The hum of the tires against the highway was the only thing keeping Xavier from vibrating out of his skin. Four hundred miles of asphalt, and they hadn't spoken since the last gas station. Xavier leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window. Outside, the familiar skyline of his childhood had long since dissolved into flat, anonymous fields. In the backseat, his entire life was compressed into six cardboard boxes and a desk lamp that rattled every time they hit a pothole.
"Almost there," his father said. His voice was sandpaper-dry. He gripped the steering wheel at ten and two, his knuckles white. "New start, Xav. Just like we talked about."
Xavier didn't look at him. "A new start usually implies the old one was finished. Mom's lawyer hasn't even sent the final papers yet."
He saw his father's jaw tighten in the reflection of the glass. The guilt was there, heavy and suffocating in the cramped space of the sedan.
"I know it's been... a lot," his father muttered. "But this school, St. Jude's? It's the best in the state. You'll be at the top of the list by midterm. You always are."
The top. Xavier closed his eyes. That was the only thing he had left—the grades. The numbers didn't lie, they didn't fall out of love, and they didn't move to a different zip code. He pulled his headphones over his ears, drowning out the sound of his father's sigh with a wall of aggressive, lo-fi beats. He watched the "Welcome To" sign for their new city flash by. It felt like a warning.
They pull into a driveway of a house that looks exactly like every other house on the block. It's "perfect," which makes Xavier hate it even more.
The engine cut out, and the sudden silence was louder than the highway hum had been. For a moment, neither of them moved.
Xavier stared through the windshield. The house was a two-story Craftsman with slate-gray siding and a porch that looked too wide for just two people. It was "charming" in the way real estate brochures promised, but to Xavier, it looked like a tomb for the life he'd left behind.
"Well," his father said, clearing his throat and unbuckling his seatbelt. "We're here. 142 Oak Street."
Xavier pushed the door open. The air here smelled different—damp earth and cut grass instead of the city's metallic tang. He stepped onto the pavement, his legs feeling heavy and stiff from the hours in the car.
Xavier stood on the sidewalk, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. The sun was beginning to dip, casting long, distorted shadows across the driveway.
"It's got a big backyard," his father said, walking around to the back of the car. "Maybe we can finally get that grill I talked about."
Xavier didn't answer. He was looking at the upstairs window—the one he assumed was his. It was dark, reflecting the orange sky like a blind eye. He imagined himself up there, staring out at this quiet, boring street for the next two years.
"Xav? Grab the blue bin?" his father said.
He snapped out of it, moving to the trunk. He shouldered a box, the cardboard corner digging into his collarbone. It hurt, and he welcomed it. As he turned toward the front walk, he caught a flash of movement three houses down.
A group of guys were playing basketball in a driveway. The sound of the ball hitting the pavement—thump, thump, swish—was rhythmic and easy. One of them laughed—a loud, booming sound that carried through the crisp air. Xavier looked away immediately, his jaw tightening. That was the sound of someone who belonged. He turned his back on the laughter and followed his father into the house, the door whining on its hinges before slamming shut behind them.
The transition from the car to the room feels like a slow-motion collapse. For Xavier, his room is the only place where he doesn't have to "perform" for his father or the world. Xavier pushed the door open with his shoulder, the wood grain catching on his sweater. He didn't turn on the light. The room was bathed in a dull, bruised purple from the fading sunset, highlighting the parts of his new life he wasn't ready to face.
He stayed by the door for a long minute, just observing. The room was too clean, too square. There was a built-in bookshelf that sat empty, its white paint gleaming like bone in the dimness. The desk in the corner was positioned under the window, waiting for a life to be lived at it—waiting for the late-night study sessions that were the only thing Xavier felt he had left to offer. He noticed a small scratch on the floorboards near the closet, a tiny imperfection in an otherwise sterile environment. It was the only thing in the room that felt real.
He finally moved, crossing the floor with heavy steps. He dropped the box of books near the desk—the weight of his past hitting the floor with a hollow thud. Slowly, he leaned against the windowsill, his fingers tracing the cold metal latch. Outside, the neighborhood was waking up to the evening. Three houses down, the earlier rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a basketball drew his eyes.
A group of guys were gathered around a hoop over a garage door. They were moving in a blurred dance of sweat and laughter. One of them—taller, with hair that seemed to catch the very last of the golden light—leaped into the air, his movements fluid and careless. He landed a shot, and the group erupted into cheers, someone shoving him playfully.
Xavier watched them through the glass, his breath fogging a small circle on the pane. He didn't feel like a teenager watching his peers; he felt like a different species watching a ritual he didn't have the script for. The "courage" to just exist like that, so loudly and so easily, felt like a foreign language.
He pulled back, the cold from the glass lingering on his forehead. The sight of them made the silence of his room feel twice as heavy.
Turning away, he didn't bother with the boxes. He just let himself fall backward onto the bare mattress. The springs groaned under his weight, a lonely, metallic sound that echoed off the empty walls. He stared at the ceiling, the shadows of the trees outside dancing in the corner of his eye, until his father's voice broke through the dark.
"Xavier! Pizza's here!"
Xavier dragged himself off the bed, the friction of the bare mattress loud in the quiet room. He took a second to flatten his hair in the dark, then headed downstairs. The kitchen was a mess of half-opened boxes. His father had cleared a small square on the granite island, where a grease-stained pizza box sat open like a wound. Two paper plates, two napkins, and a couple of lukewarm sodas.
"Sausage and mushroom. Your favorite, right?" his father asked, sliding a slice onto Xavier's plate. He was trying so hard to smile that it looked like it hurt. "Yeah. Thanks, Dad," Xavier muttered. He pulled a stool up, the metal legs screeching against the tile floor.
For a few minutes, the only sound was the rhythmic chew-swallow and the hum of the new refrigerator. Then, his father couldn't take the silence anymore. "So," his dad started, leaning forward. "I checked the map. St. Jude's is only a ten-minute walk. It's a straight shot down the main road. No bus needed." Xavier picked at the crust of his pizza. "Great."
"And I looked at their curriculum online," his father continued, ignoring the frost in Xavier's voice. "They've got a massive yard and a dedicated honors wing. I think you're really going to like the pace there, Xav. It's not like the old place. These kids are... motivated."
"I'm sure they're thrilled to have me," Xavier said, his voice dripping with a dry irony he usually kept to himself. "I'm serious. This is a chance to be the top dog without all the... history. A fresh start. No one knows about the—" He stopped himself, the word divorce hanging unspoken in the air. "No one knows anything. You can just be the brilliant kid you are."
Xavier finally looked up, his dark eyes locking onto his father's. "I was a brilliant kid back home, too. It didn't stop everything from breaking." His father winced, looking down at his soda. "Xavier..."
"I'm going to go finish unpacking my books," Xavier said, standing up before he could hear the apology he knew was coming. He grabbed his plate, threw the half-eaten slice in the trash, and headed back toward the stairs. "I want to be ready for tomorrow. I don't want to give them any reason to think I don't belong."