Something of a Kind

chapter 4 | NOAH

“Your dad lives on the outskirts, right? On Thorne Ave’?” Noah clarified, setting a steaming plate on the table behind Alyson Glass.

The booth fit the curve of her back, her long brunette waves tucked between them.

“Yeah, on the edge of that bustling metropolis you’ve all got here,” she teased, flashing perfect teeth.

Noah smiled to himself, blinking as she raised her gaze. She sparkled with laughter.

“Right, right. Are you headed back up there today?”

“I doubt it. Maybe to change or put groceries away or something. Greg made me sell my car before we moved, so he’s my ride.” Her blue eyes flickered as she spoke.

He had never met someone who seemed so incredibly controlled and totally relaxed at the same time. Ashland locals were one-sizedfits all. There were archetypal alcoholics and unnecessary gossips – most people were both. Everybody knew everybody: their names, their parents, closet skeletons, monumental failures, awkward phases and all. It rarely got more exciting than a death or a drama queen.

New identities belonged to fleeting tourists – mostly families in their own worlds and venturing elderly or the occasional wildlife photographer, always ‘just passing through’.

The ships in the night.

The researchers were interesting enough, but they were ghosts. He’d met exactly four, and of those only recalled Glass, Smith, and Walker. They dressed like hikers and introduced themselves as doctor-this or professor-that. They had assorted accents but barely spoke. They ate too fast and tipped poorly. It was the end of the story.

Demanding regulars desperate for scandal had pried it out several times, voicing their distorted interpretations, but the vagueness lead to rumors and eventual lack of interest. The mysterious strangers were the concern of the elders and under the eye of the fish, game, and wildlife warden.

It’s not like they ever stick around, anyway.

Though the doctor had bolted half an hour ago, Alyson still sat before a slowly eroding breakfast. She seemed irritated in the moment. Her father sketched an address onto her napkin under her direct request, dropped cash on the table, and moved through the doors so fast they swung with the net force. She was good natured about it, but Greg was clearly a jerk. Noah knew he got under Lee’s skin often enough, too.

I look at this girl, and I have no idea who I’m taking to.

It was fascinating.

“Ouch. I can text you when I get off around two and we can carpool,” he continued, sliding the phone from his back pocket.

Rising from her seat with grace, Aly revealed soft curves, delicate features, and a lithe frame, quite unlike the rugged and weather-worn women of Ashland. She pulled her hair behind an ear, the deep brown a dramatic contrast to her skin. A wave of lavender and vanilla hit him as they swapped. Relieved to see she didn’t have any difficulty with his ancient prepaid cell, he glanced at the flashing screen.

Her background was a photograph of herself and an older woman who looked uncannily similar. Long hair, pale skin, pretty eyes, happy smile, dressy shirts. The other woman wore the same silver necklace, a set of overlapping charms unevenly twisted beside a freckle on the woman’s exposed shoulder. In the photograph, it looked like leaves. As Noah glanced at the same chain hung loosely between Aly’s collarbones, he could distinguish a pair of wings.

Parting gift?

“Is this your mom?” he asked, twisting his wrist.

Aly smiled, but he could tell it made her sad. Peering at the screen, she squinted like there was a glare. He stifled a groan.

Like she doesn’t know what her own phone looks like.

“Yes, that’s my mother.”

“You miss her,” he said carefully, noting her reaction. “Did she stay in New York?”

Her eyes watered, just for a second, as she swallowed, nodded, smiled. Her gaze darted away from him, at the phone in her hands, at the ceiling, towards the patrons. She wrought her hands. It was like she was gathering courage or looking for words.

Something.

Before he could dismiss the question, Aly winced. “She passed away six months ago. Cancer.” She forced a hallow laugh, clearing her voice. Gently waving towards the window like a gesture to all of Ashland, she added, “That’s why I’m here. In Alaska, with him.”

I’ve been talking to this girl for all of two hours and I already pulled cancer out of her. What the hell’s wrong with me?

His fingers flinched around the phone, unsure what to do with his hands. If it was his sister, he’d offer a comforting embrace and some easy words. They would sound cliché and wise but she’d laugh and it would make everything better. But this was Alyson Glass, some weird and amazing girl he’d just met. A girl he was totally unprepared for.

Cancer.

“I am so sorry. I honestly didn’t know,” Noah apologized, uncertain how to respond. Everyone knew everything in Ashland, but no one heard about Doctor Gregory Glass’s dead wife or ex- girlfriend or whatever Aly’s mom was. No one had heard about his daughter showing up. An unexpected visit was understandable, but it was remarkable that a total move went undetected.

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.