My mother drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down. It was seventy-five

degrees in Phoenix, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. I was wearing my favorite shirt —

sleeveless, white eyelet lace; I was wearing it as a farewell gesture. My carry-on item was

a parka.

In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, a small town named Forks

exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. It rains on this inconsequential town more

than any other place in the United States of America. It was from this town and its

gloomy, omnipresent shade that my mother escaped with me when I was only a few

months old. It was in this town that I'd been compelled to spend a month every summer

until I was fourteen. That was the year I finally put my foot down; these past three

summers, my dad, Charlie, vacationed with me in California for two weeks instead.

It was to Forks that I now exiled myself— an action that I took with great horror. I

detested Forks.

I loved Phoenix. I loved the sun and the blistering heat. I loved the vigorous, sprawling

city.

"Bella," my mom said to me — the last of a thousand times — before I got on the

plane. "You don't have to do this."

My mom looks like me, except with short hair and laugh lines. I felt a spasm of panic

as I stared at her wide, childlike eyes. How could I leave my loving, erratic, harebrained

mother to fend for herself ? Of course she had Phil now, so the bills would probably get

paid, there would be food in the refrigerator, gas in her car, and someone to call when she

got lost, but still…

"I want to go," I lied. I'd always been a bad liar, but I'd been saying this lie so

frequently lately that it sounded almost convincing now.

"Tell Charlie I said hi."

"I will."

"I'll see you soon," she insisted. "You can come home whenever you want — I'll come

right back as soon as you need me."

But I could see the sacrifice in her eyes behind the promise.

"Don't worry about me," I urged. "It'll be great. I love you, Mom."

She hugged me tightly for a minute, and then I got on the plane, and she was gone.

It's a four-hour flight from Phoenix to Seattle, another hour in a small plane up to Port

Angeles, and then an hour drive back down to Forks. Flying doesn't bother me; the hour

in the car with Charlie, though, I was a little worried about.

Charlie had really been fairly nice about the whole thing. He seemed genuinely pleased

that I was coming to live with him for the first time with any degree of permanence. He'd

already gotten me registered for high school and was going to help me get a car.

But it was sure to be awkward with Charlie. Neither of us was what anyone would call

verbose, and I didn't know what there was to say regardless. I knew he was more than a

little confused by my decision — like my mother before me, I hadn't made a secret of my

distaste for Forks.

When I landed in Port Angeles, it was raining. I didn't see it as an omen — just

unavoidable. I'd already said my goodbyes to the sun.

Charlie was waiting for me with the cruiser. This I was expecting, too. Charlie is Police

Chief Swan to the good people of Forks. My primary motivation behind buying a car,

despite the scarcity of my funds, was that I refused to be driven around town in a car with

red and blue lights on top. Nothing slows down traffic like a cop.

Charlie gave me an awkward, one-armed hug when I stumbled my way off the plane.

"It's good to see you, Bells," he said, smiling as he automatically caught and steadied

me. "You haven't changed much. How's Ren�e?"

"Mom's fine. It's good to see you, too, Dad." I wasn't allowed to call him Charlie to his

face.

I had only a few bags. Most of my Arizona clothes were too permeable for Washington.

My mom and I had pooled our resources to supplement my winter wardrobe, but it was

still scanty. It all fit easily into the trunk of the cruiser.

"I found a good car for you, really cheap," he announced when we were strapped in.

"What kind of car?" I was suspicious of the way he said "good car for you" as opposed

to just "good car."

"Well, it's a truck actually, a Chevy."

"Where did you find it?"

"Do you remember Billy Black down at La Push?" La Push is the tiny Indian

reservation on the coast.

"No."

"He used to go fishing with us during the summer," Charlie prompted.

That would explain why I didn't remember him. I do a good job of blocking painful,

unnecessary things from my memory.

"He's in a wheelchair now," Charlie continued when I didn't respond, "so he can't drive

anymore, and he offered to sell me his truck cheap."

"What year is it?" I could see from his change of expression that this was the question

he was hoping I wouldn't ask.

"Well, Billy's done a lot of work on the engine — it's only a few years old, really."

I hoped he didn't think so little of me as to believe I would give up that easily. "When

did he buy it?"

"He bought it in 1984, I think."

"Did he buy it new?"

"Well, no. I think it was new in the early sixties — or late fifties at the earliest," he

admitted sheepishly.

"Ch — Dad, I don't really know anything about cars. I wouldn't be able to fix it if

anything went wrong, and I couldn't afford a mechanic…"

"Really, Bella, the thing runs great. They don't build them like that anymore."

The thing, I thought to myself… it had possibilities — as a nickname, at the very least.

"How cheap is cheap?" After all, that was the part I couldn't compromise on.

"Well, honey, I kind of already bought it for you. As a homecoming gift." Charlie

peeked sideways at me with a hopeful expression.

Wow. Free.

"You didn't need to do that, Dad. I was going to buy myself a car."

"I don't mind. I want you to be happy here." He was looking ahead at the road when he

said this. Charlie wasn't comfortable with expressing his emotions out loud. I inherited

that from him. So I was looking straight ahead as I responded.

"That's really nice, Dad. Thanks. I really appreciate it." No need to add that my being

happy in Forks is an impossibility. He didn't need to suffer along with me. And I never

looked a free truck in the mouth — or engine.

"Well, now, you're welcome," he mumbled, embarrassed by my thanks.

We exchanged a few more comments on the weather, which was wet, and that was

pretty much it for Conversation. We stared out the windows in silence.

It was beautiful, of course; I couldn't deny that. Everything was green: the trees, their

trunks covered with moss, their branches hanging with a canopy of it, the ground covered

with ferns. Even the air filtered down greenly through the leaves.

It was too green — an alien planet.

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.

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 bronzehaired

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 l