Something of a Kind - By Miranda Wheeler Page 0,3

dance,” she accused, shaking off a startled freeze as she twirled across the restaurant.

“Not true,” he defended. “Remember when I had to spend an entire year of gym partnered to Caitlyn Mariano for ballroom?”

“Ew!” She sniggered, wrinkling her nose and blinking, as though the sight could be forced away.

“I did a show for Tribe last summer, too.” Noah reminded, flexing his arms into sunbird formation, which he had always thought looked more like a bad rendition of ‘Walk Like An Egyptian’.

“Until the monsters chased away the crow,” she teased, dumping mop water into the barrel sink.

“That might’ve been me,” he kidded, remembering the elders’ erratic behavior. It was caused by their paralyzing fear of the beast of the woods. They had warned the people of Gigit and Omah, escorting every womanto their homes and canceling the day’s events.

Her snorting giggles fell flat, replaced by an angry flush beneath her cheeks.

Bells clanged as John shoved through the front doors, leaving a trail of mud over the scrubbed floors. The stains followed his boots to his thighs, a blaring sign he had already been at the decks this morning.

Of Noah’s four older brothers, John was the most unpleasant. He had adopted Mark’s ridiculous use of man-braids and AbrahamLincolnstyle facial hair, Isaac’s moping sulk, and Andrew’s miserable disposition. Combined with a doublewide fisherman’s build and an antagonistic sneer, he had a naturally aggressive presence.

“You been running around in the rain?” John jerked his head forward, as though Noah’s damp hair was personally offensive.

“It’s four in the morning. I just showered.” Noah replied robotically, refusing to alter his passive tone.

“Thought you blew it with the girls.”

“You tracked all this crap in – allover the floors. The sign’s up, I clearly justmopped.” Her teeth clenched.

“Clearly!” John hollered, lip curling. His chest inflated as he raised his chin, crossing his arms. Meaty hands balled into fists as he stuffed them into his elbows.

“Wow, two syllables,” Sarah snapped, her shoulders heaving with a deep breath. Rolling teary eyes, she spun on her ankle and returned to the sink, unearthing piles of supplies from the cabinets below.

“So how’s that blatant disrespect for human beings been working for you? You know, I hear harassing fifteen year old girls looks really great on college applications. Not that you’ll ever see one, of course,” Noah seethed.

The fact John had intentionally gotten a reaction from Sarah was infuriating, and Noah felt the anger swelling in his chest. His knuckles were pulled white, heat flashed across the back of his neck.

John’s jaw set as he reached across the counter. Nearly knocking napkin holders to the floor, he slapped a sugar jar across the drying surface. As though the explosion of white wasn't enough damage, he flicked the crystals in various directions.

"What the hell, John!" Noah yelled, dropping the cloth and throwing up his hands in frustration.

"Watch your mouth, punk." "Punk? You're kidding. You do realize you are the world's most stereotypical bully, right? You are literally a goon. Nineteen seventies mafia, right there."

"Shut your mouth!"

"Me? You're an idiot, no, seriously, you are. Lee’s wallet earns every pound of sugar in this damn place. You’re just biting the hand that feeds you. Chomp freaking chomp. Just wait.”

"Noah," Sarah warned.

"Are you threatening me, little boy? You talk about your father like he’s trash on the street.”

"He's not the one I have a problem with."

"Gut it out," Lee growled as the kitchen doors flew open. "Outside, like men. Go 'head. Gut it."

"Not interested," Noah muttered. Even though the kitchen’s CD track had slowed to a stop, his voice was barely audible as he struggled to control his tone.

The sun hadn't risen, the work day barely started, and his father had already begun drinking. Stains of morning coffee and ketchup from the abuse of a scrambled omelet coated his plaid shirt. The close stretching between buttons over the bulge of his belly left Lee looking ten years too pregnant. Propped in the kitchen’s entrance, his cheap bolo tie reflected the metal panels of the double doors as one swung in his wake, the other propped by his arthritic hip.

Behind small, rimless glasses, Lee’s eyes were both flashing and unfocused. It was almost worse when he was both angry and inattentive. Quiet apologies could be misheard as brooding insults blaming everyone else’s failure to communicate, while explanations were taken for smart-mouths or back-talk. It was typically better to cower in silence and wait for Lee’s slurred dismissal.

“What’d you say?” his father demanded.

“I didn’t.”

“No, no, he’s been running his