Change.

The only thing I need is change, or at least that’swhat Mom says. What she really means is that my parents are doing the next, last option: moving me in with my aunt at the outskirts of Cleveland, Ohio.

Yep . . . Ohio.

We drive our SUV from Brooklyn to the middle of nowhere on I-90 West. In New York, we were in bumper-to-bumper traffic, whereas here, seventy is listed as the speed limit. I haven’t seen an exit for twenty miles, let alone a rest stop. Our car travels on the Berkshires, winding uphill until my ears pop. The window paints a picturesque landscape full of forest greens, caramels, and ambers.

Dad rolls down his window, his hand sticks out, and he waves his arm, like it’s swimming. Because

I’m sitting behind him, the breeze blows into my eyes. I shut them. “Dad, could you—”

“I know, I know.” He rolls up the window. “It’s just the smell of nature. I love it!”

For a while, my parents hold hands, his thumb circling around Mom’s pointer finger as she sighs for the tenth time within two minutes. She glances into his eyes while he continues to zoom past the car on our right. They think I can’t hear them because I was listening to a burned Linkin ParkCD, but my player died two hours ago.

“Jenn, this’ll be a good thing,” Dad says and kisses her hand. She smiles weakly, very weakly, yet the crease on her brow gives her away. Mom’s complexion is made-up with a flowery dress and jean jacket; it took her a half hour to decide which outfit she’d wear.

“Maybe she should be homeschooled again.” She stares out the side window. “You said it yourself: she only has one year left of high school, and then she can do whatever she pleases.”

Dad rubs one eye while keeping the other on the road. We wear the same attire: sweatpants, sweatshirts, and a small ponytail. However, unlike me, it works for him. “If we continue with homeschooling, she’ll end up living with us for a majority of her life.” Once we’re on an abandoned section of the highway, he stares at Mom. “Is that what you want?”

Say yes, Mom . . . Say yes.

“I guess not.” She leans on Dad’s shoulder with another sigh, and internally, I sink. “I just can’t leavemy baby for an entire year.”

“It’s only until Christmas. Aunt Vicky and Rhiannon will drive to New York.” Mom’s eyebrows raise, and I can’t help but scoff at that comment. Aunt Vicky will drive us? She hates driving in Cleveland, let alone New York. While visiting Mom at NYU way back when, Vicky got in three fender-benders and had a near-death experience. She swears off driving anywhere near New York state.

“Okay . . . they’ll fly,” he says. “Rhie can show your sister the ropes of New York City! Didn’t you tell me Vicky hadn’t been there in twenty years?”

“She went to Manhattan for an art conference, but she didn’t sightsee. Plus, she only comes to Brooklyn once a year at Christmas. You would think that with all the world traveling she does, she’d be an expert at the United States.”

“Maybe she’ll explore good ol’ U-S-and-A, since this is her last year of teaching.” He nudges Mom and wiggles his eyebrows. “Only eight more years until you become retired.”

“Just because my sister and I have an eight-year age gap doesn’t mean I’ll retire in that many years.” She laughs and squeezes his hand. “But maybe if we took Vicky to see the sights of Manhattan, it would inspire her to move back home. We have an extra bedroom, anyway.”

“See?” Dad knocks elbows with Mom’s shoulder again. “This’ll be a great opportunity for her, for all of us. All we need is—”

Change. Rhiannon will thrive at HawkenSchool. She’ll make many friends, just like her old school. Hopefully, she’ll break out of her introverted shell and be happy . . . always happy. Perhaps she’ll get a boyfriend, or at least a date for all the school dances. After what happened last year, a new school, new scenery, new life might be a pleasant surprise.

Change is good.

It’s the same lines I’ve heard since May when Aunt Vicky volunteered to have me stay with her in Richmond Heights.

The. Exact. Same. Thing.

And I can’t take this anymore.

Taking off my headset, I lean forward with a wide grin, a grin that says, I need you to stop talking, or I’ll start crying again.

“What are you guys talking about?”

Dad reaches behind his seat and squeezes my knee. “Just talking about how much we’re going to miss you.” He glances at me in the rearview mirror, and I lean back on the window. The wooden landscape zooms by, tree after tree after tree. The sun is clear without a cloud in the azure. Once October hits, I won’t see the sun until April because of Ohio’s gray skies.

Mom and Dad silence themselves for the rest of the car ride. He turns on the XM Radio, listening to Christmas carols year-round. Even though I used to hate this type of music before Thanksgiving, I enjoy it now because it means winter’s coming, and half the school year is gone.

The final three hours are serene with a twenty-minute power nap. When I wake up, Dad flicks the right blinker and turns on the exit ramp. A two-lane street appears for miles and —

“There!” Mom yells and points.

Dad slams on the brakes: SCREECH! I hold on to my punching bag so it doesn’t fly through the front windshield. Multiple cars swerve out of our car’s way, yet as my ears perk up, expecting noises, I hear nothing.

That’s weird.

He turns on the hazard lights and backs up twenty yards, continuing into Aunt Vicky’s driveway. Her house is two stories tall with a basement, a farmer’s porch, and a path ending at the foot of an outdoor stairwell. On either side of the cobblestones, giant bronze heads blend in amongst the garden.

Once the ignition is turned off, my parents jump out of the car and walk to be greeted by Vicky waving her arms above her head as she steps off the rocking chair. I freeze and can’t move. This is a good thing, Rhiannon, really good. Fresh start, fresh environment, fresh change.

With a deep breath, I slide out of the car and stare at the two-lane street practically empty of cars passing by. After I turn around, Aunt Vicky embraces Mom and then shakes hands with Dad. It’s been three years since we saw each other for more than a day, yet she looks the same. Her hair is dyed auburn, her eyes are the same brown hue as mine, and her tight curls bounce with each step. I used tobe tanner, but now we’re alike, and the one thing I’ve known about Vicky is her wardrobe: different shades of black and blue with fluorescent-colored earrings and necklaces.

When she spots me, her eyes grow wide. “That’s

Rhiannon?” She looks at Mom and back at me. “I . . . I wouldn’t even recognize her. How much weight has she lost since I last saw her?”

Thirty pounds, give or take.

“Let’s go inside,” Mom says and guides Vicky off the farmer’s porch. They step into the house with

Dad following, leaving me alone outside. My aunt has two buildings; one is a regular house and the other a studio for her art. The two times I visited her were amazing. She taught me how to weld and blow glass. But the last time I visited her was freshman year, and when I started hanging out with friends over summer, I declined her invitations. For junior year, she didn’t even attempt to ask. When she stared at my weight loss as a huge shock, I should have known our relationship had completely disappeared.

Once I enter the house, I see the decorations are similar and completely different. I remembered the furniture being placed in identical spots, yet the actual pieces are altered; the walls were always filled to the brim with paintings, photographs, and mono prints, but the artwork has changed. Above the entertainment system, lights lay across the counter.

The display shelf carries some more bronze heads, and in between two shelves is a framed tapestry with the embroidering, “Fore Play.” Her small television has an antenna, and on the back wall, hundreds of DVDs stack behind glass cases.

As I walk through the small hallway, more artwork hangs in the quaint kitchen. I open her refrigerator to notice the abundance of greens, filtered water, and a dozen eggs. On top of the refrigerator, many wine bottles are propped up, and as I open the cabinets, zero paper plates are here, only ceramic ones. Aunt Vicky reaches for a bottle and grabs the cork opener.

“Did you guys make it here okay?” She twists the screw until it doesn’t move: POP! After she pours a glass for herself and Mom, she pours a tiny glass and hands it to me.

“No, thank you,” I say and stare at the tile. “I don’t drink.”

“I know you don’t.” She laughs. “But tonight, I’m letting you. Tomorrow is your first day at Hawken School, and we have to celebrate!” She holds the glass closer to me. The burgundy liquid bubbles swishing around.

Before I can protest, Dad walks up to me and lays his hand on my shoulder. “She can’t. She needs to help me with her stuff from the car, and you know me, I’m weak and fragile.”

He could have said, “She’s weak, she’s fragile,” but he doesn’t.

Aunt Vicky is persistent. “Kirk, it’s just a little—”

“We’ll do it right now. Catch up with your sister,” he says and practically dashes us out of the house.

For the next hour, we unload the car in silence, Dad bringing my belongings to the bottom of the stairs and me carrying them up into my new bedroom. The spare room is next to Aunt Vicky’s, but it’s closed. There’s a sign reading, “Do not enter until Halloween begins!”

I didn’t bring too many items, just the necessities, and the last bag I brought is my small stuffed giraffe named Maybelline. I toss her against the headboard, bouncing off the bed and onto the floor. Next to the door is the upstairs phone with a cord between the phone and receiver (I didn’t think those existed anymore!). As I am about to leave, a hanging calendar catches my eyes with Monet’s lily pads. On top, it reads, “September 2022.”

The only thing left is my precious punching bag, Joy.

“Aunt Vicky?” I peek into the dining room. “Where should I put this?” I point to Joy, and her brow frowns.

“Um . . .” She stands and looks around. “I think downstairs? And please, I prefer Tori now.” It is everything in my power not to roll my eyes.

I call Dad from outside, and he scurries by my side. With him holding the front and me holding the back, we carry the bag carefully down the rickety steps. Aunt Vicky’s—I mean, Aunt Tori’s— washroom is cramped, so we shuffle past the half bathroom and into the unfinished basement with a printed seashell couch. Four blank canvases sit in the corner with a wooden closed case near it.

When I glance at the overhanging boxes, I see labels in Mom’s handwriting. She probably shipped items she knew I wouldn’t want. They weren't important to me anymore, like fashionable dresses, tops, and jeans, and three photo albums stuffed to the max. Those pictures should make me smile, the black-and-white pictures of snow in Manhattan, Sadie and I at the color powder 5K, and the guy whom I loved gazing out the window at Vinegar Hill House restaurant. Sometimes, memories should be treasured, while others, like these, should be destroyed.

Then, I do a double take: Fujifilm X-T4. Why would Dad even bother packing that? He knew, knows, how I can’t photograph anymore. I jump as high as I can and push the unopened camera farther against the wall. Mom and Tori still chat and echo through the basement, but as soon as he runs up the stairs to shut the door, he cups his hand to his ear: silence.

Joy and I will enjoy the basement.

Dad adjusts the punching bag to the opposite side of the room. Placing the punching gloves on the dryer, he lifts an invisible microphone and mimics the echo. “Ladies . . . ladies, ladies, ladies and gentlemen . . . men, men, men . . . I give you . . . you, you, you, the incredible . . . ble, ble, ble . . . Rhiannon ‘The Beast’ Broderick . . . rick, rick, rick!”

He points at me as I put on my gloves. I change my voice so it’s whiny. “Uh, thank you very much.Don’t worry, I promise the match will be very quick and very painful, for my opponent, not for me, of course.”

For the next five minutes, I release my frustration and anxiety, pouring my soul with each punch. Although I usually have the music of Linkin Park to pump me up, an encouraging Dad is even better.

“Children?” Mom opens the door. “Time for dinner!”

Dad speaks into the invisible microphone. “Coming . . . ing, ing, ing.” Before we rush up the stairs, his arms hovers around my waist and shoulders. I close my eyes and nod. With one arm on my shoulder and his other arm on my back, he embraces me for the first time since January. “I’m so proud of you, Rhiannon. Really, I am.”

My eyes fly open, and his water. I thought he was disappointed in me, the same way it seems everyone viewed me nowadays. But as I stand wrapped in his arms, I know that’s not the case.

Maybe change is a good thing after all.

“I’m gonna call you every night, whether it’s Tori’s cell phone or the house,” he says and breaks away to look at me. “You’re positive about no cell phone? Maybe an iPhone or a Galaxy? Or how about a Tracfone?”

I tilt my head. “What’s a Tracfone?”

“Never mind,” and he chuckles.

Once we release, he brings me a CD folder and opens it. As he flips the pages, around ten crisp white discs fill the multiple pages of the binder, each one labeled, “Dad’s Mixtape,” with a number.

“Just in case you get sick of your music.”

“I doubt it.” I shut the thick binder. “But thank you.”

“Plus, each one has a Dad Joke written by your old man. I should label everything, especially the chocolate records. Those are pretty sweet.” A smile grows on his face as he wiggles his eyebrows.

Sighing, I shake my head while smacking my forehead. “Daddddd . . .”

He chuckles as I hop up the stairs. Mom and Aunt Tori are already eating while Dad and I fill our plates. After we sit down, Aunt Tori stops mid-chew and looks at my dish. “You don’t like my chicken?”

I look at Mom and then at my aunt. “I’m a vegetarian.”

“Last time I saw you, you could take your father to a chicken wing eating contest.” She glances at

Dad. “That was, what, last Christmas?” I stare at my plate and all the vegetables it carries.

Christmas was before New Year’s Eve.

New Year’s Eve was before New Year’s Day.

New Year’s Day was before—

Mom holds my hand. “A lot has changed for little Rhiannon.” If I glance up, I will break down, so I stare at my food and wonder how hungry I truly am.

My aunt’s gaze burns a hole in my scalp. She clicks her tongue, but she doesn’t say anything. Dad changes the subject to how enthusiastic I must be feeling going to the private academy of Hawken School. Because Aunt Tori is an art teacher there, I attend for free. Mom, Dad, and Tori engage with one another, laughing and reminiscing about previous family gatherings. Tori’s phone lays front-side up, and it vibrates. A picture of a man pops up. She flips her phone over.

“Who’s that?” I point to it.

She smiles. “Don’t worry about it.”

I’m silent for the rest of dinner, but my mind whirls nonstop questions. Will I get homesick being away from my parents? Will I miss Dad’s corny jokes? And, most importantly, How much does Tori know about the reason for coming to Ohio?

When everyone finishes, Aunt Tori slides out her chair and stands with her plate. I sit and wait, staring at the lack of food before me. Mom whispers to Dad, the frown on his face growing. I wonder what—

And then, Aunt Tori wraps her arms around my neck. It’s meant to be for a hug, yet it feels like a boa constructor squeezing its prey. I’m frozen and stiff, goosebumps form along my body, my esophagus tightens, and the hair at the back of my neck sticks up. I pant, my heart pounding against my chest, my breathing unsteady.

“Say something!” he shrieked. I hit his chest, his fist, and at one point, his face, but my punches were weak against his muscular arm.

I push out my chair and knock my aunt backward in the stomach. “S-s-sorry.” I stumble out of my seat and steady myself. But my rapid heartbeat doesn’t stop, and my left leg quivers. The breaths in and out of my lungs are quick, like a rabbit when someone steps too close. My vision blurs no matter how wide my eyes expand. Black spots sporadically hit my eyes. I gaze at the reclining chair, the television, different pieces of artwork, but those dots keep popping up. I shut my eyes and attempt to steady my breath.

Is another blackout coming on?

“Rhie?” Aunt Tori whispers. As I open my eyes, she glances at me, confused about what is happening, and then stares at Mom.

Before Tori opens her mouth, I say, “I-I’m just tired, that’s all. I-I-I’m gonna head in early.” Her eyes drift to the back porch; it’s still light out, not even sunset.

Once she nods, I climb the stairs, sit on my bed, and lean forward, trying to catch the air by hanging my head below my knees. I try to clear my mind, to meditate, to make my head blank, but nothing’s working. I shoot my head up and look at objects around: a nightstand with a water bottle and a digital clock, a tiny closet that has been painted speckled colors, and a plastic grocery bag tucked in the corner.

It’ll have to do.

I grab the bag, tie it tight, and breathe into the plastic. Come on, Rhiannon, go to your happy place.High grasses, open fields, rustic barn, three horses. No one’s here for miles upon miles upon miles . . .

Gradually, I open my eyes with my breath even, and I lie down on the old mattress, stretching to grab Maybelline off the floor and holding her tight.

Although I’ve only seen places like my happy place in Western films, being so isolated from everyone would be a wonder. The mental visual of that location is heaven because no one can find me. Cleveland and even Richmond Heights are too crowded for me now. I roll on my side and shake my head; this is not how I wanted my first day in Ohio to be like.

At least I didn’t black out.

After a few moments, everything returns to normal, and I grab the suitcase in my new room. The mattress takes up most of the floor space. The tiny dresser with a television is at the end of the bed. There’s a giant, creepy doll with huge eyes staring at me, and I turn it around. I unpack my clothes, toiletries, and necessary school supplies and toss them in the room’s corner. Finally, I finish unpacking as much as possible and throw into the DVD player a classic black-and-white film. Then I hear someone whining through the air vent. Scooting to the shaft, I listen by putting the film on mute and leaning closer to the floor.

“I don’t understand why you won’t tell me.” Aunt Tori’s louder than normal. “You were crying when you begged for me to take her.”

Mom sighs a loud, long sigh, and another chair slides across the floor. “Kirk,” Mom says. “We really need to tell her.”

“I know,” he says. “I just don’t want to relive it.”

As he runs up the stairs, I dash into bed, shut the lights, and close the door. Although I don’t turn off the television, I flip away from the door, shutting my eyes. When Dad opens, he whispers, “Rhiannon?”

My lungs fill with as much oxygen as possible and release it with a tiny snore. He walks closer and hovers around me, but I won’t open my eyes. After he kisses my forehead, he backs up and closes the door.

At ten o’clock, Mom and Tori scamper up the stairs and fall asleep. I’m stuck listening to the sound of crickets, the occasional car zooming, and the air conditioner in Tori’s room. There’s nothing like the “silence” of New York: Chinese takeout at 3 a.m., singing at all hours of the day, and celebrations with friends and strangers.

Tossing and turning, my mind won’t shut off, so I creep down the stairs and boil some milk to help me fall asleep. Once the milk bubbles, I sit on the rocking chair in the enclosed patio and sip the scalding liquid. There’s no AC in this corner of the house, but it’s nice. In Aunt Tori’s backyard, the terrain sharply swoops down to a stream. On the other side of the creek, multimillion-dollar homes fill the streets an acre apart, identical with different colors, their lights turned off. However, one house remains alive, and if I perk my ears, I can hear the booming of abase.

I bet they’re seniors. I bet they’re having a blast, focusing on “the end of an era” and living it up. I bet girls are losing their virginity, and tomorrow, they will secretly tell one friend while the guys scream the news to the world.

For one second, I wish I had the guts to enter the stranger’s home, put on a happy-go-lucky smile, and eventually, be one of the popular crowd again. For one second, I think, Must be nice.

But after last year, I doubt I’ll ever be friends with anyone again.