Natasha Speaks

Natasha speaks

Carol kept up a string of complaints on the way to building four.

Once inside the classroom, I was relieved that Natasha's chair was still empty. It gave mea minute to settle myself. Mrs Banner was walking around the room, distributing one microscope and box of slides to each table. Class still had a few minutes before it started, and the room buzzed with conversation. I kept my eyes away from the door, doodling idly on the cover of my notebook.

I heard very clearly when the chair next to me moved, but I kept my eyes focused on the pattern I was drawing.

"Hello," said a quiet, musical voice.

I looked up, shocked that she was speaking to me. She was sitting as far away from me as the desk allowed, but her chair was angled toward me. Her hair was dripping wet, tangled—even so, she looked like she'd finished shooting a commercial. Her perfect face was friendly, open, a slight smile on her full, pink lips. But her long eyes were careful.

"My name is Natasha Romanoff," she continued. "I didn't have a chance to introduce myself last week. You must be Y/n Fury."

My mind was whirling with confusion. Had I made up the whole thing? She was totally polite now. I had to say something; she was waiting. But I couldn't think of anything normal to say.

"H-how do you know my name?" I stammered.

She laughed softly. "Oh, I think everyone knows your name. The whole town's been waiting fro you to arrive."

I frowned, though it wasn't as if I hadn't guessed as much.

"Oh," I looked away awkwardly.

Luckily, Mrs. Banner started class at that moment. I tried to concentrate as she explained the lab we would be doing today. The slides in the box were out of order. Working as lab partners, we had to separate the slides of onion root tip cells into the phases of mitosis they represented and label them accordingly. We weren't supposed to use our books. In twenty minutes, she would be coming around to see who had it right.

"Get started," she commanded.

"Should I go first, partner?" Natasha asked. I looked up to see her smiling a dimpled smile so perfect that I could only stare at her like an idiot.

She raise her eyebrows.

"Uh, sure, go ahead," I sputtered.

I saw her eyes flash to the redness spreading across my cheeks. Why couldn't my blood just stay in my veins where it belonged?

She looked away sharply, yanking the microscope to her side of the table.

She studied the first slide for a quarter of a second—maybe less.

"Prophase."

She switched out the slide for the next, then paused and looked up at me.

"Or did you want to check?" she challenged.

"Uh, no, I'm good," I said.

She wrote the word Prophase  neatly on the top line of our worksheet. Even her handwriting was perfect, like she'd taken classes in penmanship or something. Did anyone still do that? She barely glanced through the microscope at the second slide, then wrote Anaphase  on the next line, looping her A like  it was calligraphy, like she was addressing a wedding invitation. I'd had to do the invitations for my mum's wedding. I'd printed the labels in a fancy script font that didn't look anything as elegant as Natasha's handwriting.

She moved the next slide into place, while I took advantage of her diverted attention to stare. So close up, you'd think I'd be able to see something—a hint of a pimple, a stray eyebrow hair, a pore, something—wrong with her. But there was nothing.

Suddenly her head flipped up, eyes to the front of the class, just before Mrs. Banner called out, "Miss Romanoff?"

"Yes, Mrs. Banner?" Natasha slid the microscope toward me as she spoke.

"Perhaps you should let Miss Fury have an opportunity to learn?"

"Of course, Mrs. Banner."

Natasha turned and gave me a well, go ahead then look.

I bent down to look through the eyepiece. I could sense she was watching—only fair, considering how I'd been ogling her—but it made me feel awkward, like just inclining my head was a clumsy move.

At least the slide wasn't difficult.

"Metaphase," I said.

"Do you mind if I look?" she asked as I started to remove the slide. Her hand caught mine, to stop me, as she was speaking. Her fingers were ice cold, like she'd been holding them in a snowdrift before class. But that wasn't why I jerked my hand away so quickly. When she touched me, it stung my hand like a low-voltage electric shock.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, quickly pulling her hand back, though she continued to reach for the microscope. I watched her, a little dazed, as she examined the slide for another tiny fraction of a second.

"Metaphase," she agreed, then slid the microscope back to me. I tried to exchange slides, but I had no grip on my fingers, and I ended up dropping both. One fell on the table and the other over the edge, but Natasha caught it before it could hit the ground.

"Ugh," I exhaled, mortified. "Sorry."

"Well, the last is no mystery, regardless," she said. Her tone was right on the edge of laughter. Butt of the joke again.

Natasha calligraphic the words Metaphase and Telophase onto the last two lines of the worksheet.

We were finished before anyone else was close. I could see Carol and her partner comparing two slides again and again, and another pair had their book open under the table.

Which left me with nothing to do but try not to look at her . . . unsuccessfully. I glanced down, and she was staring at me, the same strange look of frustration in her eyes. Suddenly I identified that elusive difference in her face.

"Did you get contacts?" I blurted out.

She seemed puzzled by my apropos-of-nothing question.

"No."

"Oh," I mumbled. "I thought there was something different about your eyes."

She shrugged, and looked away.

In fact, I knew there was something different. I had not forgotten one detail of that first time she'd glared at me like she wanted me dead. I could still see the flat black colour of her eyes—so jarring against the background of her pale skin. Today her eyes were a completely different colour; a strange gold, darker than butterscotch, but with the same warm tone. I didn't understand how that was possible, unless she 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. Her hands were clenched into fists again. Mrs. Banner came to our table then, looking over our shoulders to glance at the completed lab, and then stared more intently to check the answers.

"So, Natasha . . . ," Mrs. Banner began.

"Y/n identified half of the slides," Natasha said before Mrs. Banner could finish.

Mrs. Banner looked a the now; her expression was skeptical.

"Have you done this lab before?" she asked.

I shrugged. "Not with onion root."

"Whitefish blastula?"

"Yeah."

Mrs. Banner nodded. "Were you in an advanced placement program in Phoenix?"

"Yes."

"Well," she said after a moment, "I guess it's good you two are lab partners." She mumbled something I couldn't hear as she walked away. After she left, I started doodling on my notebook again.

"It's too bad about the snow, isn't it?" Natasha asked. I had the odd feeling that she was forcing herself to make small talk with me. It was like she had heard my conversation with Maria at lunch and was trying to prove me wrong. Which was impossible. I was turning paranoid.

"Not really," I answered honestly, instead of pretending to be normal like everyone else. I was still trying to shake the stupid feeling of suspicion, and I couldn't concentrate on putting up a socially acceptable front.

"You don't like the cold." It wasn't a question.

"Or the wet."

"Forks must be a difficult place for you to live," she mused.

"You have no idea," I muttered darkly.

She looked riveted by my response, for some reason I couldn't imagine. Her face was such a distraction that I tried to not 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 she did, demanding.

"It's . . . complicated."

"I think I can keep up," she pressed.

I paused for a long moment, and then made the mistake of meeting her gaze. Her long, dark gold eyes confused me, and I answered without thinking.

"My mother got remarried," I said.

"That doesn't sound so complex," she disagreed, but her tone was suddenly softer. "When did that happen?"

"Last September." I couldn't keep the sadness out of my voice.

"Ans you don't like him," Natasha guessed, her voice still kind.

"No, Bruce is fine. A little young, maybe, but he's a good guy."

"Why didn't you stay with them?"

I couldn't understand her interest, but she continued to stare at me with penetrating eyes, as If my dull life's story was somehow vitally important.

"Bruce travels most of the time. He's a scientist and he's constantly changing labs with different kinds of research," I half-smiled.

"Have I heard of him?" She asked, smiling in response, just enough for a hint of dimples to show.

"Probably not. He switches research a lot, which is why he moves around a lot."

"And your mother sent you hers that she could travel with him." She said it as an assumption again, not a question.

My hunched shoulders straightened automatically. "No, she didn't. I sent myself."

Her eyebrows pushed together. "I don't understand," she admitted, and she seemed more frustrated by that fact than she should be.

I sighed. Why was I explaining this to her? She stared at me, waiting.

"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 Nick." My voice was glum by the time I finished.

"But now you're unhappy," she pointed out.

"And?" I challenged.

"That doesn't seem fair." She shrugged, but her eyes were still intense.

I laughed once. "Haven't you heard? Life isn't fair."

"I believe I have heard that somewhere before," she agreed dryly.

"So that's it," I insisted, wondering why she was still staring at me that way.

Her head tilted to the side, and her gold eyes seemed to laser right through the surface of my skin. "You put on a good show," she said slowly. "But I'd be willing to bet that you're suffering more than you let anyone see."

I shrugged. "I repeat . . . And?"

"I don't entirely understand you, that's all."

I frowned. "Why would you want to?"

"That's a very good question," she murmured, so quietly that I wondered if she was talking to herself. However, after a few seconds of silence, I decided that was the only answer I was going to get.

It was awkward, just looking at each other, but she didn't look away. I wanted to keep staring at her face, but I was afraid she was wondering what was wrong with me for staring so much, so finally I turned toward the blackboard. She sighed.

I glanced back, and she was still looking at me, but her expression was different . . . a little frustrated, or irritated.

"I'm sorry," I said quickly. "Did I . . . Am I annoying you?"

She shook her head and smiled with hand her mouth so that one dimple popped out. "No, if anything, I'm annoyed with myself."

"Why?"

She cocked her head to the side. "Reading people . . . it usually comes very easily to me. But I can't—I guess I don't know quite what to make of you. Is that funny?"

I flattened out my grin. "More . . . unexpected. My mum always calls me her open book. According to her, you can all but read my thoughts printing out across my forehead."

Her smile vanished and she half-glared into my eyes, not angry like before, just intense. As if she was trying hard to read that printout my mum had seen. Then, switching gears just as abruptly, she was smiling again.

"I supposed I've gotten overconfident."

I didn't know what to say to that. "Um, sorry?"

She laughed, and the sound was like music, though I couldn't think of the instrument to compare it to. Her teeth were perfect—no surprise there—and blinding white.

Mrs. Banner called the class to order then, and I was relieved to give her my attention. It was a little too intense, making small talk with Natasha. I felt dizzy in a strange way. Had I really just detailed my boring life to this bizarre, beautiful girl who might or might not hate me? She'd seemed almost too interested in what I had to say, but now I could see, from the corner of my eye, that she was leaning away from me again, her hands gripping the edge of the table with unmistakable tension.

I tried to focus as Mrs. Banner went through the lab with transparencies on the overhead projector, but my thoughts were far away from the lecture.

When the bell rang, Natasha rushed as swiftly and as gracefully from the room as she had last Monday. And, like last Monday, I stared after her with my jaw hanging open.

Carol got to my table almost as quickly.

"That was awful," she said. "They all looked exactly the same. You're lucky you had Natasha for a partner."

"Yeah, she seemed to know her way around an onion root."

"She was friendly enough today," Carol commented as we shrugged into our raincoats. She didn't sound happy about it.

I tried to make my voice casual. "I wonder what was with her last Monday."

I couldn't' concentrate on Carol's chatter as we walked to Gym, and P.E. didn't do much to hold my interest, either.

Carol was on my team today. She helpfully covered  my position as well as her own, so I only had to pay attention when it was my turn to serve; my team knew to get out the way when I was up.

The rain was just a mist as I walked to the parking lot, but I was still pretty damp when I got in the truck. I turned the heat up as high as it could go, for once not caring about the mind-numbing roar of the engine.

As I looked around me to make sure the way was clear, I noticed the still, white figure. Natasha Romanoff was leaning against the front door of the Volvo, three cars down from me, and staring intently in my direction. The smile was gone, but at least so was the murder—for now, anyway. I looked away and threw the truck into reverse, almost hitting a rusty Toyota Corolla in my rush. Lucky for the Toyota, I stomped on the brake in time. It was just the sort of car that my truck would make scrap metal of. I took a deep breath, still looking out the other side of my car, and cautiously pulled out again. This time I made it. I stared straight ahead as I passed the Volvo, but I could see enough in my peripheral vision to know that she was laughing.

First Sight

I didn't sleep well that night, even after I finally got my head to shut up. The constant whooshing of the rain and the wind across the roof wouldn't fade into the background. I pulled the 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 quiet 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 prison cage I'd imagined.

Breakfast with Nick was quiet. He wished me good luck at school. I thanked him, knowing his hope was a waste of time. Good luck tended to avoid me. Nick 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 the three non-matching chairs and stared at the familiar kitchen, with dark panelled walls, bright yellow cabinets, and while linoleum, floor. Nothing had changed. My mum had painted the cabinets eighteen years ago, trying to bring some sunshine into the house. Over the small fireplace the adjoining, microscopic family room was a row of pictures. First a wedding picture of Nick and my mum 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 this year's. Those were embarrassing to look at—the bad haircuts, the braces years, the acne that had finally cleared up. I would have to see what I could do to get Nick to put them somewhere else, at least while I was living here.

It was impossible, being in this house, not to realize that Nick had never gotten over my mum. It made me uncomfortable.

I didn't want to be too early to school, but I couldn't stay in the house anymore. I put on my jacket—thick, non-breathing plastic, like 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 eave by the door, and Locked up. The sloshing of my new waterproof boots sounded weird. I missed the normal crunch of gravel as I walked.

Inside the ruck, it was nice and dry. Either Odin or Nick had obviously cleaned it up, but the tan upholstered seats still smelled faintly of tobacco, gasoline, and peppermint. The engine started quickly, which was a relied, but loudly, roaring to life and then idling at top volume. Well, a truck this old was bound to have a flaw. The antique radio worked, a bonus I hadn't expected.

Finding the school wasn't difficult; like most other things, it was just off the highway. It wasn't obvious at first that it was a school; only the sign, which declared it to be Forks High school, clued me in. It looked like a collection of matching houses, built with maroon-coloured bricks. There were so many trees and shrubs I couldn't see its size at first. Where was the feel of the institution? It thought. Where were the chain-link fences, the metal detectors?

I parked by the first building, which had a small sign over the door reading FRONT OFFICE. No one else was parked there, so I was sure it was off limits but I decided I would get directions inside instead of circling around in the rain like an idiot.

Inside, it was brightly lit, and warmer than I'd hoped. The office was small; there was a little waiting area with padded folding chard, orange-flecked commercial carpet, notices and awards cluttering the walls, and a big clock ticking loudly. Plants grew everywhere in large plastic pots, as if there weren't enough greenery outside. The room was cut in half by a long counter, cluttered with wire baskets full o papers and brightly coloured flyers taped to the front. There were three desks behind the counter; a round, balding man in glasses sat at one. He was wearing a t-shirt, which immediately made me feel overdressed for the weather.

The balding man looked up. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Y/n Fury," I informed him, and saw the quick recognition in his eyes. I was expected, already the subject of gossip. The Chief's daughter, the one with the unstable mum, come home at last.

"Of course," he said. He dug through a leaning stack of papers on his desk till he found the ones he was looking fro "I have your schedule right here, Y/n, and a map of the school." He brought several sheets to the counter to show me.

He went through my classes for me, highlighting the best route to each on the map, and gave me a slip to have each teacher sign, which I was to bring back at the end of the day. He smiled at me and hoped, like Nick, that I would like it here in Forks.

I smiled back as convincingly as I could.

When I went back out to my truck, other students were starting to arrive. I drove around the school, following the line of traffic. Most of the cars were older like mine, nothing flashy. Ay home, I'd lived in one of the few lower-income neighbourhoods that were included in the Paradise Valley District. It was a common thing to see a new Mercedes or Porsche in the students lot. The nicest car here was a brand-new Volvo, and it stood out. Still, I cut the engine as soon as I was in a spot, so that the earsplitting volume wouldn't draw attention to me.

I looked at the map in the truck, trying to memorise it now; hopefully I wouldn't have to walk around with it stick in front of my nose all day. I stuffed everything in my backpack, slung the strap over my shoulder, and sucked in a huge breath. It won't be that bad, I lied to myself. Seriously, though. this wasn't a life and death situation—it was just high school. It's not like anyone was going to bite me. I finally exhaled, and stepped out of the truck.

I pulled my hood down over my face as I walked to the sidewalk, crowed with teenagers. My plain black jacket didn't stand out, I was glad to see, though there wasn't much I could do about my height. I hunched my shoulders and kept my head down.

Once I got around the cafeteria, building three was easy to spot. A large black "3" was painted on a white square on the east corner. I followed two unisex raincoats through the door.

The classroom was small. The people in front of me stopped just inside the door to hang up their coats on a long row of hooks. I copied them. They were two girls, one a porcelain-coloured blonde, the other also pale, with light brown hair. At least my skin wouldn't be a standout here.

I took the slip up to the teacher, a narrow woman with thinning hair whose desk had a nameplate identifying her as Ms.Mason. She gawked at me when she saw my name—discouraging—and I could feel the blood rush into my face, no doubt forming unattractive splotches across my cheeks. At least she sent me to an empty desk at the back without introducing me to the class. I tried to fold myself into the little desk as inconspicuously as possible.

It was harder for my new classmates to stare at me in the back, but somehow, they managed. I kept my eyes down on the reading list the teacher had given me. It was pretty basic: Brontë, Shakespeare, Chaucer, Faulkner. I'd already read everything. That was comforting ... and boring. I wondered if my mum would send me my folder of old essays, or if she would think that was cheating. I went through different arguments with her in my head while the teacher droned on.

When the bell rang, a pale, skinny girl with blonde hair leaned across the aisle to talk to me.

"You're Y/n Fury, aren't you?" She gave off the vibe of an overly helpful, chess club type.

"Yep," as soon as the word fell from my mouth, everyone within a three-seat radius turned to look at me.

"Where's your next class?" She asked.

I had to check my bag. "Um, Government, with Jefferson, in building six."

There was nowhere to look without meeting curious eyes.

"I'm headed toward building four, I could show you the way..." Definitely over-helpful. "I'm Sharon," she added.

I forced a smile. "Thanks."

We got our jackets and headed out into the rain, which had picked up. Several people seemed to be walking too close behind us—like they were trying to eavesdrop or something. I hoped I wasn't getting paranoid.

"So, this is a lot different than Phoenix, huh?" she asked.

"Very."

"It doesn't rain much there, does it?"

"Three or four times a year."

"Wow, what must that be like?" she wondered.

"Sunny," I told her.

"You don't look very tan."

"My mother is part albino."

She studied my face uneasily, and I stifled a groan. It looked like clouds and a sense of humour didn't mix. A few months of this and I'd forget how to use sarcasm.

We walked back around the cafeteria, to the south buildings by the gym. Sharon followed me right to the door, though it was clearly marked.

"Well, good luck," she said as I touched the handle. "Maybe we'll have some other classes together." She sounded hopeful.

I smiled at her—in what I hoped was not an encouraging way—and went inside.

The rest of the morning passed in about the same way. My Trigonometry teacher, Ms. Varner, who I would have disliked anyway just because of the subject she taught, was the only one who made me stand in front of the class and introduce myself. I stammered, I could feel the heat rushing through my cheeks, and tripped over my own boots on the way to my seat.

After two classes, I started to recognise some of the faces in each room. There was always someone braver than the others who would introduce themselves and ask me questions about how I was liking Forks. I tried to be diplomatic, but mostly I just lied a lot. At least I never needed a map.

One girl sat next to me in both Trig and Spanish, and she walked with me to the cafeteria for lunch. She reached my shoulders in height and had long dark black hair. I couldn't remember her name, so I smiled and nodded as she rattled on about teachers and classes. I didn't try to keep up.

We sat at the end of a full table with several of her friends, who she introduced to me—couldn't complain about the manners here. I forgot all their names as soon as she said them. They seemed to think it was cool that she'd invited me. The girl from English, Sharon, waved at me from across the room, and they all laughed. Already the butt of the joke. It was probably a new record for me. But none of them seemed mean-spirited about it.

It was there, sitting in the lunch room, trying to make conversation with seven curious strangers, that I first saw them.

Disclamer for Life and Death

so basically this story is based on Stephanie Meyer's book life and death, the story of Edythe and Beu. I got the book given to me not long ago and when I read it I got major Natasha vibes so I decided to write it.

Basically is the exact same story that Stephanie wrote with very minor changes so I wanted to make it very clear that this is not my work so I don't get banned or something for copy write. Basically I just changed the characters and made them all from Marvel.

One thing I wanted to make clear as well is that in this story anyone can like whoever regardless of gender. Kinda off like She-Ra where nobody comes out or anything like that cause is so normalised.

Choosing the characters was fun. I had a little of debating Choosing who Steve and Bucky would play, cause on one sense Archie and Edythe get along really great like Steve and Nat but on the other sense Bucky has the mysterious past like Archie Though I liked the Jessamine vibes Bucky gave. Another thing is that I had no idea what to do with Bruce which is why I made him Phil.

Also I am aware that this was a gender reverse from Twilight but I haven't read twilight so I'm not sure if there is much of a difference or what but anyways hope you enjoy this.  

Any questions feel free to ask meanwhile enjoy the story.

ONCE AGAIN THIS IS NOT MY WORK

THIS BELONGS TO STEPHANIE MEYER.

Moving to Forks

January 17, 2005

My mum drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down. Though it was January everywhere else, it was seventy-five degrees in Phoenix, and the sky was bright blue. I had on my favourite t-shirt—the Monty Python one with the swallows and the coconut that Mum got me two christmases ago. It didn't quite fit anymore, but that didn't matter. I wouldn't be needing t-shirts again soon.

In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington Stat, a small town named Forks exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. It rains on this insignificant town more than any other place in the United States of America. It was from this town and its depressing gloom that my mom escaped with me when I was only a few months old. It was in this town that I'd been forced to spend a month every summer until I was fourteen. That was the year I finally started making ultimatums; these past three summers, my dad, Nick, vacationed with me in California for two weeks instead.

Yet somehow, I now found myself exiled to Forks for the rest of my high school education. A year and a half. Eighteen months. It felt like a prison sentence. Eighteen months, hard time. When I slammed the car door behind me, it made a sound like the clang of iron bars locking into place.

Okay, just a tad melodramatic there. I have an overactive imagination, as my mom was fond of telling me. And, of course, this was my choice. Self-imposed exile.

Didn't make it any easier.

I loved Phoenix. I loved the sun and the dry heat and the big, sprawling city. And I loved living with my mum, where I was needed.

"You don't have to do this," my mum said to me—the last of a hundred times—just before I got to the TSA post.

People think we look so much alike that we're mistaken as twins. It's not entirely true, though I don't look much like my dad at all. Her chin is pointy and her lips full, which is not like me, but we do have exactly the same eyes. On her they're childlike which makes her look like my sister rather than my mum, and although she pretends not to she loves it.

Staring at those wide, worried eyes so much like my own, I felt panicked. I'd been taking care of my mum for my whole life. I mean, I'm sure there must have been a time, probably when I was still in in diapers, that I wasn't in charge of the bills and paperwork and cooking and general live-headedness, but I couldn't remember it.

Was leaving my mum to fend for herself really the right to do? It had seemed like it was, during the months I'd struggled toward this decision. But it felt all kinds of wrong now. Of course she had Bruce these days, so the bills would probably get paid on time, there would be food in the fridge, gas in the car, and someone to call when she got lost........She didn't need me as much anymore.

"I want to go," I lied. I'd never been a good liar, but I'd been saying this lie so much lately that it almost sounded convincing now.

"Tell Nick I said hi."

"I will."

"I'll see you soon," she promised. "You can come home whenever you want—I'll come right back as soon as you need me."

But I knew what it would cost her to do that.

"Dont worry about me," I insisted. "it'll be great. I love you, Mum."

She hugged me tightly for a minute, and then I walked through the metal detectors, and she was gone.

It's a three hour flight from Phoenix to Seattle, another hour in a small plane up to Port Angeles, and the an hour drive back down to Forks. Flying's never bothered me; the hour in the car with Nick, though, I was a little worried about.

Nick had really been pretty decent about the whole thing. He seemed genuinely pleased that I was coming to live with him sort of permanently for the first time. He'd already gotten me registered for high school, and was going to help me get a car.

But it would be awkward. Neither of us was what you'd call extroverted—probably a necessary thing for living with my mother. But aside from that, what was there to say? It wasn't like I'd kept the way I felt about Forks a secret.

When I landed in Port Angeles, it was raining. It wasn't an omen, just inevitable. I'd said my goodbyes to the sun.

Nick was waiting for me with the cruiser. This I was expecting, too. Nick is Police Chief Fury to the good people of Forks. My primary motivation behind buying a car, despite my serious lack of funds, was that I hated driving around town in a car with red and blue lights on top. Nothing slows down traffic like a cop.

I stumbled off the plane in Nick's awkward, one-armed hug.

"It's good to see you, Y/n," he said, smiling as he automatically steadied me. We patted each other's shoulders, embarrassed, and then stepped back. "You haven't changed much. How's Y/M/N?"

"Mum's great. It's good to see you, too, Dad." I wasn't supposed to call him Nick to his face.

"You really feel okay about leaving her?"

We both understood that this question wasn't about my own personal happiness. It was whether I was shirking my responsibility to look after her. This was the reason Nick'd never fought Mum about custody; he knew she needed me.

"Yeah. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure."

"Fair enough."

I only had two big duffel bags. Most of my Arizona clothes were too permeable for the Washington climate. My Mum and I had pooled our resources to supplement my winter wardrobe, but it still wasn't much . I couldn't handle both of them, but Nick insisted on taking one.

It threw my balance off a little—not that was ever really balanced, especially since the growth spurt. My foot caught on the lip of the exit door and the bag swung out and hit the guy trying to get in.

"Oh, sorry."

The guy wasn't much older than me, and he was a little bit shorter than me, he stepped up to my chest with his chin raised high. I could see tattoos on both sides of his neck. A small woman with hair dyed solid black stared menacingly at me from his other side.

"Sorry?" she repeated, like my apology had been offensive somehow.

"Er, yeah?"

And then the woman noticed Nick, who was in uniform. Nick didn't even have to say anything. He just looked at the guy, who backed up a half-step and suddenly seemed a lot younger, and then the girl, whose sticky red lips settled into a pout. Without another word, they ducked around me and headed into the tiny terminal.

Nick and I both shrugged at the same time. It was funny how we had some of the same mannerisms when we didn't spend much time together. Maybe it was genetic.

"I found a good car for you, really cheap," Nick announced when we were strapped into the cruiser and on our way.

"What kind of car?" I asked, suspicious of the way he said "good car for you" as opposed to just "good car."

"Well, it's a truck actually, a Chevy."

"Where did you find it?"

"Do you remember Odin Odinson down at La Push?" La Push is the small Indian reservation on the nearby coastline.

"No."

"Him and his wife used go fishing with us during the summer," Nick prompted.

That would explain why I didn't remember him. I do a good job of blocking painful things from my memory.

"He's in a wheelchair now," Nick continued when I didn't respond, "so he can't drive anymore, and she offered to sell me his truck cheap."

"What year is it?" I could see from the change in his expression that this was the question he was hoping I wouldn't ask.

"Well, Odin's had a lot of work done on the engine—it's only a few years old, really."

Did he think I would give up that easily?

"When did he buy it?"

"He bought it in 1984, I think."

"Did he buy it new?"

"Well, no. I think it was new I the early sixties—or late fifties at the earliest," he admitted sheepishly.

"Ni—Dad, I dont really know anything about cars. I wouldn't be able to fix anything that broke, and I couldn't afford a mechanic..."

"Really, Y/n, the things runs great. They don't build them like that anymore."

The thing, I though to myself ... it had possibilities—as a nickname, at the very least.

"How cheap is cheap?" After all, that part was the deal killer.

"Well, kid, I kind of already bought it for you. As a home coming gift." Nick glanced sideways at me with a hopeful expression.

Wow. Free.

"You didn't need to do that, Dad. I was going to buy myself a car."

"I don't mind. I want you to be happy here." He was looking ahead at the road when he said this. Nick had never been comfortable with expressing his emotions out loud. Another thing we had in common. So I was looking straight ahead as I responded.

"That's amazing, Dad. Thanks. I really appreciate it." No need to add that he was talking about impossibilities. Wouldn't help anything for him to suffer along with me. And I never looked a free truck in the mouth—or rather engine.

"Well, now, you're welcome." he mumbled, embarrassed by my thanks.

We changed a few more comments on the weather, which was wet, and that was pretty much it for conversation. We stared out the windows.

It was probably beautiful or something. Everything was green: the trees were covered in moss, both the trunks and the branches, the ground blanketed with ferns. Even the air had turned green by the time it filtered down through the leaves.

It was too green—an alien planet.

Eventually we made it to Nick'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 faded red colour, with big, curvy fenders and a rounded cab.

And I loved it. I wasn't really a car type of girl, so I was kind of surprised by my own reaction. I mean, I didn't even know If it would run, but I could see myself in it. Plus, it was one of those solid iron monsters 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 just destroyed.

"Wow, Dad, it's awesome! Thanks!" Serious enthusiasm this time. Not only was the truck strangely cool, but I now I wouldn't have to walk two miles in the rain to school in the morning. Or accept a ride in the cruiser, which was obviously worst-case scenario.

"I'm glad you like it," Nick 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 belonged to me since I was born. The wooden floor, the light blue walls, the peaked ceiling, the faded blue-and-white checked curtains around the window—these were all a part of my childhood. The only changes Nick had ever made were switching the crib for a bed and adding a desk as I grew. The desk now held a second-hand computer, with the phone line for the modem stapled along the floor to the nearest phone jack. This was one of my mother's requirements, so that we could stay in touch. 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 Nick, but I'd had to share with my mum before, and that was definitely worse. She had a lot more stuff, and she doggedly resisted all my attempts to organise any of it.

One of the best things about Nick is he doesn't hover. He left me alone to unpack and get settled, which would have been totally impossible for my mum. It was nice to be alone, not to have to smile and look comfortable; a relief to stare out the window at the sheeting rain and let my thoughts get dark.

Forks High School had just 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 kid from the big city, something to stare at and whisper about.

Maybe if I had been one of the cool kids, I could make this work for me. Come in all popular, homecoming queen, volleyball player or a cheerleader. But there was no hiding the fact that I was not that girl. Not the class president, not the bad girl on the motorcycle. I was the kid who looked like she should be good at basketball, until I started walking. The girl who got shoved into lockers until I'd suddenly shot up eight inches sophomore year. The girl who was too quiet and too pale, who didn't know anything about fashion or new makeup products or anything else I was supposed to be into as a seventeen year old girl.

Unlike other girls, I didn't have a ton of free time for hobbies. I had a check book to balance, a clogged drain to snake, and a week's groceries to shop for.

Or I used to.

So 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 closest to of anyone on the planet, never understood me. Sometimes I wondered if I was seeing the same things through my eyes that the rest of the world was seeing through theirs. :ole ,aunt what o saw as green was what everyone else saw as red. Maybe I smelled vinegar when they smelled coconut. 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.

The Avengers

They were seated in the corner of the cafeteria, as far away from where I sat as possible in the long room. There were five of them. They weren't talking, and they weren't eating , though they each had a tray of food infant of them. They weren't gawking at me unlike most of the other students, so it was safe to stare at them. But it was none of these things that caught my attention.

They didn't look anything alike.

There were three guys; one I could tell was strong, he looked like he might be the captain of the volleyball team, and I was pretty sure you wouldn't want to get in the way of one of her spikes. He had short black hair parting to the left.

Another had hair hanging to his shoulders; there was something intense about him that made him look edgy. It was kind of weird, but for some reason he made me think of this actor I'd seen in an action movie a few weeks ago, who took down an entire army with a machete. I remembered thinking then that I didn't buy it—there was no way the actor could have taken on that many bad guys and won. But I thought now that I might have bought it all if the character had been played by this guy.

The other guy looked taller than the others, he had short dirty blonde hair. There was something kind about this guy, kind of like the guy you'd expect to see volunteering at an animal shelter.

The two girls there looked like total opposites. A blonde and a red hair. The blonde one looked like the schools prom queen, her hair was on a ponytail and she had a slight fringe covering her forehead. The red hair was the smallest in the table, she looked younger than the other four, who could easily be in college.

Totally different, and yet, they were all exactly alike. Every one of them was chalky pale, the palest of all the students living in this sunless town. Paler than me, the albino. They all had very dark eyes—from here they looked black—despite the range in their hair colours. There were deep shadows under all their eyes—purple shadows, like bruises. Maybe the five of them had just pulled an all-nighter. Or maybe they were recovering from broken noses. Except that their noses, all their features, were straight, angular.

But that wasn't why I couldn't look away.

I stared at their faces, so different, so similar, were all insanely, inhumanly beautiful. The girls and the guys both—beautiful. They were faces you never saw in real life—just airbrushes in magazines and on billboards. Or in a museum painted by an old master as the face of an angel. It was hard to believe they were real.

I decided the most beautiful of all was the smaller girl with red hair, though I expected that half of the student body would vote for the blond prom queen girl. They would be wrong, though. I mean, all of them were gorgeous, but the girl was something more than just beautiful. She was absolutely perfect. It was upsetting, disturbing kind of perfection. It made my stomach uneasy.

They were all looking away; away from each other, away from the rest of the students, away from anything in particular as far as I could tell. It reminded me of models posed oh so artistically for an ad—aesthetic ennui. As I watched, the short dirty blond haired guy, with the kind face, rose with his tray—unopened soda, untouched apple—and walked away with a quick, graceful lope that belonged on a runway. As he glided though the back door he past another girl that shared the exact same features as the rest. She also had blonde hair and was significantly shorter than the guy who walked past her. I followed her as she made her way to the others, who hadn't changed.

"Who are they?" I asked the girl from my Spanish class, whose name I'd forgotten.

As he looked up to see who I meant—though he could probably guess from my tone—suddenly she looked at us, the perfect one. She looked at my neighbour for just a fraction of a second, and then her dark eyes flickered to mine. Long eyes, angled up at the corners, thick lashes.

She looked away quickly, faster than I could, though I dropped my stare as soon as she'd glanced our way. I could feel my blood rush to my face. In that brief flash of a glance, her face wasn't interested at all—it was like she had called her name, and she'd looked up involuntary response, already having decided not to answer.

My neighbour laughed once, uncomfortable, looking down at the table like I did.

She muttered her answer under her breath. "Those are the Avengers," She had a quick glance towards their table and continued, "There's Tony Stark, James Barnes, Pepper Pots, Natasha Romanoff, Yelena Belova and the one who just let is Steve Rogers. They all live with Dr. Vostokoff and her husband."

I glanced sideways at there perfect girl, who was looking at her tray now, picking a bagel to pieces with thin, pale fingers. Her mouth was moving very quickly, her full lips barely opening. The other four looked away, but I still thought she might be speaking quietly to them.

Then I finally remembered that my neighbours name was Maria.

"They're all very . . . good looking." What an understatement.

"Yeah!" Maria agreed with another laugh. "They're all together  though—Tony and Pepper, James and Steve. Like dating, you know? And they live together." She snickered and wagged her eyebrows suggestively.

I didn't know why, but her reaction made me want to defend them. Maybe just because she sounded so judgmental. But what could I say? I didn't know anything about them.

"Well if they're not related then it doesn't matter." I said, wanting to change the tone but not the subject.

"Oh, Yelena and Natasha are sister but the others aren't related. Dr. Vostokoff is really young. Early thirties. All of them are sort of adopted."

"Sort of?"

"I'm not sure if they are adopted or some kind of foster kids."

"They look old for foster kids."

"They are now. Pepper and James are both eighteen, but they've been with Mr. Shostakov since they were little."

"That's actually kind of amazing—for them to take care of all those kids, when they're so young and everything."

"I guess so," Maria said, though it sounded like he'd rather not say anything positive. As if she didn't like the doctor and her husband for some reason . . . and the way she was looking at their adopted kids, I could guess there might be some jealousy involved. "I think Dr. Vostokoff can't have kids, though," she added, as if that somehow made what they were doing less admirable.

Through all this conversation, I couldn't keep my eyes away from the strange family for more than a few seconds at a time. They continued to look at the walls and not eat.

"Have they always lived in Forks?" I asked. How could I never have noticed them during my summers here?

"No. They just moved down two years ago from somewhere in Alaska."

I felt a strange wave of pity, and relief. Pity because, as beautiful as they were, they were still outsiders, not accepted. Relief that I wasn't the only new comer here, and definitely not the most interesting by any standard.

As I examined them again, the perfect girl looked up and met my gaze, this time with obvious curiosity. As I immediately looked away, I thought that her look held some kind of unanswered expectation.

"Which one is the girl with reddish hair?" I asked. I tried to glance casually in that direction, like I was just checking out the cafeteria; she was still staring at me, but not gawking like the other kids had today—she had this frustrated expression I didn't understand. I looked down again.

"That's Natasha. She's hot, sure, but don't waste your time. She doesn't go out with anyone. Apparently nobody here are good enough for her," Maria said sourly, then grunted. I wondered how many times she'd turned her down.

I pressed my lips together to hide a smile. Then I glanced at her again. Natasha. Her face was turned away, but I thought from the shape of her cheek that she might be smiling, too.

After a few more minutes, the five of them left the table together. They all were seriously graceful. It was a strange thing to watch them in motion together. Natasha didn't look at me again.

I sat at the table with Maria and her friends longe than I would have if I'd been sitting alone. I didn't want to be late for class on my first day. One of my new acquaintances, who politely reminded me that his name was Clint, had Biology II with me the net hour. We walked to class together in silence. He was probably shy like me.

There are six on the table

That night it was finally quiet. I fell asleep fast, exhausted.

The rest of the week was uneventful. I got used to the routine of my classes. By Friday I was able to recognise, if not name, almost all the kids in the school. In Gym, the people on my team learned not to send the ball in my direction. I stayed out of their way.

Natasha Romanoff didn't come back to school.

Everyday, I watched, pretending I wasn't looking, until the rest of the Avengers entered the cafeteria without her. Then I could relax and join in the conversation. Mostly it entered around a trip to the La Push Ocean Park in two weeks that Carol was putting together. I was invited, and I agreed to go, more out of politeness than a strong urge to hit the beach. I believed beaches should be hot, and—aside from the ocean—dry.

By Friday I was totally comfortable entering by Biology class, no longer worried that Natasha would show. For all I knew, she'd dropped out of school. I tried not to think about her, but I couldn't totally erase the worry that I was responsible for her continued absence, ridiculous as it seemed.

My first weekend in Forks continued without incident. Nick worked most of the time. I wrote my mum more fake cheerful e-mails, got ahead on my homework, and cleaned up the house—obviously OCD wasn't a problem for Nick. I drove to the library Saturday, but I didn't even bother to get a card—there wasn't anything interesting I hadn't read; I would have to visit Olympia or Seattle soon, and find a good bookstore. I wondered idly what kind of gas milage the truck got . . .and winced at the thought.

The rain stayed soft over the weekend, quiet, so I was able to sleep.

People greeted me in the parking lot Monday morning. I didn't know all their names, but I smiled at everyone. It was colder this morning, but at least it wasn't raining. In English, Carol took her now-normal seat by my side. We had a pop quiz on Wuthering Heights. It was straightforward, very easy.

All in all, I was feeling a lot more comfortable than I had ever expected to feel here.

When we walked out of class, the air was full of swirling bits of white. I could hear people shouting excitedly to each other. The wind was freezing against my cheeks, my nose.

"Wow," Carol said. "It's snowing."

I looked at the cotton fluffs that were building up along the sidewalk and swirling erratically past my face.

"Ugh." Snow. There went my good day.

She looked surprised. "Don't you like snow?"

"Snow means it's too cold for rain." Obviously. "Besides, I thought it was supposed to come down in flakes—you know, each one unique and all that. These just look like the ends of Q-tips."

"Haven't you ever seen snow fall before?" she asked incredulously.

"Sure I have." I paused. "On TV."

Carol laughed. And then a big, wet ball of dripping snow smacked into the back of her head. We both turned to see where it came from. I suspected Sharon, who was walking away, her back towards us—in the wrong direction for her next class. Carol had the same idea. She bent over and began scraping together a pile of white mush.

"I'll see you at lunch, okay?" I kept walking as I spoke. The last thing last thing I wanted was a wad of dirty ice melting down my neck the rest of the day.

She just nodded, her eyes on Sharon's back.

I kept a sharp lookout on the way to the cafeteria with Maria after Spanish. Mush balls were flying everywhere. I had a binder in my hands, ready to use as a shield. Maria thought I was hilarious, but something in my expression kept him from lobbing a snowball at me herself.

Carol caught up to us as we walked in the doors, laughing, her usually sleek hair turning frizzy from the wet. Her and Maria were talking animatedly about the snow fight as we got in line to buy food. I glanced toward that table in the corner out of habit. And then I froze where I stood. There were six people at the table.

Maria pulled on my arm.

"Hey? Y/n? What do you want?"

I looked down; my ears were hot. I had no reason to feel self-conscious, I reminded myself. I hadn't done anything wrong.

"What's with Y/n?" Carol asked Maria.

"Nothing," I answered. I grabbed a soda bottle as I caught up to the end of the line.

"Aren't you hungry?" Maria asked.

"Actually, I feel little sick," I said.

She shuffled a few steps away from me.

I waited for them to get their food, and then followed them to the table, my eyes anywhere but the back corner of the cafeteria.

I drank my soda slowly, stomach churning. Twice Carol asked, with a concerned tone that seemed little over the top, how I was feeling. I told her it was nothing, but I was wondering if I should play it up and escape to the nurse's office for the next hour.

Ridiculous. I shouldn't have to run away. Why was I being such a coward? Was it so bad to be glared at? It wasn't like she was actually going to stab a knife in me.

I decided to allow myself one glance at the Avenger's table. Just to read the mood.

I kept my head turned away and glanced out of the side of my eye. None of them were looking this way. I turned my head a little.

They were laughing. Natasha, James, Yelena, and Tony all had their hair entirely saturated with melting snow. Steve and Pepper were leaning away as Tony ruffled his dripping hair toward them, leaving a wide arc of splatters across the front of their jackets. They were enjoying the snowy day, just like everyone else—only they looked more like a scene from a movie than the rest of us.

But, aside from the laughter and playfulness, there was something different, and I couldn't quite figure out what that difference was. I examined Natasha, comparing her to my memory of last week. Her skin was less pale, I decided—flushed from the snow fight maybe—the circles under her eyes much less noticeable. Her hair was darker, wet and slicked down again't her head. But there was something else. I forgot to pretend I wasn't staring as I tried to put my finger on the change.

"What are you staring at, Y/n?" Maria asked.

At that precise moment, Natasha's eyes flashed over to meet mine.

I turned my head completely toward Maria, shifting my shoulders in his direction and making my hair cover my face. Maria leaned away, surprised by my sudden invasion of her personal space.

I was sure, though, in the instant our eyes had met, that she didn't look angry or disgusted as she had the last time I'd seen her. She just looked curious again, unsatisfied in some way.

"Natasha Romanoff is staring at you," Maria said, looking over my shoulder.

"She doesn't look angry, does she?" I couldn't help asking.

"No." Maria looked confused, then she suddenly smiled. "What did you do, ask her out?"

"No! I've never even talked to her. I just . . . don't think she likes me very much," I admitted. I kept my body angled toward Maria, but I could feel goose bumps on my neck, like I could feel her eyes on me.

"The Avengers don't like anybody . . . well, they don't notice anybody enough to like them. But she's still staring at you."

"Stop looking at her," I insisted.

She snickered, but finally looked away.

Carol interrupted us then—she was planning an epic battle of the blizzard in the parking lot after school and wanted us to join. Maria agreed enthusiastically. The way she looked at Carol left little doubt that she would be up for anything she suggested. I kept silent. I wondered how many years I would have to live in Forks before I was bored enough to find frozen water exciting. Probably much longer than I planned to be here.

For the rest of the lunch hour I very carefully kept my eyes at my own table. Natasha didn't look like she was planning yo murder me anymore, so it was no big thing to go to Biology. My stomach twisted at the thought of sitting next to her again.

I didn't really want to walk to class with Carol as usual—she seemed to be a popular target for snowballs—but when we got to the door, everyone besides me groaned in unison. It was raining, washing all traces of the snow away in clear, icy ribbons down the side of the walkway. I pulled my hood up, hiding my smile. I would be free to go straight home after Gym.