Growing up the only male in a house full of women is no easy task. Sometimes the woman meter can be turned to sweet as pie, and other days it drifts near something Sean Morris can't quite say out loud. So where's a good man when you need one? His father has been practically missing in action since he was two. So how can Sean handle new challenges and come to terms with the fact that the only people he needs in his life are the ones who actually love himthe Superwomen who are already there?

J.L. Woodson, a sophomore at Fisk University, is also the author of The Things I Could Tell You! He is a contributing author to Zane's Breaking the Cycle anthology, and coauthor of How to Win the Publishing Game. His debut novel was published when he was sixteen. He is a Chicago native who now resides in Nashville where he is working on his third novel, Circle Until You Land. Visit www.jlwoodson.com

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Chapter One

Run!

That one word screamed through every corner of his mind, but Sean Morris was too afraid to move.

Run!

As much as his mind said, "nothing is as bad as it seems," if Sean's suspicions were correct, things were worse than they seemed.

His rapidly pounding heart slammed against his chest. Sweat poured down his face. Fear gripped him in its ugly jaws. Memories of last year came flooding back with full clarity. With every vision, his mind screamed...Run!

Although fright had kept his feet rooted to the floor of his bedroom, his legs finally had the right idea --Run!

Dashing out of his house into the icy winter night, the thirteen-year-old came to a frightening conclusion: His mother would kill him this time.

The last time she had whipped him so hard that the bath brush imprint stayed on his butt, arms, and thighs for days. Whenever he was within her reach, the brush landed on some part of his body. That time he had run from the house butt-naked, bare feet trampling through six-foot snowdrifts. He barely felt the wind on his butt. He didn't bother cupping a hand over his exposed genitals as he ran the eight blocks to safety -- Kevin's house. Kevin's mother had called Cynthia Morris, Sean's mother, and after a short conversation, Sean had stayed with them overnight.

He had been so frightened that when he got to school the next day, he couldn't open his mouth. He was too upset to concentrate on his work. It only took a few questions from the principal and Sean was spilling his guts: The one woman who had protected him from the effects of the cruel world had -- somehow -- scared the living daylights out of him.

He spent a few months at his Grandmother Cecilia's house while his mother calmed down and went through therapy. She hadn't put a hand on him since. Even before that, whippings weren't normal -- a couple of taps with a belt once a year in the month before his birthday was all he could remember. Until last year.

Now, a year later, he was running again. At least this time he was wearing clothes. At least this time, she had given him a few seconds before she went off the deep end.

Run!

And the reason was simple. Sean had messed up in school again -- easy to fix, if he knew how. Teachers were calling all the time about missing assignments, talking in class, walking out without permission, and fighting with the guys who kept messing with him.

Sean couldn't care less about school. What he did care about was that his mother said in that sad, flat tone: "I can't take this anymore." Sean knew those words by heart. He knewexactlywhat they meant. She was about to give him a serious whipping -- no words in the dictionary or anywhere else could even begin to describe it. Especially since something a bit more extreme happened this time. Everyone in the house could have died.

Run!

The week before the Fourth of July, his father had given him fireworks. Not the cute little sparkly kind. No, Roberto gave him the stuff that could take off an arm or two, or rearrange a person's face. Big bang stuff. His mother was never supposed to know. But that all changed when his dad never showed. A sour smell hovered through the house. Three weeks of repairmen, several searches of the two-story house, and days of keeping the windows open even on the frosty fall mornings didn't turn up the source.

Earlier that morning while Sean was at school, Aunt Denise's quick trip to his room to scoop up overripe laundry solved the mystery. She dumped out his hamper, and the fireworks rolled onto the floor; anger lit a fuse under his aunt, then she lit a fuse under Cynthia.

How was he supposed to know that keeping the hamper near the radiator would activate those things? They started turning on the heat higher and he had forgotten all about them. Just like his dad had forgotten all about him -- The Fourth had come and long gone with no sign of his father.

Then Cynthia received another phone call. And it was "that time of the month." Then the real fireworks began.

Run!

Sprinting up the street across Mrs. Allen's lawn, Sean almost tripped over the nativity scene. He paused a second, putting baby Jesus back in place, saying a prayer to the little guy, hoping he was watching Sean's back. Sean never looked back to see if his mother was coming. He couldn't afford the time. When Cynthia Morris was angry, that old girl could cover some serious ground -- those extra fifty pounds didn't matter. He had seen her go from zero to twenty miles per hour in less than three seconds -- and that was on aslowday.

Sean should have seen the signs. Normally, she would talk to him. Normally, she would give him a chance to explain. Normally, she would try to help him figure things out. But he remembered last year when she hit the roof. Then she hit him. And hurt him. That's what he couldn't take.

Whoever said PMS was a myth had never experienced his mother's anger. He knew when she would be reasonable. And like now, he knew when to get the hell out of Dodge. Usually he kept a calendar and spent the night with Grandma Cecilia, but somehow he'd slipped up.

Run!

Excerpted from Superwoman's Child: Son of a Single Mother
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