Jack studied the others as they finished up practicing their talents two months after his arrival. Ana shifted back to her regular form, losing her brilliant array of feathers in exchange for pale dark skin the color of coffee and purple hair. She made Jack think of a woman he used to know, one who glared at the toilet with the same scathing glare she used on all the non-believers, as if it were beneath her, who if she held her nose any higher it would be in heaven, in more ways than one, the inanimate object that dealt with puke and dung, just like the souls doomed to hell. She had told Jack she was 8 when she was saved, whatever that meant, but that once she was saved, she was always saved. She knew it all, but that was years ago, before she had gotten knocked up by a one night stand and given birth to Jack, but every time she told Jack the story of how she was saved (which always seemed to coincide with expelling the toxins in her body the same way she had accepted them several hours before, trying to stay quiet so the man in the other room who didn't know about Jack wouldn't wake up) Jack couldn't help focusing on what a good thing it was that she was saved when she was 8 because she certainly would never be saved now.

With a firm shake of his head, Jack put all thoughts of his mother away, back into the closet in his mind that held other dark thoughts and memories.

"You're powerful," said Aster, shaking sweat and shaggy hair out of his eyes, grinning at Jack with a look of admiration that accompanied a competitive person find their equal.

"Why didn't you tell me you had that much talent?" asked Monty. "We could be brilliant together. You don't want to waste your time with these folks."

Jack turned away, uninterested in talking to Monty; the only thing he wanted to do was keep his head down and avoid drawing attention to himself. Winter powers were rare enough, he didn't need everyone else trying to recruit him as well.

"Hey, I was talking to you," snapped Monty.

"He's not interested," said Aster. "Rack off, Monty. Go bug someone else for a change."

Before he could catch the rest of the conversation, Jack was out the door and down the hall, finding his way to an empty art room to finish his homework and ignore the rest of the world.

It had been an overwhelming day of assignments to turn in, places to be, and new talents to learn about. Jack, used to being the only one of his kind, didn't like feeling like he was under a microscope as he practiced, the teachers and other students watching him work on his powers with Aster. Aster, for his part, seemed only interested in getting better, not using Jack. He friends were nice enough, particularly the silent boy, Sandy. But Jack hadn't come to make friends, wasn't good at making friends, and certainly didn't need friends.

"There you are," said Aster, opening the door to the classroom and sauntering in, Nick, Ana, and Sandy following close behind. "We were wondering where you had gotten off to. Look, we all have that stupid English assignment due tomorrow and wanted to know if you were finished."

Jack, the words of rejection already on his lips, closed his mouth suddenly when he realized the four new people weren't trying to force him to use his powers, they were asking about the English assignment, something normal and usual and had nothing to do with talents.

"Um, yeah, the one where we have to write a poem?" said Jack, fishing a moderately crumpled paper from his bag.

"That's the one!" said Nick. "We like to share ours before, give advice, so that when we read them to the class they aren't the worst ones there."

"Oh, um, okay," said Jack.

"I'll go first," said Ana, setting her bag on top of the table Jack was sitting on.

"Ana's brilliant at poetry," whispered Aster, sitting on the chair in front of Jack.

"Ahem," began Ana. "I was four when my sisters teased me. I ran to my mother and froze where I sobbed, for there she stood with a single line to share that said "I won't always be here to help." She slipped the noose around my neck and let my childhood hang. I walked away still four years old, above the noose that made me wise and smiling, I carried on with that noose, which became a necklace and as everyone knows, necklaces are pretty."

"How the hell are we supposed to follow that up?" demanded Nick good naturedly.

Jack was focused on the words of the poem and the window it produced, revealing that maybe these four in front of him had just as many skeletons to hide as he did.

In English class the next afternoon, directly after Ana had shared her poem with the class-who appropriately cooed over it- Jack sank a little farther in his seat, hoping to remain invisible and not have to follow it up because poetry was difficult and real and he didn't want to come across as an angsty teenager.

"Shit," hissed Aster. "I left my folder in the room."

Nick, Sandy, and Ana all stared at him with comically wide eyes, panic on their faces.

"So you turn it in late, no big deal," whispered Jack nonchalantly. "You're lucky, you don't have to share with the class."

"That's not how it works," said Ana softly. "He'll get suspended if he doesn't turn this assignment on time. These guys are really strict."

"Aster," said the teacher, voice firm and grating. "You're turn to present."

Jack handed Aster his poem as the boy walked to the front of the room, ignoring the surprised looks the other four gave him.

"Hello," began Aster, glancing at the title of the poem. "This is my poem titled 'Where the Drinks Ran Out on the Corner of Dewy and 12th,' so, um, enjoy."

Jack cringed inwardly.

"The critics hated me because I was experimental," said Aster, his voice strong in a way that Jack's was not as he read out his borrowed poem. "And I am so diabolical it hurts sometimes but she keeps going on and on about lawn furniture in the warehouse while I all I want to lay in a hammock and let the moon swallow me limb by limb, rays wrapping around my skin, devouring my body, and she can sit on a white woven metal chair taking sips right out of the bottle of Jack Daniels, and watch."

Jack could feel the eyes of his new friends on him but he looked studiously ahead at Aster.

"She tells me I could be a doctor if I bothered setting my mind to it," said Aster, his voice still strong, unaware that he was reading a true story from Before to the class. "I could memorize muscles, illnesses, physics of emotions, but I've never liked dead bodies; she knows that. She claims it's because they're everything I'm not- cold, lifeless, and still. Most importantly still, but really it's because I don't want them moving- all stemming from a nightmare I had at 3 years old, but she thinks I'm fearless when she's drunk."

Jack wanted to scream at Aster to stop but couldn't. Part of him was content knowing that the others had no idea it was his poem Aster was reading, that it was his life being laid bare for them to analyze, but another part of him hated himself for writing the poem in the first place, because he had written two, one to get off his chest and the other to actually share with the class. The one Aster was reading was never supposed to be read and just having the only four people he talked to knowing it was his was bad enough.

"Running down the street in my faded black trainers, raw patch of skin seeping blood from the back of my right heel, she yells at me to stop, that I'm being stupid, with her telltale smirk giving away the fact that she just doesn't care as she takes a final swig from the flask perpetually sitting at her hip like a gun," said Aster. "A single drop of Bacardi slithers down her chin and all I can think is You bastard, that's my rum. It burrows in my mind in a way she never could as I finally stop. Grab the tissues and pitchforks, I'm going in for the kill."

Aster took a dramatic bow as the room applauded and all but hopped back to his desk, relieved and pleased with the reaction of the class, seemingly unaware of how truthful that poem rang.

"Well done, Aster," said the teacher. "I must say, I am impressed. I certainly never expected something so well done from you-what with your track record. Tell me, what was your inspiration?"

"My inspiration was my friend Jack," said Aster jovially while Jack tried to burrow further in his seat, hate from the boy next to him growing exponentially.

"Shut up," hissed Jack.

"Well, then I can't wait to hear what young Jack has written for us," said the teacher. "Jack, you're up."

Jack shot Aster a glare that would curdle milk, and stalked to the front of the room.

"My poem is titled 'Smartass'" said Jack sullenly. "I wrote a masterpiece yesterday. It was 39 lines long, 13 stanza's, 3 lines each. Dante would be proud. The rhymes surprised, the abstract language was few and far between, the topic was not a bit cliché. It would have been taught for centuries, printed next to Shakespeare, a one hit wonder of the literary world. I wrote a masterpiece yesterday, but then my printer jammed, my computer crashed, my grandma died, my car had a flat, my dog ate it, but I swear, I'll give it to you tomorrow."

Without another word, Jack marched back to his desk, head down, hood of his jacket pulled up over his white locks, snickers and giggles echoing his feet.

"That was," said the teacher, racking her mind for something constructive to say. "Well, Aster certainly did a fine job, did he not?"

In that moment, Jack wanted nothing more than to run from the room, away from the looks of pity Nick, Ana, and Sandy were throwing him, away from the confusion Aster radiated, away from the teacher who knew nothing about what that poem had actually been about. Jack wanted nothing more than to run, much like he always had, but the problem was, he had run out of places to run to and was already running from too many things that if he should venture outside of the school, he was bound to cross paths with at least one thing or person he was trying to avoid. Caught between a rock and a hard place, Jack sunk a little farther into his jacket and let ice spread around his feet in a futile endeavor to keep him grounded.