Just You, Me, and the Stars

Nobody ever wants to move. There's something tragic about leaving a place you once called home. People leave their houses everyday though. For a nearly 13-year-old kid from Vegas, to be told he's moving to a small town in Florida, moving may just be the end of the world. Although it wasn't. My world had already ended when I had just turned 12, and we found my mom was sleeping around with guys. My dad was furious about this, so furious, he packed up our things and moved us to the state of alligators and old people.

"That's it!" he said, "pack up your things Ryan, we're leaving!"

My mom protested, guiltily, begging of forgiveness. Her cries and broken face still haunt my mind to this day.

We lived with my grandparents for a long time, each day my dad was searching for a job. He hoped to find one far, far away, so I wouldn't have to see my mom again. Of course, I did see her again, in the court cases and all that. She was found guilty of drug possession, and partaking in prostitution, so it wasn't that hard for my dad to win the custody battle. Soon he re-connected with one of his college buddies over Facebook, who told him about an open job in his line of work; an english professor at the local college.

So that, my father decided, was the thing we needed. A fresh new start in the middle of nowhere. We concluded to wait for me to finish my seventh grade year, moving in June.
Usually, boys my age would miss their friends, but I didn't have many of those. Not that I won't miss Brent, it's just that the only reason we're friends is because nobody else likes us. I'm not gonna play up the optimism and think "gee, golly, maybe I'll get friends when I move," because the reality of that is highly unlikely, and hey, I'm fully fine with being a pessimist.
The few people that choose to even care think it's quite sad, though. Already at such a young age, I think so negatively about things. Well hey, I just have a more realistic view on life than other kids my age, hell, I have a more realistic view on life than people twice my age.

It was a week after school ended when we packed up all our things, and left for Florida. Having to wake up extra early to get on the road on time, was not a great experience, and ended with me mouthing off my dad as he exhaustedly fought back, not wanting deal with it this early in the morning. I did, however, get out of bed and lug some of my stuff into the car, and put the other stuff in the moving truck. We set off, destined to never come back except for the occasional visit to my grandparents.

At this point in time, I did not think much about how this would affect me. Florida and Las Vegas are two completely different locations, and as much as I hate to admit, my personality isn't quite suited for the sunny get away state. Though I really had no choice in this, and I understand why we're doing it, but is it selfish to think that coming all the way out to who-knows-where, Florida is a bit unnecessary?

"This'll be a good change for us, Ryan," my father tells me as we're on the flight. I see the circles under his eyes, cursed there by the endless nights of staying up past 2 am, bottles of alcohol being his only companions.

I brush off his comment, bitterly thinking about the no good town we're ending up in.
About 4 hours after we've boarded, and the plane lands, reality catches up with me, because I realize that, yeah, this is actually happening. I look towards my father, sleeping in his seat beside me. Reaching out to gently shake his shoulder, he stirs as I grab for one of my suitcases. I don't wait up for him when I make my way off the plane.

We're walking to the airport doors, passed a petite blonde girl with a sickening smile, so fake it makes me roll my eyes, and when she tells us to, "Enjoy our time," I send a razor sharp glare over my shoulder.

"Ryan, what's gotten into you?" my dad asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.

"What do you mean?" I quietly answer, not bothering to sound interested.
His grey eyebrows crease up in worry, and he stops walking as we reach outside the doors. I stop a moment later looking back at him.

"This is it for us Ryan, things'll be better here," he reaches out to me.

I stare at him, empty eyes boring into his, and wait for him to catch up to me before following him to where we need to go. Had my mom not been screwing around with guys, I wouldn't be here right now.

To make things a whole lot better than living in some unknown town in Florida, my dad's college buddy just so happened to live in the only part of this place that could be considered 'the middle of nowhere', making it a good 30 minute walk from where I'll live to any source of human life other than the neighbours.

As we drive on the road, grassy fields and hills surrounding us, I hum along to the radio despite my grumpy mood. My dad has a weird Beatles obsession, and let's just say, it kinda rubbed off on me. But, hey, wouldn't you like them too if the only music you heard around your house was the Beatles for a good year or two?

"Almost there, Ryan," my father reminds me, his shaky fingers trying to steady on the wheel.

At the end of the street, I can see an area of houses. There are 15 lined in a circle, a forest at the back of them. The houses are fairly large, and much space is surrounding the cluster. A hill, much larger than the ones seen on the way here, stands tall, a long ways in the distance, away from the homely area, with smaller hills surrounding it. I can see people moving around near the hills, kids that I can't tell the ages of. No doubtably some of my new neighbours. Great I'm living with hillbillies aren't I?

The houses grow closer as we drive more, and I notice adults that have gathered at one house, which I assume is mine. Oh, wait a second... They're an active community, aren't they? The kind of neighbours that all get along, and actively go out together, and have each other over for dinner. I think I'm gonna be sick.

"George!" the voice of a man calls as the windows are being rolled down.

Someone about my dad's age with dark, black-like hair is waving his hand. My dad looks to me as he parks the car, rolling the windows up again, and opening the door.

"Do you need any help with boxes?" a small woman beside the man asks, stepping forward.

"No, no, we're fine. Moving trucks will be here in a day or 2, and all we brought were essentials for now," my dad smiles at the woman, a friendly gesture.

The crowd of adults step back, giving us space. They promise a dinner at one of their houses, which my dad pays attention long enough to know who's houses it's at. I moodily grab my suitcase, put my backpack on my back, grab another of my bags, and walk into my new house.
It's very empty. Something I was expecting, of course, I'm not stupid. I just wasn't entirely sure how empty it'd seem. But as I could see, the hardwood flooring was shiny, white walls bright, and a grand foyer topped off the entrance place. Everything looked very clean, and un-lived in. I understood that it was quite possible that there had not been anyone living in this house for months now, but it was slightly unnerving. I creeped up the staircase, arms protesting as I carried my body weight in bags. Skipping the master bedroom, I found the room I assumed was to be mine. The walls were painted blue, closet on the left hand side. Inside was a bed already. I was told by my dad that his friend had bought new beds for them, so they didn't have to bring them along in the move. This bed was big and squishy as I sat down, unlike the small bed that hurt my back at my hou- my old house. I dropped my bags into my floor, rolling onto my back on the bed, concentrating on making my headache go away.

"We're going now, son!" my father calls from down the stairs.

My headache increases in pain just thinking about having dinner with a bunch of people I don't know. Grudgingly, I roll off my bed, trudging down the stairs and out the door, my dad at my side.
We only go to the house next over. How convenient. I look over to the field with the big hill, and I notice the group of kids I saw earlier, nearing to cross the street. They stare at me and talk in hushed voices, obviously judging me. My skin crawls in self-consciousness, picking up my pace so I can get in before they cross the street.

"Oh George, come in, come in!" the lady that I remember talking before ushered us in, "So, you must be Ryan. It's nice to meet you, honey. I'm Isobel."

I politely smile at the woman, at a loss of words. I may be a dick sometimes, but I like to make good impressions. As my dad catches up with his old friends, I shimmy away from the group.

"You can go to the living room, honey, it's just right there. Go ahead and put some TV on," Isobel kindly notices my fleeing.

I nod back at her and shuffle to the living room. A carpeted flooring, the walls are mint coloured, the TV sitting on in a cabinet. The couch, I notice, is made of a soft, grey, fabric, and I find myself comforting as I dip into the cushion. A black remote with colourful buttons catches my attention and I pick it up, surfing through the channels. As I settle on some vaugely familiar cartoon, I can hear the front door open, the voices of children following. Suddenly,

Before I know it, a group of kids too big for me to count just by looking, flow into the living room, each snapping out of their previous conversations and peering at me. It was as if they were deciding whether the new boy was cool enough to talk to.

"Oh, hey I love this show!" a short boy with black hair jumped onto the couch, taking the remote and turning the volume up a bit. The others looked a bit unimpressed with his behaviour.

"So you're the new Ross boy," another short boy stated, although he looked older than many of us in the room, though not by much.

The tension broke, and people began to gather around me and the TV.

"You gotta go through initiation, kid," the same boy looked to me.

Hopefully I didn't look as uncomfortable as I felt.

"We can do that after dinner," a boy, seemingly his age, with big, curly, brown hair assured.

The room was quiet, except for the volume of the TV, captivating our minds with whatever these animated characters were up to. Some dared to look at me, though each time I caught them, resulting in their heads to fleetingly turn away. So I intimidated them. Good.

"Kids! It's time for dinner!" one of the parents called for us.

The crowd rushed to the dining room, leaving me to lazily pick myself up off of the couch. I was left alone except for another boy with dorky red glasses on. He wore a lavender coloured sweater, his black hair showing underneath his hood. He looked up at me, confidently, with friendly brown eyes, and then he got up and started walking. I noticed that I wasn't actually leaving, just staring at the boy, when he looked back, as if to question whether I was coming or not. I broke eye contact, looking down at my feet, and when I looked back up, he was gone. I followed the direction where everyone went.

For a lot of the dinner, the questions were aimed at my dad, some asked to me, but I tried my best, keeping answers short, or dodging them somehow. A chubby, ginger kid with big glasses, who I learned was named Patrick, got in trouble for eating the rest of the buns, and a small boy with messy hair, and glasses that sat on his nose, named Mikey, accidentally spilled the gravy on the talkative red head girl named Hayley. She then stood up, pushing her chair back hitting the dog, who yelped and barked and ran around, running into the one guy with the really curly brown hair, Ray, while he was putting his dishes on the counter, making him trip and sending the dishes flying, hitting a grumpy kid named Spencer. Spencer didn't get overly hurt, but he did glare at Ray, who pointed to Hayley, who shoved Mikey in his seat. All I did was stare, wide eyed, as the events unfolded.

"Allright, how's about you kids go back outside now," a larger woman with dark brown hair suggested, irritated.

"And you guys be nice to Ryan, bring him along, become friends," Isobel called as some were clearing out. I had no choice but to follow them now.

"Just follow us," Pete tapped my shoulder and ran off ahead.

A few joined him in running, but there were still some of us left walking. I felt awkward, walking quietly as some talked in small voices to each other. It took us only 5 minutes to reach the large hill. Surrounding us were grassy patches, giant tires, bunches of trees, and a playground complete with swings. I stopped walking and stood, as everyone found somewhere to sit down, staring at me expectantly. Pete cleared his throat and stood up.

"So, Ryan. You have to go through an initiation thing. All of us did it, and since you live here now, you have to, too," Pete informs me.

"And what if I, um, don't?" I ask, unsure if I should have asked according to Pete's suddon frown.

"Well, then you can't really hang out with us," he answers.

"What are we, 5-?"

"Ok, there's not a lot we can do to stop us from hanging out, what with our parents being friends and all, but I mean, it's to be accepted," Pete interupts me, rolling his eyes.

To be accepted? I've never been accepted. This is a really lame thing to get all excited over. Oh god I'm such a loser.

"Fine. I'll do it," I stand up straight confidently, "Um, what exactly am I doing?"

The faces looking at me, break into grins.

"You see those tires over there?" Pete points in the direction of said objects.

I nod, reluctantly turning to see them.

"And you see that hill?"

My stomach lurches as I realize what I'm about to do.

"But-" I began, panicked.

"You have to Ryan, if you want to be accepted," Pete frowns. Come on, Ryan. It's not that bad. You'll be accepted by people. What has my life become that I would risk my life, just to be accepted?

Ray and another boy with messy black hair stand up and head to retrieve one of the tires.

"Brendon, you go with him," Pete points to the boy in the lavender sweater with red glasses.

"Me?" he asks, calmly, and as Pete nods, he gets up too, starting to climb the hill. I soon follow him, my steps shakier and shakier as I near the destination.

As the tire is set on the top of the hill, I look at the size of it. It's big enough for two to stand in on either side. Ray and the other guy are holding it still. Brendon climbs in first, reaching up to grab onto the insides. I stagger over, getting help in by the boy with messy black hair. I immediately grab hold to the top on the inside. Pete is now standing beside the wheel looking at me. He smiles, and I'm relieved to see it's not a smile that makes me more scared, it's more of an excited smile.

"Okay, now, Gerard and Ray here are gonna push you down in the tire. You will go upside down, be prepared for that. And whatever you do, do notlet go.Got it? Ok."

I nod at Pete, then look down, feeling nauseous. My face is pale, I can tell, and my stomach is fluttering, as my heart beats at rapid pace.

"Hey," I look up at Brendon. He gives me a reassuring smile, "It's going to be ok. I was scared my first time, too. Trust me, it's fun, and we wouldn't let you do anything dangerous. I wouldn't be here with you if I thought you'd get hurt. Now relax."

I stare at him, his words repeating my head, and I smile. Suddenly the tire tips forward.

"DON'T LET GO!" Pete yells as we begin to roll down the hill.

My heart feels like it's going to jump out of my chest, and I stop myself from biting my tounge, holding in the scream that is dying to get out. I squeeze my eyes shut, as the pace picks up, humming softly because I can't keep from making any noise. But I open my eyes again, and Brendon is looking at me, and he's smiling, and screaming, and the wind is in my hair, and it's my hair. I can't bring myself to look away from his trustworthy eyes. And then suddenly, we slow down, and the tire slowly spins in a circle, before flopping down onto the ground, just like a coin.

Brendon gets out first. I stay lying there for 30 seconds, before sitting up, popping my head out of the tire, looking around expectantly. And I smile as cheers erupt from the group. Rounds of "I wanna go!", or, "Me next!" breaks out. I lift my leg up over the tire, stepping out, wobbly walking as I regain my balance. Laughter escapes my lips.

"See, Ry, I told you you'd have fun," Brendon laughs too, as he regains his balance, stumbling over his feet.

Ry. I've been given a nick name. I've never had a nick name. I have no life wow.

"Was that so bad?" Pete catches up to me, grinning. I roll my eyes smiling at him, "Welcome to the group, kid."

The fact that he's calling me kid, yet I'm pretty sure he's only a year older than me, doesn't affect me like it would normally, because I'm too enveloped in the idea of being 'part of the group'.

As people take turns going down the hill, I laugh and cheer them on. I end up even going down 2 more times before I feel too sick for more. The sun starts setting and the mosquitos are torturous, but nobody cares right now, because we lie in the grass and sit on the swings.

"My mom was dancing to Madonna yesterday," Frank, the enerjetic short kid that jumped on the couch a few hours before, admits.

"Oh my god," Gerard scrunches his face up. "Our mom still has her disco clothes, and she puts them on when she thinks Mikes and I aren't home."

"Yeah, it's really weird!" Mikey turns over, onto his stomach.

"Moms are so weird," Greta, a geeky girl who wears her wavy blonde hair in large pigtails, states.

"What's up with your mom, Ryan?" Pete asks me.

"Yeah, where's she? What does she do?" Frank pushes.

I tense up, uncomfortably. Taking a deep breath and frowning, I feel anger boil up inside of me.

"My mom is a whore," I simply state. "She's a dirty, lying, cheating, no good whore." Shocked stares come my way. I glare at the ground, then my expression softens. "At least that's what my dad says when he's drunk and doesn't think I can hear... can we- can we not talk about my mom?"

"Sure thing, dude," Ray clears his throat.

The conversation lightens up after a minute of awkwardness before Patrick starts talking about music. I confess my Beatles guilty pleasure, surprised to hear that a guy named Jon likes them, too. Then we go onto to talk about punk bands, and Hayley complains that all of the bands that we're talking about have no female members, then she goes on to list some good female fronted bands and musicians.

We get told to go back home, and I slowly get up, though everyone's already left pretty much. I smile to myself, thinking about my evening that I was oh so releuctant to even go through with. I think of all the friends I've made, and how I actually had fun for once.

"You're actually pretty cool," I look up, surprised to see that Brendon hasn't left yet.

"Um, thanks," I look to the younger boy, "You're pretty cool, too."

He smiles at me and we walk back together.

***