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.