Chapter 1 — Arrivals and Anchors

Aurora

The first thing I noticed about Greenhill was how quiet it was. Not the kind of quiet that’s peaceful—it was the kind that makes you feel like you’re under a microscope. Every pair of eyes in this town—whether human, bird, or squirrel—seemed locked on our U-Haul as it crawled down Main Street. Shopfronts with faded signs advertised things like “Betty’s Flowers” and “Hargrove Hardware,” and an old man in a rocking chair outside the general store gave us a slow, deliberate nod. I half-expected someone to step out with a clipboard to take notes on the newcomers, or maybe unfurl a banner: “Welcome, Outsiders. Try Not to Ruin Anything.”

“This place is…a postcard,” I muttered, staring at the too-perfect red-brick buildings and towering oak trees lining the road. Late afternoon sunlight dappled the sidewalk, where a couple of kids rode bikes and a woman carried a basket of groceries. It was all so picturesque that I felt like we’d accidentally driven into one of those old-fashioned TV shows Dad occasionally watched for “research.”

Dad, seated in the driver’s seat with his usual laser focus, didn’t respond right away. That was typical Coach Barnes—always locked in on the task at hand. Behind us, my three brothers were crammed into the minivan, probably arguing over which box held the Xbox or who got the biggest bedroom.

“Postcards are nice, Aurora,” Dad finally said, his tone firm but patient. “And sometimes a fresh start is just what a team needs.”

A fresh start. Right. I repeated the phrase under my breath, trying to suppress the mix of anxiety and dread that had been churning in my stomach ever since Dad announced the move. A new school, a new town, a whole new bunch of strangers with their inside jokes and unspoken rules. And me? I’d be the girl who didn’t know which hallway led to the cafeteria or how to avoid the algebra teacher’s death glare.

The U-Haul slowed even further as we turned onto Sycamore Lane. Our street was lined with neat, tidy houses, each with pristine flowerbeds and lawns that looked like they were auditioning for a suburban calendar. I spotted ours right away: a pale blue two-story home with a wraparound porch and white shutters. It looked like the kind of house you’d see on the cover of a magazine for people who loved baking pies and organizing PTA fundraisers in their spare time.

Except we were not that family.

When Dad parked the truck, I climbed out and stretched my legs, taking in the quiet cul-de-sac. It felt less suffocating here than on Main Street, but not by much. A golden retriever barked in a nearby yard, and a woman stepped onto her porch, waving with a cheerful, “Welcome to Greenhill!”

“Thanks!” Dad called back, his voice carrying the authoritative warmth he used with his players.

“Alright, team, let’s unload!” he added, clapping his hands like we were about to start drills.

My brothers poured out of the minivan like a pack of overgrown puppies, immediately jostling each other for no reason except that they could. Jordan, the eldest at 22 and built like a linebacker, took charge with his usual air of authority, barking orders at Ethan and Miles, who ignored him like it was a competitive sport.

“Hey, Aurora, grab a box and make yourself useful,” Ethan teased, tossing a duffel bag in my direction without warning.

I caught it, but not before shooting him a glare. “You know, Ethan, your motivational pep talks are truly inspiring. Have you considered writing a self-help book?”

Miles snorted, and Ethan stuck out his tongue like the mature 18-year-old he was. Before it could escalate, Jordan intervened, hauling an armful of boxes toward the porch like we were in the middle of a Strongman competition.

I lingered at the back of the truck, pretending to look for something important while the boys bickered. The truth was, I wasn’t ready to step inside the house just yet. Something about it felt too…final. Like crossing some invisible line between Dallas and whatever this was supposed to be.

The inside smelled faintly of fresh paint and sawdust—a combination that screamed “new beginnings” whether I liked it or not. My sneakers squeaked on the hardwood floors as I carried a box labeled “Aurora’s Room” up the stairs, trying to ignore the chaos behind me.

My room was smaller than my old one, but it had a big window overlooking the backyard, where a scraggly oak tree stood like it had been waiting for someone to notice it. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting shifting patterns on the floor. I set the box on the bed and opened it, digging through books and random knickknacks until my fingers brushed something smooth and cool.

The charm bracelet.

I pulled it out, letting the delicate silver chain dangle between my fingers. The tiny charms—a football, a flower, a book, and a star—swung lightly, making a faint metallic chime. Mom had given it to me on my tenth birthday, back when life felt simpler and my biggest worry was whether my brothers would eat all the pizza before I got a second slice. I hadn’t worn it much lately—it felt too precious, too fragile—but now, sitting in this unfamiliar room, it felt like the only familiar thing in the world.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my thumb tracing the tiny football charm. Mom had added it after I finished my first flag football season with my brothers. She’d always found ways to remind me I was just as capable as them, even when I didn’t believe it myself.

The last time I’d worn the bracelet was at her funeral.

I closed my eyes, the weight of the bracelet suddenly heavy in my hand. Her voice echoed in my mind, warm and steady, like it always had been. “You’ve got this, Aurora. Just be yourself.”

I wanted to believe her. I really did.

This was my chance, wasn’t it? My clean slate. A blank page where I could figure out who I was without being just “Coach Barnes’ daughter” or “Jordan’s little sister.” Maybe this little town, with its postcard streets and suffocating silences, could be where I finally figured out what just Aurora looked like.

When I wandered back downstairs, the living room was a disaster zone of half-unpacked furniture and cardboard boxes. Dad was fiddling with the TV, muttering under his breath, while Ethan and Miles fought over who got to sit in the recliner. Jordan was rooting around in the fridge like he expected it to magically produce food.

“Where’s the pizza?” he called, his voice echoing through the house.

“We just moved in,” I said, collapsing onto the couch. “The magical pizza fairy must’ve gotten stuck in traffic.”

“Unfortunately,” Dad said, straightening up and wiping his hands on his jeans. “But there’s a diner in town. Lazy Oak, I think it’s called. You kids should check it out.”

“Lazy Oak?” Ethan wrinkled his nose. “Sounds like a place that serves food out of a microwave.”

“Sounds like food,” Miles countered, grabbing his jacket.

Jordan tossed me the car keys. “Coming, Aurora?”

I hesitated, glancing at Dad. He gave me a small nod. “Go on,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”

The warm evening air carried the faint scent of grass and woodsmoke as we piled into the minivan. The sky was a swirl of orange and pink, and as I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window, I tried to imagine what tomorrow would bring.

Maybe Greenhill wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Or maybe it would be exactly as bad as I feared. Either way, I was about to find out.