As soon as our car drove into Stillard, a neighborhood that was described as a bustling and fast-growing community in the heart of Brownwood, I knew a false picture had been fabricated.
A flimsy gate separated Stillard from the rest of the town and everyone else. It felt as though this neighborhood would be the downfall of my family. Although if I mentioned that, my parents would call me dramatic, considering how much I protested this move.
“Oh geez, honey. What were the four numbers again?” My dad asked, his body halfway out of the truck as he attempted to punch in our code to open the gate.
“It’s 9439, same digits on our house. You should remember that by now.”
“Look, I’m exhausted, all we’ve done today is sweat our asses off and haul things to and from the houses. I’ve got enough on my mind than remembering four numbers.”
My mom stayed silent. I helped carry what I could, but the majority had fallen onto my parents. The drive to and from our old house was forty-five minutes each way. Dad was frugal and didn’t want to hire a moving company, so he rented his own truck, which was already testing us after this third trip. I refused to sit in that truck any longer.
The gate slowly opened, and the truck squealed as it was set into motion again. The new house came into view not long after. Our house was located in the back of the neighborhood, just a street over from the construction of another row of houses. I sighed as my dad opened the back of the truck, handing my mother and me more boxes.
It’s Labor Day weekend, and I’ve spent all my time moving. My parents were trying to keep me happy, considering they pulled me out of the only school district I’ve ever known. I only attended my old school for a few weeks before we moved, the one with all my friends. And now I was expected to go to this new school and be happy with that? They’d be lucky if I got on the bus on Tuesday.
“Anthony! Bring that box inside, we’re trying to make another trip before it gets too dark.” I huffed and trudged into the house. I set the box down on the kitchen table, wiping sweat off my forehead.
“Do I have to go again? My boxes are all here. I can start unpacking.” I whined, my arms sore from all of this carrying.
“Anthony, the three of us will get done much faster if you come.” My dad said, his voice stern.
“Come on, Mike. It’s been a long day, and he’ll be fine here. It’ll be nice to get a jumpstart on unpacking.” My mother replied, winking at me.
The truck squealed away a few minutes later, and despite not wanting to be here in this new house, it felt nice to be alone.
I walked around the ranch-style house. This house was a downgrade from our last one, courtesy of my dad’s new, lower-paying job. He said he’d be happier at this job, but I’ve yet to see it.
After unpacking more than a few boxes, I decided to explore the neighborhood. Despite it being a holiday weekend, there was no one outside, no proof of life around here. The playground was empty, no one was playing basketball or walking on the sidewalks. Maybe there was a pool?
I wandered for a bit, taking in what was now my neighborhood. The houses were relatively similar, minus the few different layouts and colors. I could see myself getting lost in here if I wasn’t careful. To my disappointment, there wasn’t a pool, and the slide in the playground looked a thousand degrees.
Where was everyone? On vacation? I hoped my parents would realize how boring this neighborhood was, how we shouldn’t have moved. But I doubt that’s going to happen.
I rounded the corner, the flimsy gate coming into view before I noticed a huge patch of dead grass. I narrowed my eyes and walked towards it. I don’t know how I didn’t notice the three times we drove in and out of the neighborhood, considering it was steps away from the gate. The yellow and partly brown grass had deep footmarks, deep enough to expose the cracked mud underneath. What were these for? Why only at the front of the neighborhood?
I jumped a couple of feet at the sound of a truck horn at the gate’s entrance, my dad laughed as he pulled in. “Hop in.” He yelled. I climbed in and shut the door. “What were you doing up by the gate?”
“I wanted to explore the neighborhood a bit.”
He nodded and pulled up in the driveway. The rest of the day, well weekend, was spent unpacking boxes and putting things in their place. By Tuesday, I could barely keep my eyes open for breakfast, let alone a full school day.
To make up for a new school, my mother made waffles drenched in syrup. I wolfed them down before my mother looked at her watch.
“Alright, apparently the bus stop is across the street in that other neighborhood, so you need to be over there in… shit, five minutes.” My mother shooed me upstairs, and I finished getting ready in less than two minutes. I threw on my backpack and headed out the door to the faraway bus stop. Seconds after I shut the door, both of my parents stepped out in their work clothes, a briefcase in my dad’s hand and a cup of coffee in my mom’s. Their faces were emotionless as they strode behind me. Were they walking me to the bus stop? They haven’t done that since I was in first grade five years ago.
“I can walk myself, it’s just across the street,” I said, stopping in front of them. They didn’t say anything, or even look like they acknowledged that I said a word. They continued walking, brushing past me, and stood in front of the gate in the dead grass. “Mom? Dad?”
They stared at the ground, their eyes dilated, before I bent down in front of them, waving my hands to shake them out of it. In unison, they sucked in a harsh breath and shook violently, each of their limbs trembling. I pleaded with them to snap out of it, but despite my pleas, they continued convulsing.