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Sense and Sensibility. I'd read the first most recently, so I started into Sense and Sensibility, only to
remember after I began three that the hero of the story happened to be named Edward. Angrily, I turned
to Mansfield Park, but the hero of that piece was named Edmund, and that was just too close. Weren't
there any other names available in the late eighteenth century? I snapped the book shut, annoyed, and
rolled over onto my back. I pushed my sleeves up as high as they would go, and closed my eyes. I would
think of nothing but the warmth on my skin, I told myself severely. The breeze was still light, but it blew
tendrils of my hair around my face, and that tickled a bit. I pulled all my hair over my head, letting it fan
out on the quilt above me, and focused again on the heat that touched my eyelids, my cheekbones, my
nose, my lips, my forearms, my neck, soaked through my light shirt…
The next thing I was conscious of was the sound of Charlie's cruiser turning onto the bricks of the
driveway. I sat up in surprise, realizing the light was gone, behind the trees, and I had fallen asleep. I
looked around, muddled, with the sudden feeling that I wasn't alone.
"Charlie?" I asked. But I could hear his door slamming in front of the house.
I jumped up, foolishly edgy, gathering the now-damp quilt and my book. I ran inside to get some oil
heating on the stove, realizing that dinner would be late. Charlie was hanging up his gun belt and stepping
out of his boots when I came in.
"Sorry, Dad, dinner's not ready yet — I fell asleep outside." I stifled a yawn.
"Don't worry about it," he said. "I wanted to catch the score on the game, anyway."
I watched TV with Charlie after dinner, for something to do. There wasn't anything on I wanted to watch,
but he knew I didn't like baseball, so he turned it to some mindless sitcom that neither of us enjoyed. He
seemed happy, though, to be doing something together. And it felt good, despite my depression, to make
him happy.
"Dad," I said during a commercial, "Jessica and Angela are going to look at dresses for the dance
tomorrow night in Port Angeles, and they wanted me to help them choose… do you mind if I go with
them?"
"Jessica Stanley?" he asked.
"And Angela Weber." I sighed as I gave him the details.
He was confused. "But you're not going to the dance, right?"
"No, Dad, but I'm helping them find dresses — you know, giving them constructive criticism." I wouldn't
have to explain this to a woman.
"Well, okay." He seemed to realize that he was out of his depth with the girlie stuff. "It's a school night,
though."
"We'll leave right after school, so we can get back early. You'll be okay for dinner, right?"
"Bells, I fed myself for seventeen years before you got here," he reminded me.
"I don't know how you survived," I muttered, then added more clearly, "I'll leave some things for cold-cut
sandwiches in the fridge, okay? Right on top."
It was sunny again in the morning. I awakened with renewed hope that I grimly tried to suppress. I
dressed for the warmer weather in a deep blue V-neck blouse — something I'd worn in the dead of
winter in Phoenix.
I had planned my arrival at school so that I barely had time to make it to class. With a sinking heart, I
circled the full lot looking for a space, while also searching for the silver Volvo that was clearly not there.
I parked in the last row and hurried to English, arriving breathless, but subdued, before the final bell.
It was the same as yesterday — I just couldn't keep little sprouts of hope from budding in my mind, only
to have them squashed painfully as I searched the lunchroom in vain and sat at my empty Biology table.
The Port Angeles scheme was back on again for tonight and made all the more attractive by the fact that
Lauren had other obligations. I was anxious to get out of town so I could stop glancing over my shoulder,
hoping to see him appearing out of the blue the way he always did. I vowed to myself that I would be in a
good mood tonight and not ruin Angela's or Jessica's enjoyment in the dress hunting. Maybe I could do a
little clothes shopping as well. I refused to think that I might be shopping alone in Seattle this weekend,
no longer interested in the earlier arrangement. Surely he wouldn't cancel without at least telling me.
After school, Jessica followed me home in her old white Mercury so that I could ditch my books and
truck. I brushed through my hair quickly when I was inside, feeling a slight lift of excitement as I
contemplated getting out of Forks. I left a note for Charlie on the table, explaining again where to find
dinner, switched my scruffy wallet from my school bag to a purse I rarely used, and ran out to join
Jessica. We went to Angela's house next, and she was waiting for us. My excitement increased
exponentially as we actually drove out of the town limits.
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