Breaking Dawn by Stephenie Meyer

Breaking Dawn by Stephenie Meyer
BOOK ONE: BELLA
BOOK TWO: JACOB
BOOK THREE: BELLA
Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age
The child is grown, and puts away childish things.
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
PREFACE
I�d had more than my fair share of near-death experiences; it wasn�t something you ever
really got used to.
It seemed oddly inevitable, though, facing death again. Like I really was marked for
disaster. I�d escaped time and time again, but it kept coming back for me.
Still, this time was so different from the others.
You could run from someone you feared, you could try to fight someone you hated. All
my reactions were geared toward those kinds of killers�the monsters, the enemies.
When you loved the one who was killing you, it left you no options. How could you
run, how could you fight, when doing so would hurt that beloved one? If your life was
all you had to give your beloved, how could you not give it?
If it was someone you truly loved?
1. ENGAGED
No one is staring at you, I promised myself. No one is staring at you. No one is staring
at you.
But, because I couldn�t lie convincingly even to myself, I had to check.
As I sat waiting for one of the three traffic lights in town to turn green, I peeked to the
right�in her minivan, Mrs. Weber had turned her whole torso in my direction. Her eyes
bored into mine, and I flinched back, wondering why she didn�t drop her gaze or look
ashamed. It was still considered rude to stare at people, wasn�t it? Didn�t that apply to
me anymore?
Then I remembered that these windows were so darkly tinted that she probably had no
idea if it was even me in here, let alone that I�d caught her looking. I tried to take some
comfort in the fact that she wasn�t really staring at me, just the car.
My car. Sigh.
I glanced to the left and groaned. Two pedestrians were frozen on the sidewalk, missing
their chance to cross as they stared. Behind them, Mr. Marshall was gawking through
the plate-glass window of his little souvenir shop. At least he didn�t have his nose
pressed up against the glass. Yet.
The light turned green and, in my hurry to escape, I stomped on the gas pedal without
thinking�the normal way I would have punched it to get my ancient Chevy truck
moving.
Engine snarling like a hunting panther, the car jolted forward so fast that my body
slammed into the black leather seat and my stomach flattened against my spine.
�Arg!� I gasped as I fumbled for the brake. Keeping my head, I merely tapped the
pedal. The car lurched to an absolute standstill anyway.
I couldn�t bear to look around at the reaction. If there had been any doubt as to who was
driving this car before, it was gone now. With the toe of my shoe, I gently nudged the
gas pedal down one half millimeter, and the car shot forward again.
I managed to reach my goal, the gas station. If I hadn�t been running on vapors, I
wouldn�t have come into town at all. I was going without a lot of things these days, like
Pop-Tarts and shoelaces, to avoid spending time in public.
Moving as if I were in a race, I got the hatch open, the cap off, the card scanned, and the
nozzle in the tank within seconds. Of course, there was nothing I could do to make the
numbers on the gauge pick up the pace. They ticked by sluggishly, almost as if they
were doing it just to annoy me.
It wasn�t bright out�a typical drizzly day in Forks, Washington�but I still felt like a
spotlight was trained on me, drawing attention to the delicate ring on my left hand. At
times like this, sensing the eyes on my back, it felt as if the ring were pulsing like a
neon sign: Look at me, look at me.
It was stupid to be so self-conscious, and I knew that. Besides my dad and mom, did it
really matter what people were saying about my engagement? About my new car?
About my mysterious acceptance into an Ivy League college? About the shiny black
credit card that felt red-hot in my back pocket right now?
�Yeah, who cares what they think,� I muttered under my breath.
�Um, miss?� a man�s voice called.
I turned, and then wished I hadn�t.
Two men stood beside a fancy SUV with brand-new kayaks tied to the top. Neither of
them was looking at me; they both were staring at the car.
Personally, I didn�t get it. But then, I was just proud I could distinguish between the
symbols for Toyota, Ford, and Chevy. This car was glossy black, sleek, and pretty, but it
was still just a car to me.
�I�m sorry to bother you, but could you tell me what kind of car you�re driving?� the
tall one asked.
�Um, a Mercedes, right?�
�Yes,� the man said politely while his shorter friend rolled his eyes