Coastline | ✎

prologue, pt. i

A small town in Miami-Date County, Florida

An intimidating woman stared at him.

     Anchor's stood stall under the glistening sun, the weather always the same in their small town—boiling hot, bright and near blinding for his weak eyes. It was a good thing he chose to come in one of their quieter days; he didn't want many witnesses in what he knew would be an embarrassing first impression. That was usually the case for him.

     And apparently, nothing would change that.

     The woman tapped her feet against the wooden floor.

     He gulped. When he had heard the good reviews about this place and the gracious host that came along with it, he'd thought he would finally meet the person. Everyone in town had raved about her kindness and hospitality, and, if rumours had it, her penchant for taking in troubled folks who needed financial shelter—though that wasn't what he particularly needed, it was still shelter nonetheless. But standing upright now, maybe he'd got his sources wrong.

    "What did you want again?" the dark-skinned lady repeated, like she had better things to do than to deal with a frail teenager's pleas.

    "I, uh—" the boy stuttered, shifting between his feet. "I heard there might be an open position... I don't have a résumé, but I live nearby, it's in walking distance so I can show up early anytime you want—"

   "Hold your horses, boy." The lady clicked her tongue. "Our positions are full, and we don't hire freshmen, much less those in high school."

     His stomach dropped.

     But her words rang true. As the boy quickly scanned the shack's premises—the counter behind them, the waiters dropping in and out—everyone was... grown. Even the lady standing in front of him had to be in her early-twenties. And they all shared that bronze tone and dark hair.  He examined his own pale skin and dyed platinum white hair, and he knew he didn't fit here. Couldn't fit here.

     He had to.

     He didn't have any other choice.

    "What's going on?" a perky voice appeared, and its source came into view.

     His eyes tried not to bulge out of its sockets. Not because he thought she was pretty... but because she looked so young. She had to be around his age or at least slightly older. The girl wore a crop top that had the sun in the centre and shredded shorts, showing off her tan legs. Her long dark hair in a ponytail and the rest of her complexion was clear enough: she was a local. What was she doing here? Was she an employee, too? Could she vouch for him, a complete outsider?

     Her kind eyes and warm smile made him think so.

    "This kid wants to work," the lady said, an air of judgment in her tone.

     The girl turned towards him. It was strikingly easy to meet her gaze. "And what's your name?" 

    "Jeff," he answered as confident as he could. "Jeffrey Jones."