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11. COMPLICATIONS
Everyone watched us as we walked together to our lab table. I noticed
that he no longer angled the chair to sit as far from me as the desk
would allow. Instead, he sat quite close beside me, our arms almost
touching.
Mr. Banner backed into the room then — what superb timing the man had —
pulling a tall metal frame on wheels that held a heavy-looking, outdated
TV and VCR. A movie day — the lift in the class atmosphere was almost
tangible.
Mr. Banner shoved the tape into the reluctant VCR and walked to the wall
to turn off the lights.
And then, as the room went black, I was suddenly hyperaware that Edward
was sitting less than an inch from me. I was stunned by the unexpected
electricity that flowed through me, amazed that it was possible to be
more aware of him than I already was. A crazy impulse to reach over and
touch him, to stroke his perfect face just once in the darkness, nearly
overwhelmed me. I crossed my arms tightly across my chest, my hands
balling into fists. I was losing my mind.
The opening credits began, lighting the room by a token amount. My eyes,
of their own accord, flickered to him. I smiled sheepishly as I realized
his posture was identical to mine, fists clenched under his arms, right
down to the eyes, peering sideways at me. He grinned back, his eyes
somehow managing to smolder, even in the dark. I looked away before I
could start hyperventilating. It was absolutely ridiculous that I should
feel dizzy.
The hour seemed very long. I couldn't concentrate on the movie — I didn't
even know what subject it was on. I tried unsuccessfully to relax, but
the electric current that seemed to be originating from somewhere in his
body never slackened. Occasionally I would permit myself a quick glance
in his direction, but he never seemed to relax, either. The overpowering
craving to touch him also refused to fade, and I crushed my fists safely
against my ribs until my fingers were aching with the effort.
I breathed a sigh of relief when Mr. Banner flicked the lights back on at
the end of class, and stretched my arms out in front of me, flexing my
stiff fingers. Edward chuckled beside me.
"Well, that was interesting," he murmured. His voice was dark and his
eyes were cautious.
"Umm," was all I was able to respond.
"Shall we?" he asked, rising fluidly.
I almost groaned. Time for Gym. I stood with care, worried my balance
might have been affected by the strange new intensity between us.
He walked me to my next class in silence and paused at the door; I turned
to say goodbye. His face startled me — his expression was torn, almost
pained, and so fiercely beautiful that the ache to touch him flared as
strong as before. My goodbye stuck in my throat.
He raised his hand, hesitant, conflict raging in his eyes, and then
swiftly brushed the length of my cheekbone with his fingertips. His skin
was as icy as ever, but the trail his fingers left on my skin was
alarmingly warm — like I'd been burned, but didn't feel the pain of it
yet.
He turned without a word and strode quickly away from me.
I walked into the gym, lightheaded and wobbly. I drifted to the locker
room, changing in a trancelike state, only vaguely aware that there were
other people surrounding me. Reality didn't fully set in until I was
handed a racket. It wasn't heavy, yet it felt very unsafe in my hand. I
could see a few of the other kids in class eyeing me furtively. Coach
Clapp ordered us to pair up into teams.
Mercifully, some vestiges of Mike's chivalry still survived; he came to
stand beside me.
"Do you want to be a team?"
"Thanks, Mike — you don't have to do this, you know." I grimaced
apologetically.
"Don't worry, I'll keep out of your way." He grinned. Sometimes it was so
easy to like Mike.
It didn't go smoothly. I somehow managed to hit myself in the head with
my racket and clip Mike's shoulder on the same swing. I spent the rest of
the hour in the back corner of the court, the racket held safely behind
my back. Despite being handicapped by me, Mike was pretty good; he won
three games out of four singlehandedly. He gave me an unearned high five
when the coach finally blew the whistle ending class.
"So," he said as we walked off the court.
"So what?"
"You and Cullen, huh?" he asked, his tone rebellious. My previous feeling
of affection disappeared.
"That's none of your business, Mike," I warned, internally cursing
Jessica straight to the fiery pits of Hades.
"I don't like it," he muttered anyway.
"You don't have to," I snapped.
"He looks at you like… like you're something to eat," he continued,
ignoring me.
I choked back the hysteria that threatened to explode, but a small giggle
managed to get out despite my efforts. He glowered at me. I waved and
fled to the locker room.
I dressed quickly, something stronger than butterflies battering
recklessly against the walls of my stomach, my argument with Mike already
a distant memory. I was wondering if Edward would be waiting, or if I
should meet him at his car. What if his family was there? I felt a wave
of real terror. Did they know that I knew? Was I supposed to know that
they knew that I knew, or not?
By the time I walked out of the gym, I had just about decided to walk
straight home without even looking toward the parking lot. But my worries
were unnecessary. Edward was waiting, leaning casually against the side
of the gym, his breathtaking face untroubled now. As I walked to his
side, I felt a peculiar sense of release.
"Hi," I breathed, smiling hugely.
"Hello." His answering smile was brilliant. "How was Gym?"
My face fell a tiny bit. "Fine," I lied.
"Really?" He was unconvinced. His eyes shifted their focus slightly,
looking over my shoulder and narrowing. I glanced behind me to see Mike's
back as he walked away.
"What?" I demanded.
His eyes slid back to mine, still tight. "Newton's getting on my nerves."
"You weren't listening again?" I was horror-struck. All traces of my
sudden good humor vanished.
"How's your head?" he asked innocently.
"You're unbelievable!" I turned, stomping away in the general direction
of the parking lot, though I hadn't ruled out walking at this point.
He kept up with me easily.
"You were the one who mentioned how I'd never seen you in Gym — it made
me curious." He didn't sound repentant, so I ignored him.
We walked in silence — a furious, embarrassed silence on my part — to his
car. But I had to stop a few steps away — a crowd of people, all boys,
were surrounding it.
Then I realized they weren't surrounding the Volvo, they were actually
circled around Rosalie's red convertible, unmistakable lust in their
eyes. None of them even looked up as Edward slid between them to open his
door. I climbed quickly in the passenger side, also unnoticed.
"Ostentatious," he muttered.
"What kind of car is that?" I asked.
"An M3."
"I don't speak Car and Driver."
"It's a BMW." He rolled his eyes, not looking at me, trying to back out
without running over the car enthusiasts.
I nodded — I'd heard of that one.
"Are you still angry?" he asked as he carefully maneuvered his way out.
"Definitely."
He sighed. "Will you forgive me if I apologize?"
"Maybe… if you mean it. And if you promise not to do it again," I
insisted.
His eyes were suddenly shrewd. "How about if I mean it, and I agree to
let you drive Saturday?" he countered my conditions.
I considered, and decided it was probably the best offer I would get.
"Deal," I agreed.
"Then I'm very sorry I upset you." His eyes burned with sincerity for a
protracted moment — playing havoc with the rhythm of my heart — and then
turned playful. "And I'll be on your doorstep bright and early Saturday
morning."
"Um, it doesn't help with the Charlie situation if an unexplained Volvo
is left in the driveway."
His smile was condescending now. "I wasn't intending to bring a car."
"How —"
He cut me off. "Don't worry about it. I'll be there, no car."
I let it go. I had a more pressing question.
"Is it later yet?" I asked significantly.
He frowned. "I supposed it is later."
I kept my expression polite as I waited.
He stopped the car. I looked up, surprised — of course we were already at
Charlie's house, parked behind the truck. It was easier to ride with him
if I only looked when it was over. When I looked back at him, he was
staring at me, measuring with his eyes.
"And you still want to know why you can't see me hunt?" He seemed solemn,
but I thought I saw a trace of humor deep in his eyes.
"Well," I clarified, "I was mostly wondering about your reaction."
"Did I frighten you?" Yes, there was definitely humor there.
"No," I lied. He didn't buy it.
"I apologize for scaring you," he persisted with a slight smile, but then
all evidence of teasing disappeared. "It was just the very thought of you
being there… while we hunted." His jaw tightened.
"That would be bad?"
He spoke from between clenched teeth. "Extremely."
"Because… ?"
He took a deep breath and stared through the windshield at the thick,
rolling clouds that seemed to press down, almost within reach.
"When we hunt," he spoke slowly, unwillingly, "we give ourselves over to
our senses… govern less with our minds. Especially our sense of smell. If
you were anywhere near me when I lost control that way…" He shook his
head, still gazing morosely at the heavy clouds.
I kept my expression firmly under control, expecting the swift flash of
his eyes to judge my reaction that soon followed. My face gave nothing
away.
But our eyes held, and the silence deepened — and changed. Flickers of
the electricity I'd felt this afternoon began to charge the atmosphere as
he gazed unrelentingly into my eyes. It wasn't until my head started to
swim that I realized I wasn't breathing. When I drew in a jagged breath,
breaking the stillness, he closed his eyes.
"Bella, I think you should go inside now." His low voice was rough, his
eyes on the clouds again.
I opened the door, and the arctic draft that burst into the car helped
clear my head. Afraid I might stumble in my woozy state, I stepped
carefully out of the car and shut the door behind me without looking
back. The whir of the automatic window unrolling made me turn.
"Oh, Bella?" he called after me, his voice more even. He leaned toward
the open window with a faint smile on his lips.
"Yes?"
"Tomorrow it's my turn."
"Your turn to what?"
He smiled wider, flashing his gleaming teeth. "Ask the questions."
And then he was gone, the car speeding down the street and disappearing
around the corner before I could even collect my thoughts. I smiled as I
walked to the house. It was clear he was planning to see me tomorrow, if
nothing else.
That night Edward starred in my dreams, as usual. However, the climate of
my unconsciousness had changed. It thrilled with the same electricity
that had charged the afternoon, and I tossed and turned restlessly,
waking often. It was only in the early hours of the morning that I
finally sank into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
When I woke I was still tired, but edgy as well. I pulled on my brown
turtleneck and the inescapable jeans, sighing as I daydreamed of
spaghetti straps and shorts. Breakfast was the usual, quiet event I
expected. Charlie fried eggs for himself; I had my bowl of cereal. I
wondered if he had forgotten about this Saturday. He answered my unspoken
question as he stood up to take his plate to the sink.
"About this Saturday…" he began, walking across the kitchen and turning
on the faucet.
I cringed. "Yes, Dad?"
"Are you still set on going to Seattle?" he asked.
"That was the plan." I grimaced, wishing he hadn't brought it up so I
wouldn't have to compose careful half-truths.
He squeezed some dish soap onto his plate and swirled it around with the
brush. "And you're sure you can't make it back in time for the dance?"
"I'm not going to the dance, Dad." I glared.
"Didn't anyone ask you?" he asked, trying to hide his concern by focusing
on rinsing the plate.
I sidestepped the minefield. "It's a girl's choice."
"Oh." He frowned as he dried his plate.
I sympathized with him. It must be a hard thing, to be a father; living
in fear that your daughter would meet a boy she liked, but also having to
worry if she didn't. How ghastly it would be, I thought, shuddering, if
Charlie had even the slightest inkling of exactly what I did like.
Charlie left then, with a goodbye wave, and I went upstairs to brush my
teeth and gather my books. When I heard the cruiser pull away, I could
only wait a few seconds before I had to peek out of my window. The silver
car was already there, waiting in Charlie's spot on the driveway. I
bounded down the stairs and out the front door, wondering how long this
bizarre routine would continue. I never wanted it to end.
He waited in the car, not appearing to watch as I shut the door behind me
without bothering to lock the dead-bolt. I walked to the car, pausing
shyly before opening the door and stepping in. He was smiling, relaxed —
and, as usual, perfect and beautiful to an excruciating degree.
"Good morning." His voice was silky. "How are you today?" His eyes roamed
over my face, as if his question was something more than simple courtesy.
"Good, thank you." I was always good — much more than good — when I was
near him.
His gaze lingered on the circles under my eyes. "You look tired."
"I couldn't sleep," I confessed, automatically swinging my hair around my
shoulder to provide some measure of cover.
"Neither could I," he teased as he started the engine. I was becoming
used to the quiet purr. I was sure the roar of my truck would scare me,
whenever I got to drive it again.
I laughed. "I guess that's right. I suppose I slept just a little bit
more than you did."
"I'd wager you did."
"So what did you do last night?" I asked.
He chuckled. "Not a chance. It's my day to ask questions."
"Oh, that's right. What do you want to know?" My forehead creased. I
couldn't imagine anything about me that could be in any way interesting
to him.
"What's your favorite color?" he asked, his face grave.
I rolled my eyes. "It changes from day to day."
"What's your favorite color today?" He was still solemn.
"Probably brown." I tended to dress according to my mood.
He snorted, dropping his serious expression. "Brown?" he asked
skeptically.
"Sure. Brown is warm. I miss brown. Everything that's supposed to be
brown — tree trunks, rocks, dirt — is all covered up with squashy green
stuff here," I complained.
He seemed fascinated by my little rant. He considered for a moment,
staring into my eyes.
"You're right," he decided, serious again. "Brown is warm." He reached
over, swiftly, but somehow still hesitantly, to sweep my hair back behind
my shoulder.
We were at the school by now. He turned back to me as he pulled into a
parking space.
"What music is in your CD player right now?" he asked, his face as somber
as if he'd asked for a murder confession.
I realized I'd never removed the CD Phil had given me. When I said the
name of the band, he smiled crookedly, a peculiar expression in his eyes.
He flipped open a compartment under his car's CD player, pulled out one
of thirty or so CDs that were jammed into the small space, and handed it
to me,
"Debussy to this?" He raised an eyebrow.
It was the same CD. I examined the familiar cover art, keeping my eyes
down.
It continued like that for the rest of the day. While he walked me to
English, when he met me after Spanish, all through the lunch hour, he
questioned me relentlessly about every insignificant detail of my
existence. Movies I'd liked and hated, the few places I'd been and the
many places I wanted to go, and books — endlessly books.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd talked so much. More often than
not, I felt self-conscious, certain I must be boring him. But the
absolute absorption of his face, and his never-ending stream of
questions, compelled me to continue. Mostly his questions were easy, only
a very few triggering my easy blushes. But when I did flush, it brought
on a whole new round of questions.
Such as the time he asked my favorite gemstone, and I blurted out topaz
before thinking. He'd been flinging questions at me with such speed that
I felt like I was taking one of those psychiatric tests where you answer
with the first word that comes to mind. I was sure he would have
continued down whatever mental list he was following, except for the
blush. My face reddened because, until very recently, my favorite
gemstone was garnet. It was impossible, while staring back into his topaz
eyes, not to remember the reason for the switch. And, naturally, he
wouldn't rest until I'd admitted why I was embarrassed.
"Tell me," he finally commanded after persuasion failed — failed only
because I kept my eyes safely away from his face.
"It's the color of your eyes today," I sighed, surrendering, staring down
at my hands as I fiddled with a piece of my hair. "I suppose if you asked
me in two weeks I'd say onyx." I'd given more information than necessary
in my unwilling honesty, and I worried it would provoke the strange anger
that flared whenever I slipped and revealed too clearly how obsessed I
was.
But his pause was very short.
"What kinds of flowers do you prefer?" he fired off.
I sighed in relief, and continued with the psychoanalysis.
Biology was a complication again. Edward had continued with his quizzing
up until Mr. Banner entered the room, dragging the audiovisual frame
again. As the teacher approached the light switch, I noticed Edward slide
his chair slightly farther away from mine. It didn't help. As soon as the
room was dark, there was the same electric spark, the same restless
craving to stretch my hand across the short space and touch his cold
skin, as yesterday.
I leaned forward on the table, resting my chin on my folded arms, my
hidden fingers gripping the table's edge as I fought to ignore the
irrational longing that unsettled me. I didn't look at him, afraid that
if he was looking at me, it would only make self-control that much
harder. I sincerely tried to watch the movie, but at the end of the hour
I had no idea what I'd just seen. I sighed in relief again when Mr.
Banner turned the lights on, finally glancing at Edward; he was looking
at me, his eyes ambivalent.
He rose in silence and then stood still, waiting for me. We walked toward
the gym in silence, like yesterday. And, also like yesterday, he touched
my face wordlessly — this time with the back of his cool hand, stroking
once from my temple to my jaw — before he turned and walked away.
Gym passed quickly as I watched Mike's one-man badminton show. He didn't
speak to me today, either in response to my vacant expression or because
he was still angry about our squabble yesterday. Somewhere, in a corner
of my mind, I felt bad about that. But I couldn't concentrate on him.
I hurried to change afterward, ill at ease, knowing the faster I moved,
the sooner I would be with Edward. The pressure made me more clumsy than
usual, but eventually I made it out the door, feeling the same release
when I saw him standing there, a wide smile automatically spreading
across my face. He smiled in reaction before launching into more
cross-examination.
His questions were different now, though, not as easily answered. He
wanted to know what I missed about home, insisting on descriptions of
anything he wasn't familiar with. We sat in front of Charlie's house for
hours, as the sky darkened and rain plummeted around us in a sudden
deluge.
I tried to describe impossible things like the scent of creosote —
bitter, slightly resinous, but still pleasant — the high, keening sound
of the cicadas in July, the feathery barrenness of the trees, the very
size of the sky, extending white-blue from horizon to horizon, barely
interrupted by the low mountains covered with purple volcanic rock. The
hardest thing to explain was why it was so beautiful to me — to justify a
beauty that didn't depend on the sparse, spiny vegetation that often
looked half dead, a beauty that had more to do with the exposed shape of
the land, with the shallow bowls of valleys between the craggy hills, and
the way they held on to the sun. I found myself using my hands as I tried
to describe it to him.
His quiet, probing questions kept me talking freely, forgetting, in the
dim light of the storm, to be embarrassed for monopolizing the
conversation. Finally, when I had finished detailing my cluttered room at
home, he paused instead of responding with another question.
"Are you finished?" I asked in relief.
"Not even close — but your father will be home soon."
"Charlie!" I suddenly recalled his existence, and sighed. I looked out at
the rain-darkened sky, but it gave nothing away. "How late is it?" I
wondered out loud as I glanced at the clock. I was surprised by the time
— Charlie would be driving home now.
"It's twilight," Edward murmured, looking at the western horizon,
obscured as it was with clouds. His voice was thoughtful, as if his mind
were somewhere far away. I stared at him as he gazed unseeingly out the
windshield.
I was still staring when his eyes suddenly shifted back to mine.
"It's the safest time of day for us," he said, answering the unspoken
question in my eyes. "The easiest time. But also the saddest, in a way…
the end of another day, the return of the night. Darkness is so
predictable, don't you think?" He smiled wistfully.
"I like the night. Without the dark, we'd never see the stars." I
frowned. "Not that you see them here much."
He laughed, and the mood abruptly lightened.
"Charlie will be here in a few minutes. So, unless you want to tell him
that you'll be with me Saturday…" He raised one eyebrow.
"Thanks, but no thanks." I gathered my books, realizing I was stiff from
sitting still so long. "So is it my turn tomorrow, then?"
"Certainly not!" His face was teasingly outraged. "I told you I wasn't
done, didn't I?"
"What more is there?"
"You'll find out tomorrow." He reached across to open my door for me, and
his sudden proximity sent my heart into frenzied palpitations.
But his hand froze on the handle.
"Not good," he muttered.
"What is it?" I was surprised to see that his jaw was clenched, his eyes
disturbed.
He glanced at me for a brief second. "Another complication," he said
glumly.
He flung the door open in one swift movement, and then moved, almost
cringed, swiftly away from me.
The flash of headlights through the rain caught my attention as a dark
car pulled up to the curb just a few feet away, facing us.
"Charlie's around the corner," he warned, staring through the downpour at
the other vehicle.
I hopped out at once, despite my confusion and curiosity. The rain was
louder as it glanced off my jacket.
I tried to make out the shapes in the front seat of the other car, but it
was too dark. I could see Edward illuminated in the glare of the new
car's headlights; he was still staring ahead, his gaze locked on
something or someone I couldn't see. His expression was a strange mix of
frustration and defiance.
Then he revved the engine, and the tires squealed against the wet
pavement. The Volvo was out of sight in seconds.
"Hey, Bella," called a familiar, husky voice from the driver's side of
the little black car.
"Jacob?" I asked, squinting through the rain. Just then, Charlie's
cruiser swung around the corner, his lights shining on the occupants of
the car in front of me.
Jacob was already climbing out, his wide grin visible even through the
darkness. In the passenger seat was a much older man, a heavyset man with
a memorable face — a face that overflowed, the cheeks resting against his
shoulders, with creases running through the russet skin like an old
leather jacket. And the surprisingly familiar eyes, black eyes that
seemed at the same time both too young and too ancient for the broad face
they were set in. Jacob's father, Billy Black. I knew him immediately,
though in the more than five years since I'd seen him last I'd managed to
forget his name when Charlie had spoken of him my first day here. He was
staring at me, scrutinizing my face, so I smiled tentatively at him. His
eyes were wide, as if in shock or fear, his nostrils flared. My smile
faded.
Another complication, Edward had said.
Billy still stared at me with intense, anxious eyes. I groaned
internally. Had Billy recognized Edward so easily? Could he really
believe the impossible legends his son had scoffed at?
The answer was clear in Billy's eyes. Yes. Yes, he could.
Twilight-12. BALANCING Berkeley University 四大奇书 Confucius' Analects in Latin 钗头凤·唐婉 论语今译12
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