Back with my next story! Like before, all chapters all edited only by me so sorry for any mistakes, and also SM owns her characters. I'm almost done writing this story, I wrote like crazy to finish it before I finished my other story. I'm working on the epilogue now and having trouble with it, but it will definitely be done by the time we get there lol.

As for my banner, I would be happy with my banner if it weren't for two things. It turns out it's really hard to find plain Native American girls, so I settled for this one. Also, the girl on the banner is a lot prettier than my character. So sorry for those inconsistencies.

New readers: If you didn't read my story Glimmer and want to read this one it will be fine. You won't be confused and Lizzy, one of my characters in that book, is barely mentioned here. You will see a bit of Paul. He's not angry like in the Twilight books, he's calmed down since his imprint Lizzy. So that's why he's different from the Paul you know.

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One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six….

I count each step as I walk, the steady rhythm soothing me in a way no person ever could. The numbers go on and on, always predictable and never faltering in my life. Numbers have always kept me calm, but it's gotten worse since my mother died. I shake my head and blink hard, jumping out of the memories before I can truly panic.

I make sure to stop on an even number at my desk, finishing by scooting my feet under the desk and attempting not to pick them up afterwards. Picking them up counts as a step after all, and I don't want to end on an odd number. Odd numbers leave me feeling as if something bad will happen. Odd leaves the breath stuck at the back of my throat, and fingers tapping swiftly against the deck in a nervous haze.

Mrs. Cern is in the front, punctual as always. Some teachers are lax at the Res, allowing student's liberties in their class and sometimes even showing up late. Not Mrs. Cern. She isn't mean, but stern. She's serious about being a teacher here, and one of the big advocates on pushing our Quileute heritage.

I barely know what it means to be Quileute. I know the Quileute tribe was known for making fishing boats and hunting whales and stuff like that, but that's it. It's kind of sad that I know more about other cultures than my own. When you dig up other people's cultures, you learn a lot.

My parents traveled before, not staying anywhere for longer than a few months usually. They were archeologist, and drifted where ever the dust covered wind blew them. That lifestyle stopped when my mother died about three months ago. My father decided to get a real home, and went back to his tribe.

My father is my grandmother's only child, so she was ecstatic when he told her we were coming back. But her demeanor changed after meeting me. I heard her whispering to my dad. I was supposed to be outside, playing or something. I'm not sure what she wanted me to do when she suggested for me to go outside for some fresh air. I'd had fresh air my whole life. I sat on the front stairs, the second step because it was even, and waited for her to say it was okay to come back in. Her words were clear where I sat, disapproving. She blamed my father's way of life for how I was. But it wasn't until the "accident" that I began to be like this. At least not noticeably. My mother's death changed me. I was dangling on the precipice before, and all it took was that one hard shove to make everything fall to crap. I'd always liked numbers, I would usually count my steps and avoid cracks. But I never got worked up about it if I landed on an odd number. It only left me feeling displeased. But now….

I can tell even my therapist thinks I'm a basket case.

My dad makes me get therapy, even though I practically cried trying to convince him not to make me. I didn't want to tell some stranger my issues, watching as they clinically wrote down everything I said and tried to poison me with Xanax, Tofranil, and Nardil. My dad thinks I take my medicine every morning, but really I wash it down the sink and say good riddance. Mom would have never stood for that. Everything was natural with her, and she pushed a healthy lifestyle a lot. It wasn't too hard to follow in her footsteps. After all, digging things up in the middle of Africa doesn't really offer a lot of fast food choices. You're lucky to get seconds when you eat. Exercising was never a problem. I sat in the heat every day and helped my parents on their digs. Most of the time I couldn't actually dig things up, but when I couldn't there was always some job to do. Cleaning the tools. Gathering the dirt everyone excavates. Even cleaning up camp and the work site to keep everything tidy. When I wasn't doing that I was studying. I'd been home schooled my whole life. Going to an actual school with actual kids was a big step. For most of my life I've been around adults. Seeing a child was rare, and meeting a kid that actually spoke my language even more. The tribal school here freaked me out to say the least. All these kids my age were around me, laughing and giggling and actually understanding what they say to each other.

I'd never had that before.

I would never tell my dad this but moving here made things worse. My anxiety spiked even higher. I didn't know how to act around people my age, and they knew it. They talked about the way I dressed, the way I spoke, even my mannerisms. It's not my fault I was around adults my whole life, but they seemed to blame me. All of them made fun of me. Girls whispered about the state of my hair, boys laughed about my jumpy nature. And both laughed at my clothes.

I told my dad I needed a wardrobe change after the first day. Normally he would have never complied with such a demand. My clothes were still functional and not stained or with holes. But I guess he really wanted me to situate myself and feel comfortable with this new change.

I realized when I got to the store I had no clue what to pick. I grabbed random clothes that I thought the girls might wear, but when I wore them the next day it made them laugh even more. I gave up after that and kept to myself. Let them whisper. They'll never be able to hurt me the way I hurt after my mother died. The way I still hurt.

Mom kept us glued together. She opened up conversations and made things lively. With her gone dad and I are a bunch of recluses. Sometimes dad leaves a week or two for a dig, but it's not like before. I tried convincing him to bring me, but now that I actually have a school to go to he won't let me.

I want to hate him for it, but I love him too much.

Even though we're both awkward and socially impaired, we're still family. He's the only person I have. Sure, I have grandma. But she'll never understand me like dad does. She's a social creature, the opposite of us and very resolute in her ways. She's a big part of the Quileute community, and people respect her a lot. Grandma gets exasperated with me. She says I could be pretty if I actually tried. But I do try. Mom always told me beauty doesn't matter because when you get old the person you get married to is going to look mighty different. The inside matters more, because that is what will make a person stay. No one ever talked about being pretty before. Sometimes the archaeologist students would bring up some hot celebrity, or someone would comment to another that they look good that day, but that was it. I never thought about being pretty until I moved here. Now it seems so important. People bring it up a lot, and I'm not sure what to make of it.

So I ignore it. I ignore a lot of things people say.