One

Kian Jones 

"Now, does everybody understand?" our fifth-grade teacher, Miss Halloway, asked, searching among the class.

"Yes, miss," we all answered in unison, mumbling in an unenthusiastic drawl.

She cupped her hand around her ear, displeased by our response. "I'm sorry, what was that? Repeat it so I know you've learned something."

There was huffing and groaning from the class, but I remained silent. My teacher's eyes were on me the whole time, and I was embarrassed about that.

"Tell an appropriate adult if someone approaches you with drugs," we all muttered out of sync.

Her green eyes held my gaze a moment longer, and I noticed an element of concern lingering within them. The home bell startled her, giving me the chance to scamper away.

I snatched up the tatty satchel that my next-door neighbor, Mrs. Banks, gave to me last year. It used to belong to her son, Charlie, when he went to school fifty-seven years ago. She was like a grandmother to me and always made sure I had at least one decent meal every day.

I barely made it past my desk when I heard Miss Halloway's voice calling me back. "Kian Jones, could you stay behind for a minute, please?"

My heart plummeted into my stomach, playing havoc with my anxiety. "Yes, miss," I replied timidly as I clutched the worn satchel strap.

She waited until all the other kids had left before perching on the edge of her desk. All the homework papers had been placed on top of one another in a messy pile. All except for mine. This was the second week in a row that I had failed to complete the assignment.

"Where's your homework?" she asked, even though I could tell that she had already second-guessed my answer.

My excuse lodged in my throat, strangling my voice. "I left it at home, miss," I lied, hating how sour it tasted in my mouth.

What else could I do? I couldn't tell her that I spent most nights cleaning up after my mom. How I struggled to drag her to her room after she passed out cold on the bathroom floor, high as a cloud on heroin. How was I supposed to explain I had to clean her up after she threw up all over herself and almost choked on her own vomit, or how she had pissed herself at the same time?

Miss Halloway sighed, moved her long, brown hair over one shoulder, then folded her arms across her chest.

"Is everything all right at home, Kian?" Her voice was drenched with concern, and I hated it.

I hated it because she was right. I hated it because when she asked me that question, the truth scraped against the bone, and I was scared. Fear clenched my lungs, crushing them tight. She can't know. No one could know.

"Yes, miss," I replied, my own voice trembling at this point.

Tears threatened to swell in my eyes. I could already feel them starting to burn, then distort . . . damn, too late, it was happening.

"Hey, it's all right." She edged forward and brushed her hand against my shoulder, attempting to comfort me.

My breath skipped in my throat as I snatched in a gasp of air.

"You can talk to me; I'm worried about you," she said, bunching her brows.

I sniffed, wiping my snotty nose on my sleeve. My clothes were dirty, having worn them all week. Mrs. Banks let me bring my laundry around to her house on weekends. Our washing machine had given up the ghost months ago. Dad had promised to fix it but never got around to doing it. Then again, he was never around in general.

"It's just . . ." I hesitated, finally blinking away the moisture to meet her gaze.

"Go on," she encouraged, prompting me in her gentle tone.

Why couldn't Mom be more like her?

Spooked from almost admitting what was happening out loud, I ran from the classroom, grimacing with tears. I made it across the schoolyard, running for a farther two blocks before breaking down beside the park gates.

The gilded iron creaked as I pushed it open, and then I slipped through, taking the shortcut home. My ragged sneakers nudged the leaves that covered the footpath in shades of red, brown, and orange. Autumn was on its way, and it brought a brisk, chilly breeze. I shuddered, feeling the cold raise my hackles. Usually, shifters could brave the elements, unaffected by the weather . . . but not me. I was malnourished and exhausted thanks to my worry-plagued thoughts.

I tensed at the sight of Dad's ranger Jeep turning the corner of our street. I raced it home, unable to stop the sickening dread from consuming me. If he walked in on Mom shooting up a hit, the shit would hit the fan. Handling my drugged-up mother was one thing, but calming down my alcoholic father was another, especially if Mom had spent all our money on drugs. On more than one occasion, he came home to a trashed house. If Mom accumulated debt, then the dealers would take whatever valuables we had.

Part of me didn't blame my dad for turning to drink, and then again, part of me did. If only he was as strong-willed as he was physical, then he could beat whatever demons haunted him. Then he could find the strength to help Mom. But instead, they would rather destroy one another. I hated being caught in the crossfire, but I was unable to choose between them. If I were strong enough, I would walk away and never look back.

How far would I get on my own at ten years old, and where would I go?

I arrived home in a thundering of footsteps, my chest heaving for air. It was too late; I could already hear them screaming. The sound of shattering glass made me flinch, and I paused at the edge of the yard, knowing the chaos that awaited me.

"Kian, honey." Mrs. Banks beckoned me to come next door. "Why don’t you sit with me for a while?"

Betty Banks stood inside the open doorway of her rundown shack. The flyscreen rattled against the wall, knocking chunks off the peeling woodwork. Our side of town wasn't pretty, but those of us here made the best of what little we had.

Mrs. Banks wrapped the oversized knitted cardigan around her frail body, and then stood aside in her slippers. She wore the same ankle-length skirts and baggy blouses she always wore.

I glanced at the house and swallowed hard. The perspiration that coated my skin turned cold rather quickly. I had two options: to venture inside the mouth of Hell or seek sanctuary with my kind-hearted savior. It really was a no-brainer.

"Thank you," I replied gratefully.

She ushered me inside and into the warmth of her sitting room. Flames danced in the stone fireplace, the heat licking my skin as I took a seat. The floral couch nearly swallowed me whole, swaddling me like a soft, comforting hug. Betty handed me a steaming mug of cocoa, and my fingers trembled as I reached out to take it.

"This should do the trick," she muttered as she shuffled to the single armchair. It was green and had a firm seat cushion and a tall back for posture support. She covered the threadbare armrests with crocheted wool and placed matching pieces beneath the house plants on the windowsill. "Get it down you, son, you look as if you've had one heck of a day," she urged.

I blew the dark liquid before taking a sip. The intense temperature scorched my upper lip, but I didn't so much as flinch. Instead, I savored the bitter, velvety taste like I did whenever I was given such luxury. Times like these were rare. Folks around here barely had a pot to piss in.

"Well? A problem shared is a problem halved," she said, observing my reaction with worldly wise eyes.

It was easier to open up to her. Here in her cozy little sitting room, along with the decades-old furniture that had lived through the best of their days, I felt somewhat safe. I knew that Mrs. Banks would rather let me sleep here on her patched-up couch than call the authorities. Forest Hills had its own way of handling wayward shifters, and I didn't want my parents to face clan justice or end up exiled. Nor did I want to be dragged off to the kids' home down in the neighboring town of Lakewell.

Whitehaven was a state exclusive to shifters and the occasional human mate, but where children were concerned, we had a similar system as the humans. I just didn't want to wind up stuck in it. I'd be eighteen by the time I could walk out of my own accord, and who would take care of Mom in the meantime? Dad? Nah, somehow, I doubted it.