Everyone thinks having a twin brother is sensational; sharing clothes, food, and even a room. And sure, that would be great if my twin weren't a girl... and if that girl weren't Isabella Swan.
Believe me, I love my sister and would do anything for her, but sometimes I think my life would be much simpler if I didn't have to live on constant high alert. If people could hear me right now, they'd say, "Hey, she's your sister!" I know, but who trips over their own feet while walking on a flat surface? Tell me who! Bella is a walking disaster, and I, as her brother, have the duty to protect her from everything—even herself.
Sometimes I don't understand how we can be so alike and yet so different at the same time. I'm basically her male version: the same mahogany hair and extremely pale skin. No matter how hard I tried to get some color on the beaches of Phoenix, it was a losing battle. I'm thin, though with a swimmer's build thanks to the time I spent training at the gym (an effort I made to impress a guy I liked, which ended in a simple, somewhat serious friendship).
Unlike Bella, who inherited the warm chocolate eyes of our father, Charlie, I ended up with our mother Renée's blue eyes. Right now, we're on our way to visit Charlie to settle in with him. We want Mom to be able to travel peacefully with Phil and for us, finally, to have a permanent place to finish high school.
We're headed to Forks. We're still on the plane, but that doesn't stop me from complaining mentally about the situation. I don't care much about leaving since, like my sister, I'm a bit of a loner. It's not that it's hard for me to make friends, it's just that sometimes I just want to be alone to, as they say, recharge my social battery.
The plane landed in Seattle wrapped in a layer of clouds so dense it looked like the world had run out of colors. As we stepped off, I felt the damp air cling to my skin like a warning. Bella, beside me, was already walking with that characteristic stiffness of someone waiting to trip over thin air at any moment.
"Are you ready for this?" I asked, adjusting my backpack strap. "Three years of rain, wool uniforms, and Charlie's scent of pine."
Bella gave me a look of resignation.
"As long as you don't force me to join the swim team here, I'll be fine," she muttered, though her knuckles were white from gripping her carry-on so hard.
I ruffled her hair, earning a grunt in return.
"Relax, Bells. At least nobody knows us here. We can be the 'mysterious twins' until you fall down the school stairs on the first day."
When we exited the terminal, we spotted Charlie's sturdy figure next to his cruiser. Nothing had changed: the mustache, the impeccable uniform, and that expression that oscillated between genuine joy and social panic.
"You look... big," Charlie stammered, scratching the back of his neck with that shyness Bella and I inherited in unequal doses.
He helped us with the suitcases, stowing them in the back of the cruiser with silent efficiency. Bella climbed into the shotgun seat—her natural place as the "older sister" by just a few minutes—while I sprawled out in the backseat. To many, being asocial is a flaw; to me, it's a survival tactic. I enjoy my own company and my hobbies.
While Charlie and Bella tried to strike up a conversation about the weather (the Swan family's safety topic), I pulled my sketchbook from my jacket. It's small, worn at the corners, and my most prized possession.
"Still at it?" Charlie asked through the rearview mirror, nodding toward the notebook.
"Drawing is the only thing that keeps me sane, Dad," I replied with a half-smile, already tracing the quick lines of Bella's profile against the rain-fogged window.
People usually think I'm predictable. A "nerd," basically. I share Bella's love for stories, but while she loses herself in Victorian romances, I prefer the visual narrative of comics. I'm a nerd, yes, but according to the girls at my old school, a "cute" one. Although that never did much good when my mind was busier capturing the shape of a shadow than trying to fit in.
Sketching was my way of building a wall. If my hand was moving across the paper, nobody bothered me. I was in my own world, where I didn't have to explain why I preferred silence over the noise of Phoenix.
"Forks is going to give you plenty of material to draw," Charlie said, breaking my concentration. "There's more green here than you've seen in your whole lives."
"And more gray," Bella whispered, leaning her forehead against the glass.
The drive from the airport to Charlie's house was a parade of trees so green they almost made my eyes ache. My father drove with that small-town calm that made me a little nervous. In the back seat, I remained focused on my notebook, shading Bella's jawline in my drawing. She, for her part, watched the forest with a mix of resignation and nausea.
"Well, we're here," Charlie announced, parking the cruiser in front of the white wooden house I vaguely remembered from our childhood visits.
Forks welcomed us with a gray so absolute it felt like someone had turned down the world's contrast. Charlie parked, and after helping Bella not to trip over the curb, we carried the bags up.
"I've cleared out the back room for you, Ismael, since I figured you wouldn't want to share a room like before," Charlie said, pointing to a door at the end of the hall. "Bella, you stay in yours."
I entered my room. It was small but private enough. I dropped my backpack on the dark wood desk—the place where my pencils would rest from now on—and sighed. At least I wouldn't have to share a room; an asocial man needs his lair.
We went down for dinner shortly after. It was a scene straight out of an awkward realist film: the sound of forks against ceramic was the only thing filling the space. Charlie watched us out of the corner of his eye, trying to figure out how to start a conversation, while Bella played with her food. I limited myself to observing, analyzing the shadows the lamp cast on the tablecloth. It was a "family dinner," but it felt like we were learning how to be one all over again.
Just when the silence was becoming unbearable, the roar of an engine and yellowed headlights lit up the window.
"It's Billy," Charlie announced with evident relief, getting up from the table.
We went out onto the porch. A man in a wheelchair and a younger boy, with copper skin and a smile that seemed to take up his whole face, were waiting for us next to a hunk of red metal: a Chevy pick-up that screamed "classic" from every pore. It was the welcome gift.
While Billy and Charlie talked, I noticed something that made my skin crawl. The boy, Jacob, wouldn't stop staring at Bella. It wasn't a normal look; he was literally drooling, with that clumsy fascination of someone who has just seen a divine apparition.
Bella, oblivious to it all, walked over to the truck to inspect the engine and the interior. I seized the moment. I have that strange ability to move without making a sound, to diminish my presence until I become part of the landscape. Without Jacob noticing, I slid to his side.
"You're gonna catch a fly if you keep your mouth open like that," I dropped into his ear, my voice flat and cold.
Jacob jumped, nearly losing his balance. He looked at me with wide eyes, processing where the hell I had come from.
"Geez! I didn't hear you coming," he managed to say, trying to regain his composure.
I crossed my arms, giving him my best "brother who knows martial arts even if he only knows how to draw" look.
"Listen closely," I said in a low voice, so Charlie and Billy wouldn't hear. "She's my sister. And I am her shadow. Be very careful with how you look at her or what you try, because before you get to her, you'll have to go through me. Got it?"
Jacob swallowed hard, intimidated by the intensity I suddenly threw at him. He nodded, his goofy smile fading a bit, while I returned to my usual relaxed posture, as if nothing had happened.
Friday dawned with the constant pattering of rain against the glass—a rhythmic sound that, far from annoying me, helped me concentrate. There were no alarm clocks, only the grayish light filtering through the curtains. Bella and I spent the entire morning in a sort of silent bubble, each in our new territory.
In my bedroom, I dedicated myself to transforming the back room into my sanctuary. I pulled out my art books, my anatomy encyclopedias, and my comics, organizing them by color on the shelves Charlie had left empty. I placed my easel near the window to make the most of the dim light and arranged my charcoals with millimeter precision. While Bella fought with her boxes of clothes in the next room (I heard at least three thuds indicating she'd dropped something), I enjoyed the solitude.
Forks was depressing to many, but for an artist, the shadows and the mist were a visual feast.
By mid-afternoon, hunger and the need for fresh air drove me out of my cave. I went down to the kitchen and found Bella checking the pantry with a look of defeat.
"Dad lives on fast food and canned goods," she said, pointing to a jar of moldy beans. "I'm going to make something decent for dinner, but we're missing a thousand things."
"I'll handle the groceries," I replied, grabbing the keys to the "new" red pick-up. "Besides, if we're going to survive this weather, we need sugar. I'm making dessert."
Bella looked at me with a raised eyebrow. She knew that when I went into "baker mode," I took flour measurements as seriously as the proportions of a portrait.
"Bring apples if you find good ones," she requested.
Driving the Chevy was quite an experience. The engine roared like a wounded beast, and the steering was so stiff that my swimmer's arms actually had to work for it. I arrived at the small town supermarket under a fine rain that chilled to the bone. As I walked the aisles looking for butter, cinnamon, and dark chocolate, I felt several curious eyes on me. In a place where everyone knows everyone, a stranger with intense blue eyes and a "don't-bother-me" face stands out like a beacon.
I ignored the whispers of a group of girls near the cereal aisle. My mind was on the perfect blend for a chocolate fondant or perhaps a spiced apple tart. I paid quickly, avoiding unnecessary eye contact, and headed back to the truck.
A House Becomes a Home
By the time I got home, the smell of home-cooked food was already filling the air. Bella was in her element, chopping vegetables with almost solemn concentration. I dropped the bags on the counter and put on an apron.
"Top-quality apples," I told her, leaving one on her cutting board. "Now move aside; the artist needs the kitchen for the grand finale."
We ate with Charlie again, but this time the atmosphere was different. It smelled like home. Charlie devoured Bella's stew and was left speechless when I placed a serving of my freshly baked dessert in front of him.
"If you kids cook like this every night," Charlie said, taking a bite of the sweet, "I'm going to have to get my police uniform resized."
That night, as the rain intensified outside, I went to sleep with a strange sense of calm.
The weekend in Forks became a refuge of silent productivity. While the rain hammered insistently on the roof, the Swan twins moved in a synchronicity that only years of complicity could explain. On Saturday, Mael took over the living room. He couldn't stand the coldness of Charlie's empty walls. With architectural precision, he began to hang the landscapes he had brought with him. Charlie's living room, which before seemed like just a place to sit and watch the game, began to gain a soul. Mael carefully placed the portraits: one of Bella lost in thought and a self-portrait of the two of them that captured that strange link in their features.
"It looks different," Charlie commented upon returning from the station, stopping dead in his tracks in front of the wall. "It looks like... a real house. Thanks, Mael."
Sunday, however, the mood shifted. Leisure gave way to discipline. Though both knew the academic level in Forks likely wouldn't be as demanding as their previous classes, neither allowed themselves the luxury of mediocrity.
Mael settled at his desk, surrounded by advanced calculus books and classic literature. Despite already mastering most of the syllabus, he reviewed every chapter with an analytical eye, underlining concepts and making marginal notes in his small, perfect handwriting. He was a born perfectionist. He liked arriving at a new place with all the answers, even if he had no intention of sharing them with anyone.
"Reviewing trigonometry again?" Bella asked, entering his room with an English book under her arm. She had that habit too: reading and re-reading so as not to leave anything to chance.
"Just making sure the teacher doesn't say anything stupid tomorrow," Mael replied without looking up. "If we're going to be the center of attention for being 'the new kids,' at least let them have nothing to reproach us for academically."
Hours passed like that, each in their corner, immersed in study. There was something comforting in that shared silence; it was their secret language. They didn't need to speak to know they were both nervous, but their way of channeling it was through knowledge and order.
"We're weird, aren't we?" Bella said suddenly, breaking the study trance as she slammed her book shut.
Mael leaned back in his chair and looked at her. His blue eyes, so different from hers yet with the same intensity, shone under the desk lamp.
"We're not weird, Bells. We're observers. We'll let them talk, let them speculate, and let them be wrong. We'll just do our thing."
The Final Cut
That Sunday night, before the weight of Monday fell upon them, Mael decided they needed a "closure" for their previous life.
"Enough books, Bells," Mael said, closing his calculus text with a sharp thud. "If we keep this up, we're going to walk into school tomorrow looking like we've seen a ghost."
They went down to the living room, where the scent of wood and Mael's fresh oils was already winning the battle against the house's damp smell. Ismael, true to his methodical style even in leisure, took charge of the snacks. He didn't use a microwave; he pulled an old pot from the cupboard, a bit of oil, and kernels. The rhythmic sound of popcorn popping filled the kitchen—a homely sound that seemed to relax even Charlie.
They ended up watching a classic action movie Charlie had on DVD. It was loud, predictable, and exactly what they needed. While the explosions lit up the room, the Swan trio allowed themselves to simply be a family.
"Time for bed," Charlie ordered in his raspy police-chief voice. "The cruiser leaves early tomorrow, and I don't want you being late in Billy's red monster."
"Don't worry, Dad," Mael said, stretching his swimmer's frame. "Tomorrow Forks meets the Swan twins. I hope they're ready for us."
They headed upstairs. Before entering his room, Mael gave Bella's shoulder a quick squeeze. No words were needed; it was their code for "I'm here." Once in his room, Mael laid out his clothes: dark jeans, a plain t-shirt, and his favorite hoodie. Nothing flashy, nothing that screamed "look at me," but impeccable enough to maintain that image of distant intelligence he liked so much.
He fell asleep listening to the heartbeat of the rain, wondering if Forks High would be as boring as he predicted or if, on the contrary, it hid something that not even his books had been able to teach him.