Something Of A Kind (5 page)

If her mom’s dead, does that mean she lives here now?

“Of course.” She shook her head, hair falling over her shoulders.
“I didn’t mean to be so... It’s… it’s really okay. Um, here’s your
phone.”

He dropped his number into he
r contacts, thankful it didn’t
require much figuring out. Luke had a similar model he paraded
around enough to figure out the basics. Noah and Aly traded again.
He resisted the urge to see what she had written.

“I better get going.” Smiling, she glanced over his shoulder. He
turned, suddenly aware of the demanding calls of a regular.

Rita
Kelley
waved
an
arm wildly,
her expression twisted
somewhere in irritation and glee. Her craggy features were always
like that, predictable. At her side, Charlie Mitchel hung his head in
his hands. His crusty
eyes were
closed
and
he
had
a
messy
handlebar-goatee explosion covering his mouth.

Rolland Hunt, Owen’s dad, sat across from them. With arms
crossed over his chest, his legs stretched out too tall for the seat.
With his greasy hair disheveled most of the way down his back,
there were sure-fire signs he was hung over. His signature hatchetfaced scowl looked as miserable as ever.

This morning, Noah had luckily knocked on Luke’s window
before trying the Young household. Owen had spent the night. Noah
distinctly remembered his friend describing a
swollen wrist
as
‘trouble in paradise’ with a grim snicker.
“Cool. I’ll see you soon then,” he said with a grin.

She smiled and rested a hand on his arm as she moved past,
leaving an impression of heat though his shirt and brushing his skin.
Watching her as she left, he ignored the costumers watching him.
Collecting plates, he shoved the doctor’s cash into his pocket with a
handwritten receipt.

“Alyson Glass,” he murmured, catching a glimpse as she passed
the last window.

 

It didn’t sound so wrong.
Not wrong at all.
~
“What?” Noah demanded.

He felt his sister’s stare the moment she walked into her shift.
He expected to find her blurry eyed and half-asleep, but instead she
seemed bored and alert. It wasn’t difficult to assume her tardiness
was intentional. Mary-Agnes was down five cups of black coffee
and had the kitchen radio blasting on an oldies-country-western
station fogged with snow from the waves, slightly out of range. He
couldn’t imagine his mother had noticed.

“Nothing.” Sarah shrugged, raising the tray over the counter as
she darted around Melvin Toledo.

He was hunched over cold home fries and a Belgian waffle with
silver plastic pressed to his ear, probably muttering on the phone to
his infamous on-again-off-again, Nolee Crawford.

Noah turned back to his notepad. Reggie and Kendra Hudson
continued to argue about the menu they’d seen a thousand times.
Feeling her eyes on his back again, he turned around, catching Sarah
wiggling her eyebrows, her tongue pointed out of her mouth in his
direction. As their eyes met, she turned to a booth, sharing giggles
with Frankie Miller. Upon getting caught, the five-yearold’s face
clouded with a deep blush, his fingers slapping over his ketchupcovered mouth.

“Hel
-lo. Earth to Sarah,” Noah repeated, waving a hand. She
straightened her back
and turned around, cocking
her head
innocently. “What are you doing?”

“What are
youdoing?” she echoed, winking at Frankie. She
dropped a quarter onto a drawing he was completing on the mat
beneath a half-eaten chicken burger. It appeared that the child was
working a circle of airplanes around the greasy meat and spills of
what was probably drying orange soda. As he ran towards the
ancient neon vending machines, Sarah called after him, “The
gumballs are broken, Frank’, I’d go with the plastic bubbles. This
month is mood rings.”

Noah quirked his brow expectantly, waiting for explanation. She
closed the yards between them with skips, tugging on her hair tie.
Her sleeve fell down, revealing the stains of purple markers where
she’d been tracing her veins. Noah rolled his eyes, resisting the urge
to drop comments about ink poisoning and urban legends. It usually
ended in an argument about hypocrisy and the tattoo of a tribal-style
serpent curling around his wrist.

Leaning on the nearest
empty table, she crossed her arms,
casually inquiring, “So who’s the new girl?”

 

“Are you serious?” Noah groaned, running a hand through his
hair.

Sarah shrugged, her fingers curling into her palm, motioning
‘bring it on’ like it beckoned a reply. “The researcher’s kid, right?”
She continued. “Is she from out of town, or something?”

Sighing in surrender, he answered, “Yeah. New York. ”

“Dad wouldn’t like you hanging around with her, then,” she
cautioned, the beam of
her small
victory
faltering
in genuine
concern.

He dismissed the thought.

 

“It’s no business of his,” Noah laughed, finally abandoning the
ever-arguing Hudsons to clear fresh tables.

 

“Touché.” She allowed her perplexed stare a grueling search.
"You like her, don't you?"

 

"I like everyone, Sar. I'm wonderful like that."

 

"But you really like her." Sarah prodded.

 

Noah paused. "Yeah, I guess," he admitted quietly, resuming the
collection of dishes.

"I hadn't seen you since this morning." Her tone changed, her
voice embodying something vulnerable, like she peeled back a layer
of skin.

"Yeah. I'm really sorry about that. Fall-outs aren't my style."

"Then what is?" she demanded, spinning to face him. "Why did
you talk to John like that? You know. You know how he is. If Dad
wasn't home, he would've hit you, and then Dad hit you anyway."

"I know." Sighing, he searched for an explanation. How could
she possibly understand the impulse to let go and scream? To tell the
jerk he saw right through him? To kick, to fight, to insist and hell
yeah, give it right back.

Of course she does. We endure. We survive. It’s what we do. It’s
who we are.

 

"I just hate them sometimes," he confessed. "I felt like saying so.
I didn't mean it. I shouldn't have. Not, like, in front of you."

"We're going to get away some day, No’. I swear. Your music,
my college, something. But we have to do it together. We can't leave
if he kills you, though."

"Wouldn't it be nice if we could kill them first?" he mused.

 

"If the world worked that way," she murmured, then snorted.
"Your thoughts are so evil. It's lovely."

 

"Lovely and evil, huh?"

"'I just can't afford to think that way,'" she quoted, resting her
tray on a booth, leaning against the table. She pressed two fingers to
her lips, and outstretched her arm to the nonexistent hidden cameras.

"Is that a Hunger Games reference?" he laughed.

 

"Obviously," she scoffed, miming an archer's stance. "Katniss
Everdeen. The girl on fire."

 

"Oh, you're on fire, Sar. Always on fire." His voice trailed off as
he dropped the hoard of dishes in the sink.

 

"Really?" she asked.
Her voice sounded suddenly small, as
though he hit a nerve that needed encouragement.

 

"Really."

"Profound." She smirked, unable to mask a smile. Her head
twisted to the side, and he followed her gaze. A pair of converse
danced out of view, reappearing attached to distressed jeans. A flash
of wavy brown hair brought a grin to his face. Sarah squealed,
pointing towards the shifting shadow of Aly's silhouette. "It's your
girlfriend, Noah. Should I queue the doves or just cover your
tables?"

Aly's head popped into the window's view, the rest of her hidden
behind the door. Her hand was curved, shading her forehead from
the sun, like a solute, as she peered into the restaurant.

"She's not my girlfriend, Sar," he said, guiltily recalling the
promise to meet her outside.

 

"Yet," Sarah corrected, lifting the tray from his arms and sliding
into the kitchen.

“Aly’s just a friend, Sarah.” His hands fumbl
ed to release the
apron from his waist, dropping in on the counter as he moved to the
door.

Not wrong at all.

 

CHAPTER 5 | ALYSON

Before Aly could climb in, Noah fumbled to gather stacks of
notebooks and CDs from the seat. He had twisted beneath the
seatbelt, the hem of his shirt rising above his navel, in a rushed
attempt to stack the collection in the back.

His body was angled towards her as he lingered in thought, a
ready opening for an offhand comment. She had smiled at his easy
manner, his half-sided smirk feeling more silly than mocking, as
though she was always in on the joke. He briefly mentioned his
friends and that he bought the vehicle off a family friend. They
didn’t speak much, but the silence was comfortable. A quick ride to
the trails was relaxed, a far cry from the rigid isolation as her
father’s passenger.

She observed the clouded mist roll across the horizon. The
weather shifted quickly, as though the atmosphere was rolling with
the winds. Moments ago the sun was bright and shining, a piercing
light between the trees and around a corner. The skies opened. A
heavy fog shifted in, clouds clasping like puzzle pieces, the misting
rain an impenetrable dome.

Aly slipped into the hoodie folded over her arm. Tucking cold
fingers into her elbows, she crossed her ankles, as though to cover
the porcelain skin exposed
by
her Chucks. Observing
her
discomfort, Noah traded the air conditioning for a defrost setting.

As the windows cleared and the rain stopped, the towed ATV
trailer shuttered in the rearview mirror. Her gaze followed the stretch
of road disappearing behind them until they slowed into an arriving
turn. As Noah blew
past the state
park ticket booth without
hesitation, she raised her eyebrows.

With a reassuring smile he said simply, “Off-season’s free.”

The engine whirred to a stop as they backed across shaded
parking spots and hugged a faded curb. She held her breath, as
though it would quicken in the sudden silence.

Noah was a constant presence at her side. It was a struggle not to
focus on the closeness. He had a tangible energy, his smallest
motion an outburst. She held her eyes on the dashboard, her gaze
eventually flitting to the side-view mirror and its belated warning.

Objects are closer than they appear.

Her eyebrows flew upward. Noah had briefly mentioned Lucas
Young and Owen Hunt. She had expected curious personalities
when he offered descriptions, one lanky, the other stout. Surnames
were spoken as though they were slang rather than titles and ties.
His friends were both native teens, fellow to-be seniors, and he
murmured warnings of their infamous quirks. It was clear the
afterthought was a raging understatement.

One was tall but solid. Wrinkly bright red, athletic-styled shorts
and a baggy sweatshirt rolled to his elbows added to his width,
amplifying the mass of muscled calves and thick forearms. The
other was significantly smaller. His oversized white tee shirt was
covered in umber fingerprints and dirt. Both curly haired, the similar
cut seemed to lean to opposite sides, managing to appear wildly
different on each of them. They were naturally tanned darker than
Noah, like chestnuts. Still, they carried his posture, upright but
relaxed, and shared familiar lopsided grins.

The shorter boy had the hem of his shirt lifted to his sternum, his
stomach forced forward as he ran circles around the other, lost in
hysterics.

She suppressed the instinct to fear and question substance abuse.
Raising a hand to her lips, she covered a giggle. After deciding she
seemed relatively unaffected,Noah’s expression of concern passed,
giving way to a burst of laughter. He twisted the keys from the
ignition, killing the base pounding through the speakers.

Unbuckling, their knuckles brushed. She blushed beneath his
gaze. Pressing down to release a click, she cracked the door, swung
her legs over the pavement, and slid from her seat. He parted from
his own and they closed the cab with a mutual clap.

Aly took comfort in his effortless movements, watching as he
retracted chains and climbed around the quads.

 

“Hey Locklear!”

 

“Who might this be?”

 

Aly took a deep breath, attempting to relax the heat from her
cheeks. She bit her lip, glancing through her hair.

Noah twisted to face them, leaning against the hand grips. “This
is Owen Hunt. That’s Luke Young. This is Alyson Glass.” He
pointed out the taller boy, followed by the other, before motioning
towards her.

Her smile and loose wave were met with a one-armed hug and a
high-five that somehow transformed into a recoiling explosion from
Luke. Owen offered a gloved palm and a wink, his fingers locking
with hers rather than shaking her hand, a gentle fist knocking her
knuckles before she was able to pull away.

Seems fitting. At least they’re fully clothed, now.

 

“Better hold on real’ tight, girly,” Luke suggested, wiggling his
brow.

 

“Don’t let Noah go and kill you, now,” Owen hollered, sprinting
backwards before turning to complete a run.

 

“I assure you,” Noah grinned, a glimmer of light bouncing off
his eyes, “I will not get you killed.”

 

“I believe you,” Aly smiled, hugging herself, arms tucked at her
sides. Hesitantly, she asked, “They knew I was coming, right?”