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　　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.