Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. I don't blame it on the sunshine. Or even the moonlight. I sure don't blame it on the good times. I blame it on the Boogie.

Dreams

"Hey."

"Hey."

Edward's smile is still hesitant when I sidle up to him on the bleachers, but at least after several weeks of this ritual his face is able to retain its usual ghostly pallor. He closes the book on his lap, inserting a bookmark to keep his place whilst trying to conceal the front cover by flipping it quickly over.

"What you reading?" I ask.

"Oh…um…nothing interesting."

Whether it was through guilt, boredom or genuine interest I had found myself talking to Edward during Gym class with relative ease over the past month. The conversations were bland at best, yet I didn't dislike sitting next to him whilst he stuttered and mumbled his way through the hour. In fact, I enjoyed the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't looking. It was nice to be the object of desire. I did not necessarily find him attractive or even particularly charming, but there was something in the nerdy naivety and his fluster that I enjoyed. He lacked confidence and it was a pleasant oddity to be the one in charge for a change.

"No, go on," I object, leaning closer to him in the way that makes him bashful, "what is it?"

I feel a little guilty when he flips over the book, my tongue becoming sour in my mouth.

"My mother's friend recommended it," he says, pushing his lips together in an apologetic line. "Her daughter had leukaemia, too."

The book is light pink with the words Sunset Futures with Cancer in purple block capitals. There's a picture of two bald children with their faces pressed together smiling up at the reader, all toothy grins and crinkled eyes.

"What's it about?" I ask slowly, hating how my hesitancy makes the words seem that much more uneasy.

"Delusional parents," he snorts.

Though I hear a twinge of bitterness I'm taken aback at how calmly both he and his family regard this particular issue. There's no skirting around it, no treading on eggshells.

"Oh?" I prompt, hoping non-expressive fillers will be the least offensive approach.

His smile is a little more genuine, the familiarness of this topic making him confident enough to hold my gaze.

"Some people think that if you believe the cancer will go away and you make plans as if it were, then they'll just magically get better. I do believe in the power of positive thinking, but you can't wish away a terminal illness. If you could, I'd be out there now," he says, gesturing to where our class plays basketball, "with everyone else."

"But what about chemo?" I ask. "That can cure cancer."

"You're right, it can, but some people are just unlucky."

"Well, if it's luck then why shouldn't you plan for your future?" I ask. "Doesn't that beat sitting around and feeling sorry for yourself?"

He laughs. A loud, slightly hysterical laugh that draws looks from the other students. I flush, feeling like an idiot. Trust my mouth to say something untactful.

"You're right, of course," he chuckles, quieter now as he runs his hands over the top of his head. "Rose says much the same thing to me. She's one of the delusional ones who thinks in a few years' time I'll be a doctor."

"You're smart enough."

His cheeks tinge with colour. "You think?"

"Sure. You always seem to be reading something."

"That doesn't necessarily mean I'm smart."

"Makes you smarter than me."

He looks at me as if he's considering something very important. There's an internal struggle going on and one side evidently wins as his face relaxes back into a less pained expression. He turns his body towards me more squarely, setting his shoulders resolutely.

"It's not true, you know, what they say about my family," he says, voice firmer than I'd have thought him capable.

"You're not adopted?"

"No," he laughs, posture easing a bit in his mirth, "no, that's true."

"Then I'm not quite sure what you're referring to."

"About the house and the land and everything. Why everyone hates us."

I don't have the heart to tell him the reason everyone dislikes his family is more to do with their general creepiness than whatever he's gibbering about.

"I'm sorry, I'm still not sure what you're talking about," I say, slowly, ruefully.

"We didn't kill the old Quileute man for his land."

I blink, once, and then it's my time to laugh. I think he looks offended, the expected redness flaring to life in his face.

"Excuse me?"

"We didn't kill him. Rose may be a little violent at times and Emmett may look scary, but he's as harmless as a butterfly. We would have moved to some other part of town if we couldn't have bought the land, despite what people say. Carlisle's a doctor for Pete's sake! He helps people," he asserts even as the skin of his forehead blurs into the colour of his hair.

"Edward," his name brings a rush of unexpected satisfaction, "I have never heard anyone say that about your family. Never. I don't know who told you that, but—"

"The reservation kids," he interjects, trying to regain some dignity. "It's was the reservation kids. I can't go down onto their beaches anymore. They throw ice cubes at me if I do."

"Ice cubes?" I sound a little incredulous.

"Yeah. I think it's some sort of an inside joke. I never stopped to ask."

"Where do they get the ice cubes from?"

"I have no idea."

I reach out and place a hand on his arm as I did in the hospital. This time, however, I know the boundaries even if the touch of his clammy skin warms me through, my cheeks heating and a jolt dipping down low in my stomach. I swallow hard.

"I promise I've never heard anyone say that about your family before."

"That's good."

He lets out a shaky sigh, but I don't think it's out of relief. His reaction is more than flattering, as is the way his eyes dart to my throat before he catches them in their tracks and sends them back up to my face. Had he been another boy and had we been at a party or in my bedroom not up on the bleachers for everyone to see, I would have kissed him. It would have been highly anticipated. It would have been fun. Unfortunately, Edward is Edward and so I lean back. I think he looks just as disappointed as thankful.

We smile at each other through the layer of tension between us. I push back the hairs fluttering in front of my face, caught on my laboured breathing and try to think of anything, anything, which might distract me.

"I still don't think your sister likes me much," I say.

"Really?" his tone sounds grateful for the diversion of conversation. "Which one?"

"Do you need to ask?" I say with a still slightly breathless snigger.

"No, I suppose not."

"I was told Ro was protective, but I didn't expect such ferociousness," I admit.

"She loves me," he says, and I'm not sure why the statement shocks me so. "She'd tear the world apart if it'd save me."

"What about your other siblings? Are they as devoted?"

He gives me a confused look. "Of course. They're family. Wouldn't your father protect you with his life, if it came to it?"

"Well, yes, but that's a dad's job. He's supposed to do it. Plus he's a cop. He's used to putting his life on the line; I don't think it means much to him anymore."

The confusion takes on an underlying of disbelief, it curdles shame in me, though I can't find the source of his reaction.

"He loves you, Isabella."

"I know."

"That's why he'd protect you, not because it's his duty. When you love someone you'd do anything to keep them safe, sacrifice anything, even if it made you miserable or risked everything you held dear," he says, so passionately his voice burns with the truth of it.

"I'm pretty sure Charlie isn't as honourable as all that," I ridicule.

"Chief Swan is the most honourable man I know and quite possibly the bravest."

"And what gives you that impression?" I snap. "The man couldn't be bothered to visit his own daughter."

Edward clamps his jaws shut and I shrivel back, cringing at my outburst. After a short moment, when my bite has vanished from the atmosphere, he looks me right in the eye as if will alone could stick his words into my head.

"My father is a great man. Kind, fair, intelligent, good. He loves your father."

I scoff.

"No, really," insists Edward, "my mother, too. If my parents hold him in such high esteem, then there's a reason for it. I'm not entirely sure what it is, but I trust their opinion. Jasper admires him too, even if he doesn't show it and so does Rose."

"You haven't lived with him," I say, "so you can't really comment, can you?"

"Well, technically, neither have you."

"Exactly! That's my point. So, unless your family is keeping his so-called merits a secret, I don't think Charlie is the saint you're trying to make him out to be."

Edward shrugs, backing off. "Maybe you're right."

"I am," I confirm, but something like guilt niggles at me.

"People aren't always as simple as they seem. Sometimes there's a depth that you can't see up front," he says, and it sounds like he's talking from experience.

"Charlie is pretty simple," I mock.

"I don't know. Look at Emmett."

"What about Emmett?"

"Well, what do you think of him?"

I hesitate, wondering how to walk along the thin tightrope of politically correctness. We're not allowed to use the term special anymore, are we?

"He's friendly," I start, "and creative. A little…distractible at times."

"He's a child," says Edward, matter of fact. "He acts like a small child."

Now I have an appropriate terminology I feel a little more at ease. "Yes," I say. "He does act a bit childish at times."

"And Jasper?"

"I don't know him very well…" I trail off, hoping to get off the hook.

"Just give me your basic assumptions," he presses.

"Well, I suppose he's a bit uptight, doesn't say much. Actually, I don't think I've heard him talk once."

"And we already know what you think of Rose, so what about Alice?"

"The opposite. Very talkative, loud, maybe a bit too up-close and personal."

"What about me?"

I roll my eyes. "I'm not describing you."

"Why not?"

"It's rude."

"You just did it to my brothers and sisters."

"That's different," I insist.

"Just do it. I won't be offended, I promise."

Eyeing him distrustfully, yet playfully I consider the least offensive route. "I'm sorry, I can't."

"Isabella," his tone is trying.

"Bella."

"Bella, I'm know what you're going to say anyway."

"You don't and I can't."

"Fine then. I'll say it for you: shy, cancerous."

I wince. "I wasn't going to say that."

"You were thinking it," his voice is smooth, untroubled. "And that's okay. Everyone makes assumptions. How could they know that Emmett has an IQ of 164 and collects rare paintings? Jasper is a mute who hasn't spoken a word in all the time my parents have known him and is so sensitive that if he thinks he's done something wrong he'll sit in a corner of his bedroom for hours, literally, hours. And Alice? Alice sees things."

"What kind of things?" I ask in a whisper.

"Things that aren't there. Things that—"

"She's schizophrenic?" I interject, startled.

"Yes. No. We don't use labels."

"If she's schizophrenic she should be on medication," I warn, the tiny girl prancing to the forefront of my memories, slightly wild and apparently unhinged.

"It's not like that," he mumbles, clearly regretting his loose tongue. "That wasn't the point I was trying to make either."

"I know it wasn't, but if your father has a bunch of mentally unstable people in his home, then a doctor should know about it."

"My father is a doctor," he reminds me.

"Then he's a pretty awful one."

"Alice doesn't need to be medicated," he says, off-hand. "The things she sees and feels aren't bad, they're a part of her."

"Oh, really? I doubt a psychiatrist would agree."

"You have to realise," Edward says, leaning in closer, imploringly, "my siblings are gifted."

I give him a scathing look. "Is that what they tell you?"

"You don't understand, but how could you?" he says sadly, leaning away again. "You're not with them every day."

"No, you don't understand," I snap, angry now. "You're feeding into hallucinations and excuses. Sick people never think that they're sick."

"Alice isn't sick."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Then why does she see things?"

"Because she's special!" Edward exclaims, exasperated.

"So was my mother. She said she was special. Do you know what else she said? She told me she was the chosen one and there was a demon coming to steal me away from her. Being special means jackshit when you have to tell people for them to see it."

The sarcasm drips from my voice and suddenly things aren't as friendly and flirty as they had been before. I drop my head, breaking the sharp strain keeping us latched together, coiling tighter and tighter in our argument. I unclose my fists, unconsciously balled up in the heat of the moment. Mom was prone to boughs of grandiose thinking, but we never spoke of it, never acknowledged the days when she couldn't bring herself to leave the house or eat possibly poisoned food.

"Sorry," his voice is barely audible.

I exhale and my anger evaporates with it. "No. You shouldn't apologise. I'm being a bitch."

"You're not and under any other circumstances I'd agree with you about this but…"

"But your siblings are special and you can't tell me why," I finish for him.

"Yeah."

"Just like why you can't tell me why my father is an unsung hero."

"Something like that."

"It seems to me like you're keeping a lot of secrets and that some of those secrets involve my business."

His expression is pained, scrunched at the nose. It results in him look like an ugly vole, but I feel guilty thinking that so I look at his collar instead. I never noticed before, but this clothes are unexpectedly nice. Designer nice. All of the Cullens wear expensive clothes, you can see the money in the cut and weight of the fabric, but I had expected him to be wearing something a little less. Perhaps it's because I didn't view him like I did the other Cullens or maybe it was just because he didn't look like a model and so subconsciously I didn't think him fit for them. His slacks are slate grey, dark enough to not amplify his paleness and the shirt is pinstriped, bringing a small thread of red. He's dressed very well and I speculate which sister dictates what he wears.

"You should meet them," he finally decides.

"Excuse me?"

"You should meet them, my family, properly. Not in the hospital, but in our home so you can see for yourself."

"Are you asking me to come and meet your parents?"

A glow graces his skin. "Not like that. I want you to make your own mind up about us, about me. I want you to see if you can find any depth to who I am."

"I don't think Ro will be happy about that," I say.

"No, but she'll tolerate it."

"Because she loves you," I can't tell if I'm mocking or not.

"Yes. Because she loves me."

"And what if I can't find any depth? What if I decide you're all crazy? What happens if I think you're shallow?"

"Then maybe that says more about you than it does me."

When I get home that night there's a stranger in my house. Jacob Black sits on the sofa with Charlie, chatting over some sports game on the television. He stands when I enter the living room and I take a step back in surprise. He's exceptionally tall with the build of a wire hanger and coffee complexion that is complimented by long, dark, sweeping hair. He's the prettiest boy I have ever seen and yet something in his soft, radiant face reminds me of Edward.

"Hi, Bella," he exudes happiness through every pour.

"Hello," I meekly reply.

"She's Isabella now, Jacob," teases Charlie. "You better remember or she'll be hounding you about it."

"Oh, sorry. Hi, Isabella," his smile is killer and the effect it has on his face is stomach-flutter worthy, except I'm grumpy and brooding after my Gym class conversations.

I try to force out a smile and, though I know it does indeed look forced, Jacob's smile never falters. I have no idea how old he is, but there's the lingering of puppy-fat around his jawline, features still soft, undefined. I could probably look past it since there are so few eligible men around these parts, but the way Charlie looks at him makes me sick. It's like he's found a long lost son whilst his daughter was away.

"You must remember Jacob, Isabella. You two played together as kids when you were down here," says Charlie affectionately. "You were fat little things, both of you."

"I remember," says Jacob. "You and dad would fish whilst we'd make mud pies. I think Harry used to bring Leah sometimes, but she complained because of the mess. You didn't mind though, Isabella. We'd be caked in it by the time the sun set."

The scene he paints is cute, but not one I remember.

"Leah Clearwater?" I ask, hoping I've got the right Harry in mind.

"Yeah!" his enthusiasm is irritating. "So you remember then?"

"Not clearly," not at all, "but then we were young."

"I was younger," laughs Jacob. "Leah's the cousin of Emily, Charlie. The one I was telling you about before. Who had the…uhh…accident."

I stand in the doorway like an idiot, not knowing what to say or do whilst Jacob just sits there like he has every right in the world to be in my house. Maybe he does. Maybe he and Charlie have spent years doing this, blathering away like old women in a house that still smells of my mother. They're about to fall into a pattern of conversation, but I can't hold back any more and the frustration from the day bubbles over in a flurry of words so fast even I only just understand them. To be honest, I'm just as surprised at what spills from my mouth as everyone else.

"What do you know about the Cullens?" I ask, interrupting Charlie mid-sentence.

Their heads snap over to me, then each other, then back.

"Me?" ask Jacob, a little perplexed.

"Yes."

I think Charlie senses something in my tone because he lets out a growl-like warning, "Bella…"

"Well," I say, ignoring him, "what do you know about them?"

Jacob glances over at Charlie in a way that is clearly a questioning of my sanity before proceeding carefully. "I don't really think it's my place."

"Why not? You're Quileute aren't you?"

"Bella!" exclaims Charlie as if I've said something foul. "What's gotten into you? Did something happen at school? Was someone mean?"

"It's alright, Charlie," Jacob tries to pacify my father.

"It's not alright. What's wrong, Bella?"

"Nothing's wrong," I retort. "It was just a simple question."

Charlie tries to press the issue, but Jacob waves him off. "It's alright, Charlie. I can talk."

Charlie stares at me long and hard, probably using his cop abilities of detection even as I wait for Jacob to say something. I don't know what I'm expecting the boy to say, but I'm quite sure I don't expect him look at me with all the sincerity in the world and tell me that there is one thing and one thing he knows with absolute certainty.

"They're vampires, Isabella. Blood sucking vampires, each and every one."

A/N

The plot thickens. I forget how hard it is to make conversation sound natural especially when it centres on supernatural topics…sort of. More mysteries and questions raised in this chapter, but we hope you're enjoying the ride. Also, Jacob! Yay. Thanks to everyone who Commented, Read, Followed and Favorited, we hope you're having as much fun reading as we are writing. If you have any advice, questions or humorous observations (we know you guys are a funny lot) feel free to drop us a line ;)

Peace out and other jive terms.

SP