I looked at the map in the truck, trying to memorize it now; hopefully I
wouldn't have to walk around with it stuck in front of my nose all day. I
stuffed everything in my bag, slung the strap over my shoulder, and
sucked in a huge breath. I can do this, I lied to myself feebly. No one
was going to bite me. I finally exhaled and stepped out of the truck.

I kept my face pulled back into my hood as I walked to the sidewalk,
crowded with teenagers. My plain black jacket didn't stand out, I noticed
with relief.

Once I got around the cafeteria, building three was easy to spot. A large

black "3" was painted on a white square on the east corner. I felt my
breathing gradually creeping toward hyperventilation as I approached the
door. I tried holding my breath as I followed two unisex raincoats
through the door.

The classroom was small. The people in front of me stopped just inside
the door to hang up their coats on a long row of hooks. I copied them.
They were two girls, one a porcelain-colored blonde, the other also pale,
with light brown hair. At least my skin wouldn't be a standout here.

I took the slip up to the teacher, a tall, balding man whose desk had a
nameplate identifying him as Mr. Mason. He gawked at me when he saw my
name — not an encouraging response — and of course I flushed tomato red.
But at least he sent me to an empty desk at the back without introducing
me to the class. It was harder for my new classmates to stare at me in
the back, but somehow, they managed. I kept my eyes down on the reading
list the teacher had given me. It was fairly basic: Bronte, Shakespeare,
Chaucer, Faulkner. I'd already read everything. That was comforting… and
boring. I wondered if my mom would send me my folder of old essays, or if
she would think that was cheating. I went through different arguments
with her in my head while the teacher droned on.

When the bell rang, a nasal buzzing sound, a gangly boy with skin
problems and hair black as an oil slick leaned across the aisle to talk
to me.

"You're Isabella Swan, aren't you?" He looked like the overly helpful,
chess club type.

"Bella," I corrected. Everyone within a three-seat radius turned to look
at me.

"Where's your next class?" he asked.

I had to check in my bag. "Um, Government, with Jefferson, in building
six."

初见（7）

    我在车里看了看校园地图，想当时在车上就能把它记住；这样的话，就有希望不需要一天到晚走到哪里，都得把它贴在鼻子前面了。我把所有的东西塞进了书包，将书包带子挎在了肩上，吸了一大口气。我可以搞定，我底气不足地对自己撒了个谎，没有人会把我吃了。最后，我深呼一口气从车里走了出来。

    我往人行道那边走去的时候，脸一直缩在帽兜里面。人行道上挤满了十几岁的孩子。我朴素的黑夹克并不显眼,降低了我受到关注的可能。

    一到自助餐厅，3号楼一眼就可以看到了。东边的角上有一个白色的方块，方块上用黑漆写着偌大的一个"3"字。快到门口时，我觉得自己的呼吸渐渐有点急促了。我跟在两个穿着男女皆宜的雨披的学生后面走进教室时），我尽力屏住了呼吸。

    教室不大。我前面的那两个人一跨过门就停了下来，把雨衣挂在了一长排钩子上。我也跟着她们那样做了。那是两个女孩子，一个是棕红皮肤、金发碧眼，另一个皮肤也很苍白，一头闪亮的褐发。起码，我的皮肤不会很显眼了。

    我把纸片拿上去交给了老师，一个高个子、秃顶的男老师，他在讲台上放了一张名牌，写明自己是梅森先生。看到我的名字后，他呆呆地看着我——不是什么鼓励的反应——我自然刷地一下子红了脸，红得跟番茄似的。不过至少，他没有把我介绍给全班同学，直接把我打发到后面的一张空着的课桌上去了。坐在后面，增大了我的这班新同学盯着我看的难度，但是无论如何他们还是做到了。我一直低着头，看着老师发给我的阅读书目清单，都是相当基础的：勃朗特、莎士比亚、乔叟、福克纳。我全都读过了。这很令我欣慰……同时又让我觉得厌烦无聊。我不知道我妈妈会不会把我原来写的那一夹子论文给我寄过来，或者说不知道她会不会认为那是作弊。老师嗡嗡嗡地讲他的课时，我在脑子里跟我妈妈进行了各种各样的争论。

    下课铃响了——发出一阵刺耳的嗡嗡声，一个瘦长瘦长有皮肤病、头发黑得跟抹了发油似的男生从过道的另一边倾过身来对我说。

    "你是伊萨贝拉·斯旺，对吧？"他看上去像那种过分热情、像那种典型的象棋俱乐部的人。

    "贝拉，"我纠正道。距我只有三张课桌之遥的同学，全都扭头看了我一眼。

    "你下一节课在哪儿上？"他问。

    我不得不在书包里查对了一下："嗯，政府课，有关杰弗逊政府的，在6号楼。"