POV Nicholas

It has already been a week since we moved into our new house, and tomorrow is September 9th, also known as the first day of school.

Unlike Anne, who is excited about the idea of moving to a new school and starting high school, I feel the opposite. It's not as if there was anyone I particularly liked or felt attached to back in Philadelphia, but I have just never liked change.

Plus, this past week has been all about what our little girl would want or need for high school. So it's pretty hard to be excited when you're completely invisible. Well, at least I got a new car with the condition of being my sister's driver. I guess I should be happy the brat can't drive yet.

It's funny how everything is about what Anne wants and needs. Honestly, this whole move was for her. My father may say that he got promoted, but the truth is that the minute Anne suddenly wanted to pursue art as a career, they looked for the best high school for her. That's when an old friend of the family recommended Westville High, one of the best high schools.

One may ask if there are no good schools in Philadelphia, but according to my mother, their little girl needs only the best, and here we are, attending an overpriced preppy school. But unlike Anne, for whom my parents pulled every string in the book to get her into the art since she lacked the skills to be in the program, I had to spend my whole summer working on a portfolio to get a music program scholarship since we had to go to the same school, but my parents just didn't have the money to pay for my fees.

I was fortunate that they even considered my application for admission to the school, as they typically only accept new students during their freshman year. I suppose my background in music may have contributed to their decision. However, I find myself enrolled in a school that does not align with my interests.

As I lay there on my bed, thinking about how the next two years of high school would be, I turned to the right to see my alarm clock read 12:01 a.m. Summer is truly over, I thought as I lifted myself up in bed. My hand opened the drawer on my side table and felt around inside before pulling out the two things.

I got out of bed and walked toward the window as I remembered the conversation with my parents.

"You can't stay in this room; it's for guests," my mother says, giving me a pointed look.

"It's the only other room," I reply, trying to blink the sleep away, considering they rushed into my room ten minutes after I woke from my nightmare.

"Your room is the attic," she spits out.

"Why can't I stay here?" I let out in frustration, forgetting myself.

"Did you talk back to your mother, boy?" My father hisses out with his jaw clenched, one hand raised.

I gulp before quickly speaking. "I'm sorry; I wasn't thinking."

"Damn right, you weren't," he says slowly, bringing down his hand but still piercing me with his eyes.

"I will go to the attic, s-sir," I say, feeling the anger boiling inside me, but I know saying what I want would only result in me receiving a bruise or two.

With that, they leave the guest room, and I can finally relax a bit.

"I shouldn't think about useless things," I mumbled as I slowly pushed open the window that led to the balcony. Apparently, it's a thing for some houses to have balcony windows in the attic. I honestly thought this place would be terrible, but there's a bathroom up here, and I have a makeshift walk-in closet. Plus, I don't have to deal with anyone while I'm up here.

Also, my parents so generously dumped Anne's old things here, saying the things would take up too much of the basement space and that they gave me permission to use them. Seeing as they were things like a flat-screen TV, a cream-colored couch, an Apple desktop, and a round glass coffee table-in other words, things that they would never buy for me but only give me as hand-me-downs-at least I can resell them, seeing as they buy her new things every two years, so they are in mostly good condition. Plus, I have no use for her clothes or bedazzled items.

I cleared my head before I started thinking about why that brat likes pink and shiny things. As I got out, I lit my joint and brought it to my lips. As I took my first hit, I let the toxic smoke fill my lungs. Then I exhaled the smoke, letting it form a gray cloud before it blew away.

I understand that it may seem unusual for someone to be smoking marijuana on a school night, but unfortunately, it's a bad habit that I picked up at a young age, and I forgot to refill my prescription for sleep medication. As a result, even if I wanted to sleep, I would be unable to.

According to a therapist, I suffer from night terrors, sleep insomnia, and possibly anxiety, which could indicate a more serious underlying issue. However, my parents dismissed these concerns as nonsense and believed that taking medication would be sufficient to resolve the problem.

So, instead of seeking therapy, I have been prescribed sleeping pills and anxiety medication. Though, in my opinion, it was the first time I was grateful to have them, as my parents did. I don't need some old white guy telling me something I already know. My breaking point is a fact that doesn't need someone certifying it.

I stood outside for what felt like five minutes, just looking straight ahead toward the forest. That was when I saw a light peeking out from the treeline. Was it already morning?

I searched through my pockets before grabbing my phone to see the time, only for it to read 6:34 a.m. Realizing I had spent another sleepless night just staring at the forest, I sighed.

It was better than sleeping anyway.

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It took me 40 minutes to prepare myself. School starts at 8:30 am, and the current time is only 7:14 am.

I look myself over in the mirror, brushing my light blond hair to the side so it doesn't fall into my eyes. I notice that I need a haircut soon because my messy bedhead hair isn't always so sexy.

I made sure to give my appearance a final once-over, ensuring that my crisp white polo shirt and stylish black ripped jeans were in order before slipping on my sleek black leather jacket and picking up my bag.

I rushed down the stairs, heading toward the spacious white marble kitchen. Seeing that no one was there, I let out a sigh. I quickly made two jam sandwiches and grabbed a juice box as if I were being chased. Since it's a new school, it's best to bring my own food on the first day, just in case.

That's when I heard footsteps heading this way. My mother entered the kitchen, pausing to give me a look. Seeing nothing wrong, she started making breakfast, completely ignoring me.

I started heading out before stopping when I heard, "Your father will take your sister to school from now on since it's on the way to work, and I may pick her up from time to time. So you have to check with her if she will need a ride home," she said, not even looking at me.

"Okay, Mother," I answered, turning to leave. It's for the best, seeing as nothing good comes from being too close to her.

I walked toward my blue Aston Martin DB12, opening the door before getting in. I tossed my bag onto the passenger seat before starting the car and heading to my new high school.

One may ask why parents who treat you poorly give you a sports car. Well, my parents are quite well off. Especially after my father was promoted to the head of the financial department in the main branch, hence part of the reason we moved. All that aside, my parents, especially my mother, value their image more than anything else, so having their son looking deprived isn't part of that image. That is why they give me enough money to stay up-to-date and show off.

In my opinion, it seems rather peculiar. They desire for everyone to perceive them as exceptional parents, yet behind closed doors, that is far from the truth. It appears to be a futile effort to maintain this façade, and I find myself engaging in similar pretense with my seemingly perfect straight A grades and cheerful demeanor. I portray the image of an ideal son, but it was not entirely my choice. They never truly provided me with an alternative. It was a matter of "be perfect or face consequences."

As I drove, it did not take long before I found myself already pulling into the parking lot of the school. I am here at Westville High School, a private institution that fosters creativity. How delightful?

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