Something of a Kind - By Miranda Wheeler Page 0,4

mouth,” John answered.

“You ruined food,” Noah refuted.

Noah saw the lazy slap coming before it connected with his skull. He resisted a flinch, unable to prevent a stiffening reflex.

It’s worse when they miss.

The contact throbbed, pulsating in the wake of his father’s hand. Noah moved with the blow, lessening the collision.

The stronger the barrier, the harder the impact.

He refused to bounce back into place for the second assault, waiting for Lee to slow his hiccupping breaths. His father stood too close, reeking of alcohol. The fleshy skin of his bloated stomach protruded beside where Noah rigidly cradled his head.

“Watch the mouth,” Lee snapped. “I decide who eats.”

Anger rose in his chest. The temptation to scream burned. There were a thousand ways to retaliate. It would be easy to shove his father through the slamming doors.

Noah lifted hundreds of pounds of fish, dozens upon dozens of frozen trays of pre- and post-jerky meats, and unloaded trucks weekly. He worked the docks when too many of Lee’s staff were sick or out and being a part of small crew lifting several-thousandpound nets brimming with the convulsing strength of pure Alaskan salmon from vegetation-choked waters certainly wasn’t busywork.

Lee had aged beyond help, adding more and more workers in the path of his uselessness. If the area wasn’t so desperate for employment, his underpaid and understaffed business would have fallen through the rotting wood years ago. He would have, and be, nothing.

It was predictable that his brother, John, would join his father if a conflict ever emerged, but not him. He wasn’t like them. Noah hated fighting. He hated cruelty. He hated the lack of control, the instinct, the consequences, the hostility. It would to stay alien in his life. Like alcohol, it would be one more thing from his past he would leave behind. Something he would refuse to pass on. Something forbidden in a farsighted haven.

He could run. At eighteen, he was legally able to drop out of high school. Last year, unpredictable work hours made it impossible to add in enough electives to meet the prerequisites for early graduation. Senior year was approaching fast, but impressive SAT scores were enough hope for an aced GED. He’d bet his truck could handle an extensive commute, and his minimal savings were enough for the ferry to Seattle, a few hotels, some food, and another prepaid phone card. There were jobs somewhere, and he had experience all over Ashland. Townie Tony Gabriel would offer help, even if hesitantly.

But that was no life, and certainly not one he could make for Sarah. His sister told him his music would get them out of Ashland, but without an education he knew the craft was a joke. Playing on a random park bench sounded homeless and hungry. Even in the biggest city, he’d manage a rundown flat and starving-artist level at best. If he was ever caught, he’d lose wages for the mandatory work until graduation, with a few bruises to show for it.

The thought of his sister defenseless was sickening. Noah was well aware he was a strong reason Yazzie’s was still afloat. It seemed like his mother cared less and less about managing her diabetes each day and her self-monitoring had become downright suicidal. She offered a big-bosomed hug type of affection, but between alcohol abuse and extreme junk intake, he knew his time with Mary-Agnes was limited.

Mark dreamed of moving to Ketchikan and working with woodcarvers, considering himself a craftsman before fisherman. Andrew was engaged. Isaac was on the verge of impulsively ditching town. John had always been a mess. Lee had suffered rehabilitation through two heart-attacks. Each was a shocking recovery considering the remoteness of the town. Noah had fearfully heard three was the charm. Sometimes he even wished for it.

The school year was a mere 180 days, the summer barely three months. His life in Ashland was unstable and his future was unidentified, but it was all he had. Change tainted the air, an unknowing variable haunting every plan and every thought. It was bitter and impossible to dismiss, like the commercial taste of waxen oranges.

He was convinced things were in motion, or at least in the calm before the storm. His situation was hackneyed and trite, but he swore it could get better in an instant.

What’s one more day?

As Noah coaxed himself into composure, he kept his gaze averted. Lee and John murmured back and forth, trading excuses and meaningless, half-hearted scolding. He kept his breathing level and his head turned away