Twilight OC Rewrite VERSION TWO

Chapter Two: Open Book

If I haven't heard from you by 5:30 p.m. today I'm calling Charlie.

I checked the clock.

"You have an hour, still," I told her, "but she might jump the gun."

Bella agreed and began writing back.

Mom,

Calm down. I'm writing right now. Don't do anything rash."

Bella.

She sent that and began writing again.

Mom,

Everything is great. Of course it's raining. I was waiting for something to write about. School isn't bad, just a little repetitive. Alex and I met some nice kids who sit by us at lunch.

Your blouse is at the dry cleaners — you were supposed to pick it up Friday.

Charlie bought us a truck, can you believe it? I love it. It's old, but really sturdy, which is good, you know, for us.

We miss you too. I'll write again soon, but I'm not going to check my e-mail every five minutes.

Relax. Breathe. We love you.

Bella.

Bella decided to read Wuthering Heights — the novel we were currently studying for English — yet again for the fun of it, and I resigned myself to reading The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe, since it was my favorite. That's what we were doing when Dad came home. We'd lost track of time, and Bella hurried downstairs to take the potatoes out of the oven and put the steak in to broil, with me slowly trailing after her.

"Girls?" Dad called out when he heard us on the stairs.

"Who else?" Bella said under her breath as I called over her, hoping our dad wouldn't hear.

"Hey, Dad, welcome home!"

"Thanks." He hung up his gun belt and stepped out of his boots as Bella bustled about the kitchen. As far as I was aware, he'd never shot the gun on the job. But he kept it ready. When we came here as children, he would always remove the bullets as soon as he walked in the door. I guess he considered us old enough now not to shoot ourselves by accident, and Bella not depressed enough to shoot herself on purpose.

"What's for dinner?" he asked warily. Our mother was an imaginative cook, and her experiments weren't always edible. I was surprised and sad that he seemed to remember that far back.

"Steak and potatoes," Bella answered, and he looked relieved.

He seemed to feel awkward standing in the kitchen doing nothing; he lumbered into the living room to watch TV while we worked. Bella made salad while the steak cooked and I set the table.

I called him in when dinner was ready, and he sniffed appreciatively as he walked into the room.

"Smells good, Bells."

"Thanks."

We ate in silence for a few minutes. It wasn't uncomfortable. None of us were bothered by the quiet.

"So, how did you like school? Have you made any friends?" he asked as he was taking seconds.

"Well, we have a few classes w-with a girl named Jessica. We sit with her at lunch. And there's this boy, Mike, who's very friendly with Bella."

"Everyone seems pretty nice." Bella chimed in. She left out one outstanding exception.

"That must be Mike Newton. Nice kid — nice family. His dad owns the sporting goods store just outside of town. He makes a good living off all the backpackers who come through here."