Chapter 1 — New Beginnings
Shae
The car rolled to a stop in front of Aunt Lacey’s house, and my chest tightened with a swirl of emotions I couldn’t quite untangle. The house was small and modest, its brick facade softened by the chipped white paint of the wrap-around porch. Potted plants—succulents, herbs, and a few resilient flowers—dotted the front yard, their colors muted by autumn’s chill. Wind chimes tinkled softly in the breeze, their sound mingling with the distant rustle of trees. It was inviting, almost too inviting, as if daring me to feel at home.
“This is it,” Aunt Lacey said softly, her tone carefully measured. I glanced at her as she sat behind the wheel, her hands gripping the steering wheel like she wasn’t sure if she should let go. A faint smile played on her lips, hopeful but hesitant, as though gauging how much enthusiasm I could handle.
I nodded, clutching my sketchbook tighter in my lap. I traced the edges of its faux leather cover with my fingers, grounding myself in the familiar texture. The coolness beneath my fingertips felt like a lifeline, keeping me steady in the face of too much change.
“It’s lovely,” I murmured. The words felt hollow, yet they weren’t untrue. The house had its charm, but it wasn’t home. Home was somewhere else—a place filled with warmth and the quiet hum of my dad’s favorite jazz records, where the scent of my mom’s cinnamon rolls lingered long after Sunday mornings.
Aunt Lacey turned off the engine, the sudden silence amplifying the weight of the moment. “Let me help you with your bags,” she offered, already reaching for her seatbelt.
“I’ve got it,” I said quickly, my voice firmer than intended. I shoved the car door open and stepped into the crisp autumn air. The faint scent of cinnamon and woodsmoke hung in the breeze, mixing with the earthy aroma of fallen leaves. The smell was comforting, stirring a memory just out of reach, like trying to catch the tail end of a dream.
I grabbed my suitcase from the trunk and followed Aunt Lacey up the porch steps, the wheels of the bag thudding softly against each one. She unlocked the door, pausing as if to give me a moment to adjust, then swung it open to reveal the warm glow of the interior.
The living room was cozy and unpretentious, with overstuffed couches layered in mismatched throw pillows. Shelves lined one wall, crowded with books, framed photos, and trinkets that whispered of a life well-lived. A faint scent of cinnamon lingered, stronger now, coming from a candle flickering on the coffee table.
“Make yourself at home,” Aunt Lacey said, her voice soft but steady. She glanced at me, her expression a mix of optimism and uncertainty. “I know it’s... a lot, but we’ll figure it out together.”
I nodded, swallowing hard. The effort she’d put into making this place feel welcoming was obvious, and I wanted to acknowledge it without betraying the ache in my chest. I forced a small smile. “Thanks.”
I wheeled my suitcase down the short hallway toward the spare bedroom, brushing my fingers against the smooth, unblemished doorframe. Unlike the worn wood of my old house, where every scratch and dent told a story, this house felt untouched, unfamiliar.
The bedroom was a picture of small-town wholesomeness, with its pale yellow walls and a quilted bedspread that looked handmade. A desk sat under the window, and I could already imagine myself sketching there, the afternoon light spilling over the page as I tried to make sense of the chaos in my head.
I set my sketchbook on the desk and sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. My gaze drifted around the room, taking in the unfamiliar details. This is your life now, I reminded myself.
A soft knock on the doorframe pulled me from my thoughts. Aunt Lacey stood there, holding a small wooden box with intricate carvings etched into the lid.
“This belonged to your mom,” she said, stepping into the room and sitting beside me.
I hesitated before reaching for the box, my fingers tracing the delicate floral patterns. The wood felt cool and smooth, grounding me in a way that was both comforting and painful. “What is it?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Her smile deepened with a touch of sadness. “Her recipe box. She used to scribble her favorite recipes on these little cards. It’s how she kept a piece of her family with her, no matter where she went.”
As she spoke, a memory bloomed in my mind—my mom in the kitchen, her sleeves rolled up as she chopped vegetables, humming along to the radio. The smell of her signature cinnamon rolls wafted through the air, and I’d sit at the counter, sketching her hands as they worked.
“I thought it might help,” Aunt Lacey continued gently. “Not just for the memories, but... it’s a good way to make this place feel like yours.”
My throat tightened as I opened the box, revealing stacks of recipe cards in my mom’s familiar handwriting. The sight of her neat, looping cursive made my chest ache, but it also felt like a piece of her had been returned to me.
I nodded, holding the box closer to my chest. “Thanks, Aunt Lacey.”
She patted my knee softly and gave me a reassuring smile before leaving me alone again. I glanced at the recipe box and then at my sketchbook, wondering how two pieces of my life—one anchored in family, the other in expression—might ever fit together again.
---
The next morning, Dalton High loomed in front of me like a fortress. Its brick facade was weathered, ivy creeping along one side, and the double doors seemed to swallow students in groups, their laughter and chatter blending into a chaotic hum.
I tightened the straps of my backpack, adjusting my oversized sweater like it was armor shielding me from the curious glances I could already feel.
“First days are always the hardest,” Aunt Lacey had said that morning over breakfast, her tone full of optimism I couldn’t quite share.
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly as I stepped inside, my sneakers squeaking against the polished floors. I ducked my head, pretending to study the map I’d been given at the front office. Around me, lockers slammed shut, and snippets of conversation floated through the air.
“She’s so new, she doesn’t even—”
“Practice is gonna suck if Coach—”
“Did you hear about—”
Turning a corner, I found the art room, its door propped open. Inside, easels stood like sentinels, canvases bursting with color, and the faint smell of turpentine and old paint hung in the air. The sight eased the tightness in my chest—a small flicker of familiarity in an otherwise foreign world.
“Are you lost?”
The voice startled me, and I turned to see a woman in a paint-splattered smock. Her dark hair was streaked with gray, and her kind smile softened her sharp features.
“No, I just... wanted to look around,” I said quickly.
“You must be the new student,” she said, her smile widening. “Shae Davis, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, if you ever need a place to breathe, this room’s always open. Creativity has a way of saying what words can’t. Maybe it’ll help you too.” She picked up a paintbrush from a nearby table, twirling it thoughtfully before setting it down again. “Sometimes, this space works wonders.”
Her words lingered as I left the room, a flicker of comfort sparking in my chest.
---
By lunchtime, I was overwhelmed. The cafeteria was a sea of cliques, each table its own island of familiarity and exclusion. I clutched my tray tightly, scanning for an empty seat.
“Hey, new girl!”
I turned to see a petite girl with dark wavy hair waving me over. Her sunflower earrings swung as she grinned, her outfit—a bright skirt paired with combat boots—radiating bold confidence.
“You look like you need a table,” she said as I approached. “I’m Lila. I’ve decided we’re going to be friends.”
Her declaration caught me off guard, and I hesitated, unsure of how to respond. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”
“None whatsoever,” she said, patting the seat beside her. “Sit down before the wolves start circling.”
I sat, clutching my tray like a lifeline. For the first time that day, I felt a spark of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this new beginning wouldn’t be impossible after all.
