"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.