The stop I use is conveniently right in front of the store, so I walk right in and immediately get bombarded with Mr. Long’s cheer. Life as usual at last.

Kill me now.

“Miss Lowe, hello Miss Lowe, welcome back, welcome back.” My boss is a short man with Asian features and dark glossy hair that I envy and stubby fingers that I don’t. He’s a happy and boisterous person with the habit of repeating himself, but don’t ask him if he’s Chinese, he’s from Taiwan. That’s about all you need to know. “Right on time as always.”

“Hello, Mr. Long.” I fake a smile.

“I have to step out now for a few hours, like we discussed. Will you be okay here for a few hours?”

“Yes of course, sir. I was the one who said they wanted more hours. Thanks for trusting me.” Real talk: It’s more than okay, I would love to be alone for a few hours.

“Nonsense. You’ve done well these past few months so you shouldn’t have any problems. I knew I could trust you to work today, I just knew it. I will be back around two o’clock, but I’ll try to be earlier, okay? Okay.”

“Yes, sir.” After he leaves, I go behind the register and readjust myself about three times before I find a comfortable position on the old lumpy stool.

Barely anyone comes in on Saturdays, so Mr. Long usually just covers this shift himself. But to be honest, most shifts are slow, and I’ll just sit and listen to Mr. Long talk about how things were very different in Taiwan and that he’s glad he came here even if business isn’t booming. Not bad for $13.00 an hour.

Ashvale has a lot of immigrants. People from all over the place. I wonder how they even found this place when Google Maps doesn’t even acknowledge its existence. Well, I guess since it’s a Shifter Bubble they heard about it through secret Shifter circles.

Time drizzles by at a snail’s pace. I stock the chip stands and attempt to reorganize the wall of cigarettes behind the till to try and pass it.

All that only takes an hour and I find myself missing Mr. Long and his crazy stories about secret government agencies and dragon fights. His stories always start pretty chill then take a turn for the weird at some point. He does enjoy his embellishments.

I always make sure to laugh, since he always seems to be gauging me for a reaction. Who knows, maybe he moonlights as a comedian.

I sigh. Turns out three hours is a long time to sit on a stool with nothing to do except play around with the cash register and ignore texts from your ex-friends. It really makes you think.

Like maybe rejecting Jordan was a mistake. What if it was like a test or something? If I loved him enough to be with him, then he would have told me everything? It’s not fair but maybe it would be dangerous to tell me, and he had to be sure I really loved him.

Or maybe I’m just making excuses for him. Did I even love him? My mind is so jumbled and loud lately it’s hard to hear what my heart is saying.

He would have been the perfect boyfriend if things weren’t so messed up. Even his body is perfect. It’s kind of disgusting and borderline racist but he gets a lot of attention from girls because he looks like a ‘native fantasy.’

His skin is such a nice shade of brown and almost shines, and his face is like… did you ever watch Pocahontas as a kid? You know Kokoum? If not look him up and thank me after, my dude. Like he is super hot. And his body is ripped. Ahem, I mean, from what I’ve seen. That movie is super problematic racially, but it has some damn good visuals.

Anyways a lot of girls chase him just for the native guy thrill. It’s annoying and gross.

Or, was. Not my problem anymore. Nope. Don’t care.

He was perfect, but he was also clingy. From the day I moved here he was always around. He doesn’t even go to school here; he goes to a K-12 school in Ashwood.

My mom and I left when I was five, and he was six, and apparently, we were friends. I was too young to remember him, but he remembered me. I didn’t even have to introduce myself; he knew immediately. Funny right? After eight years.

My stupid pumpkin eyes probably gave me away…

He’s friendly and handsome and showed me that Ashvale wasn’t all bad, or all strange. He’d listen to me about my theories instead of changing the subject like the others, and even if he didn’t agree with much I had to say, and even if he denied everything regarding Shifters, he never made me feel dumb or weird for thinking it.

At least at first. It was great in the beginning, but then this summer he was there with everyone else in my living room when they told me all my theories were bonkers and I needed to see a shrink because they were ‘worried about me.’

That was bad enough, but I chose to listen to them. Then three weeks ago, when I told the three of them about my first dream, René and Chayla basically told me to go back to Doctor Grady. But Jordan just listened. He didn’t believe me, but he didn’t say anything.

For some reason that was worse.

That’s when I stopped caring. So when he asked me out after, it was already impossible.

Sigh. I lay my head down on the cold counter and stare at the blinking fluorescent light above the door until my eyes hurt.

If only these dreams had never started. Then I could have stayed in that perfect fake bubble-life forever. I could keep telling myself ‘everything is fine’ and go for pizza and bowling every Friday like before.

How I wish…but I can’t completely blame the dreams. If I’m being honest with myself, I probably would have left them all eventually, even if they had been honest with me. Even if Ashvale was really a normal town, I never would have wanted to stay here. I would have probably left at sixteen if my mom didn’t agree to move. I turn sixteen this December. New Year’s Eve, to be exact. Canada has a lot of nice boarding school options. That would be new.

I’m used to change and excitement. We’ve lived here for almost three years now, and for most of my life I’ve never lived anywhere for more than one. My entire childhood was spent trying on cities like new winter coats.

Every year after Christmas and before January, Mom would turn to me and say, “No, this one doesn’t fit either, does it?” Being a child, I would be inclined to agree.

And so, after Boxing Day, we would pack our things and get into our old Volkswagen Beatle to try another city on for size. But this one wouldn’t fit either. Something was always wrong.

This one was too small, that one had crappy pizza, this one was the wrong colour or the wrong shape, that one didn’t have enough colours, or the streets were too crowded. I lost my analogy there, but you get the point.

Then that… incident occurred, and after years of travelling bliss, my mother decided big wild cities were not for us and brought me back to Ashvale, Alberta. The simpler, quieter, out-of-the-way, land of my birth. Supposedly.

Yet despite mom thinking I’m safe here, I know better. Ashvale is only a picture-perfect town on the surface.

I mean sure, the lawns are green and manicured, the roads are smooth, everything is silent and calm, most people are friendly, and nobody ever gets murdered. I don’t think they do, anyway. But that doesn’t make it safe. Because this city is illegal, and it’s engaging in unauthorized and undocumented supernatural activity.

Besides, there’s a staggering amount of animal mauling and accidental deaths even considering the large population. It’s hard to write all of these off as the hazards of mountain country life.

I’d leave if I could. I’ve considered running away more than once. I have the money by now. But even if there’s a distance between us, and our relationship has fractured, I don’t think I could ever leave my mom alone. Even to save myself.

Not to mention the whole ‘the trees are trapping us here’ thing I told you about.

Anyways, the first year I still had hope. I only had to survive until Christmas, after all. Then we’d leave like we always do. I even behaved myself so mom would forget about that incident.

I made three friends, because you never need more than three people to make it until Christmas, and I played along. I’ve come to like those three idiots, even if we’re not really friends anymore, but only because they’re the only people here who are like me. They don’t seem to belong either. It’s just a feeling I get.

The months passed by and I hung out with them more than I’d ever hung out with friends before, and by the time Christmas came around again I was almost feeling guilty at my readiness to pack up and leave them and this farce of a town behind.

Maybe I cursed myself, because Christmas came and went, and my mother, like always, turned to me and said… “Isn’t this wonderful?”

And, being a teenager, I was forced to agree.

I kept waiting for the spark to leave her eyes, for her to stop pointing things out to me like “Oh look there, your father used to take us here every Sunday, let’s go see!” and “Isn’t this the best view?” and “This is where I graduated, you know. I can’t believe you’re fifteen” and “You should invite your friends over for dinner!” Again. But we’re nearing the third Christmas and she still loves this place.

I guess she always loved it. Maybe that’s why none of the other cities fit.

So what could I do? I resigned myself to my fate and got a job and pretended to respond to therapy, because television taught me that’s what trapped people do.

And to think I thought I could survive a few more years here, then run off to college. There’s bowling and pizza and lots of malls. Ashvale even has its own weather and news network, and an online site for all things Ashvale. There isn’t a lot of things, but hey it’s there for you. I thought I could make it work, and then the dreams started.

If I’m being honest, part of the reason I left my friendships behind is because I’ve felt like something has been coming. Something bad. And even if they aren’t involved, they certainly won’t be able to help me. I wouldn’t trust them to even if they tied.

But I didn’t have to walk away completely. I could have agreed to go back to that quack. I could have pretended therapy was working again and pretended to take my pills. Acting isn’t that hard when everyone around you wants to believe you. I was getting tired of it, but we were good friends, and I missed the relationship I had with my mom.

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I could have done all of those things, but I didn’t.

Just like the cougar kept getting closer to my house, I feel like something else was too. Or the cougar represents something. I’ve been blaming my current fear and restlessness on these dreams and that cougar, but there’s something else too. Something I can’t see.

Just like the uneasiness I felt when Mom and I first got here, and first crossed over the border, this feeling in the pit of my stomach is new. I don’t fully understand it yet.

The main thing that’s been nagging at me right now is what happened this morning. When I was staring at the cougar across the lake, and watching it come towards me, I was scared, sure. But at the same time, I wasn’t. A part of me wasn’t afraid. Isn’t that insane? And that strange warmth…

More than that is the cougar fleeing when my mother showed up. Why would such a strong animal feel the need to run from her, when it was just fine walking towards me. It seems more like it didn’t want to be seen by her. It also didn’t show up in the photo.

The whole scene felt off, and I should have been way more terrified.

And why are there ravens everywhere. What’s up with that?

My phone vibrates and I almost fall off my stool. Jeez. I’ve never been the jumpy sort, so I’m a little peeved at myself. At least my timer is done. Five minutes until my break and I can finally lock this place up for a while and relax in the breakroom. Maybe eat some one bite brownies and forget about my problems for a while.

But the universe has other ideas, and I have the worst luck.

Diiiing Doooong

Great, a customer. Just what I don’t need right now.

Seriously, I only had five minutes left until my break. It’s like all customers have radars that lets them know the most annoying time to arrive or ask for anything.

Resigned to my fate, I slip my phone into my back pocket and remove my sweater, tying it loosely around my waist, so my Stuff-Mart shirt and ‘Happy to Help’ pin can be seen.

And I immediately get the shivers. Mr. Long hasn’t noticed yet, but autumn kinda arrived a month ago. No need for the constant A/C.

A little colour wouldn’t hurt this place either. I roll my eyes at the grey walls and silver shelves. This place looks like it was an old storage space, and they just stuck a counter and a bunch of shelves in here and called it a store.

Okay maybe that’s a little unfair. Mr. Long might not have had a lot of money when he came here. But from his stories it seems he’s been here for at least a decade. An upgrade would not hurt business, just saying.

I spot the customer weaving through the rows of merch. A guy… I think? Only the short, ruffled, dark blond hair can be seen over the top shelves.

He keeps backtracking. Obviously looking for something and not sure where we keep it.

That strikes me as odd since most of our customers are regulars. I almost get curious before I remember he’s a guy shopping at Stuff-Mart, which means he’s here for either cigarettes, beer, or to try his luck at the lotto’s. Or all three, if they can afford it.

Most can’t.

We don’t get the top 1% here.

I put on my best retail smile and catch him in aisle 4. The candy aisle

“Hello, may I help you?”

He looks at me and I notice this guy’s eyes are very blue, like bright blue. How I remember my father’s. I’ve never met another person whose eyes were as bright as his.

I notice something else at the same time: he’s one of them. He’s a Shifter.

He can’t be any older than me. I can see the uniform for Ashvale’s super preppy high school through his open leather jacket. Upper Ashvale Secondary School. The high school located in center town, obviously. These people have their own schools, stores, the works. Uptown might as well not be part of Ashvale at all, but its own place.

So then what is he doing here?

Without thinking I fidget with the shelf in front of me. A bracket is loose again.

They have their own convenience stores, too.

And they never come to Lower Ashvale. Never.

Something is off.

The feeling of nausea I get when I Sense these people hits me again in the pit of my stomach. If this keeps up my tummy is going to develop a black hole. I feel sick from all the stress and pits.

Shifter or not, he sure is nice to look at. Most Mutants are. That’s where all the Master Race bullshit comes from. But he’s a total pretty boy. Gentle features, full mouth, big blue eyes, you know the deal. Probably a model on the weekends.

Easy looking, but not my type. I learned that lesson with René. Come to think of it, René would be drooling if he were here. He loves guys who look like him. A narcissist through and through.

Once I get a grip, I notice he’s been staring at me too. His mouth a bit agape. My own eyes’ fault, most likely. I told you before, people often stare at me cause of these stupid mutations on my face.

The moment I catch on to it he coughs and jerks his head away to stare at some lolly pops. He’s making a point of not looking directly at me

This has happened before with these people, most recently when I went to visit my mother during her shift last month. There was a pretty lady in a business suit sitting in the waiting room and when our eyes met hers got all shifty and dove straight into a random magazine. Chatelaine.

Like seriously, what the heck? Are they all looking down on me because my watch is from Walmart? Are middle class and below not worth looking at to these people? That really pisses me off, and I’ve already had enough weird and annoying things happen to me today.

“Oh, no, I just came for uh…” He coughs nervously. Shit, I was staring for a long time. Unprofessional much? I almost miss it, but I think he has a subtle British accent. Queen’s English, not Coronation Street, because I can understand him.

It sounds like he’s trying to hide it, though. Looking around quickly, he grabs a twisty pop and I squint my eyes at him.

Uh huh. It’s cigarettes. If he wanted a lotto ticket, he wouldn’t be so shifty, plus he’s too rich for that crap, and if it was beer, he’d just raid daddy’s fridge. Or, wine cellar, I guess. Considering his parent’s tax bracket.

“This.” His voice is too smooth. Buttery and slick. For a moment warning bells and red flags rise up in my mind. dingdingding…dingdingding Danger…Danger.

More weirdness. It’s just a voice. Why am I freaking out?

I struggle to put my smile back on and nod, leading him to the till.

I ring up the twisty pop. “Anything else today?” My voice is cheery, but hot or not, I don’t like this guy. He still won’t look at me straight on.

I sense him hesitate and look at the shelf behind me. “Got any Pall Malls?”

Called it. Cheyeah, 1 point to Kara.

I put, ‘of course we do, blockhead. This is Stuff-Mart. We have everything’ on my list of ‘things I want to say to customers but can’t.’

“Yes, we do, but I can’t sell those to minors.”

“I’m over eighteen.”

‘Sure you are, and I’m a leprechaun.’ Another keeper. Yeah right. Did you flunk three grades, then? “I’ll need to see some ID.”

He fishes one out of his pocket and slides it over to me. It says he’s twenty-two.

There’s no way it can be real, but I can’t tell it’s fake. I could still refuse but he’s from center town, who knows what he’d do to me if I dared embarrass him? Daddy probably has ten lawyers on call. Plus Mr. Long said to always ere on the side of caution and put safety first.

I have to ring him up. Stupid rich kids and their stupid perfect fake ID’s.

Although if I’m honest I’ve had one or two. Might even have one tucked inside a shoebox in the closet. I’ll never tell. But I used them to get into concerts and movies. Just to be clear. This kid shouldn’t be smoking if he doesn’t even know how to get his hands on cigs without an I.D.

I shake my head a little and see him smirk a bit out of the corner of my eye. When I slide it back to him it’s more like a shove.

“A regular, please.”

The pin on my shirt may read ‘Happy to Help,’ but the pin is a liar and I'd like for you to go away. Very soon.

Unfortunately, Mr. Long’s organizational skills are crap, and my attempt to organize earlier was a failure, so it takes me a minute to find the darn stuff.

My back is turned, and I can sense this guy is looking at me again, now that he thinks I can’t tell. But I can always tell when people are looking at me because I’m so used to it.

It makes me uncomfortable, but my cheeks still get warm. Jeez why do I feel guilty? I’m technically single. Not that this guy has any chance in hell. But still, dammit.

“Are you out or…”

Kara, get a grip. This is getting embarrassing. He’s one of them. We don’t like them, remember? They’re evil and preppy and everything you despise!

I snap out of it and finally grab a pack off the top shelf and put it on the counter, making a point of not looking this guy in the eyes.

“Here you are, that’ll be $12.55.” My voice sounds strange even though I’m trying to keep my shit together. “Do you need a bag?”

“No thank-you, this is fine.”

I gratefully leave the till to go organize the magazine stand. His gaze is following me, and my hands are shaky. That shake you get if you were in the cold too long, or you’ve gone too long between meals. Neither of which apply here.

It’s ridiculous and nothing but for some reason I feel a little…anxious? Is that what this is? I don’t usually get nerves. Well, not until we moved to shitsville.

“Do you smoke?”

I jump. Well, internally. My stomach jumps. If situations keep abusing my poor belly I’m going to hurl again.

And why is he even still here?

“What?”

I organize the magazines more aggressively than necessary. How can he tell? Can he tell? I thought I’d hidden it well. The anxiety meds made me nauseous, so I started smoking last year. Not a lot though, and only when things get really tough. I’m not even addicted. I never crave them. They just calm me down.

I could really use one right now, that’s for sure, but I’d never take one from him.

He waves the cigarette pack in my face and I yank my head back. Oh my god, when did he get so close? I didn’t notice or hear him move. “I asked if you smoke?”

“No, I don’t.” I lie. Not if you’re asking, bud. Plus, I have to plan them carefully, they’re not easy to get for a minor and if mom ever smelled it on me, she’d kill me to death.

“You sure?”

Damn he’s pushy. A total René clone. Like what the fuck? I think if I smoked, I would know? Certainly wouldn’t tell you.

I sigh and look right into those shiny baby-blues to say something snarky, even though it could get me fired if he goes crying to Daddy, and I’m instantly frozen.

That wasn’t a metaphor. I literally cannot move.

For a second, I swear his eyes flash. Like someone’s shone a flashlight in my face. A flashlight with a blue bulb. It’s a jolt like a tidal wave that crashes through my eyes and down over me stopping in my feet. But I don’t feel it leave. I can feel some kind of pressure in my toes and the soles of my feet.

I want to scream, but I’m choked by shock.

This is strange, this is definitely strange! This stupid boy, what the hell has he done?

“That’s too bad.”

My expression must not be good, so he makes an assumption. Then he winks at me, shoves the pack into his pocket, and heads for the back exit.

But I’m not kidding, I’m still frozen. Like can’t-even-blink frozen. My eyes are already watering because people are supposed to blink for a reason, and I still can’t fucking move.

I’m not even breathing. My toes are stuck in place. When I try to lift my feet, I find they’re rooted to the floor. Like I stepped into wet cement.

Oh. Shit. All those gut instincts were right. These people are all dangerous criminals. I’ve been hexed, or, or cursed, or bloody hypnotized! This is a war crime!

Even your Daddy can’t save you from that.

But who’s going to save me?

I’m gonna die. For real this time.

My eyes gain some movement and I look over at him, but he’s oblivious and putting headphones on. That idiot. How is he possibly unaware of this? Or maybe he’s not. Is this punishment for not sharing a cigarette with the high and mighty rich folks?

‘How dare you not smoke with me, peasant? Now stand there until I’m finished my tantrum.’ Is that what this is?

I’m gonna kill him if that’s what this is.

If he really is an idiot then… eh, nah, still gonna kill him.

Kanye fills my head. I want to die. I’m a rock-and-roll-only chick, you know.

This must be his music because I know there’s nothing playing in the store. If Mr. Long puts anything on it’s always obscure talk programs.

I’m hearing what this stupid boy is hearing? Through his headphones? We’re connected, is that it? Oh god, then please turn it off!

I gain some more control. “Hey you! Hey! What did you do-?”

But not enough control. This is when I realize just how dire the situation really is.

His body is a magnet and I move. My body jerks forward into the magazine stand I had just organized, completely knocking it over, just to forcibly turn me around.

The stupid rich kid stops for a moment. Not to notice the mayhem but to pull a cigarette out of the pack I just sold him. He tosses the plastic wrapping on the floor like an asshole.

Come on, who does that?

And how loud is his music if he couldn’t hear that? Asking the real questions now.

By god. This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, this can’t be happening.

Nooo. He sets off again and my feet shuffle forward. The force, or magnetism, or whatever this is, it’s impossible to fight. I have no control over my feet at all. It’s feels like walking through deep snow. I’m a rebellious puppet who just wants to be a real girl again, while this power forces me to take step after agonizing step.

I’d say this is like the cougar situation, but it’s not. For one thing I am very much awake. And another, my movements are sloppy, the connection is shaky, and anyways, the feeling is totally different.

It’s hard to explain but something different is happening to me here, something new.

And I don’t like it.

I’m officially right about everything. I’m not as happy about that as I thought I’d be.

“H-hey you, um…” Crap what do I say? Stop hypnotizing me please and thanks? “Hey!”

He can’t hear me. Or he’s ignoring me because he wants to kill me. Holy shit, I’m going to be the first death in a horror film. And I’m going to die listening to Kanye.

I always thought I’d make it to third death, at least. That’s what the buzzfeed quiz said.

The chips stand falls over when I try and grab it. I can move my upper body but only clumsily. I have such limited control. Is this how babies feel? And also, damn it, I just set that stand up an hour ago.

Stupid Boy doesn’t even turn around. He didn’t hear that either. My god. I’m surprised. His music must be full blast. I try to throw a lollipop at him, but I miss.

And he’s almost at the back door. I’m seriously gonna die.

For real this time.

I definitely should have stayed home today.