Звездный стиль: Платье-рубашка.
Text copyright © 2005 by Stephenie Meyer
All rights reserved.
Little, Brown and Company
Time Warner Book Group
1271 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
Visit our Web site at www.lb-teens.com
First Edition: September 2005
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not
intended by the author.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Meyer, Stephanie, 1973—
Twilight. a novel / by Stephanie Meyer. — 1st ed.
Summary: Grade 9 Up–Headstrong, sun-loving, 17-year-old Bella declines her mom's
invitation to move to Florida, and instead reluctantly opts to move to her dad's cabin in
the dreary, rainy town of Forks, WA. She becomes intrigued with Edward Cullen, a distant,
stylish, and disarmingly handsome senior, who is also a vampire. When he reveals that his
specific clan hunts wildlife instead of humans, Bella deduces that she is safe from his
blood-sucking instincts and therefore free to fall hopelessly in love with him. The
feeling is mutual, and the resulting volatile romance smolders as they attempt to hide
Edward's identity from her family and the rest of the school. Meyer adds an eerie new
twist to the mismatched, star-crossed lovers theme: predator falls for prey, human falls
for vampire. This tension strips away any pretense readers may have about the everyday
teen romance novel, and kissing, touching, and talking take on an entirely new meaning
when one small mistake could be life-threatening. Bella and Edward's struggle to make
their relationship work becomes a struggle for survival, especially when vampires from an
outside clan infiltrate the Cullen territory and head straight for her. As a result, the
novel's danger-factor skyrockets as the excitement of secret love and hushed affection
morphs into a terrifying race to stay alive. Realistic, subtle, succinct, and easy to
follow, Twilight will have readers dying to sink their teeth into it.
1. Vampires — Fiction.
2. High schools — Fiction.
3. Schools — Fiction.
I'd never given much thought to how I would die — though I'd had reason
enough in the last few months — but even if I had, I would not have
imagined it like this.
I stared without breathing across the long room, into the dark eyes of
the hunter, and he looked pleasantly back at me.
Surely it was a good way to die, in the place of someone else, someone I
loved. Noble, even. That ought to count for something.
I knew that if I'd never gone to Forks, I wouldn't be facing death now.
But, terrified as I was, I couldn't bring myself to regret the decision.
When life offers you a dream so far beyond any of your expectations, it's
not reasonable to grieve when it comes to an end.
The hunter smiled in a friendly way as he sauntered forward to kill me.
1. FIRST SIGHT
My mother drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down. It was
seventy-five degrees in Phoenix, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. I was
wearing my favorite shirt — sleeveless, white eyelet lace; I was wearing
it as a farewell gesture. My carry-on item was a parka.
In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, a small town
named Forks exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. It rains on
this inconsequential town more than any other place in the United States
of America. 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 was in
this town that I'd been compelled to spend a month every summer until I
was fourteen. That was the year I finally put my foot down; these past
three summers, my dad, Charlie, vacationed with me in California for two
It was to Forks that I now exiled myself— an action that I took with
great horror. I detested Forks.
I loved Phoenix. I loved the sun and the blistering heat. I loved the
vigorous, sprawling city.
"Bella," my mom said to me — the last of a thousand times — before I got
on the plane. "You don't have to do this."
My mom looks like me, except with short hair and laugh lines. I felt a
spasm of panic as I stared at her wide, childlike eyes. 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'll see you soon," she insisted. "You can come home whenever you want —
I'll come right back as soon as you need me."
But I could see the sacrifice in her eyes behind the promise.
"Don't worry about me," I urged. "It'll be great. I love you, Mom."
She hugged me tightly for a minute, and then I got on the plane, and she
It's a four-hour flight from Phoenix to Seattle, another hour in a small
plane up to Port Angeles, and then an hour drive back down to Forks.
Flying doesn't bother me; the hour in the car with Charlie, though, I was
a little worried about.
Charlie had really been fairly nice about the whole thing. He seemed
genuinely pleased that I was coming to live with him for the first time
with any degree of permanence. He'd already gotten me registered for high
school and was going to help me get a car.
But it was sure to be awkward with Charlie. Neither of us was what anyone
would call verbose, and I didn't know what there was to say regardless. I
knew he was more than a little confused by my decision — like my mother
before me, I hadn't made a secret of my distaste for Forks.
When I landed in Port Angeles, it was raining. I didn't see it as an omen
— just unavoidable. I'd already said my goodbyes to the sun.
Charlie was waiting for me with the cruiser. This I was expecting, too.
Charlie is Police Chief Swan to the good people of Forks. My primary
motivation behind buying a car, despite the scarcity of my funds, was
that I refused to be driven around town in a car with red and blue lights
on top. Nothing slows down traffic like a cop.
"What kind of car?" I was suspicious of the way he said "good car for
you" as opposed to just "good car."
"Well, it's a truck actually, a Chevy."
"Where did you find it?"
"Do you remember Billy Black down at La Push?" La Push is the tiny Indian
reservation on the coast.
"He used to go fishing with us during the summer," Charlie prompted.
That would explain why I didn't remember him. I do a good job of blocking
painful, unnecessary things from my memory.
"That's really nice, Dad. Thanks. I really appreciate it." No need to add
that my being happy in Forks is an impossibility. He didn't need to
suffer along with me. And I never looked a free truck in the mouth — or
"Well, now, you're welcome," he mumbled, embarrassed by my thanks.
We exchanged a few more comments on the weather, which was wet, and that
was pretty much it for Conversation. We stared out the windows in silence.
It was beautiful, of course; I couldn't deny that. Everything was green:
the trees, their trunks covered with moss, their branches hanging with a
canopy of it, the ground covered with ferns. Even the air filtered down
greenly through the leaves.
It was too green — an alien planet.
Eventually we made it to Charlie's. He still lived in the small,
two-bedroom house that he'd bought with my mother in the early days of
their marriage. Those were the only kind of days their marriage had — the
early ones. There, parked on the street in front of the house that never
changed, was my new — well, new to me — truck. It was a faded red color,
with big, rounded fenders and a bulbous cab. To my intense surprise, I
loved it. I didn't know if it would run, but I could see myself in it.
Plus, it was one of those solid iron affairs that never gets damaged —
the kind you see at the scene of an accident, paint unscratched,
surrounded by the pieces of the foreign car it had destroyed.
"Wow, Dad, I love it! Thanks!" Now my horrific day tomorrow would be just
that much less dreadful. I wouldn't be faced with the choice of either
walking two miles in the rain to school or accepting a ride in the
"I'm glad you like it," Charlie said gruffly, embarrassed again.
It took only one trip to get all my stuff upstairs. I got the west
bedroom that faced out over the front yard. The room was familiar; it had
been belonged to me since I was born. The wooden floor, the light blue
walls, the peaked ceiling, the yellowed lace curtains around the window —
these were all a part of my childhood. The only changes Charlie had ever
made were switching the crib for a bed and adding a desk as I grew. The
desk now held a secondhand computer, with the phone line for the modem
stapled along the floor to the nearest phone jack. This was a stipulation
from my mother, so that we could stay in touch easily. The rocking chair
from my baby days was still in the corner.
There was only one small bathroom at the top of the stairs, which I would
have to share with Charlie. I was trying not to dwell too much on that
One of the best things about Charlie is he doesn't hover. He left me
alone to unpack and get settled, a feat that would have been altogether
impossible for my mother. It was nice to be alone, not to have to smile
and look pleased; a relief to stare dejectedly out the window at the
sheeting rain and let just a few tears escape. I wasn't in the mood to go
on a real crying jag. I would save that for bedtime, when I would have to
think about the coming morning.
Forks High School had a frightening total of only three hundred and
fifty-seven — now fifty-eight — students; there were more than seven
hundred people in my junior class alone back home. All of the kids here
had grown up together — their grandparents had been toddlers together.
I would be the new girl from the big city, a curiosity, a freak.
Maybe, if I looked like a girl from Phoenix should, I could work this to
my advantage. But physically, I'd never fit in anywhere. I should be tan,
sporty, blond — a volleyball player, or a cheerleader, perhaps — all the
things that go with living in the valley of the sun.
Instead, I was ivory-skinned, without even the excuse of blue eyes or red
hair, despite the constant sunshine. I had always been slender, but soft
somehow, obviously not an athlete; I didn't have the necessary hand-eye
coordination to play sports without humiliating myself — and harming both
myself and anyone else who stood too close.
When I finished putting my clothes in the old pine dresser, I took my bag
Facing my pallid reflection in the mirror, I was forced to admit that I
was lying to myself. It wasn't just physically that I'd never fit in. And
if I couldn't find a niche in a school with three thousand people, what
were my chances here?
I didn't relate well to people my age. Maybe the truth was that I didn't
relate well to people, period. Even my mother, who I was closer to than
anyone else on the planet, was never in harmony with me, never on exactly
the same page. Sometimes I wondered if I was seeing the same things
through my eyes that the rest of the world was seeing through theirs.
Maybe there was a glitch in my brain. But the cause didn't matter. All
that mattered was the effect. And tomorrow would be just the beginning.
I didn't sleep well that night, even after I was done crying. The
constant whooshing of the rain and wind across the roof wouldn't fade
into the background. I pulled the faded old quilt over my head, and later
added the pillow, too. But I couldn't fall asleep until after midnight,
when the rain finally settled into a quieter drizzle.
Thick fog was all I could see out my window in the morning, and I could
feel the claustrophobia creeping up on me. You could never see the sky
here; it was like a cage.
Breakfast with Charlie was a quiet event. He wished me good luck at
school. I thanked him, knowing his hope was wasted. Good luck tended to
avoid me. Charlie left first, off to the police station that was his wife
and family. After he left, I sat at the old square oak table in one of
the three unmatching chairs and examined his small kitchen, with its dark
paneled walls, bright yellow cabinets, and white linoleum floor. Nothing
was changed. My mother had painted the cabinets eighteen years ago in an
attempt to bring some sunshine into the house. Over the small fireplace
in the adjoining handkerchief-sized family room was a row of pictures.
First a wedding picture of Charlie and my mom in Las Vegas, then one of
the three of us in the hospital after I was born, taken by a helpful
nurse, followed by the procession of my school pictures up to last
year's. Those were embarrassing to look at — I would have to see what I
could do to get Charlie to put them somewhere else, at least while I was
It was impossible, being in this house, not to realize that Charlie had
never gotten over my mom. It made me uncomfortable.
I didn't want to be too early to school, but I couldn't stay in the house
anymore. I donned my jacket — which had the feel of a biohazard suit —
and headed out into the rain.
It was just drizzling still, not enough to soak me through immediately as
I reached for the house key that was always hidden under the eaves by the
door, and locked up. The sloshing of my new waterproof boots was
unnerving. I missed the normal crunch of gravel as I walked. I couldn't
pause and admire my truck again as I wanted; I was in a hurry to get out
of the misty wet that swirled around my head and clung to my hair under
Inside the truck, it was nice and dry. Either Billy or Charlie had
obviously cleaned it up, but the tan upholstered seats still smelled
faintly of tobacco, gasoline, and peppermint. The engine started quickly,
to my relief, but loudly, roaring to life and then idling at top volume.
Well, a truck this old was bound to have a flaw. The antique radio
worked, a plus that I hadn't expected.
Finding the school wasn't difficult, though I'd never been there before.
The school was, like most other things, just off the highway. It was not
obvious that it was a school; only the sign, which declared it to be the
Forks High School, made me stop. It looked like a collection of matching
houses, built with maroon-colored bricks. There were so many trees and
shrubs I couldn't see its size at first. Where was the feel of the
institution? I wondered nostalgically. Where were the chain-link fences,
the metal detectors?
I parked in front of the first building, which had a small sign over the
door reading front office. No one else was parked there, so I was sure it
was off limits, but I decided I would get directions inside instead of
circling around in the rain like an idiot. I stepped unwillingly out of
the toasty truck cab and walked down a little stone path lined with dark
hedges. I took a deep breath before opening the door.
Inside, it was brightly lit, and warmer than I'd hoped. The office was
small; a little waiting area with padded folding chairs, orange-flecked
commercial carpet, notices and awards cluttering the walls, a big clock
loudly. Plants grew everywhere in large plastic pots, as if there
wasn't enough greenery outside. The room was cut in half by a long
counter, cluttered with wire baskets full of papers and brightly colored
flyers taped to its front. There were three desks behind the counter, one
of which was manned by a large, red-haired woman wearing glasses. She was
wearing a purple t-shirt, which immediately made me feel overdressed.
The red-haired woman looked up. "Can I help you?"
"I'm Isabella Swan," I informed her, and saw the immediate awareness
light her eyes. I was expected, a topic of gossip no doubt. Daughter of
the Chief's flighty ex-wife, come home at last.
"Of course," she said. She dug through a precariously stacked pile of
documents on her desk till she found the ones she was looking for. "I
have your schedule right here, and a map of the school." She brought
several sheets to the counter to show roe.
She went through my classes for me, highlighting the best route to each
on the map, and gave me a slip to have each teacher sign, which I was to
bring back at the end of the day. She smiled at me and hoped, like
Charlie, that I would like it here in Forks. I smiled back as
convincingly as I could.
When I went back out to my truck, other students were starting to arrive.
I drove around the school, following the line of traffic. I was glad to
see that most of the cars were older like mine, nothing flashy. At home
I'd lived in one of the few lower-income neighborhoods that were included
in the Paradise Valley District. It was a common thing to see a new
Mercedes or Porsche in the student lot. The nicest car here was a shiny
Volvo, and it stood out. Still, I cut the engine as soon as I was in a
spot, so that the thunderous volume wouldn't draw attention to me.
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
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
"Where's your next class?" he asked.
I had to check in my bag. "Um, Government, with Jefferson, in building
There was nowhere to look without meeting curious eyes.
"I'm headed toward building four, I could show you the way…" Definitely
over-helpful. "I'm Eric," he added.
"You don't look very tan."
"My mother is part albino."
He studied my face apprehensively, and I sighed. It looked like clouds
and a sense of humor didn't mix. A few months of this and I'd forget how
to use sarcasm.
We walked back around the cafeteria, to the south buildings by the gym.
Eric walked me right to the door, though it was clearly marked.
"Well, good luck," he said as I touched the handle. "Maybe we'll have
some other classes together." He sounded hopeful.
I smiled at him vaguely and went inside.
The rest of the morning passed in about the same fashion. My Trigonometry
teacher, Mr. Varner, who I would have hated anyway just because of the
subject he taught, was the only one who made me stand in front of the
class and introduce myself. I stammered, blushed, and tripped over my own
boots on the way to my seat.
After two classes, I started to recognize several of the faces in each
One girl sat next to me in both Trig and Spanish, and she walked with me
to the cafeteria for lunch. She was tiny, several inches shorter than my
five feet four inches, but her wildly curly dark hair made up a lot of
the difference between our heights. I couldn't remember her name, so I
smiled and nodded as she prattled about teachers and classes. I didn't
try to keep up.
We sat at the end of a full table with several of her friends, who she
introduced to me. I forgot all their names as soon as she spoke them.
They seemed impressed by her bravery in speaking to me. The boy from
English, Eric, waved at me from across the room.
It was there, sitting in the lunchroom, trying to make conversation with
seven curious strangers, that I first saw them.
They were sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, as far away from where
I sat as possible in the long room. There were five of them. They weren't
talking, and they weren't eating, though they each had a tray of
untouched food in front of them. They weren't gawking at me, unlike most
of the other students, so it was safe to stare at them without fear of
meeting an excessively interested pair of eyes. But it was none of these
things that caught, and held, my attention.
They didn't look anything alike. Of the three boys, one was big — muscled
like a serious weight lifter, with dark, curly hair. Another was taller,
leaner, but still muscular, and honey blond. The last was lanky, less
bulky, with untidy, bronze-colored hair. He was more boyish than the
others, who looked like they could be in college, or even teachers here
rather than students.
The girls were opposites. The tall one was statuesque. She had a
beautiful figure, the kind you saw on the cover of the Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue, the kind that made every girl around her take a hit on
her self-esteem just by being in the same room. Her hair was golden,
gently waving to the middle of her back. The short girl was pixielike,
thin in the extreme, with small features. Her hair was a deep black,
cropped short and pointing in every direction.
And yet, they were all exactly alike. Every one of them was chalky pale,
the palest of all the students living in this sunless town. Paler than
me, the albino. They all had very dark eyes despite the range in hair
tones. They also had dark shadows under those eyes — purplish, bruiselike
shadows. As if they were all suffering from a sleepless night, or almost
done recovering from a broken nose. Though their noses, all their
features, were straight, perfect, angular.
But all this is not why I couldn't look away.
I stared because their faces, so different, so similar, were all
devastatingly, inhumanly beautiful. They were faces you never expected to
see except perhaps on the airbrushed pages of a fashion magazine. Or
painted by an old master as the face of an angel. It was hard to decide
who was the most beautiful — maybe the perfect blond girl, or the
They were all looking away — away from each other, away from the other
students, away from anything in particular as far as I could tell. As I
watched, the small girl rose with her tray — unopened soda, unbitten
apple — and walked away with a quick, graceful lope that belonged on a
runway. I watched, amazed at her lithe dancer's step, till she dumped her
tray and glided through the back door, faster than I would have thought
possible. My eyes darted back to the others, who sat unchanging.
"Who are they?" I asked the girl from my Spanish class, whose name I'd
As she looked up to see who I meant — though already knowing, probably,
from my tone — suddenly he looked at her, the thinner one, the boyish
one, the youngest, perhaps. He looked at my neighbor for just a fraction
of a second, and then his dark eyes flickered to mine.
He looked away quickly, more quickly than I could, though in a flush of
embarrassment I dropped my eyes at once. In that brief flash of a glance,
his face held nothing of interest — it was as if she had called his name,
and he'd looked up in involuntary response, already having decided not to
My neighbor giggled in embarrassment, looking at the table like I did.
"That's Edward and Emmett Cullen, and Rosalie and Jasper Hale. The one
who left was Alice Cullen; they all live together with Dr. Cullen and his
wife." She said this under her breath.
I glanced sideways at the beautiful boy, who was looking at his tray now,
picking a bagel to pieces with long, pale fingers. His mouth was moving
very quickly, his perfect lips barely opening. The other three still
looked away, and yet I felt he was speaking quietly to them.
Strange, unpopular names, I thought. The kinds of names grandparents had.
But maybe that was in vogue here — small town names? I finally remembered
that my neighbor was called Jessica, a perfectly common name. There were
two girls named Jessica in my History class back home.
"They are… very nice-looking." I struggled with the conspicuous
"Yes!" Jessica agreed with another giggle. "They're all together though —
Emmett and Rosalie, and Jasper and Alice, I mean. And they live
together." Her voice held all the shock and condemnation of the small
town, I thought critically. But, if I was being honest, I had to admit
that even in Phoenix, it would cause gossip.
"Which ones are the Cullens?" I asked. "They don't look related…"
"Oh, they're not. Dr. Cullen is really young, in his twenties or early
thirties. They're all adopted. The Hales are brother and sister, twins —
the blondes — and they're foster children."
"They look a little old for foster children."
"They are now, Jasper and Rosalie are both eighteen, but they've been
with Mrs. Cullen since they were eight. She's their aunt or something
"That's really kind of nice — for them to take care of all those kids
like that, when they're so young and everything."
"I guess so," Jessica admitted reluctantly, and I got the impression that
she didn't like the doctor and his wife for some reason. With the glances
she was throwing at their adopted children, I would presume the reason
As I examined them, the youngest, one of the Cullens, looked up and met
my gaze, this time with evident curiosity in his expression. As I looked
"Which one is the boy with the reddish brown hair?" I asked. I peeked at
I bit my lip to hide my smile. Then I glanced at him again. His face was
turned away, but I thought his cheek appeared lifted, as if he were
After a few more minutes, the four of them left the table together. They
all were noticeably graceful — even the big, brawny one. It was
unsettling to watch. The one named Edward didn't look at me again.
I sat at the table with Jessica and her friends longer than I would have
if I'd been sitting alone. I was anxious not to be late for class on my
first day. One of my new acquaintances, who considerately reminded me
that her name was Angela, had Biology II with me the next hour. We walked
to class together in silence. She was shy, too.
When we entered the classroom, Angela went to sit at a black-topped lab
table exactly like the ones I was used to. She already had a neighbor. In
fact, all the tables were filled but one. Next to the center aisle, I
recognized Edward Cullen by his unusual hair, sitting next to that single
As I walked down the aisle to introduce myself to the teacher and get my
slip signed, I was watching him surreptitiously. Just as I passed, he
suddenly went rigid in his seat. He stared at me again, meeting my eyes
with the strangest expression on his face — it was hostile, furious. I
looked away quickly, shocked, going red again. I stumbled over a book in
the walkway and had to catch myself on the edge of a table. The girl
sitting there giggled.
I'd noticed that his eyes were black — coal black.
Mr. Banner signed my slip and handed me a book with no nonsense about
introductions. I could tell we were going to get along. Of course, he had
no choice but to send me to the one open seat in the middle of the room.
I kept my eyes down as I went to sit by him, bewildered by the
antagonistic stare he'd given me.
I didn't look up as I set my book on the table and took my seat, but I
saw his posture change from the corner of my eye. He was leaning away
from me, sitting on the extreme edge of his chair and averting his face
like he smelled something bad. Inconspicuously, I sniffed my hair. It
smelled like strawberries, the scent of my favorite shampoo. It seemed an
innocent enough odor. I let my hair fall over my right shoulder, making a
dark curtain between us, and tried to pay attention to the teacher.
Unfortunately the lecture was on cellular anatomy, something I'd already
studied. I took notes carefully anyway, always looking down.
I couldn't stop myself from peeking occasionally through the screen of my
hair at the strange boy next to me. During the whole class, he never
relaxed his stiff position on the edge of his chair, sitting as far from
me as possible. I could see his hand on his left leg was clenched into a
fist, tendons standing out under his pale skin. This, too, he never
relaxed. He had the long sleeves of his white shirt pushed up to his
elbows, and his forearm was surprisingly hard and muscular beneath his
light skin. He wasn't nearly as slight as he'd looked next to his burly
The class seemed to drag on longer than the others. Was it because the
day was finally coming to a close, or because I was waiting for his tight
fist to loosen? It never did; he continued to sit so still it looked like
he wasn't breathing. What was wrong with him? Was this his normal
behavior? I questioned my judgment on Jessica's bitterness at lunch
At that moment, the bell rang loudly, making me jump, and Edward Cullen
was out of his seat. Fluidly he rose — he was much taller than I'd
thought — his back to me, and he was out the door before anyone else was
out of their seat.
I sat frozen in my seat, staring blankly after him. He was so mean. It
wasn't fair. I began gathering up my things slowly, trying to block the
"Do you need any help finding your next class?"
"I'm headed to the gym, actually. I think I can find it."
"That's my next class, too." He seemed thrilled, though it wasn't that
big of a coincidence in a school this small.
We walked to class together; he was a chatterer — he supplied most of the
conversation, which made it easy for me. He'd lived in California till he
was ten, so he knew how I felt about the sun. It turned out he was in my
English class also. He was the nicest person I'd met today.
But as we were entering the gym, he asked, "So, did you stab Edward
Cullen with a pencil or what? I've never seen him act like that."
I cringed. So I wasn't the only one who had noticed. And, apparently,