"Ladies first, partner?" Edward asked. I looked up to see him smiling acrooked smile so beautiful that I could only stare at him like an idiot. 　　"Or I could start, if you wish." The smile faded; he was obviouslywondering if I was mentally competent. 　　"No," I said, flushing. "I'll go ahead."I was showing off, just a little. I'd already done this lab, and I knewwhat I was looking for. It should be easy. I snapped the first slide intoplace under the microscope and adjusted it quickly to the 40X objective. 　　I studied the slide briefly. 　　My assessment was confident. "Prophase.""Do you mind if I look?" he asked as I began to remove the slide. Hishand caught mine, to stop me, as he asked. His fingers were ice-cold,like he'd been holding them in a snowdrift before class. But that wasn'twhy I jerked my hand away so quickly. When he touched me, it stung myhand as if an electric current had passed through us. 　　"I'm sorry," he muttered, pulling his hand back immediately. However, hecontinued to reach for the microscope. I watched him, still staggered, ashe examined the slide for an even shorter time than I had. 　　"Prophase," he agreed, writing it neatly in the first space on ourworksheet. He swiftly switched out the first slide for the second, andthen glanced at it cursorily. 　　"Anaphase," he murmured, writing it down as he spoke. 　　I kept my voice indifferent. "May I?"He smirked and pushed the microscope to me. 　　I looked through the eyepiece eagerly, only to be disappointed. Dang it,he was right. 　　"Slide three?" I held out my hand without looking at him. 　　He handed it to me; it seemed like he was being careful not to touch myskin again. 　　I took the most fleeting look I could manage. 　　"Interphase." I passed him the microscope before he could ask for it. Hetook a swift peek, and then wrote it down. I would have written it whilehe looked, but his clear, elegant script intimidated me. I didn't want tospoil the page with my clumsy scrawl. 　　We were finished before anyone else was close. I could see Mike and hispartner comparing two slides again and again, and another group had theirbook open under the table. 　　Which left me with nothing to do but try to not look at him…unsuccessfully. I glanced up, and he was staring at me, that sameinexplicable look of frustration in his eyes. Suddenly I identified thatsubtle difference in his face. 　　"Did you get contacts?" I blurted out unthinkingly. 　　He seemed puzzled by my unexpected question. "No.""Oh," I mumbled. "I thought there was something different about youreyes."He shrugged, and looked away. 　　In fact, I was sure there was something different. I vividly remembered the flat black color of his eyes the last time he'd glared at me — thecolor was striking against the background of his pale skin and his auburnhair. Today, his eyes were a completely different color: a strange ocher,darker than butterscotch, but with the same golden tone. I didn'tunderstand how that could be, unless he was lying for some reason aboutthe contacts. Or maybe Forks was making me crazy in the literal sense ofthe word. 　　I looked down. His hands were clenched into hard fists again.