Mom,　　Calm down. I'm writing right now. Don't do anything rash.　　Bella.　　I sent that, and began again.　　Mom,　　Everything is great. Of course it's raining. I was waiting for something　　to write about. School isn't bad, just a little repetitive. I met some　　nice kids who sit by me at lunch.　　Your blouse is at the dry cleaners - you were supposed to pick it up　　Friday.　　Charlie bought me a truck, can you believe it? I love it. It's old, but　　really sturdy, which is good, you know, for me.　　I miss you, too. I'll write again soon, but I'm not going to check my　　e-mail every five minutes. Relax, breathe. I love you.　　Bella.　　I had decided to read Wuthering Heights — the novel we were currently　　studying in English — yet again for the fun of it, and that's what I was　　doing when Charlie came home. I'd lost track of the time, and I hurried　　downstairs to take the potatoes out and put the steak in to broil.　　"Bella?" my father called out when he heard me on the stairs.　　Who else? I thought to myself.　　"Hey, Dad, welcome home."　　"Thanks." He hung up his gun belt and stepped out of his boots as I　　bustled about the kitchen. As far as I was aware, he'd never shot the gun　　on the job. But he kept it ready. When I came here as a child, he would　　always remove the bullets as soon as he walked in the door. I guess he　　considered me old enough now not to shoot myself by accident, and not　　depressed enough to shoot myself on purpose.　　"What's for dinner?" he asked warily. My mother was an imaginative cook,　　and her experiments weren't always edible. I was surprised, and sad, that　　he seemed to remember that far back.　　"Steak and potatoes," I answered, and he looked relieved.　　He seemed to feel awkward standing in the kitchen doing nothing; he　　lumbered into the living room to watch TV while I worked. We were both　　more comfortable that way. I made a salad while the steaks cooked, and　　set the table.　　I called him in when dinner was ready, and he sniffed appreciatively as　　he walked into the room.　　"Smells good, Bell."　　"Thanks."　　We ate in silence for a few minutes. It wasn't uncomfortable. Neither of　　us was bothered by the quiet. In some ways, we were well suited for　　living together.　　"So, how did you like school? Have you made any friends?" he asked as he　　was taking seconds.　　"Well, I have a few classes with a girl named Jessica. I sit with her　　friends at lunch. And there's this boy, Mike, who's very friendly.　　Everybody seems pretty nice." With one outstanding exception.　　"That must be Mike Newton. Nice kid — nice family. His dad owns the　　sporting goods store just outside of town. He makes a good living off all　　the backpackers who come through here."　　"Do you know the Cullen family?" I asked hesitantly.　　"Dr. Cullen's family? Sure. Dr. Cullen's a great man."　　"They… the kids… are a little different. They don't seem to fit in very　　well at school."　　Charlie surprised me by looking angry.　　"People in this town," he muttered. "Dr. Cullen is a brilliant surgeon　　who could probably work in any hospital in the world, make ten times the　　salary he gets here," he continued, getting louder. "We're lucky to have　　him — lucky that his wife wanted to live in a small town. He's an asset　　to the community, and all of those kids are well behaved and polite. I　　had my doubts, when they first moved in, with all those adopted　　teenagers. I thought we might have some problems with them. But they're　　all very mature — I haven't had one speck of trouble from any of them.　　That's more than I can say for the children of some folks who have lived　　in this town for generations. And they stick together the way a family　　should — camping trips every other weekend… Just because they're　　newcomers, people have to talk."　　It was the longest speech I'd ever heard Charlie make. He must feel　　strongly about whatever people were saying.　　I backpedaled. "They seemed nice enough to me. I just noticed they kept　　to themselves. They're all very attractive," I added, trying to be more　　complimentary.　　"You should see the doctor," Charlie said, laughing. "It's a good thing　　he's happily married. A lot of the nurses at the hospital have a hard　　time concentrating on their work with him around."　　We lapsed back into silence as we finished eating. He cleared the table　　while I started on the dishes. He went back to the TV, and after I　　finished washing the dishes by hand — no dishwasher — I went upstairs　　unwillingly to work on my math homework. I could feel a tradition in the　　making.　　That night it was finally quiet. I fell asleep quickly, exhausted.　　The rest of the week was uneventful. I got used to the routine of my　　classes. By Friday I was able to recognize, if not name, almost all the　　students at school. In Gym, the kids on my team learned not to pass me　　the ball and to step quickly in front of me if the other team tried to　　take advantage of my weakness. I happily stayed out of their way.　　Edward Cullen didn't come back to school.　　Every day, I watched anxiously until the rest of the Cullens entered the　　cafeteria without him. Then I could relax and join in the lunchtime　　conversation. Mostly it centered around a trip to the La Push Ocean Park　　in two weeks that Mike was putting together. I was invited, and I had　　agreed to go, more out of politeness than desire. Beaches should be hot　　and dry.　　By Friday I was perfectly comfortable entering my Biology class, no　　longer worried that Edward would be there. For all I knew, he had dropped　　out of school. I tried not to think about him, but I couldn't totally　　suppress the worry that I was responsible for his continued absence,　　ridiculous as it seemed.　　My first weekend in Forks passed without incident. Charlie, unused to　　spending time in the usually empty house, worked most of the weekend. I　　cleaned the house, got ahead on my homework, and wrote my mom more　　bogusly cheerful e-mail. I did drive to the library Saturday, but it was　　so poorly stocked that I didn't bother to get a card; I would have to　　make a date to visit Olympia or Seattle soon and find a good bookstore. I　　wondered idly what kind of gas mileage the truck got… and shuddered at　　the thought.　　The rain stayed soft over the weekend, quiet, so I was able to sleep well.　　People greeted me in the parking lot Monday morning. I didn't know all　　their names, but I waved back and smiled at everyone. It was colder this　　morning, but happily not raining. In English, Mike took his accustomed　　seat by my side. We had a pop quiz on Wuthering Heights. It was　　straightforward, very easy.　　All in all, I was feeling a lot more comfortable than I had thought I　　would feel by this point. More comfortable than I had ever expected to　　feel here.　　When we walked out of class, the air was full of swirling bits of white.　　I could hear people shouting excitedly to each other. The wind bit at my　　cheeks, my nose.　　"Wow," Mike said. "It's snowing."　　I looked at the little cotton fluffs that were building up along the　　sidewalk and swirling erratically past my face.　　"Ew." Snow. There went my good day.　　He looked surprised. "Don't you like snow?"　　"No. That means it's too cold for rain." Obviously. "Besides, I thought　　it was supposed to come down in flakes — you know, each one unique and　　all that. These just look like the ends of Q-tips."　　"Haven't you ever seen snow fall before?" he asked incredulously.　　"Sure I have." I paused. "On TV."　　Mike laughed. And then a big, squishy ball of dripping snow smacked into　　the back of his head. We both turned to see where it came from. I had my　　suspicions about Eric, who was walking away, his back toward us — in the　　wrong direction for his next class. Mike appatently had the same notion.　　He bent over and began scraping together a pile of the white mush.　　"I'll see you at lunch, okay?" I kept walking as I spoke. "Once people　　start throwing wet stuff, I go inside."　　He just nodded, his eyes on Eric's retreating figure.　　Throughout the morning, everyone chattered excitedly about the snow;　　apparently it was the first snowfall of the new year. I kept my mouth　　shut. Sure, it was drier than rain — until it melted in your socks.　　I walked alertly to the cafeteria with Jessica after Spanish. Mush balls　　were flying everywhere. I kept a binder in my hands, ready to use it as a　　shield if necessary. Jessica thought I was hilarious, but something in my　　expression kept her from lobbing a snowball at me herself.　　Mike caught up to us as we walked in the doors, laughing, with ice　　melting the spikes in his hair. He and Jessica were talking animatedly　　about the snow fight as we got in line to buy food. I glanced toward that　　table in the corner out of habit. And then I froze where I stood. There　　were five people at the table.　　Jessica pulled on my arm.　　"Hello? Bella? What do you want?"　　I looked down; my ears were hot. I had no reason to feel self-conscious,　　I reminded myself. I hadn't done anything wrong.　　"What's with Bella?" Mike asked Jessica.　　"Nothing," I answered. "I'll just get a soda today." I caught up to the　　end of the line.　　"Aren't you hungry?" Jessica asked.　　"Actually, I feel a little sick," I said, my eyes still on the floor.　　I waited for them to get their food, and then followed them to a table,　　my eyes on my feet.　　I sipped my soda slowly, my stomach churning. Twice Mike asked, with　　unnecessary concern, how I was feeling.　　I told him it was nothing, but I was wondering if I should play it up and　　escape to the nurse's office for the next hour.　　Ridiculous. I shouldn't have to run away.　　I decided to permit myself one glance at the Cullen family's table. If he　　was glaring at me, I would skip Biology, like the coward I was.　　I kept my head down and glanced up under my lashes. None of them were　　looking this way. I lifted my head a little.　　They were laughing. Edward, Jasper, and Emmett all had their hair　　entirely saturated with melting snow. Alice and Rosalie were leaning away　　as Emmett shook his dripping hair toward them. They were enjoying the　　snowy day, just like everyone else — only they looked more like a scene　　from a movie than the rest of us.　　But, aside from the laughter and playfulness, there was something　　different, and I couldn't quite pinpoint what that difference was. I　　examined Edward the most carefully. His skin was less pale, I decided —　　flushed from the snow fight maybe — the circles under his eyes much less　　noticeable. But there was something more. I pondered, staring, trying to　　isolate the change.　　"Bella, what are you staring at?" Jessica intruded, her eyes following my　　stare.　　At that precise moment, his eyes flashed over to meet mine.　　I dropped my head, letting my hair fall to conceal my face. I was sure,　　though, in the instant our eyes met, that he didn't look harsh or　　unfriendly as he had the last time I'd seen him. He looked merely curious　　again, unsatisfied in some way.　　"Edward Cullen is staring at you," Jessica giggled in my ear.　　"He doesn't look angry, does he?" I couldn't help asking.　　"No," she said, sounding confused by my question. "Should he be?"　　"I don't think he likes me," I confided. I still felt queasy. I put my　　head down on my arm.　　"The Cullens don't like anybody… well, they don't notice anybody enough　　to like them. But he's still staring at you."　　"Stop looking at him," I hissed.　　She snickered, but she looked away. I raised my head enough to make sure　　that she did, contemplating violence if she resisted.　　Mike interrupted us then — he was planning an epic battle of the blizzard　　in the parking lot after school and wanted us to join. Jessica agreed　　enthusiastically. The way she looked at Mike left little doubt that she　　would be up for anything he suggested. I kept silent. I would have to　　hide in the gym until the parking lot cleared.　　For the rest of the lunch hour I very carefully kept my eyes at my own　　table. I decided to honor the bargain I'd made with myself. Since he　　didn't look angry, I would go to Biology. My stomach did frightened　　little flips at the thought of sitting next to him again.　　I didn't really want to walk to class with Mike as usual — he seemed to　　be a popular target for the snowball snipers — but when we went to the　　door, everyone besides me groaned in unison. It was raining, washing all　　traces of the snow away in clear, icy ribbons down the side of the　　walkway. I pulled my hood up, secretly pleased. I would be free to go　　straight home after Gym.　　Mike kept up a string of complaints on the way to building four.　　Once inside the classroom, I saw with relief that my table was still　　empty. Mr. Banner was walking around the room, distributing one　　microscope and box of slides to each table. Class didn't start for a few　　minutes, and the room buzzed with conversation. I kept my eyes away from　　the door, doodling idly on the cover of my notebook.　　I heard very clearly when the chair next to me moved, but my eyes stayed　　carefully focused on the pattern I was drawing.　　"Hello," said a quiet, musical voice.　　I looked up, stunned that he was speaking to me. He was sitting as far　　away from me as the desk allowed, but his chair was angled toward me. His　　hair was dripping wet, disheveled — even so, he looked like he'd just　　finished shooting a commercial for hair gel. His dazzling face was　　friendly, open, a slight smile on his flawless lips. But his eyes were　　careful.　　"My name is Edward Cullen," he continued. "I didn't have a chance to　　introduce myself last week. You must be Bella Swan."　　My mind was spinning with confusion. Had I made up the whole thing? He　　was perfectly polite now. I had to speak; he was waiting. But I couldn't　　think of anything conventional to say.　　"H-how do you know my name?" I stammered.　　He laughed a soft, enchanting laugh.　　"Oh, I think everyone knows your name. The whole town's been waiting for　　you to arrive."　　I grimaced. I knew it was something like that.　　"No," I persisted stupidly. "I meant, why did you call me Bella?"　　He seemed confused. "Do you prefer Isabella?"　　"No, I like Bella," I said. "But I think Charlie — I mean my dad — must　　call me Isabella behind my back — that's what everyone here seems to know　　me as," I tried to explain, feeling like an utter moron.　　"Oh." He let it drop. I looked away awkwardly.　　Thankfully, Mr. Banner started class at that moment. I tried to　　concentrate as he explained the lab we would be doing today. The slides　　in the box were out of order. Working as lab partners, we had to separate　　the slides of onion root tip cells into the phases of mitosis they　　represented and label them accordingly. We weren't supposed to use our　　books. In twenty minutes, he would be coming around to see who had it　　right.　　"Get started," he commanded.　　"Ladies first, partner?" Edward asked. I looked up to see him smiling a　　crooked smile so beautiful that I could only stare at him like an idiot.　　"Or I could start, if you wish." The smile faded; he was obviously　　wondering if I was mentally competent.　　"No," I said, flushing. "I'll go ahead."　　I was showing off, just a little. I'd already done this lab, and I knew　　what I was looking for. It should be easy. I snapped the first slide into　　place under the microscope and adjusted it quickly to the 40X objective.　　I studied the slide briefly.　　My assessment was confident. "Prophase."　　"Do you mind if I look?" he asked as I began to remove the slide. His　　hand caught mine, to stop me, as he asked. His fingers were ice-cold,　　like he'd been holding them in a snowdrift before class. But that wasn't　　why I jerked my hand away so quickly. When he touched me, it stung my　　hand as if an electric current had passed through us.　　"I'm sorry," he muttered, pulling his hand back immediately. However, he　　continued to reach for the microscope. I watched him, still staggered, as　　he examined the slide for an even shorter time than I had.　　"Prophase," he agreed, writing it neatly in the first space on our　　worksheet. He swiftly switched out the first slide for the second, and　　then glanced at it cursorily.　　"Anaphase," he murmured, writing it down as he spoke.　　I kept my voice indifferent. "May I?"　　He smirked and pushed the microscope to me.　　I looked through the eyepiece eagerly, only to be disappointed. Dang it,　　he was right.　　"Slide three?" I held out my hand without looking at him.　　He handed it to me; it seemed like he was being careful not to touch my　　skin again.　　I took the most fleeting look I could manage.　　"Interphase." I passed him the microscope before he could ask for it. He　　took a swift peek, and then wrote it down. I would have written it while　　he looked, but his clear, elegant script intimidated me. I didn't want to　　spoil the page with my clumsy scrawl.　　We were finished before anyone else was close. I could see Mike and his　　partner comparing two slides again and again, and another group had their　　book open under the table.　　Which left me with nothing to do but try to not look at him…　　unsuccessfully. I glanced up, and he was staring at me, that same　　inexplicable look of frustration in his eyes. Suddenly I identified that　　subtle difference in his face.　　"Did you get contacts?" I blurted out unthinkingly.　　He seemed puzzled by my unexpected question. "No."　　"Oh," I mumbled. "I thought there was something different about your　　eyes."　　He shrugged, and looked away.　　In fact, I was sure there was something different. I vividly remembered　　the flat black color of his eyes the last time he'd glared at me — the　　color was striking against the background of his pale skin and his auburn　　hair. Today, his eyes were a completely different color: a strange ocher,　　darker than butterscotch, but with the same golden tone. I didn't　　understand how that could be, unless he was lying for some reason about　　the contacts. Or maybe Forks was making me crazy in the literal sense of　　the word.　　I looked down. His hands were clenched into hard fists again.　　Mr. Banner came to our table then, to see why we weren't working. He　　looked over our shoulders to glance at the completed lab, and then stared　　more intently to check the answers.　　"So, Edward, didn't you think Isabella should get a chance with the　　microscope?" Mr. Banner asked.　　"Bella," Edward corrected automatically. "Actually, she identified three　　of the five."　　Mr. Banner looked at me now; his expression was skeptical.　　"Have you done this lab before?" he asked.　　I smiled sheepishly. "Not with onion root."　　"Whitefish blastula?"　　"Yeah."　　Mr. Banner nodded. "Were you in an advanced placement program in Phoenix?"　　"Yes."　　"Well," he said after a moment, "I guess it's good you two are lab　　partners." He mumbled something else as he walked away. After he left, I　　began doodling on my notebook again.　　"It's too bad about the snow, isn't it?" Edward asked. I had the feeling　　that he was forcing himself to make small talk with me. Paranoia swept　　over me again. It was like he had heard my conversation with Jessica at　　lunch and was trying to prove me wrong.　　"Not really," I answered honestly, instead of pretending to be normal　　like everyone else. I was still trying to dislodge the stupid feeling of　　suspicion, and I couldn't concentrate.　　"You don't like the cold." It wasn't a question.　　"Or the wet."　　"Forks must be a difficult place for you to live," he mused.　　"You have no idea," I muttered darkly.　　He looked fascinated by what I said, for some reason I couldn't imagine.　　His face was such a distraction that I tried not to look at it any more　　than courtesy absolutely demanded.　　"Why did you come here, then?"　　No one had asked me that — not straight out like he did, demanding.　　"It's… complicated."　　"I think I can keep up," he pressed.　　I paused for a long moment, and then made the mistake of meeting his　　gaze. His dark gold eyes confused me, and I answered without thinking.　　"My mother got remarried," I said.　　"That doesn't sound so complex," he disagreed, but he was suddenly　　sympathetic. "When did that happen?"　　"Last September." My voice sounded sad, even to me.　　"And you don't like him," Edward surmised, his tone still kind.　　"No, Phil is fine. Too young, maybe, but nice enough."　　"Why didn't you stay with them?"　　I couldn't fathom his interest, but he continued to stare at me with　　penetrating eyes, as if my dull life's story was somehow vitally　　important.　　"Phil travels a lot. He plays ball for a living." I half-smiled.　　"Have I heard of him?" he asked, smiling in response.　　"Probably not. He doesn't play well. Strictly minor league. He moves　　around a lot."　　"And your mother sent you here so that she could travel with him." He　　said it as an assumption again, not a question.　　My chin raised a fraction. "No, she did not send me here. I sent myself."　　His eyebrows knit together. "I don't understand," he admitted, and he　　seemed unnecessarily frustrated by that fact.　　I sighed. Why was I explaining this to him? He continued to stare at me　　with obvious curiosity.　　"She stayed with me at first, but she missed him. It made her unhappy… so　　I decided it was time to spend some quality time with Charlie." My voice　　was glum by the time I finished.　　"But now you're unhappy," he pointed out.　　"And?" I challenged.　　"That doesn't seem fair." He shrugged, but his eyes were still intense.　　I laughed without humor. "Hasn't anyone ever told you? Life isn't fair."　　"I believe I have heard that somewhere before," he agreed dryly.　　"So that's all," I insisted, wondering why he was still staring at me　　that way.　　His gaze became appraising. "You put on a good show," he said slowly.　　"But I'd be willing to bet that you're suffering more than you let anyone　　see."　　I grimaced at him, resisting the impulse to stick out my tongue like a　　five-year-old, and looked away.　　"Am I wrong?"　　I tried to ignore him.　　"I didn't think so," he murmured smugly.　　"Why does it matter to you?" I asked, irritated. I kept my eyes away,　　watching the teacher make his rounds.　　"That's a very good question," he muttered, so quietly that I wondered if　　he was talking to himself. However, after a few seconds of silence, I　　decided that was the only answer I was going to get.　　I sighed, scowling at the blackboard.　　"Am I annoying you?" he asked. He sounded amused.　　I glanced at him without thinking… and told the truth again. "Not　　exactly. I'm more annoyed at myself. My face is so easy to read — my　　mother always calls me her open book." I frowned.　　"On the contrary, I find you very difficult to read." Despite everything　　that I'd said and he'd guessed, he sounded like he meant it.　　"You must be a good reader then," I replied.　　"Usually." He smiled widely, flashing a set of perfect, ultrawhite teeth.　　Mr. Banner called the class to order then, and I turned with relief to　　listen. I was in disbelief that I'd just explained my dreary life to this　　bizarre, beautiful boy who may or may not despise me. He'd seemed　　engrossed in our conversation, but now I could see, from the corner of my