Twilight G.S.

1.1

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There were three things of which I was sure.

First, Edward Cullen was a monster.

Second, there was a part of him - however dominant - that wanted to crack me open and drink me like a cold beer.

Third... to be honest I thought that was kinda hot.

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CHAPTER ONE: First Impressions

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Not so bad.

That's what I kept telling myself, o my droogs, hunched in the Greyhound's sleep-seating. I was itchy, the bus was a bit stuffy, and everything past the bullet-proof double plexiglass window was slowly washing out to the dull monochrome that was North-Western America. I didn't actually know if the window WAS bullet-proof, or what any gunman would be trying to accomplish opening fire on a bus full of chubby second-class travelers (lipstick case potato chip shrapnel, the scream of ipod earbuds ripped free on impact -)

They're bullet-proof back in Phoenix, the buses that run the early a.m. hours. Or that's what they tell you.

But this was Washington State, muthafuckaaa, and everyone here was pasty and solid and washed out and didn't answer when important questions regarding bullet deflection were raised, smelling like gasoline and beefsnacks besides. But it wasn't so bad, Charlie Brown (my nickname, because I am round in the face and prone to misfortune). Leaving Renee's house probably could have been some huge hand-wringing dramafest, but what she didn't know was that I'd be actually kinda happy to see my father.

I guess I didn't know it right away, either, but my mantra was earning weight: it really wouldn't be so bad. A fresh start. Let Renee take it back down from critical and we could both eventually miss each other, like in five years or anytime after her new husband got sick of her shit and left. More than not-so-bad: fucking perfect. Even the weather was a welcome change; fat drops of bright cold water slipping through my hair and under my collar as I stepped wobbly-kneed from the platform to collect my luggage. The safety pins in my face cooled with the air, deliciously heavy as if they were the only thing weighing my head to my neck.

I was off that cramped travel-bus and I was going to live a manly bachelor life with my Dad and they got all my luggage through undamaged and - and I was going to finish school and not fuck up and Renee was going to fill my inbox with worry-mail and apology-mail and; and I was getting a car, a privilege denied in Arizona on account of the cheap and bullet-free public transportation system, and I was going to meet new people and - did I mention not fucking up? Kinda big deal, being on the straight and narrow now.

Not much trouble to get into in Forks of all places, anyway. No cow tipping (there weren't any cows) or smoking of illegal ganjas or whatever it was country yokels did to pass time. No friends to be made, either. Not that I hated the people there.

I love people.

Correction: I love city people. City people are all half-fat fucks and half-short art fags and hypochondrial shut-ins, suspicious of good deeds and willing to look the other way when presented with subway assault. They also have fantastic fashion sense. If you can't tell by now, I myself am a city-people. Sure, there's no geological relation to being shorter than your average age group or particularly round in the face - in fact I have my father, Charlie Senior, to thank for those genetics.

(Small aside: people call me Charlie because my mother named me fucking BERNARDO. Charlie Swan the First is also known as Cheif Swan, The Sheriff, Dad, Pops, et cetera. Stop me if you're ever confused on this.)

But hey, it's not like I think the backwater and toothless are entirely judgmental about looks. If you can play yourself a decent game of foozbawl or comparable varsity sport, then you're totally in the club! (Guess who couldn't play a sport to save his chain-smoking ass? Maybe a competition folding mattress sheets, I could win. Fuck if this town didn't actually have a sheet-folding contest, too... it's funny because it's about racism! GET ON MY LEVEL.)

Don't get me wrong, I'm neither useless nor hideous. It's just, yeah, okay, harder to make friends when I've been away from the place for so long. And I'm a social creature. I need to be popular. It's just... it's not my fault I look like Sheriff Charlie Swan, nor that Sheriff Charlie Swan happens to be a fucking sad-looking guy. Like Billy Crystal with facial hair. He's a great dad, a great person (the whole cop thing, Eagle Scout, football and shit), but it's been sixteen years since his last relationship and I didn't exactly look forward to the kind of shenanigans inherited BALDING was going to play on my social life.

To cure the effect of my inherently mopey features, I have up to this point caked myself in eyeliner and pierced the majority of my face. Yeah-huh, you say, good luck getting away with that in Nowheresville High. The only upside was that the cooler temps of the northland would allow me to finally go for that suave art-student look and grow my curly hair out without worry of accidental fro. (Summers are fucking death on rollerskates to scene kids in Phoenix.) Besides, I want to get as much mileage out of my hair before it starts RECEDING and I shave it all off from shame. I've got maybe ten years. Yes you care about my HAIR. BECAUSE IT IS AN IMPORTANT PLOT DEVICE LATER ON, SO PIPE THE FUCK DOWN.

If you haven't noticed by now this story is about ME. Gawd.

Charlie has yet to go all Captain Picard on his own and - yep, I've spotted him. Striding through the crowd with the authority of a seasoned officer and the timidity of an overweight middle-aged hick. Maybe that's unfair of me, but seeing him only reminds me of the man I'm going to be at that age (lo, genetic science, WHAT HAVE YOU WROUGHT). We eye each other up - manly wariness, you see, that precedes an awkward half-hug. You can see it in his watery blue eyes: he doesn't recognize me from the spastic nine-year-old who used to cling to his khaki leg-pant. And maybe I'm even a little taller than him, which is not so bad at all.