North Star

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

Summary: Bella, adrift and directionless, returns to her birthplace, eager only to reach graduation. There, she meets Paul, who has ambitions for a future beyond the boundaries of La Push and high school, and all of the drive to see them through. It's quite unfortunate, then, when fate and duty have other plans. Pre-Twilight AU, of a sort. OOC. B/P. Imprint Fic.

Rating: M for language, violence, adult themes, character death, and social issues.

Themes: Adventure. Angst. Drama. Family. Fantasy. Friendship. Hurt/Comfort. Romance. Social Issues. Tragedy.

Author: tlyxor1.

North Star

Chapter One

Bella

There's something utterly mortifying about arriving to school in a cop car, so I'm grateful Charlie drops me off an hour before most of my prospective classmates arrive at Forks High. It also gives me the opportunity to organise my schedule and what have you, though that's not something I'm particularly thrilled about, personally. As a result of the fact I've got a mom who is a high school teacher and a dad with particular expectations, I get excellent grades and work hard, but I've never been particularly fond of school. A transfer to the only high school in Forks won't change that.

I'm in the midst of attempting to make sense of the cramped, nonsensical, practically microscopic map I've been provided when I'm approached by an African-American kid with cornrows in his hair and a lazy, easy grin.

"Hi," he greets, "I'm Tyler. You're Isabella, right? Chief Swan's daughter?"

"Yeah," I answer, an eyebrow arched in question, "Can I help you?"

Tyler laughs, and explains, "I thought I could help you. The school map is a piece of shit."

"I can't argue with you there," I agree, and shove the map in question into a pocket of my jeans. It'll wind up in the laundry, no doubt, but it's practically useless, so I won't cry over it. "Can you tell me where Mr Cassidy's Trigonometry class is?"

Tyler looks surprised and impressed, but he doesn't comment. I'm grateful. "Yeah, though I'm not in that class. I can walk you there though, if you'd like?"

I acquiesce, and fall into step beside the taller boy. He shortens his stride to match mine, points out landmarks and classmates and the like, and doesn't ask a lot of questions. I'm surprised, because Forks is a town where everyone is perpetually up in everyone else's business, but I appreciate the gesture nevertheless. I don't expect many others will be quite as reserved.

"Here we are," Tyler declares with a flourish, "Good luck with Cassidy. I've heard he's a crotchety old bastard."

"Thanks for the head's up," I answer wryly, "And for the escort, as well."

I slip passed him into the classroom, pleased to find the room empty. It's the first day of the school year, which means there isn't any assigned seating (yet), so I settle in a chair by the windows, and produce a notebook and binder from my backpack. Outside, it starts to rain, the sky an ominous, tumultuous grey.

I watch as the rain falls in sheets beyond my window, and wonder idly how I will make it home. At 15 years old, I don't yet have a car, or even a license to drive one, and the prospect of walking home is an increasingly less appealing one. More so is the prospect of being picked up by Charlie, but if the weather doesn't let up, I'm fairly certain I won't have any other choice.

As I consider my options, a lanky, acne-ridden boy with Asian features drops into the seat beside mine, and a tall, olive-skinned girl sits beside him. They introduce themselves as Eric Yorkie and Angela Weber, respectively, and we make awkward smalltalk as the rest of the classroom is inundated by our peers.

"Where were you before Forks?" Eric asks.

"Seattle," I answer.

"Forks must be a big change from city life, huh?"

I shrug, noncommittal. I've spent almost every summer since my parents' divorce in Forks, or in La Push, and a weekend every month, as well. I've alternated holidays between my parents' respective houses, and I have found something else to love with every visit to Charlie's. It's not home - not yet - but I appreciate the quiet, isolated community a lot more than I do the hustle and bustle of downtown Seattle. Moreover, my mom, Renee, is Quileute, and I can't deny the draw I feel towards La Push, towards the people there, and I don't even try.

"Do you like it, at least?" Eric prods.

"I do," I confirm.

There are things I'll miss about Seattle, the restaurants and the friends and the abundance of recreational possibilities, but I can breathe in Forks in a way I've never been able to in the city, and despite everything, I'm glad to be here.

Before Eric can ply me with more questions, our teacher calls our class to order, and proceeds with an introductory lecture I scarcely pay attention to. I scribble song lyrics in the margin of my notebook instead, draw stars and flowers in the corners, and wait restlessly for the end of the lesson.

When it arrives, Eric crowds me. He's eager to show me to my next class, embarrassingly so, and slightly behind him, Angela offers me a grimace of sympathy.

"So, why did you decide to move to Forks?"

"Eric, that's none of your business," Angela chides, glances at me from Eric's other side, and assures, "You don't have to answer that."

I shrug again, unconcerned. "It's nothing interesting. Mom and her husband, Phil, were moving to Florida, and I didn't feel like joining them. Washington's my home, so I decided to move in with Dad. I've been here since the beginning of June."

As Eric and Angela share my next class, we chat inconsequentially about our respective summers. I spent mine hiking and fishing with Charlie, and Eric cringes at the very thought.

"How do you do that?" He asks, incredulous. "Aren't there bears in the forest?"

Beside him, Angela rolls her eyes. "You've only lived here your whole life, Eric. Have you ever heard of a bear attack in Forks? You'd sooner be struck by lightning."

I smother my laugh, and answer Eric, "I don't know. How does anyone do anything? I like the outdoors, I guess."

I like to keep busy, too. I'd attended dance classes until my move to Forks, Gymnastics and Acrobatics until I was 12. A fellow dancer once showed me the value of Yoga and Tai-Chi during a summer dance camp in Port Angeles, and ever since, I've spent an hour every morning practising one or the other. Even in the comfort of my own home, I'm doing something, whether it's chores, or baking, or playing the guitar I inherited from Charlie.

"There's nothing wrong with that," Angela assures. She offers Eric a filthy scowl, and proceeds to explain the perils of Christian Camp - with her brothers - in painstaking detail. All the while, our British Literature teacher snoozes at his desk, Eric draws cartoon caricatures in his notebook, and a brown haired, green eyed boy casts moon eyes at Angela with all the subtlety of a rampaging bull in a china shop. I learn later that his name is Ben.

By lunch, I've met all of Angela and Eric's friends. It turns out Tyler is part of their group, and he greets me with a fist bump when I drop into a seat across from him. We're in the cafeteria, accompanied by the obligatory lunch trays and what have you, and I am somehow the centre of the entire table's attention.

"How do you like Forks High so far?" Jessica asks. SHe's a fair-skinned, curly haired brunette I share AP Spanish with, and I'm a little overwhelmed by her exuberance.

"Uh, it's school," I answer, "I don't have an opinion either way. I mean, it's smaller than I'm used to, but I guess that's par for the course. But you know, classes, homework, gratuitous drama - it's all the same, really."

As I eat, I take the opportunity to learn about those whom I sit with. Mike's parents own an outfitters, Lauren's the brutally honest type, and Ben - the boy who can't take his eyes off Angela - has a healthy respect (Re: obsession) for Marvel comics like no one else I know.

I'm distracted from my observations by the entrance of five students I've not yet encountered. They're all dressed far too glamorously for Forks, exceedingly pale and ethereally beautiful, and I am discomforted by the very sight of them.

Even as they make the hairs on the back of my neck rise, I am struck by an instantaneous, inexplicable dislike of these strangers, and I turn away before they notice my scrutiny.

"They're the CUllens," Jessica offers, "THey're all adopted by Dr and Mrs Cullen, and they're all together. Not like an orgy or anything - I think, anyway - but like, they're paired off? Everyone but Edward. He's the one with the reddish hair. Anyway, they don't care to hang out with the little people, so most of us don't bother with them. I mean, who wants to hang out with people who think they're better than everyone else, right?"

"Right," I agree, pick listlessly at the wilted salad in front of me, and contemplate the time. I'm tired, and I am ready for this day to be over.

"I still think it's fucking ridiculous that they wear designer label clothes in Forks," Lauren opines, "I mean, who the hell do they think they are? This isn't Hollywood."

She starts ranting about child labour, of all things, and I am too surprised to contribute. The others are exasperated and long-suffering, but they don't stop her, and the only thing that does is the sound of the bell overhead.

"What have you got next?" Mike asks. He's blonde and blue-eyed, all arms and legs and a baby face, and it's almost cute, like a puppy that hasn't yet grown into his limbs.

"World History," I answer dully.

"Great," Lauren links her arm through mine, "I do too. Walk together?"

Without much of a choice, and not particularly inclined to argue anyway, I acquiesce with a nod, and spend the walk with Lauren explaining that she wants to be a lawyer when she grows up, specialising in either Civil or Human Rights. It's kind of intimidating, because most days I can't even decide what I want for breakfast, but I admire her ambition regardless.

She and I settle somewhere near the middle of our classroom, ready what we'll need, and wait for our teacher to start the lesson. He does so without incident, and the rest of my afternoon passes in a monotonous haze.

As I leave the building after my classes, I wonder how I'll manage three more years of school, and try not to think about it. Also avoided is the vague, amorphous future that awaits me after high school, and again I wonder how Lauren can already know what she wants to do with the rest of her life. I'm not even sure if I want to go to college, never mind the rest of it, and the very thought of making a decision now makes me vaguely nauseous.

"Rain's cleared up," Tyler observes. It turns out he lives on the same street as I do, and he's about as enthused about walking home as I am.

Suffice to say, he's about as enthusiastic to get his license as me, as well.

"Yeah," I acknowledge, tug the hood of my rain jacket over my head, and make my way off school grounds. He falls into step beside me, and I add blandly, "Pray it lasts."

Tyler barks a short laugh. "In Forks? That'll be the day."

I make it home without incident, kick my shoes off at the door, and shuffle to my bedroom to get changed into a pair of sweats, a tank top, and a well-worn 'Forks PD' pullover. Charlie's not home yet, and I'm tempted to catch up on the episodes of Criminal Minds I haven't seen while he's gone, but if I do, I probably won't be doing anything else. The thing is, my father has an irrational disdain for all things crime drama, so I'm tempted to take advantage of his absence while I can.

Unfortunately, school takes priority, and despite my general ambivalence where my education is concerned, I'm not about to let my grades slip. It would raise too many questions with Renee and Charlie, and quite frankly, I can't be bothered dealing with that mess.

At the very least, it's only a few readings I have to do before the following day, and as it happens, it only takes me a bit over an hour to finish everything. It's nice to have it all out of the way, and I take advantage of my freedom to catch up on TV, to bake some brownies, and to get started on dinner. It's not much - grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, and some seasoned mashed potatoes - but when Charlie gets home, he demolishes his serving with enthusiasm, goes for seconds, and then inhales a couple of brownies afterwards. He's stayed in shape over the years, tall and fit in a way that's plainly unfair when one considers his diet and fondness for beer, and I wonder incredulously where he puts it all.

"Thanks, Bells," Charlie says, slumped back in his seat at the dining table, "You're a great cook."

Predictably, my face flames. I'm abysmal when accepting compliments, always have been, and likely always will be. "It was nothing, Dad. Just simple stuff."

"Better than anything Renee and I can manage," he replies, chortling to himself..

Having experienced both of their culinary efforts, I don't disagree with him. I'm a shit liar, and Charlie can see right through me, anyway. they both suck at cooking. I assume it's because their respective mothers never truly gave them the opportunity to learn for themselves,, but not even that can explain Renee's truly extraordinary ability to burn water, or Charlie's unfortunate tendency to subsist on coffee, donuts, and pizza. It's a moot point, in any case, because I refuse to eat anything they prepare for me these days, and they're both content enough to eat whatever I prepare instead.

He starts to stack the dishes, and adds, "I'll clean up."

I don't bother protesting. Charlie's the stubborn sort, and when his mind is set on something, the effort it takes to change it is monumental. Moreover, it's not like I'm particularly fond of cleaning the kitchen. It's a chore like any other, and if I can avoid it for another day? Well, I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Instead, I take advantage of the empty bathroom, shave my legs and what have you, and take my time in front of the bathroom vanity. I like to think I'm not particularly superficial, but over time, I've learned the value of proper skincare, and I've gotten into the routine of regularly exfoliating, cleansing, and moisturising. It's often repetitive and tedious, but I can't deny the results, and I don't even want to.

Before long, Charlie's knocking at the door to let him use the John, and I slip into my bedroom to get ready for bed. It's not particularly late, but I curl up in bed with a novel and pass the time with 'Pride and Prejudice', until it is, at which point I shut out the light, curl up under my covers, and eventually fall asleep.