An hour later, Nif was licking the last of her take-away dumplings from her fingers as she got off the bus at the quiet, dimly-lit school. Only the hall was well-lit, a high-roofed sandstone building with shallow steps leading to a massive double door. A ramp snaked up the side and a poster board at the top of the steps read YOU’RE WELCOME HERE. Beneath in smaller print was Non-shifters, Irregular and Unique people and their loved ones.
“Come on, Nif. You can do this.” She quickly texted Sapha where she was and what she was doing -- send the cavalry if you haven’t heard from me in two hours -- then took a steadying breath.
“Once more into the breach,” she whispered and marched up the stairs, her bag grasped tightly in her arms.
Inside the front doors was a small entrance foyer: a closed cloak room off to the left and toilets to the right. Another set of regular sized doors opened up onto a massive hall. The wooden floor was scuffed and marked from hundreds of volleyball games while on the far side was a dark maroon-curtained stage, set a metre above the floor. The walls were covered in school plaques, banners displaying house teams and student art.
Only the stage lights were lit, creating a cozy, intimate space, transforming it from a teenage world of school activities into a more grown-up realm for serious conversations. Nif could see the support group before anyone could see her. There were a dozen seats in a circle and almost half were already occupied.
What was she expecting? They looked like regular, everyday people. The oldest looked to be in his sixties while the youngest was a couple of years younger than Nif. They were quietly chatting amongst themselves, the soft murmuring of their voices drifting to fill the dark, shadowy edges of the hall.
There was a low table set up next to the circle with mismatched mugs, a hot water canister, little bottles of different milks, store bought biscuits, Sapha’s favourite flavour of chips and a somewhat limp collection of fruit. Music played from somewhere. It reminded Nif of Sapha’s lazy morning acoustic playlist.
Someone cleared their throat behind Nif and she swallowed her squeak, jerking to the side and blinking to adjust her eyes as she stared at the figure hidden by the gloom.
“First time?” the man asked. The foyer light reflected off his chest and chin, and she could just make out that he was a head taller than her, around her age, scruffy looking with week-old stubble, but wearing a pressed button-up shirt over jeans and green converses. Hanging loosely from his fingers was a blue esky.
“Yeah. You?”
“I’m a regular. No need to be shy. Everyone here is super lovely. I’m mostly here for my friend Moira, but I can’t help showing up every week now I’ve gotten to know them all. Come on, I’ll introduce you to them.” He strode off towards the stage and Nif darted after him.
“Wait, I didn’t catch your name!” Nif huffed.
“Oh, right. Sorry. I’m Oliver Stone.” He juggled the esky into his left hand and offered his right to her. She tentatively took it and wondered at the calluses. Was he a climber?
“I’m Jennifer Saito.”
“Nice to meet you Jennifer. Hey Clint, we’ve a newbie!” Oliver bellowed across the hall and it echoed. Five faces spun towards them, and Nif fought hard not to disappear back into the shadows. Instead, she followed Oliver up the short set of stairs and into the light pooling on the stage.
“Don’t go frightening her off, Oli,” the oldest man grumbled, taking the esky and depositing it by the refreshment table. “Ignore him,” he said to Nif. His smile was crooked, but kind. “I’m Clinton Bell-Stewart. You can say I’m the group organiser. My day job is counselling university students and I’m a non-shifter. I’ve been running this group nigh on four years now. Make yourself a drink and take a seat wherever you like. Now don’t feel like you’ve got to talk much this first time. You don’t need to tell us anything. This is a safe, welcoming space and you can go at your own pace.”
“Thanks,” Nif said. “I’m Jennifer. It’s nice to meet you.” The pressure of all those strangers’ gazes shifted off her as they returned to their quiet conversations, giving her time to collect herself.
“Want a tea or coffee?” Oliver asked. “Or there’s soft drink in the esky.”
“Tea would be nice.” Nif dropped her bag beneath an empty seat and went to get a cup, but Oliver had already beaten her to it. “I’m kind of the group mascot,” he said, grinning boyishly. “They keep me around mostly because I supply the food and make a great tea. What kind would you like? I’ve a couple of herbals -- ooh, I’ve got a coconut tea that says it can help you escape and unwind -- and one sad looking no name black tea. I’d skip that one if I was you.”
Nif watched as he made her peppermint tea in a handleless cup with a flourish far exceeding the usual dunk in hot water method, noting his eyes were actually the colour of sea-buffed glass, grey and then green depending on how the light reflected through his black rimmed glasses. His hair was a dark, shaggy mess, and while his face was pleasant to look at, it would be easily forgotten in a crowd, and Nif suspected he liked it that way.
“Here,” he said, handing her the hot cup and their fingers brushed. There were no sparks, but he definitely lingered, and when Nif pulled away, the warmth in her fingers was not only from the tea.
“Cheers,” she said, and retreated to her seat. Nif was strangely disappointed when Oliver sat two seats over from her, but she could still feel his gaze. When she glanced up over her tea, he blushed and looked up at the far wall, as if the artwork of a minotaur with a mermaid tail was absolutely fascinating.
“Okay, everyone. Take a seat,” Clinton said, clapping his hands together, the echo reverberating throughout the dim hall. He sat opposite Nif, cradling his own drink in one hand. “We have someone new joining us today. This is Jennifer, but before we give her chance to say anything, let’s start by introducing ourselves.”
“I’ll start,” said the young, asian woman between Nif and Oliver. She was wearing the uniform of a university student the world over: jeans, t-shirt and a massive jacket that promised to swallow her whole. She spun in her seat, her feet barely touching the ground and her knees were almost close enough to brush Nif’s thigh. Nif’s first thought was that her shift had to be something cute -- like a hedgehog or a hamster. She had round cinnamon apples for cheeks and short fluffy hair that curled around her ears, but then Nif remembered shifting wasn’t the norm here. “I’m Moira Yang. I’m doing my postgraduate degree on the effects of screen time on developing minds. It’s more interesting than it sounds, I promise.” Her voice reminded Nif of the rush of champagne bubbles and the first bite of a sweet strawberry. “I’m gay, prefer chai lattes over any form of coffee, and I’m an abnormal shifter. I can only shift when I’m really angry.”
“And you’ve got more chance of snow in summer then you have of Moira losing her temper,” Oliver said, draping an arm around his friend’s shoulder and tugging her in close. She wiggled in mild affront, before sighing and stealing Oliver’s tea.
“I’ve shifted twice in my life, both during less than stellar circumstances,” she admitted easily enough. “I think the whole importance placed on shifting is overrated. Now it’s your turn, Oliver.”
“I’ve already introduced myself. I’m the one who comes bearing sustenance.”
“He insists on bringing actual mugs rather than styrofoam cups,” Moira said to Nif, rolling her eyes.
“They’re better for the environment!”
“Thanks, Oliver and Moira,” Clinton interrupted, rolling his eyes fondly. “Let’s move on before you end up wrestling on the floor again.”
“That was one time, Clint, and she started it.”
“How old are you again?” said a man in a cheap business suit, his voice gruff. He’d loosened his tie and his shirt strained against his solid gut. Nif could tell he liked rich food because he had saucy stains speckling his white shirt. He’d obviously made some effort to clean up -- his thinning hair was neatly combed and the stains had had some attempt at being moped up -- but he radiated a desperate sense of loneliness that Nif suspected came across as rude or cold to outsiders. She’d often been accused of the same at university, when really she’d been struggling to navigate the social cues of a group of people -- the rest of the world it often seemed -- that she didn’t fully belong to.
Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
“Why don’t you go next then Morris?” Clinton gestured warmly for the man to continue.
“Right. I’m Morris Hulm. I’m in tech support at the Great Northern Bank. I’m a partial shifter. Feet and hands mostly.” He demonstrated by holding up his hands and his fingers became the stubby nubs of a tortoise.
“Did you want to add what you’re most passionate about?” Clinton prompted gently.
“I paint,” Morris offered after a tiny moment of hesitation and his face changed, becoming bright like the moon appearing from behind clouds. Maybe the specks on his shirt were actually paint, not sauce. “All sorts really. I particularly love landscapes, though at the moment I’m creating a portrait collection of the planets in our solar system. I’m working on Mars at the moment.” As he continued, he became more and more animated. His voice grew to fill the room and his hands were expressive, painting the air with his gestures, his brown eyes lit from within like smoldering coals.
“Each has its own personality, inspired by mythology, but also twisting expectations. Mars, for instance, is named after the Roman god of war, but instead of using warm reds and oranges to invoke violence or rage, I’m using cooler colours. Hues of pinks and purples to suggest passion and excitement.” Morris caught himself, half out of his seat and it was almost painful to watch him fold in on himself, packing away his passion until he was just another blunt office worker, pouring the most precious hours of his life away to serve some big cooperation.
“I’d like to see them,” Nif said into the spelled silence after Morris’ outburst. “If you wouldn’t mind?”
Morris looked down at his soda can and shrugged, but his cheeks were flushed in pleasure.
“We’d all like to see them, Morris. Safe place here, remember?” Clinton reassured him.
“Anyway, that’s me,” Morris finished gruffly. “Who’s next?”
The last two in the circle were similar in the way only siblings could be. About the same age as Nif’s mum, they had identical hairstyles, which were almost a decade out of date and belonged on a much older woman. Their outfits complimented each other, as if they were each other’s dates to a dance. One wore a dress the colour of a dark red wine with a vine pattern along the hem while the other wore a dress the colour of green olives with a wide maroon sash.
“I’m Philippa and this is my baby sister Josephine,” the eldest introduced, flopping her hand between herself and the woman beside her. Josephine shyly waved. “Neither of us can shift and because of that, our parents disowned us and we sell our nights for a living.” Philippa glared Nif down, expecting a response that Nif was too surprised to give.
“You make it sound so much worse than it is, Pippa,” said Josephine softly. “We’re night nurses. We watch over little ones who must be cared for twenty-four seven. Children who are ill or at high risk of breathing difficulties while they sleep. Our sole purpose is to stay awake and ensure children continue to dream.”
“We’re qualified nurses, but it’s the only work that’ll have us. Patients don’t like being cared for by someone who can’t shift. They think it’s contagious or will bring bad luck.”
“I didn’t realise the prejudices were so bad,” Nif admitted, feeling guilty though she wasn’t sure why.
“They claim there aren’t any biases in the hiring process, but not once did either Jo or myself get a call for an interview,” Philippa said. “At least being a night nanny pays the bills, though it wreaks havoc on our social lives.” The two sisters shared a glance and for a moment their shoulders slumped through sheer exhaustion, before they rallied and turned to Nif.
“So, tell us your story,” Philippa said.
“Only as much as you’d like,” Clinton reminded, helping himself to another cup of tea.
“Well, I’m Jennifer. I’m a junior editor at a publishing house that specialises in speculative fiction.”
Moira jostled Oliver and he elbowed her back, giving up on his tea cup and getting another.
“Ignore the children,” Philippa said, giving Moira and Oliver a hard glance. They instantly straightened and Nif suspected Philippa had no nonsense from sleepy children either.
“I haven’t shifted yet,” Nif said in a rush and it felt...good to admit it to this crowd. She wasn’t met with pity or even sympathy. She was met with understanding and a small knot deep inside her chest unwound until, for the first time in who knew how long, she could take a deep breath.
At work, it was easier to not mention her inability to shift. When people brought up shifting, she stayed quiet or left the conversation. Speaking out in the open about it was not taboo, but people just didn’t do it.
“And it’s okay, you know. If you never do,” Clinton said. “It doesn’t define you.”
“Tell that to my job prospects and love interests,” Nif said, mostly as a joke, but Philippa and Josephine nodded fiercely in agreement and Moira nudged her arm in comfort.
“I find dating hard, too,” Moira said. “For most people, shift forms are usually such a quick way to see if you’re wasting your time or not. Whether you’re compatible you know, even though studies have proven that having a matching shift doesn’t mean you’re more or less likely to live happily ever after. Domestic violence occurs just as equally in mate matches as it does in diverse ones.” Moira scratched at the back of her head and shrugged. “I’ve not got time for dating anyway with my PhD and all, but I’ll find the right companion one day and you will too.”
“Those dating apps worry me,” Josephine said. Compared to her sister who was all fiery fury, Josephine was meek and anxious. The woman was sitting on her hands, but Nif could see where Josephine had worried the edge of her sleeve into a frayed mess.
“Safer than just going to a bar or club and hoping for the best,” Moira pointed out.
“I must admit, I’ve not really had much success with these apps,” Nif said. “But I’ve never felt unsafe. Usually you can dismiss the ones that are clearly weirdos, and for the rest, I make sure we meet in a busy place that I’m familiar with.”
“I miss the days when you met someone naturally,” Clinton said and sighed. He wore a wedding ring, so really, he had to have done something right at some point. “I don’t understand how you can just add your likes and dislikes into a profile and you’re just matched up.”
“The apps use some pretty clever algorithms,” Moira said. There was a note in her voice that hinted she was about to begin a lecture. Oliver knew his friend well and cut her off.
“Yes, but in the end, you’re the one who chooses to go on a date with someone by making a personal judgement call. Maybe you like the person’s smile? Or there’s something in the way they structure their sentences? These things can’t be picked up by algorithms.”
“Not yet, maybe,” Moira said, digging a knuckle into Oliver’s ribs. He laughed and squirmed away.
“People aren’t designed to be alone,” Morris added, voice rough like he’d been gargling razor blades all his life. Nif noticed it grew rougher whenever his thoughts turned dark, smoother when he talked about art. “But how can you tell when someone is genuine or not? You hear all these stories. Partners betraying and hurting each other, you’ve got to wonder if it’s maybe better to stay alone?”
“It’s just not people you know, either. The world isn’t safe any more,” Josephine whispered in the following silence.
“When has it ever been safe?” Philippa scowled, grinding the heel of her shoe into the wooden stage as if all the bad things in the world were just an ant to be crushed.
“Our mother never used to lock the front door,” Josephine pointed out.
“And then they kicked us out and we had to fend for ourselves on the street.”
“But we found safe places easily,” Josephine continued. “Teenagers now, where do they go? They’re preyed on, whether they have parents to keep an eye out for them or not. It doesn’t matter if you’re a child or in your eighties, man or woman, you can never be a hundred percent safe.”
“A forty-six year old woman disappeared a fortnight ago while putting out her rubbish,” Morris spoke up. “They found her last week. They cut out her eyes and made her swallow them. Who even does that?” He crossed his arms, looking even more disgruntled and yet he was nervously chewing on his lip.
“They’ll catch the perpetrators,” Clinton assured. “Thea said her bosses had made finding them a priority. My partner is in the police force,” he said as an aside to Nif. “She mostly works in Petty Theft, but her office is the base for the homicide squad, and the break room is a hub of gossip, just like any other workplace.”
“Still, isn’t that proof enough that something is rotting in our society?” Philippa demanded.
Nif caught Oliver’s eyes and he rolled them, suggesting this wasn’t a new rant of the sisters.
“I’m just saying, we need to be careful. We can’t run or fight like most people can. We’re vulnerable.”
“I suspect it’s all the screen time kids get these days. Studies have shown…” Moira firmly wrestled the conversation back into more positive realms and Oliver let her lecture. Nif was relieved. She’d heard about the increase in violent crimes in the city and worried about Sapha when she went out late reviewing films.
Nif and Sapha had instigated a few preventative measures — texting if they had a change of plans, keeping each other updated when they were out late at night — and Nif was trying to convince Sapha to get a dog for when she was at home alone all day. That was a battle Nif was fairly certain she’d lose since Sapha was a cat-shifter and all.
The rest of the evening was one of comfort. Morris talked more about his current art project. Philippa read out loud her new favourite poem, full of sharp edges and broken things. Josephine talked about her garden. While Moira explained the current challenges her PhD was giving her, Nif watched Oliver as he fondly smiled at his friend before his eyes caught Nif’s. She wanted to look away, but courage flickered briefly inside her and she glanced down and then up through her eyelashes. His return grin -- boyish and shy -- made Nif want to laugh, joy dancing up her spine until she felt like her whole body was full of bubbles and she’d float away.