm. It looked like I　　was going to have to do something about Mike, and it wouldn't be easy. In　　a town like this, where everyone lived on top of everyone else, diplomacy　　was essential. I had never been enormously tactful; I had no practice　　dealing with overly friendly boys.　　I was relieved that I had the desk to myself, that Edward was absent. I　　told myself that repeatedly. But I couldn't get rid of the nagging　　suspicion that I was the reason he wasn't there. It was ridiculous, and　　egotistical, to think that I could affect anyone that strongly. It was　　impossible. And yet I couldn't stop worrying that it was true.　　When the school day was finally done, and the blush was fading out of my　　cheeks from the volleyball incident, I changed quickly back into my jeans　　and navy blue sweater. I hurried from the girls' locker room, pleased to　　find that I had successfully evaded my retriever friend for the moment. I　　walked swiftly out to the parking lot. It was crowded now with fleeing　　students. I got in my truck and dug through my bag to make sure I had　　what I needed.　　Last night I'd discovered that Charlie couldn't cook much besides fried　　eggs and bacon. So I requested that I be assigned kitchen detail for the　　duration of my stay. He was willing enough to hand over the keys to the　　banquet hall. I also found out that he had no food in the house. So I had　　my shopping list and the cash from the jar in the cupboard labeled FOOD　　MONEY, and I was on my way to the Thriftway.　　I gunned my deafening engine to life, ignoring the heads that turned in　　my direction, and backed carefully into a place in the line of cars that　　were waiting to exit the parking lot. As I waited, trying to pretend that　　the earsplitting rumble was coming from someone else's car, I saw the two　　Cullens and the Hale twins getting into their car. It was the shiny new　　Volvo. Of course. I hadn't noticed their clothes before — I'd been too　　mesmerized by their faces. Now that I looked, it was obvious that they　　were all dressed exceptionally well; simply, but in clothes that subtly　　hinted at designer origins. With their remarkable good looks, the style　　with which they carried themselves, they could have worn dishrags and　　pulled it off. It seemed excessive for them to have both looks and money.　　But as far as I could tell, life worked that way most of the time. It　　didn't look as if it bought them any acceptance here.　　No, I didn't fully believe that. The isolation must be their desire; I　　couldn't imagine any door that wouldn't be opened by that degree of　　beauty.　　They looked at my noisy truck as I passed them, just like everyone else.　　I kept my eyes straight forward and was relieved when I finally was free　　of the school grounds.　　The Thriftway was not far from the school, just a few streets south, off　　the highway. It was nice to be inside the supermarket; it felt normal. I　　did the shopping at home, and I fell into the pattern of the familiar　　task gladly. The store was big enough inside that I couldn't hear the　　tapping of the rain on the roof to remind me where I was.　　When I got home, I unloaded all the groceries, stuffing them in wherever　　I could find an open space. I hoped Charlie wouldn't mind. I wrapped　　potatoes in foil and stuck them in the oven to bake, covered a steak in　　marinade and balanced it on top of a carton of eggs in the fridge.　　When I was finished with that, I took my book bag upstairs. Before　　starting my homework, I changed into a pair of dry sweats, pulled my damp　　hair up into a pony-tail, and checked my e-mail for the first time. I had　　three messages.　　"Bella," my mom wrote…　　Write me as soon as you get in. Tell me how your flight was. Is it　　raining? I miss you already. I'm almost finished packing for Florida, but　　I can't find my pink blouse. Do you know where I put it? Phil says hi.　　Mom.　　I sighed and went to the next. It was sent eight hours after the first.　　"Bella," she wrote…　　Why haven't you e-mailed me yet? What are you waiting for? Mom.　　The last was from this morning.　　Isabella,　　If I haven't heard from you by 5:30 p.m. today I'm calling Charlie.　　I checked the clock. I still had an hour, but my mom was well known for　　jumping the gun.