Howdy all! I've decided to do some substantial revamping - data, characteristics, physical traits, origins, you name it - and I sincerely hope you bear with me while I try to rework my story.

Summary: Jacob's got a thing for his new math teacher... but that's only the beginning of his problems. The secret she's hiding could expose them all. Revised and begun anew! Please review, and Merry Christmas!

I am ridiculously open to reviews; this story just presented itself to me, and I'll be in dire need of suggestions in the very near future. I want input - what you would like to see happen, what you'd like to see more of, less of, none of; everything. The story will be third person, although the character focus will shift at times. And for further notice, Bronte should be spelled Brontë. Happy reading.

Note: I began this story before the release of Breaking Dawn, and ergo will only be quasi-Breaking Dawn compliant.


A small television sat atop a cardboard box marked "kitchen," attempting fruitlessly to produce an image through the black and white static. On the other side of the empty living room, a dented microwave hummed therapeutically while its contents spun, burning for thirty-one more seconds. There were no tables, no chairs, only boxes; some were open, others not, with an abundance of white packing peanuts and bubble wrap littering the floor.

The doorbell rang, a cheery ding-dong followed by a curt rapping on the front door. Bronte answered.

"Good evening, Miss Fischer."

"Good evening, Officer Swan."

"You can call me Charlie."


Bronte noted Charlie was off-duty; he had donned a pair of faded jeans and an old fishing cap worn at a rakish angle. He smiled a little.

"I came by to see how you were doing moving in." Bronte opened the door completely and ushered him inside. She chuckled, and her light mood filled the room.

"It's been nearly a month, and I'm still living out of boxes."

"You need any help?" She laughed again.

"I need a miracle." Charlie laughed back. The microwave dinged loudly, and they both glanced at the metal appliance sitting impatiently on the floor, the LED proudly displaying "End" while the interior light flashed. The slice of pizza within smoked, the greater portion of its body charred and burnt. Charlie cleared his throat to break the silence.

"Well I was just about to step out with a friend of mine to get some Chinese."


Bronte sat at a table with Charlie and a man introduced to her as Billy Black. She tried the alliteration on her tongue, and decided she rather liked the wise man with the laugh lines sitting across from her. He had a genial manner, and a way of knowing exactly what was in your head before you even thought it. Despite being wheelchair-bound, the old Indian seemed surprisingly mobile and complacent about his lifestyle. Bronte chewed thoughtfully on shrimp fried rice and eggrolls while tuning in and out of Charlie's and Billy's conversation; they were planning their next fishing trip. Her eyes drifted to the sage wallpaper and the fish tank in the corner, the gargling of the pump filling her ears. The jolly, fat goldfish swam about inside, blissfully unaware of life outside its ten-gallon tank. Their large, dumb eyes looked unseeing into the room, calling her faintly. Bronte. Bronte…


Bronte started. "Dreadfully sorry, what was that?"

Billy's raspy voice spoke to her. "Charlie says you're having a hard time moving in."

"Oh," she said, fidgeting with the end of her napkin. "I need to buy new furniture; I sold everything with my last home."

Charlie offered to take her to Port Angeles the following weekend, so that she might peruse the furniture stores; Billy caught Bronte's eye, giving her a look that she didn't quite understand; regardless, she gratefully obliged. Billy volunteered his son, Jacob, and his friends to do any manual labor necessary.

"Isn't Jacob going to be in calculus this year, Billy?" Charlie asked.

"I believe so," Billy replied.

"He should be one of your students then, Bronte."

"Then let me apologize in advance," Billy began," for any of my son's misconduct." The table dissolved into lighthearted laughter.


Outside on the sidewalk, Charlie walked ahead down the street toward the car. Billy rolled along, keeping Bronte's pace, chatting idly. The conversation turned shortly.

"Thank you for allowing Charlie your company to Port Angeles."

Bronte's smile slipped. "I don't understand."

Billy sighed. "Charlie has been having a rough time dealing with the separation from his daughter, and the secrecy her life has entailed this past year."

"I didn't know Charlie had kids."

"Just one, but he doesn't see her as much as he'd like. He comes to visit me regularly, and on most weekends we go fishing, but Charlie needs more-" Billy stumbled over the word "-mobile friends." Bronte frowned sadly. She didn't quite know what to say. She nodded and placed a hand on his shoulder, and Billy patted it in thanks.


Jacob tossed in his small bed, grumbling and grunting; he was having trouble sleeping. His senses were in overdrive and his mind wouldn't still itself.

It was raining outside.

It was a hot, sticky rain, the kind that lifted the smells of mushrooms and tree sap from the soil and dropped the smell of pine to earth. It would be one of the last few warm rains of the year; the rusty smell of the summer rain was fading quickly, soon to be replaced by the crisp, icy smell of the winter hail.

Poor Jacob was restless. It was near one in the morning, officially the first day of school, and at first he could not fathom the reason for his insomnia. And then he realized. He had transferred from the Quilette school to the public high school of Forks... her old school. Why Jacob had thought it to be a good idea in the first place, he didn't remember; he was having second thoughts. He wasn't sure if he could make it through a day in her old school... not with her memory there, and the permeated stench of the leeches.

Poor Jacob Black, his mind said, his inner voice mimicking so many whose words of pity were lost on him. Poor broken-hearted boy, so young and foolish.

And he had been broken-hearted, for a time, while he thought he still might save her. He followed their scent for the greater portion of the summer after they left, leaving the pack and his father behind for months, consumed by his need to love her.

He now realized how foolish his endeavors had been.

She did not love him. His unrequited love, so tragically Shakespearean that it made Jacob sick to his stomach to think about it, let alone say her name.

Bella Sw- no. Bella Cullen now. His Bella did not exist anymore. She was dead.

And quite literally, to his logical mind. The sweet, happy smile and flushed cheeks that had haunted his dreams time and time again would now be a heartless grimace on a perfect, dead, porcelain face, smooth of imperfections and those little smile lines around her mouth.

He had politely declined the invitation to the wedding. Yes, it was cold, rude, and not very polite.

But polite was scarcely among the words used nowadays when describing Jacob Black.


Around 4:37 in the morning, Bronte Fischer gave up on sleep. She padded blindly through the house rubbing at her eyes, into the living room. She pulled a pan from the box marked "kitchen" and turned one of the gas burners on, warming her hands over the blue ring of fire before setting the pan atop it.

She munched on her scrambled eggs and perfectly crisped bacon while flipping through the channels on the television Charlie had fixed for her. The morning news flashed dumbly before her as she pondered Officer Charlie Swan, and Billy's suggestion to her. Bronte was completely open to being Charlie's friend, but she had a small inkling that Billy was implying more. She shook her head subconsciously; she had to be imagining things. Entertaining any romantic notion of Charlie Swan was absurd; he was a decently attractive man with a full head of hair, but he was so much older than she was. Well, not so much older, but older enough to be just a tad improper, at least ten years.

Bronte scolded herself - she was being insensitive. He was missing his only daughter, and was probably lonely for company and conversation. She thought maybe she should give him a chance. The thought lasted briefly. Charlie's grief over his Bella -while she could understand- would drain her energy levels if she didn't keep their relationship on a comfortably platonic level. She needed to make her intentions clear with Charlie before things got out of hand. She almost wanted to entertain the idea that Billy was playing some sort of sick joke on her, persuading her into having romantic feelings that Charlie -hopefully- didn't already have. In either case, she was undeniably going to make a fool of herself.

"Damnit," she cursed to no one.


The rumble could be heard from nearly a mile away. Before Jacob even pulled into the parking lot of Forks High, students stared at the entrance from inside their cars in anticipation. They looked on as he rode past the aisles of cars, parking in a side corner, next to a car he had never seen in Forks before. He killed the engine and removed his helmet, observing the car more closely. It was a Mazda 6 in a coy gunmetal grey, and the metallic paint winked salaciously in the morning sun. The black leather gleamed immaculately, and the modest spoiler sat above a Virginia license plate.

Jacob shrugged, dismounting his bike and placing the helmet on one of the handlebars, unperturbed by the thought of theft - it was Forks, after all. Walking along the cement walkway up to the school, Jacob stared straight ahead, avoiding the prodding eyes of his -now- classmates. Some were curious, some where prejudiced. His keen ears picked up comments about his hair, his height, and other physical aspects his height might suggest. An arch smirk slid unbidden to his face as he caught the eyes of the source, who giggled furiously, whispering behind her palm to her friends. He ambled down the halls, hands pocketed, looking every bit the mysterious foreigner. Jacobs stride was disrupted when he realized he had accidentally reached his first class, English.

An hour and a half later, Jacob emerged from his English class, a worn paperback copy of As I Lay Dying simmering loosely in his hand. He sat quietly in the back of all his classes, seemingly attentive but rather unenthused. By his last class, Jacob was ready to go home... that is, until he saw the woman standing in front of the desk.

Or rather, smelled her. There was a smell so rich and primal in the air, it nearly made Jacob's mouth water. It was sensual and exotic, the woman may just as well have bathed in pheromones. Until he had sat down in the back of the room, Jacob had fought the urge to close his eyes and simply inhale the aroma; he could still smell her faintly from where he sat. Yet there was an underlying scent that he caught on his thirteenth sniff. Something pungent, sickly smelling. He held it only for a moment before it was gone again, replaced by the aphrodisiacal perfume of her body.

Once he had regained control of his senses, Jacob found the time, while the rest of the students came in, to look at her. Her black skirt was modest over her deep olive legs and the swell of the rear that Jacob could easily see when she turned to the side. It appeared that someone had painted a rather green crocodile onto her shoes, but matched smartly with her green sweater, over which he could make out the round tops of her breasts. Her dark hair was up, and strays flew out from the back and around her face, tickling her cheek and nose, making her sneeze a quaint, airy sneeze.

When the last student sat down, she smiled and closed the door. She paced back to the middle of the room, beaming.

"So, what can you tell me about a derivative?"

I'd like feedback on the re-installment of my first chapter. And suggestions as to what you'd like to see happen in the story, and what you wouldn't like to see happen; I'm open to all of it. It only takes a moment or two to shape the story to your liking :)