My mother drove me to the airport with the windowsrolled down. It was seventy-five degrees in Phoenix,
the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. I was wearing my
favorite shirt — sleeveless, white eyelet lace; I was
wearing it as a farewell gesture. My carry-on item was a parka.
In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, a small town named Forks exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. It rains on this inconsequential town more than any other place in the United States of America. It was from this town and its gloomy, omnipresent shade that my mother escaped with me when I was only a few months old. It
was in this town that I'd been compelled to spend a month every summer until I was fourteen. That was the year I finally put my foot down; these past three
summers, my dad, Charlie, vacationed with me in
California for two weeks instead.
It was to Forks that I now exiled myself— an action that I took with great horror. I detested Forks.
I loved Phoenix. I loved the sun and the blistering heat. I loved the vigorous, sprawling city.
"Bella," my mom said to me — the last of a thousandtimes — before I got on the plane. "You don't have to
do this."