略读， 精读实在进行不下去， 感觉词汇还是差很多，很羡慕那种能熟练几乎无障碍能读下TWILIGHT 原著的人。虽然很羡慕，可是毕竟能力不足，虽然不能放弃这本小说的阅读，只能以略读

方式进行，取得大概意思，毕竟还有翻译嘛。遇到感兴趣的，复杂的地方，时间充裕再精读。 同时，应该补充每天一篇阅读理解进行精读，效率更好些。

总想，如果英语阅读能和汉语阅读一样，能像母语一样一目十行而且吸收能力强该多好，只要努力，会朝着这个目标靠近，只是口语，还是差不少。。。苦于没有环境。
还有想什么东西都是以汉语思考，如果能以英语思考每天写日记或是感慨之类的，才会有实质性进步。
差很多，不应害羞，直面困难坚持不懈......

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 list the teacher had given me. It was fairly basic: Bronte, Shakespeare, Chaucer,

Faulkner. I'd already read everything. That was comforting… and boring. I wondered if my mom would send me my folder of old essays, or if she would think that was

cheating. I went through different arguments with her in my head while the teacher droned on. When the bell rang, a nasal buzzing sound, a gangly boy with skin

problems and hair black as an oil slick leaned across the aisle to talk to me. "You're Isabella Swan, aren't you?" He looked like the overly helpful, chess club type.

"Bella," I corrected. Everyone within a three-seat radius turned to look at me."Where's your next class?" he asked.
I had to check in my bag. "Um, Government, with Jefferson, in building six.

[@more@]

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.
I smiled tentatively. "Thanks."
We got our jackets and headed out into the rain, which had picked up. I could have sworn several people behind us were walking close enough to eavesdrop. I hoped I

wasn't getting paranoid. "So, this is a lot different than Phoenix, huh?" he asked.
"Very."
"It doesn't rain much there, does it?"
"Three or four times a year."
"Wow, what must that be like?" he wondered.
"Sunny," I told him.
"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 class. There was always someone braver than the others who would introduce themselves and ask me questions

about how I was liking Forks. I tried to be diplomatic, but mostly I just lied a lot. At least I never needed the map.
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 bronze-haired boy. 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 forgotten.
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 answer.
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 understatement.
"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 like that."
"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 was jealousy. "I think that Mrs. Cullen can't have any kids, though," she added, as if that lessened their kindness.
Throughout all this conversation, my eyes flickered again and again to the table where the strange family sat. They continued to look at the walls and not eat.
"Have they always lived in Forks?" I asked. Surely I would have noticed them on one of my summers here.
"No," she said in a voice that implied it should be obvious, even to a new arrival like me. "They just moved down two years ago from somewhere
in Alaska."
I felt a surge of pity, and relief. Pity because, as beautiful as they were, they were outsiders, clearly not accepted. Relief that I wasn't the only newcomer here,

and certainly not the most interesting by any standard.

在我绕过自助餐厅后，很容易就找到了三号楼。一个大大的黑色的“3”写在楼东角一处白色方块里。在走到门前时，我能感到我的呼吸越来越用力，快透不过气来了。我试图稳住自己的呼吸

，跟着两个穿着不分男女的雨衣的人走进大门。
　　这间教室很小。走在我前面的两个人一进门就停住了，把他们的雨衣挂在长长的一排挂钩上。我学着他们的样子做。原来那是两个女孩，一个有着瓷器般的肌肤和明亮的金发，另一个肤

色也很浅，头发是浅褐色的。至少我的肤色在这里不是那么突兀的存在了。
　　我把纸条拿给老师，那是一个高大的、有些谢顶的男人，桌上的铭牌写着他是梅森老师。当他看到我的名字时他目瞪口呆地看着我——对我来说这不是个令人鼓舞的举动——当然我立刻

满脸通红。但最终他把我领到一张空桌子旁，没让我向全班自我介绍。这样我的新同班同学们就很难从后面偷偷瞄我了，但无论如何，他们还是办到了。我埋头看老师开给我的阅读清单。都

是些很基本的内容：布朗蒂，莎士比亚，乔叟，福克纳。这些我都读过。这让人感到宽慰……也感到无聊。我思索着能不能让我母亲把我装着旧论文的文件夹给寄过来，或者说她会不会认为

这是作弊。老师讲课的时候，我在脑海里和母亲不停着作着各种争论。
　　铃声响了起来，一个嗓音尖细，身材瘦长，满脸粉刺的黑发男孩像油一样滑行冲过过道来和我说话。
　　“你是伊莎贝拉·史温，对吧？”他看上去像是过分热情的象棋俱乐部成员。
　　“贝拉，”我更正。距我半径三排以内的每一个人都转过头来看我。
　　“你下一堂课是什么？”他问道。
　　我不得不在我书包里翻找着。“嗯，政治课，杰斐逊的课，在六号楼。”
　　无论我向哪个方向看，都无法避开一双双好奇的眼睛。
　　“我要去四号楼，我可以给你带路……”显然是热情过头了。“我是埃里克。”他补充到。
　　我尝试着微笑：“谢谢。”
　　我们穿上夹克，冲进如影随行的雨幕中。我可以发誓有好几个人紧跟在我们后面，近得都能偷听到我们对话。我希望我不要变得这样多疑。
　　“嗯，这里跟凤凰城很不一样，嗯？”他问道。
　　“很不一样。”
　　“那里不常下雨，对吧？”
　　“一年三四次。”
　　“哇，那会是什么样的感觉？”他疑惑地问。
　　“阳光灿烂。”我告诉他。
　　“你看上不太黑。”
　　“我母亲是半个白化病人。”
　　他担心地审视着我的脸。我叹了口气。这里看上去乌云密布，和幽默感格格不入。几个月以后我就会忘记怎么说反讽话了。
　　我们往回走，绕过自助餐厅，走到南边体育馆旁的建筑物那里。埃里克让我直走到门口，尽管门上标得清清楚楚。
　　“好了，祝你好运，”当我摸到门把手时他说。“也许我们还会有别的课一起上。”他听上去满心期待。
　　我对他敷衍地一笑，走了进去。
　　这个上午的余下时间都在同样的模式中度过。教我三角函数的瓦尔纳老师——我本该只因为他教的科目而讨厌他——是唯一一个让我站在全班面前做自我介绍的人。我红着脸，结结巴巴

地说完，然后在回到座位的路上还绊到了我自己。
　　两堂课后，我开始认得每堂课上的一些面孔。总有一些人比别人更勇敢地过来介绍他自己，问我是否喜欢福克斯等诸如此类的问题。我试图回答得更老练些，但大多数情况下我只是在不

停地说谎。至少我用不着那张地图了。
　　有个女孩在三角函数课和西班牙语课上都坐在我旁边，午餐时间她和我一起去自助餐厅。她个子娇小，比我五英尺四英寸的身高矮几英寸，但她蓬松的黑色卷发填补了一些我们身高上的

差距。我没记住她的名字，所以当她喋喋不休地谈论着老师和课程时我只能微笑和点头。我不打算跟进她的话题。
　　我们坐在一张坐满她的朋友的长桌尽头，她向她的几个朋友介绍我。她一说完我就忘掉了他们的名字。他们看上去对她敢于和我说话这点印象深刻。那个来自英国的男孩，埃里克，从房

间的另一头向我招手。
　　就在这里，坐在餐厅里，尝试着和七个好奇的陌生人对话的时候，我第一次见到他们。
　　他们坐在自助餐厅的一角，与我坐的地方隔着长长的房间。他们五个人，既不交谈，也不吃东西，尽管他们每个人面前都摆着一盘不曾动过的食物。他们不像大多数学生那样呆呆地盯着

我看，因此盯着他们看很安全，不必担心遇上一双太过感兴趣的眼睛。但这些都不是吸引我注意力的原因。
　　他们的长相并不相似。三个男孩中的一个体格健硕——浑身的肌肉像个专业举重运动员——长着一头卷曲的黑发。另一个男孩更高些，瘦削些，但还是很健壮，头发是蜜色的。最后一个

男孩身材瘦长，更纤细些，有着慵懒凌乱的红发。他比另外两个显得更孩子气些，那两个看上去更像是大学生，或者说，更像这里的老师而不像是学生。
　　两个女孩刚好是相反的类型。高个子的女孩长得像雕像一样。她有着美丽的轮廓，就是你会在运动画报游泳版封面上看到的那种，只是和她呆在一个房间，就能让她周围的每个女孩子自

尊都深受打击的美丽。她的头发是金黄色的，轻轻地飘拂在她的后背中间。那个矮个子女孩看上去像个精灵，身材极其纤细，有着小巧精致的五官。她黝黑的头发剪得很短，向各个方向张扬

着。
　　但是，他们也有相似之处。他们都像粉笔一样苍白，比生活在这个缺乏阳光的小镇里的任何学生都要苍白。比我这个白化病人还要白。无论发色深浅，他们都有着黑色的眸子。在他们的

眼睛下都有着黑色的阴影——略带紫色的，瘀伤一样的阴影。就好像他们经历了一个无眠之夜，又或者是鼻子折断了还没好。尽管他们的鼻子，他们的五官，都既笔挺又完美，棱角分明。
　　但这都不是我无法收回视线的缘故。
　　我盯着看是因为他们的脸，如此不同而又如此相似的，近乎嘲讽的，超越常人的美丽。他们的面孔，你不会有机会在时尚杂志的彩页以外的任何地方看到这样的面孔。就像是古老的画家

所画出的天使的脸庞。很难判断谁长得最美——也许是那个完美的金发女孩，又或者是那个红发男孩。
　　他们都看着别处——没有看着彼此，也没有看着别的学生，没有看着任何我能确定他们在看的东西。在我这样看着的时候，那个小个子女孩端着盘子站起来——盘子上的苏打水没有开封

，苹果也没被咬过——用一种敏捷优雅的，只属于T型台的步子走起来。我惊异地看着她柔美的舞者般的步子，直到她把盘子倒掉，行云流水般地从后门走出去，速度超乎我想象的快。我重新

把目光投向剩下的几个人，他们仍一动不动地坐着。
　　“他们是谁？”我询问和我一起上西班牙语课，名字我忘了的女孩。
　　当她抬头看向我所指的人时——也许从我的声音里就已经听出来了——忽然，他看着她，那个最瘦的，最孩子气的，也许是最年轻的男孩。他只盯着我的邻座看了几分之一秒，然后，他

深邃的双眼对上了我的眼睛。
　　他很快收回了目光，比我还快，尽管我立刻就红着脸尴尬得垂下了眼。在那惊鸿一瞥中，他脸上没有任何感兴趣的神情。也许只是因为她说了他的名字，他本能的看了过来，但决定了不

作回应。
　　我的邻座局促不安地傻笑着，跟我一样盯着桌子看。
　　“那是爱德华和艾美特·卡伦兄弟，还有罗莎莉和贾斯帕·黑尔姐弟。走了的那个是爱丽丝·卡伦，他们都和卡伦医生夫妇住在一起。”她低声说道。
　　我从一旁瞥了一眼那个俊美的男孩，他现在盯着自己的盘子看，用纤长苍白的手指拿起一个面包圈撕成一片片。他的嘴动得很快，他漂亮的嘴唇只是微微张开。其余三个依然看着别处，

但我可以感觉到他是在小声跟他们说话。
　　奇怪的，复古的名字，我这样想着。这样的名字是祖父母辈才用的名字。但也许在这里很时髦？——小镇里的名字？我最终想起来坐我旁边的女孩叫杰西卡，一个相当普通的名字。在我

家那边我的历史课上就有两个叫杰西卡的女生。
　　“他们……很好看。”我努力但又太过明显地掩饰着。
　　“没错！”杰西卡表示赞成，又是一阵傻笑。“但他们都成双成对——我是指，艾美特和罗莎莉，贾斯帕和爱丽丝。而且他们都住在一起！”她的声音里包含了这个小镇对此的震惊和责

难，我下了如此判断。但是，如果我足够坦白，我也不得不承认即使是在凤凰城，这也会招来流言蜚语的。
　　“哪几个是卡伦家的孩子？”我问道。“他们看上去没有血缘关系……”
　　“噢，他们都不是。卡伦医生很年轻，只有二十多岁，顶多三十岁出头。他们都是被收养的。黑尔姐弟是双胞胎——那两个金发的——他们是被领养的孩子。”
　　“作为被收养的孩子他们的年纪有些偏大。”
　　“他们现在是，贾斯帕和罗莎莉都是十八岁，但他们和卡伦太太一起生活时才八岁。她是他们的姑姑或是别的什么亲戚。”
　　“他们真的很善良——他们照顾了这么多这个年纪的孩子，他们才这样年轻。”
　　“我想也是。”杰西卡不情愿地承认，而我产生了这样的印象，她似乎因为某种原因不太喜欢那位医生和他太太。鉴于她向那些被领养的孩子投去的眼神，我可以推测出，一切源于嫉妒

。“但是，我想卡伦太太不能生孩子。”她补充道，似乎这样会削弱他们的善行。
　　在整个谈话过程中，我的目光一次又一次地投向那古怪的一家人所坐的桌子。他们继续看着墙，什么也不吃。
　　“他们一直住在福克斯吗？”我问。确实是这样的话，在我呆在这里的某个夏天我就该注意到他们了。
　　“不，”她说话的腔调像在暗示着这是显而易见的事实，即使是对像我这样初来乍到的人来说。“他们两年前才从阿拉斯加搬过来。”
　　我感到一阵怜悯涌上心头，还有宽慰。怜悯是因为，尽管他们如此美丽，他们仍然是局外人，显然不被接纳。宽慰是因为我不是这里唯一的新来者，无论以任何标准评判也绝不是最引人

注目的。

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