40 entire weekend hunting, satiating my thirst as much as possible, overdoing it really. I’d glutted myself on the blood of animals, not that it made much difference in the face of the outrageous flavor floating on the air around her. When I’d glared at her last, my eyes had been black with thirst. Now, my body swimming with blood, my eyes were a warmer gold. Light amber from my excessive attempt at thirstquenching.
Another slip. If I’d seen what she’d meant with her question, I could have just told her yes.
I’d sat beside humans for two years now at this school, and she was the first to examine me closely enough to note the change in my eye color. The others, while admiring the beauty of my family, tended to look down quickly when we returned their stares. They shied away, blocking the details of our appearances in an instinctive endeavor to keep themselves from understanding. Ignorance was bliss to the human mind.
Why did it have to be this girl who would see too much?
Mr. Banner approached our table. I gratefully inhaled the gush of clean air he brought with him before it could mix with her scent.
“So, Edward,” he said, looking over our answers, “didn’t you think Isabella should get a chance with the microscope?”
“Bella,” I corrected him reflexively. “Actually, she identified three of the five.”
Mr. Banner’s thoughts were skeptical as he turned to look at the girl. “Have you done this lab before?”
I watched, engrossed, as she smiled, looking slightly embarrassed.
“Not with onion root.”
“Whitefish blastula?” Mr. Banner probed.
“Yeah.”
This surprised him. Today’s lab was something he’d pulled from a more advanced course. He nodded thoughtfully at the girl. “Were you in an advanced placement program in Phoenix?”
“Yes.”
She was advanced then, intelligent for a human. This did not surprise me. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer
41
“Well,” Mr. Banner said, pursing his lips. “I guess it’s good you two are lab partners.” He turned and walked away mumbling, “So the other kids can get a chance to learn something for themselves,” under his breath. I doubted the girl could hear that. She began scrawling loops across her folder again.
Two slips so far in one half hour. A very poor showing on my part. Though I had no idea at all what the girl thought of me—how much did she fear, how much did she suspect?—I knew I needed to put forth a better effort to leave her with a new impression of me. Something to better drown her memories of our ferocious last encounter.
“It’s too bad about the snow, isn’t it?” I said, repeating the small talk that I’d heard a dozen students discuss already. A boring, standard topic of conversation. The weather—always safe.
She stared at me with obvious doubt in her eyes—an abnormal reaction to my very normal words. “Not really,” she said, surprising me again.
I tried to steer the conversation back to trite paths. She was from a much brighter, warmer place—her skin seemed to reflect that somehow, despite its fairness—and the cold must make her uncomfortable. My icy touch certainly had…
“You don’t like the cold,” I guessed.
“Or the wet,” she agreed.
“Forks must be a difficult place for you to live.” Perhaps you should not have come here, I wanted to add. Perhaps you should go back where you belong.
I wasn’t sure I wanted that, though. I would always remember the scent of her blood—was there any guarantee that I wouldn’t eventually follow after her? Besides, if she left, her mind would forever remain a mystery. A constant, nagging puzzle.
“You have no idea,” she said in a low voice, glowering past me for a moment.
Her answers were never what I expected. They made me want to ask more questions.
“Why did you come here, then?” I demanded, realizing instantly that my tone was too accusatory, not casual enough for the conversation. The question sounded rude, prying.
“It’s…complicated.” （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer
42
She blinked her wide eyes, leaving it at that, and I nearly imploded out of curiosity—the curiosity burned as hot as the thirst in my throat. Actually, I found that it was getting slightly easier to breathe; the agony was becoming more bearable through familiarity.
“I think I can keep up,” I insisted. Perhaps common courtesy would keep her answering my questions as long as I was rude enough to ask them.
She stared down silently at her hands. This made me impatient; I wanted to put my hand under her chin and tilt her head up so that I could read her eyes. But it would be foolish of me—dangerous—to touch her skin again.
She looked up suddenly. It was a relief to be able to see the emotions in her eyes again. She spoke in a rush, hurrying through the words.
“My mother got remarried.”
Ah, this was human enough, easy to understand. Sadness passed through her clear eyes and brought the pucker back between them.
“That doesn’t sound so complex,” I said. My voice was gentle without my working to make it that way. Her sadness left me feeling oddly helpless, wishing there was something I could do to make her feel better. A strange impulse. “When did that happen?”
“Last September.” She exhaled heavily—not quite a sigh. I held my breath as her warm breath brushed my face.
“And you don’t like him,” I guessed, fishing for more information.
“No, Phil is fine,” she said, correcting my assumption. There was a hint of a smile now around the corners of her full lips. “Too young, maybe, but nice enough.”
This didn’t fit with the scenario I’d been constructing in my head.
“Why didn’t you stay with them?” I asked, my voice a little too curious. It sounded like I was being nosy. Which I was, admittedly.
“Phil travels a lot. He plays ball for a living.” The little smile grew more pronounced; this career choice amused her.
I smiled, too, without choosing to. I wasn’t trying to make her feel at ease. Her smile just made me want to smile in response—to be in on the secret. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer
43
“Have I heard of him?” I ran through the rosters of professional ball players in my head, wondering which Phil was hers…
“Probably not. He doesn’t play well.” Another smile. “Strictly minor league. He moves around a lot.”
The rosters in my head shifted instantly, and I’d tabulated a list of possibilities in less than a second. At the same time, I was imagining the new scenario.
“And your mother sent you here so that she could travel with him,” I said. Making assumptions seemed to get more information out of her than questions did. It worked again. Her chin jutted out, and her expression was suddenly stubborn.
“No, she did not send me here,” she said, and her voice had a new, hard edge to it. My assumption had upset her, though I couldn’t quite see how. “I sent myself.”
I could not guess at her meaning, or the source behind her pique. I was entirely lost.
So I gave up. There was just no making sense of the girl. She wasn’t like other humans. Maybe the silence of her thoughts and the perfume of her scent were not the only unusual things about her.
“I don’t understand,” I admitted, hating to concede.
She sighed, and stared into my eyes for longer than most normal humans were able to stand.
“She stayed with me at first, but she missed him,” she explained slowly, her tone growing more forlorn with each word. “It made her unhappy…so I decided it was time to spend some quality time with Charlie.”
The tiny pucker between her eyes deepened.
“But now you’re unhappy,” I murmured. I couldn’t seem to stop speaking my hypotheses aloud, hoping to learn from her reactions. This one, however, did not seem as far off the mark.
“And?” she said, as if this was not even an aspect to be considered.
I continued to stare into her eyes, feeling that I’d finally gotten my first real glimpse into her soul. I saw in that one word where she ranked herself among her own priorities. Unlike most humans, her own needs were far down the list.
She was selfless. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer
44
As I saw this, the mystery of the person hiding inside this quiet mind began to thin a little.
“That doesn’t seem fair,” I said. I shrugged, trying to seem casual, trying to conceal the intensity of my curiosity.
She laughed, but there was no amusement the sound. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you? Life isn’t fair.”
I wanted to laugh at her words, though I, too, felt no real amusement. I knew a little something about the unfairness of life. “I believe I have heard that somewhere before.”
She stared back at me, seeming confused again. Her eyes flickered away, and then came back to mine.
“So that’s all,” she told me.
But I was not ready to let this conversation end. The little V between her eyes, a remnant of her sorrow, bothered me. I wanted to smooth it away with my fingertip. But, of course, I could not touch her. It was unsafe in so many ways.
“You put on a good show.” I spoke slowly, still considering this next hypothesis. “But I’d be willing to bet that you’re suffering more than you let anyone see.”
She made a face, her eyes narrowing and her mouth twisting into a lopsided pout, and she looked back towards the front of the class. She didn’t like it when I guessed right. She wasn’t the average martyr—she didn’t want an audience to her pain.
“Am I wrong?”
She flinched slightly, but otherwise pretended not to hear me.
That made me smile. “I didn’t think so.”
“Why does it matter to you?” she demanded, still staring away.
“That’s a very good question,” I admitted, more to myself than to answer her.
Her discernment was better than mine—she saw right to the core of things while I floundered around the edges, sifting blindly through clues. The details of her very human life should not matter to me. It was wrong for me to care what she thought. Beyond protecting my family from suspicion, human thoughts were not significant.
I was not used to being the less intuitive of any pairing. I relied on my extra hearing too much—I clearly was not as perceptive as I gave myself credit for. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer
45
The girl sighed and glowered toward the front of the classroom. Something about her frustrated expression was humorous. The whole situation, the whole conversation was humorous. No one had ever been in more danger from me than this little girl—at any moment I might, distracted by my ridiculous absorption in the conversation, inhale through my nose and attack her before I could stop myself—and she was irritated because I hadn’t answered her question.
“Am I annoying you?” I asked, smiling at the absurdity of it all.
She glanced at me quickly, and then her eyes seemed to get trapped by my gaze.
“Not exactly,” she told me. “I’m more annoyed at myself. My face is so easy to read—my mother always calls me her open book.”
She frowned, disgruntled.
I stared at her in amazement. The reason she was upset was because she thought I saw through her too easily. How bizarre. I’d never expended so much effort to understand someone in all my life—or rather existence, as life was hardly the right word. I did not truly have a life.
“On the contrary,” I disagreed, feeling strangely…wary, as if there were some hidden danger here that I was failing to see. I was suddenly on edge, the premonition making me anxious. “I find you very difficult to read.”
“You must be a good reader then,” she guessed, making her own assumption that was, again, right on target.
“Usually,” I agreed.
I smiled at her widely then, letting my lips pull back to expose the rows of gleaming, razor sharp teeth behind them.
It was a stupid thing to do, but I was abruptly, unexpectedly desperate to get some kind of warning through to the girl. Her body was closer to me than before, having shifted unconsciously in the course of our conversation. All the little markers and signs that were sufficient to scare off the rest of humanity did not seem to be working on her. Why did she not cringe away from me in terror? Surely she had seen enough of my darker side to realize the danger, intuitive as she seemed to be. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer
46
I didn’t get to see if my warning had the intended effect. Mr. Banner called for the class’s attention just then, and she turned away from me at once. She seemed a little relieved for the interruption, so maybe she understood unconsciously.
I hoped she did.
I recognized the fascination growing inside me, even as I tried to root it out. I could not afford to find Bella Swan interesting. Or rather, she could not afford that. Already, I was anxious for another chance to talk to her. I wanted to know more about her mother, her life before she came here, her relationship with her father. All the meaningless details that would flesh out her character further. But every second I spent with her was a mistake, a risk she shouldn’t have to take.
Absentmindedly, she tossed her thick hair just at the moment that I allowed myself another breath. A particularly concentrated wave of her scent hit the back of my throat.
It was like the first day—like the wrecking ball. The pain of the burning dryness made me dizzy. I had to grasp the table again to keep myself in my seat. This time I had slightly more control. I didn’t break anything, at least. The monster growled inside me, but took no pleasure in my pain. He was too tightly bound. For the moment.
I stopped breathing altogether, and leaned as far from the girl as I could.
No, I could not afford to find her fascinating. The more interesting I found her, the more likely it was that I would kill her. I’d already made two minor slips today. Would I make a third, one that was not minor?
As soon as the bell sounded, I fled from the classroom—probably destroying whatever impression of politeness I’d halfway constructed in the course of the hour. Again, I gasped at the clean, wet air outside like it was a healing attar. I hurried to put as much distance between myself and the girl as was possible.
Emmett waited for me outside the door of our Spanish class. He read my wild expression for a moment.
How did it go? he wondered warily.
“Nobody died,” I mumbled.
I guess that’s something. When I saw Alice ditching there at the end, I thought… （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer
47
As we walked into the classroom, I saw his memory from just a few moments ago, seen through the open door of his last class: Alice walking briskly and blankfaced across the grounds toward the science building. I felt his remembered urge to get up and join her, and then his decision to stay. If Alice needed his help, she would ask…
I closed my eyes in horror and disgust as I slumped into my seat. “I hadn’t realized that it was that close. I didn’t think I was going to…I didn’t see that it was that bad,” I whispered.
It wasn’t, he reassured me. Nobody died, right?
“Right,” I said through my teeth. “Not this time.”
Maybe it will get easier.
“Sure.”
Or, maybe you kill her. He shrugged. You wouldn’t be the first one to mess up. No one wouldjudge you too harshly. Sometimes a person just smells too good. I’m impressed you’ve lasted this long.
“Not helping, Emmett.”
I was revolted by his acceptance of the idea that I would kill the girl, that this was somehow inevitable. Was it her fault that she smelled so good?
I know when it happened to me…， he reminisced, taking me back with him half a century, to a country lane at dusk, where a middleaged women was taking her dried sheets down from a line strung between apple trees. The scent of apples hung heavy in the air—the harvest was over and the rejected fruits were scattered on the ground, the bruises in their skin leaking their fragrance out in thick clouds. A freshmowed field of hay was a background to that scent, a harmony. He walked up the lane, all but oblivious to the woman, on an errand for Rosalie. The sky was purple overhead, orange over the western trees. He would have continued up the meandering cart path and there would have been no reason to remember the evening, except that a sudden night breeze blew the white sheets out like sails and fanned the woman’s scent across Emmett’s face.
“Ah,” I groaned quietly. As if my own remembered thirst was not enough.
I know. I didn’t last half a second. I didn’t even think about resisting.
His memory became far too explicit for me to stand.
I jumped to my feet, my teeth locked hard enough cut through steel. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer
48
“Esta bien, Edward?” Senora Goff asked, startled by my sudden movement. I could see my face in her mind, and I knew that I looked far from well.
“Me perdona,” I muttered, as I darted for the door.
“Emmett—por favor, puedas tu ayuda a tu hermano?” she asked, gesturing helplessly toward me as I rushed out of the room.
“Sure,” I heard him say. And then he was right behind me.
He followed me to the far side of the building, where he caught up to me and put his hand on my shoulder.
I shoved his hand away with unnecessary force. It would have shattered the bones in a human hand, and the bones in the arm attached to it.
“Sorry, Edward.”
“I know.” I drew in deep gasps of air, trying to clear my head and my lungs.
“Is it as bad as that?” he asked, trying not to think of the scent and the flavor of his memory as he asked, and not quite succeeding.
“Worse, Emmett, worse.”
He was quiet for a moment.
Maybe…
“No, it would not be better if I got it over with. Go back to class, Emmett. I want to be alone.”
He turned without another word or thought and walked quickly away. He would tell the Spanish teacher that I was sick, or ditching, or a dangerously out of control vampire. Did his excuse really matter? Maybe I wasn’t coming back. Maybe I had to leave.
I went to my car again, to wait for school to end. To hide. Again.
I should have spent the time making decisions or trying to bolster my resolve, but, like an addict, I found myself searching through the babble of thoughts emanating from the school buildings. The familiar voices stood out, but I wasn’t interested in listening to Alice’s visions or Rosalie’s complaints right now. I found Jessica easily, but the girl was not with her, so I continued searching. Mike Newton’s thoughts caught my attention, and I located her at last, in gym with him. He was unhappy, because I’d spoken to her today in biology. He was running over her response when he’d brought the subject up… （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer
49
I’ve never seen him actually talk to anyone for more than a word here or there. Of course he would decide to find Bella interesting. I don’t like the way he looks at her. But she didn’t seem too excited about him. What did she say? ‘Wonder what was with him last Monday.’ Something like that. Didn’t sound like she cared. It couldn’t have been much of a conversation…
He talked himself out of his pessimism in that way, cheered by the idea that Bella had not been interested in her exchange with me. This annoyed me quite a bit more than was acceptable, so I stopped listening to him.
I put a CD of violent music into the stereo, and then turned it up until it drowned out other voices. I had to concentrate on the music very hard to keep myself from drifting back to Mike Newton’s thoughts, to spy on the unsuspecting girl…
I cheated a few times, as the hour drew to a close. Not spying, I tried to convince myself. I was just preparing. I wanted to know exactly when she would leave the gym, when she would be in the parking lot. I didn’t want her to take me by surprise.
As the students started to file out of the gym doors, I got out of my car, not sure why I did it. The rain was light—I ignored it as it slowly saturated my hair.
Did I want her to see me here? Did I hope she would come to speak to me? What was I doing?
I didn’t move, though I tried to convince myself to get back in the car, knowing my behavior was reprehensible. I kept my arms folded across my chest and breathed very shallowly as I watched her walk slowly toward me, her mouth turning down at the corners. She didn’t look at me. A few times she glanced up at the clouds with a grimace, as if they offended her.
I was disappointed when she reached her car before she had to pass me. Would she have spoken to me? Would I have spoken to her?
She got into a faded red Chevy truck, a rusted behemoth that was older than her father. I watched her start the truck—the old engine roared louder than any other vehicle in the lot—and then hold her hands out toward the heating vents. The cold was uncomfortable to her—she didn’t like it. She combed her fingers through her thick hair, pulling locks through the stream of hot air like she was trying to dry them. I imagined what the cab of that truck would smell like, and then quickly drove out the thought. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer
50
She glanced around as she prepared to back out, and finally looked in my direction. She stared back at me for only half a second, and all I could read in her eyes was surprise before she tore her eyes away and jerked the truck into reverse. And then squealed to a stop again, the back end of the truck missing a collision with Erin Teague’s compact by mere inches.
She stared into her rearview mirror, her mouth hanging open with chagrin. When the other car had pulled past her, she checked all her blind spots twice and then inched out the parking space so cautiously that it made me grin. It was like she thought she was dangerous in her decrepit truck.
The thought of Bella Swan being dangerous to anyone, no matter what she was driving, had me laughing while the girl drove past me, staring straight ahead. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer
51
3. Phenomenon Truly, I was not thirsty, but I decided to hunt again that night. A small ounce of prevention, inadequate though I knew it to be.
Carlisle came with me; we hadn’t been alone together since I’d returned from Denali. As we ran through the black forest, I heard him thinking about that hasty goodbye last week.
In his memory, I saw the way my features had been twisted in fierce despair. I felt his surprise and sudden worry.
“Edward?”
“I have to go, Carlisle. I have to gonow.”
“What’s happened?”
“Nothing. Yet. But it will, if I stay.”
He’d reached for my arm. I felt how it had hurt him when I’d cringed away from his hand.
“I don’t understand.”
“Have you ever…has there ever been a time…”
I watched myself take a deep breath, saw the wild light in my eyes through the filter of his deep concern.
“Has any one person ever smelled better to you than the rest of them? Much better?”
“Oh.”
When I’d known that he understood, my face had fallen with shame. He’d reached out to touch me, ignoring it when I’d recoiled again, and left his hand on my shoulder.
“Do what you must to resist, son. I will miss you. Here, take my car. It’s faster.”
He was wondering now if he’d done the right thing then, sending me away. Wondering if he hadn’t hurt me with his lack of trust. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer
52
“No,” I whispered as I ran. “That was what I needed. I might so easily have betrayed that trust, if you’d told me to stay.”
“I’m sorry you’re suffering, Edward. But you should do what you can to keep the Swan child alive. Even if it means that you must leave us again.”
“I know, I know.”
“Why did you come back? You know how happy I am to have you here, but if this is too difficult…”
“I didn’t like feeling a coward,” I admitted.
We’d slowed—we were barely jogging through the darkness now.
“Better that than to put her in danger. She’ll be gone in a year or two.”
“You’re right, I know that.” Contrarily, though, his words only made me more anxious to stay. The girl would be gone in a year or two…
Carlisle stopped running and I stopped with him; he turned to examine my expression.
But you’re not going to run, are you?
I hung my head.
Is it pride, Edward? There’s no shame in—
“No, it isn’t pride that keeps me here. Not now.”
Nowhere to go?
I laughed shortly. “No. That wouldn’t stop me, if I could make myself leave.”
“We’ll come with you, of course, if that’s what you need. You only have to ask. You’ve moved on without complaint for the rest of them. They won’t begrudge you this.”
I raised one eyebrow.
He laughed. “Yes, Rosalie might, but she owes you. Anyway, it’s much better for us to leave now, no damage done, than for us to leave later, after a life has been ended.” All humor was gone by the end.
I flinched at his words.
“Yes,” I agreed. My voice sounded hoarse.
But you’re not leaving?
I sighed. “I should.” （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer
53
“What holds you here, Edward? I’m failing to see…”
“I don’t know if I can explain.” Even to myself, it made no sense.
He measured my expression for a long moment.
No, I do not see. But I will respect your privacy, if you prefer.
“Thank you. It’s generous of you, seeing as how I give privacy to no one.” With one exception. And I was doing what I could to deprive her of that, wasn’t I?
We all have our quirks. He laughed again. Shall we?
He’d just caught the scent of a small herd of deer. It was hard to rally much enthusiasm for what was, even under the best of circumstances, a less than mouthwatering aroma. Right now, with the memory of the girl’s blood fresh in my mind, the smell actually turned my stomach.
I sighed. “Let’s,” I agreed, though I knew that forcing more blood down my throat would help so little.
We both shifted into a hunting crouch and let the unappealing scent pull us silently forward. It was colder when we returned home. The melted snow had refrozen; it was as if a thin sheet of glass covered everything—each pine needle, each fern frond, each blade of grass was iced over.
While Carlisle went to dress for his early shift at the hospital, I stayed by the river, waiting for the sun to rise. I felt almost swollen from the amount of blood I’d consumed, but I knew the lack of actual thirst would mean little when I sat beside the girl again.
Cool and motionless as the stone I sat on, I stared at the dark water running beside the icy bank, stared right through it.
Carlisle was right. I should leave Forks. They could spread some story to explain my absence. Boarding school in Europe. Visiting distant relatives. Teenage runaway. The story didn’t matter. No one would question too intensely. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer
54
It was just a year or two, and then the girl would disappear. She would go on with her life—she would have a life to go on with. She’d go to college somewhere, get older, start a career, perhaps marry someone. I could picture that—I could see the girl dressed all in white and walking at a measured pace, her arm through her father’s.
It was odd, the pain that image caused me. I couldn’t understand it. Was I jealous, because she had a future that I could never have? That made no sense. Every one of the humans around me had that same potential ahead of them—a life—and I rarely stopped to envy them.
I should leave her to her future. Stop risking her life. That was the right thing to do. Carlisle always chose the right way. I should listen to him now.
The sun rose behind the clouds, and the faint light glistened off all the frozen glass.
One more day, I decided. I would see her one more time. I could handle that. Perhaps I would mention my pending disappearance, set the story up.
This was going to be difficult; I could feel that in the heavy reluctance that was already making me think of excuses to stay—to extend the deadline to two days, three, four… But I would do the right thing. I knew I could trust Carlisle’s advice. And I also knew that I was too conflicted to make the right decision alone.
Much too conflicted. How much of this reluctance came from my obsessive curiosity, and how much came from my unsatisfied appetite?
I went inside to change into fresh clothes for school.
Alice was waiting for me, sitting on the top step at the edge of the third floor.
You’re leaving again, she accused me.
I sighed and nodded.
I can’t see where you’re going this time.
“I don’t know where I’m going yet,” I whispered.
I want you to stay.
I shook my head.
Maybe Jazz and I could come with you?
“They’ll need you all the more, if I’m not here to watch out for them. And think of Esme. Would you take half her family away in one blow?” （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer
55
You’re going to make her so sad.
“I know. That’s why you have to stay.”
That’s not the same as having you here, and you know it.
“Yes. But I have to do what’s right.”
There are many right ways, and many wrong ways, though, aren’t there?
For a brief moment she was swept away into one of her strange visions; I watched along with her as the indistinct images flickered and whirled. I saw myself mixed in with strange shadows that I couldn’t make out—hazy, imprecise forms. And then, suddenly, my skin was glittering in the bright sunlight of a small open meadow. This was a place I knew. There was a figure in the meadow with me, but, again, it was indistinct, not there enough to recognize. The images shivered and disappeared as a million tiny choices rearranged the future again.
“I didn’t catch much of that,” I told her when the vision went dark.
Me either. Your future is shifting around so much I can’t keep up with any of it.
I think, though…
She stopped, and she flipped through a vast collection of other recent visions for me. They were all the same—blurry and vague.
“I think something is changing, though,” she said out loud. “Your life seems to be at a crossroads.”
I laughed grimly. “You do realize that you sound like a bogus gypsy at a carnival now, right?”
She stuck her tiny tongue out at me.
“Today is all right, though, isn’t it?” I asked, my voice abruptly apprehensive.
“I don’t see you killing anyone today,” she assured me.
“Thanks, Alice.”
“Go get dressed. I won’t say anything—I’ll let you tell the others when you’re ready.”
She stood and darted back down the stairs, her shoulders hunched slightly. Miss you. Really.
Yes, I would really miss her, too. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer
56
It was a quiet ride to school. Jasper could tell that Alice was upset about something, but he knew that if she wanted to talk about it she would have done so already. Emmett and Rosalie were oblivious, having another of their moments, gazing into each others’ eyes with wonder—it was rather disgusting to watch from the outside. We were all quite aware how desperately in love they were. Or maybe I was just being bitter because I was the only one alone. Some days it was harder than others to live with three sets of perfectly matched lovers. This was one of them.
Maybe they would all be happier without me hanging around, illtempered and belligerent as the old man I should be by now.
Of course, the first thing I did when we reached the school was to look for the girl. Just preparing myself again.
Right.
It was embarrassing how my world suddenly seemed to be empty of everything but her—my whole existence centered around the girl, rather than around myself anymore.
It was easy enough to understand, though, really; after eighty years of the same thing every day and every night, any change became a point of absorption.
She had not yet arrived, but could I hear the thunderous chugging of her truck’s engine in the distance. I leaned against the side of the car to wait. Alice stayed with me, while the others went straight to class. They were bored with my fixation—it was incomprehensible to them how any human could hold my interest for so long, no matter how delicious she smelled.
The girl drove slowly into view, her eyes intent on the road and her hands tight on the wheel. She seemed anxious about something. It took me a second to figure out what that something was, to realize that every human wore the same expression today. Ah, the road was slick with ice, and they were all trying to drive more carefully. I could see she was taking the added risk seriously.
That seemed in line with what little I had learned of her character. I added this to my small list: she was a serious person, a responsible person.
She parked not too far from me, but she hadn’t noticed me standing here yet, staring at her. I wondered what she would do when she did? Blush and walk away? （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer
57 That was my first guess. But maybe she would stare back. Maybe she would come to talk to me.
I took a deep breath, filling my lungs hopefully, just in case.
She got out of the truck with care, testing the slick ground before she put her weight on it. She didn’t look up, and that frustrated me. Maybe I would go talk to her…
No, that would be wrong.
Instead of turning toward the school, she made her way to the rear of her truck, clinging to the side of the truck bed in a droll way, not trusting her footing. It made me smile, and I felt Alice’s eyes on my face. I didn’t listen to whatever this made her think—I was having too much fun watching the girl check her snow chains. She actually looked in some danger of falling, the way her feet were sliding around. No one else was having trouble—had she parked in the worst of the ice?
She paused there, staring down with a strange expression on her face. It was…tender? As if something about the tire was making her…emotional?
Again, the curiosity ached like a thirst. It was as if I had to know what she was thinking—as if nothing else mattered.
I would go talk to her. She looked like she could use a hand anyway, at least until she was off the slick pavement. Of course, I couldn’t offer her that, could I? I hesitated, torn. As adverse as she seemed to be to snow, she would hardly welcome the touch of my cold white hand. I should have worn gloves—
“NO!” Alice gasped aloud.
Instantly, I scanned her thoughts, guessing at first that I had made a poor choice and she saw me doing something inexcusable. But it had nothing to do with me at all.
Tyler Crowley had chosen to take the turn into the parking lot at an injudicious speed. This choice would send him skidding across a patch of ice…
The vision came just half a second before the reality. Tyler’s van rounded the corner as I was still watching the conclusion that had pulled the horrified gasp through Alice’s lips.
No, this vision had nothing to do with me, and yet it had everything to do with me, because Tyler’s van—the tires right now hitting the ice at the worst possible angle— （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer
58 was going to spin across the lot and crush the girl who had become the uninvited focal point of my world.
Even without Alice’s foresight it would have been simple enough to read the trajectory of the vehicle, flying out of Tyler’s control.
The girl, standing in the exactly wrong place at the back of her truck, looked up, bewildered by the sound of the screeching tires. She looked straight into my horror struck eyes, and then turned to watch her approaching death.
Not her! The words shouted in my head as if they belonged to someone else.
Still locked into Alice’s thoughts, I saw the vision suddenly shift, but I had no time to see what the outcome would be.
I launched myself across the lot, throwing myself between the skidding van and the frozen girl. I moved so fast that everything was a streaky blur except for the object of my focus. She didn’t see me—no human eyes could have followed my flight—still staring at the hulking shape that was about to grind her body into the metal frame of her truck.
