People say Ashboro is the perfect town. They say it's small, non-touristy, good for the kids and good for small business. They say they never want to leave it, that it'll be their home until the day they die and that it'll be their kids' homes until they die too. They say it raised them, that it's a part of them, and then they get the hell out of here as quickly as they can because, come on, who wants to live their whole life in some shitty small town where nothing ever happens? In Ashboro there are about 25,000 people and next to no buildings over five floors so a kid who comes from New York like you is expected to be a little disappointed. You sit, head leaned heavily against the window of your dad's car, listening absently to the swaying notes of whatever classical music is singing from the radio and the near-inaudible thump of the heavy bass from your brother's headphones.

"Here we are, my lovelies!" Your dad's voice is sing-song, cheerful and bubbling with hope, the car coming to a grumbling halt and sputtering as the key is reversed in the ignition and the engine dies out. "Home sweet home. How's it look, (Y/N)? What's the verdict?" His elbow jabs into your ribs and you finally pull your head up from it's bent position, setting your uninterested gaze on him. He's grinning ear to ear, his brown hair swept from the open driver-side window and tinged with the same light gray that was shining through the stubble on his chin. His green eyes were bright and light freckles spattered his nose. "Why so bummed? Are you seriously not feeling the stellar vibes this place is giving off?" Your dad's voice goes chill, monotone and smooth like some surfer or hippie or something of the sort. His eyes squint, his shoulders set back, and then your lips are quirking up in the beginnings of a reluctant smile because your dad's positive mood is just too contagious. You manage a shrug, trying desperately to hold onto your frown more for comical purposes now.

"No, dad," You say, your voice heavy, loaded with disappointment, "It sucks. I think I might just perish instead of going in." With his still-toothy grin your father drops back into his normal self and nods his head.

"I knew you'd love it. Come on, let's get your stuff inside, I'm exhausted and there's gotta be some food to order in somewhere." So, yeah. Ashboro. You, your father, and your fourteen year old brother. Sounds like a dream, right? When a mother divorces a father and steals all his money a small town like this is the only option that's left, so you suck it up and choke it down more for your dad's sake then your own. On a warm evening like this you'd normally be curled up in your room with one of your dad's old records watching TV or scrolling aimlessly on your phone until your eyes go square, but now you find yourself heaving heavy boxes from the car down the driveway and into the place you're being forced to call home. If you were being entirely honest, the house was pretty cute. Your father had always had an eye for detail and aesthetic (being an artist, it was part of his job) but he really outdid himself here. The house had two bedrooms (one for you and one for your brother- your father slept in his studio, which was going to be in the basement) and a bathroom with a smaller kitchen and a bay window in the living room- there was just enough space for three people. The outside siding was a soft green, the roof at a heavy pointed slant and adorned with a pale grey shingling. The windows were white, cottage-style, and would look great with the emerald green curtains your father had brought in the moving trailer he'd rented. It looked a little like something out of a story book, latices climbing the walls and oak trees perched out front like guardians- yeah, sure, if the rest of the town was okay then maybe you'd survive here.

The night dragged on from 5:00 to 6:00 to 7:00, hauling boxes, scolding your brother for getting distracted, goofing and laughing and saying 'hey, maybe this isn't so bad, huh?' until the sun had long set and exhaustion tugged at every limb. Only once the car and rented trailer were empty did the three of you stop, settling on the single step up to the vestibule housing a coral-toned front door to order and soon devour two pizzas and some garlic bread. As you stole a second slice from the box on the tiled sidewalk at your feet, you sucked in a breath of the fresh, small-town air and let it out in a huff.

"So, kids," your dad spoke around a mouthful of pepperoni, "This is it. This is our fresh start. Is it as bad as you'd thought it would be?" One arm rested around your shoulders, pulling you close, and the other wrapped around your brother. "August? What about you?"

"It's... It's pretty great, actually." Your brother shrugged a shoulder and smiled, staring around at the greenery. Everything looked so... alive. So real. Back in New York everything was concrete, man-made, but here everything had a sort of... wildness, almost. "The roads look bumpy though. Not good for my skateboard," August leaned forwards, looking at you, "Or your skates. It'll rough up the wheels." That was all he was worried about? You find a smile, nodding your head, envious all of a sudden. Your little brother was worried about his skateboard wheels. That was the most pressing thing on his mind. Not school, or money, or new places that are a billion times smaller than what you're used to; you miss being a careless, stupid, fourteen year old kid unaware of the highschool social structure and all the paint hat came with it. Leaning against your dad's side and biting back into your pizza, you tamp the worries down and try your best to enjoy the warm air and the scents of life. After all, school started tomorrow. You should try to take it easy for a night.

***

The next morning you wake up with a sense of startling unfamiliarity. On your mattress, on the floor, three heavy blankets curled around you, you feel lost and startled until your mind can grapple once more with the fact that you're in a new home, a new place. Despite the want to stay in place cocooned in your quilts you sit upright, pulling the blankets with you and pressing the palm of your hand to your face. An early-morning golden light seeps in through the window above your head to bask the room in a warm glow. The lighting gives the stacks of brown moving boxes a fuzzy, almost surreal look. You can almost convince yourself that this is a dream, but you know better than to try and do that. There's a closet to your right, two bifold doors with thin white slats and round, brass handles- it's white open, boxes of clothing sitting half-in and half-out waiting to be unpacked. Reaching for your phone, which is plugged in and set down beside your mattress, you check the time- 7:13- and push your blankets aside.

If you're fast you can skate to your new school in just above ten minutes, which leaves plenty of time to throw together an outfit and eat whatever breakfast your father was making down in the kitchen. You could hear the sound of more classical music drifting through the halls, and stood to simply admire the acoustics they sang with. Your old home had been an apartment, a fancy one with rich neighbours who didn't like to listen to the music your dad always wanted to play. This is the first time in your life that you've ever heard it this loud and the wooded floors and eggshell white walls carried the sounds proudly. Clothes, right- snapping back into reality you moved for the boxes, six in total, and began to peel packing tape off of the one on the top of the left stack. You loved clothing, fashion, being able to express yourself through a few scraps of cloth. In a way it was like an artform, and you think you've mastered it. In the box you peeled open you hit the jackpot, pulling one of your current favourite outfits from the box. High-waisted jeans, a baggy brown tee with a pale, worn-out depiction of a renaissance painting and the denim jacket you'd been sewing patches onto for a good three years now paired with some trusty yellow socks- this was the outfit you probably felt the most comfortable in, so why not wear it today? As you slip into one article at a time your mind begins to skip away, thinking about your old school and how desperate you were to do better here. You were a Junior joining a quarter into your eleventh school year, which was already a pretty bad start. Please, if there is a God above, you hope that they'll grant you mercy and maybe even a friend or two.

"Kids! Lights of my life, you'd better be awake or else!" Your fathers voice rings out just as you shoulder on your jacket, smiling to yourself.

"Or else what?" You call it back, weight leaning onto one foot to peer out through your door. There's a beat of silence save for the music and then your father shouts,

"I'll drive you to school!" At the sound of that your brother's door, just across the hall, flung open and he came hurrying out.

"No thanks, that's probably the last thing I want today." August smiles at you and scurries down the hall with his backpack in hand. Your father was the kind of guy who would shout 'I love you!' out the window until you were completely out of sight. He was embarrassing sometimes. You turn to the other box perched on top of the stack on the right, ripping it open as well and, yep, there are your trust skates, spotless despite being used almost daily. You had learned to skate way back in the sixth grade and were on your fourth pair, a light-blue suede with yellow laces and matching teal-tinted transparent wheels that were hardly just showing the first signs of scuffing. Though you didn't often buy new skates as a whole, you did switch the wheels every six months or so. These ones were nearly brand new. Scooping them up in your arms and grabbing for your backpack you leave your barren room and follow your brothers footsteps in the direction of the kitchen. Your hair isn't tidied yet and your teeth aren't brushed but your stomach lets out a rumbling protest and you decide that those can wait. You smell pancakes.

"Awe, so I won't be driving any of you spectacular kids to school today? A bummer, really." Your dad speaks without turning around, spinning around the kitchen with a plate in one hand and a pan in the other. Just like in your room there were boxes everywhere, but one or two (which were rested on the white counters) were open and half-empty. Above the counters were open shelves, and plates, cups, bowls etc. were already being put in their places.

"I hate to break your heart," You sigh, dropping your bag and skates by the door, "But I think I'm gonna skate." Your plate is already set out and ready, sprinkled with powdered sugar and topped with authentic maple syrup. "Thanks, pa'. Looks great."

"Oh, yuck," you turned to face August as he spoke, watching his face contort into a grimace, "Don't call him 'pa', he's not ninety." At last your dad spun around, pointing in your brother's direction and raising his eyebrows.

"You, my boy, are a man of intelligence. I am not, in fact, ninety and I do not like being called pa'." At that you roll your eyes and begin to shovel your pancakes into your mouth. "How'd you guys sleep?" You speak around your mouthful and no one bats an eye; manners aren't really important in your house when guests aren't around.

"Terrible! I think there's a ghost or something, I swear to God I heard scraping at my window. I was terrified." August swipes his own plate and hops right up onto the counter. Interested, you turn to him, silently urging him to continue. "It was at least three in the morning and I woke up to this sound, like, like-" His face screwed up and he began to emit a high-pitch screeching sound like nails on a chalkboard. You wince, stepping away, and shake your head in disbelief.

"Doesn't sound like a ghost to me. Just sounds like a tree or an animal. Find me more evidence and maybe I'll believe you." August decided to take that as a challenge, promising that he would do just that. As the meal progressed conversation stayed light, talking about school and wandering the town and some diner that was within walking distance that your dad wanted to try out. Once your plate is clean you drop it by the sink, rushing away to the bathroom before your dad can scold you for not cleaning it yourself. You brush your teeth, comb your hair, and then grin wide and dazzling back at yourself in the reflection of the mirror. You've got this, totally. You can make a few friends and attract a few crushes. You'll be the popular kid in no time at all, yeah. Confidence is all it takes. Leaving the bathroom you head for the front door, slipping on your roller skates and stuffing your normal shoes into your backpack. With a quick goodbye and a hug to both your dad and brother, you roll off into the street towards Ashboro High. 

(A/N): Okay guys, I just want to say I'm literally so sorry for being so bad at sticking with stories. I really do hope you understand that I try really hard to put my happiness first even though I get guilty so often yikes- Forgive me, please.

I don't want to explain too much (spoilers ew >:() but I'm so excited for this story! I'll have some fan fav characters become our readers besties and then we get some edgy bad boy Danny! If you have anyone you want to have included, comment them down below and I'll do my best. Enjoy!