I'd always been a bad liar, but I'd been saying this lie so frequently lately that it sounded almost convincing now. How could I leave my loving, erratic, harebrained mother to fend for herself? Of course she had Phil now, so the bills would probably get paid, there would be food in the refrigerator, gas in her car, and someone to call when she got lost, but still. I felt a spasm of panic as I stared at her wide, childlike eyes. My mom looks like me, except with short hair and laugh lines. "Bella," my mom said to me - the last of a thousand times - before I got on the plane. It was to Forks that I now exiled myself - an action that I took with great horror.
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 in this town that I'd been compelled to spend a month every summer until I was fourteen. 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 rains on this inconsequential town more than any other place in the United States of America. In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, a small town named Forks exists under a near-constant cover of clouds.
I was wearing my favorite shirt - sleeveless, white eyelet lace I was wearing it as a farewell gesture. It was seventy-five degrees in Phoenix, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. MY MOTHER DROVE ME TO THE AIRPORT WITH THE windows rolled down.
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