Adventures in an alternate dimension Book 2

Chapter 63 - Graduation Farewells: A Pinch of Nostalgia

Amber's POV

Forks wasn't exactly known for throwing Gatsby-esque bashes. More like Tupperware parties with slightly better snacks. But tonight, Mathias and Mia Newton's backyard was a kaleidoscope of fairy lights, laughter that rivaled a hyena convention, and the unmistakable scent of mom's legendary potato salad (a recipe guarded more fiercely than Fort Knox). Graduation for Mathias meant the entire Yorkie-Newton clan, myself included, descended upon their place like a pack of locusts with good manners (mostly).

Excitement crackled in the air, thicker than the cloud of mosquitos the size of pterodactyls hovering near the punch bowl. I swatted one away, wincing. Graduation felt like a distant myth for me and Hunter, even though we were twins. Being a human in a vampire family had that effect, stretching time into a seemingly endless loop of reruns of "Friends." But watching the nervous energy radiating off Mia (who, by the way, was about to give a speech that would make Shakespeare weep) and the way Jessica (Jess) Yorkie, Nathaniel's ever-attached twin, nearly tackled Mathias in a celebratory hug, it was hard not to get swept up in the anticipation.

Jess and Nathaniel were another pair of Forks twins, born a month apart, unlike Hunter and me, the synchronized swimmers of the womb. They were practically fused at the hip, their laughter echoing like a deranged wind chime duo as they chased fireflies in the twilight. Their parents, Angela Weber and Eric Yorkie, were deep in conversation with Jessica Stanley and her husband Mike Newton, Angela's smile as warm as a lava lamp, and Eric, despite his air of "don't mess with me or I'll turn you into a toadstool," actually seemed happy for Mathias.

Hunter, ever the reliable rock with a heart of gold (or should I say, nonexistent heartbeat?), was by Mathias' side, dispensing manly advice and the occasional playful shove. They looked like brothers, both built like linebackers, though Hunter's perpetually windblown golden hair clashed spectacularly with Mathias' dark curls. It was a sight that warmed my heart – the unwavering friendship that had weathered countless hockey games (with Mathias being the actual star, not Hunter, bless his darling incompetence), decent grades by sheer luck, and the existential angst of teenage werewolves (let's not go there).

As dusk settled, casting long, dramatic shadows worthy of a vampire romance novel across the lawn, a string quartet, courtesy of Mike and Jessica Newton's ever-expanding wallet, started wailing a medley of classic rock that would make even your grandma tap her foot. People migrated towards the makeshift dance floor, a space cleared out amidst the lawn furniture with the elegance of a toddler wielding a weed whacker. Mike, ever the charmer, offered his hand to Angela, who accepted with a playful eye roll. Jessica and Eric followed suit, their laughter a welcome counterpoint to the off-key screech of the violins.

Hunter, never one for breaking a sweat on the dance floor unless chased by a rabid squirrel, caught my eye and grinned. "Wanna grab some punch before it mysteriously transforms into kale juice?" he asked, his voice barely audible over the music.

"Absolutely," I agreed, relieved to escape the potential dancefloor disaster zone. We weaved through the crowd, the air thick with the mingled scents of barbecue, nervous sweat, and freshly cut grass (courtesy of a lawn gnome uprising that Hunter heroically thwarted earlier, but that's a story for another time).

"Mathias cleans up well, doesn't he?" Hunter commented, watching his friend navigate the social minefield with surprising grace.

"He does," I agreed, sipping the surprisingly non-alcoholic punch. "Though I wouldn't mind a splash of something a little... redder." I winked at him, earning a snort of laughter.

"Hey, don't tempt fate," he swatted my arm playfully. "Mom would have our hides if she caught a whiff of anything stronger than grape juice."

The memory brought back a wave of nostalgia. We were eight years old, scrawny and awkward, watching in awe as Mathias, a natural on skates, weaved around opponents with the grace of a swan... while simultaneously tripping over his own shoelaces every other minute. It felt like a lifetime ago.