DAMIEN'S POV
The day finally come, and it hit me like a slow-rolling wave I couldn't outrun. We pulled up to CriddleFord Boys High School in Dad's SUV, the engine humming to a stop as the campus sprawled ahead. The old stone buildings towered, gray and weathered, their arched windows now framed with sleek black metal. Renovations had patched the place up over the years to suit the current trend—new wooden trim, bright paint on the doors, and wide lawns dotted with picnic tables and student-made murals. It was impressive, almost welcoming, but the weight of those stone walls pressed down, casting a shadow over my anticipation.
We piled out—Dad, Mom, and my three brothers: Darren, Daemon, and Desmond. The gravel crunched under my sneakers, dust kicking up in the humid air as I squinted at the main hall's banner showing, Welcome, New Students, swaying in the breeze. Dad adjusted his sunglasses, scanning the place like he owned it, while Mom fussed with her purse, her nervous energy louder than the cicadas. Darren stood tall, hands in his pockets, jaw tight with something like pride or worry—I couldn't tell. Daemon slouched, smirking at a group of guys tossing a frisbee nearby, and Desmond fiddled with his phone, glancing at me like he thought I'd bolt.
"Alright, Damien," Dad said, clapping his hands with forced cheer. "Today's the big day. Let's get you settled in, huh?"
Mom squeezed my shoulder, her grip warm but shaky. "We're here for you, honey. It's a big change, but you'll handle it just fine—I know you will."
I nodded, throat dry, managing a weak, "Thanks, Mom." My brothers chimed in, their encouragement a mixed bag. Darren gave a firm nod, the kind that said he believed in me even if I didn't. Daemon's smirk widened, a glint in his eye. "You'll survive, little man—probably," he said, popping his gum. Desmond stepped closer, patting my back with a quick, "You got this," though his eyes flicked to the building like he remembered something he wasn't saying.
We trudged toward the administration office, bags slung over shoulders, the late August heat sticking my shirt to my back. The campus buzzed—families hauling suitcases, boys shouting and laughing, a golf cart whirring past with boxes stacked high. The office was in a renovated wing—freshly painted with student artwork, wooden desks cluttered with forms. Inside, the air was cool, smelling of polish and old books. Principal Harold stood behind a sturdy desk, his suit crisp amid the bustle, grinning wide when he saw us.
"Hugh! Great to see you," he boomed, gripping Dad's hand in a shake that lingered. "Been a while, huh? And you must be Damien—welcome to CriddleFord, son."
Dad laughed, slipping into chatter about golf and some college buddy they knew. "Harold has kept this place top-notch—perfect for boys your age," Dad said, winking at me. Their friendship smoothed everything—paperwork flew by, pens scratching on forms in minutes, signatures been penned down. I shifted my weight, half-listening as Mom murmured about dorm rules and meal schedules, her voice nearly drowned by the hum of other families.
Harold turned to Desmond, grin widening. "Desmond Campbell! Good to see you again, kid. How's life after CriddleFord? Harvard treating you right?"
Desmond perked up, pocketing his phone. "Yeah, it's good—busy, but good. Still can't believe you remember me."
"Hard to forget a Campbell," Harold said, chuckling. "Your brothers left their mark here too." He nodded at Darren and Daemon, who smirked back like they'd earned medals. I hovered on the edge, the friendly vibe washing over me but not sticking. This was their world—Dad's connections, my brothers' legacies, now spruced up with new paint. I was just the next name on the list.
Paperwork done, we headed for the dorms, weaving through boys tossing football and parents snapping photos. The dormitory building was classic—red brick, composite solid core interior white oak doors worn smooth by years of hands. Inside, the halls echoed, polished wood floors scuffed from use, the air thick with disinfectant and fresh varnish. My family trailed me, bags thumping, mom whispering advice— "Call if you need anything, okay?" —while Dad pointed out details like a tour guide. "See that lounge? Darren once rigged a prank there—glued a teacher's chair."
"Worth it," Darren said, grinning, and I cracked a smile despite myself.
We reached my suite—Room 214, etched on a brass plaque. Reality slammed in as Dad pushed the door open. The common area was cozy, built for teens—two worn sofas piled with throw pillows, a wooden coffee table littered with soda cans, and a TV hooked to a gaming console, posters of bands and sports stars taped to the walls. Big windows overlooked the countryside lawn, letting in light that warmed the faded rug. Three doors led to individual bedrooms, each for two, plus a bathroom with creaky pipes—all functional, lived-in, but chilled by the three guys sprawled inside—my new roommates.
Lounged against the sofa, scrolling his phone, earphones plugged in was a boy with a dark raven-colored hair who seemed to be about 6'1", with a lean, broad-shouldered build that suggested he was athletic but not overly muscled—think a swimmer's frame, all long lines and quiet strength. His dark raven hair falls in a slightly messy wave over his forehead, which he pushed back with a swipe of his hand, revealing a sharp jawline and high cheekbones that gave his face a chiseled edge. His eyes were a deep hazel, flecked with gold, that carry a guarded intensity. A faint scar, barely noticeable, cuts across his left eyebrow adding a rugged charm to him. His skin was a warm olive tone, kissed by summer sun, and he moved with an easy, almost lazy grace as he stood and walked across the room to get something. Clad in a gray hoodie, sweatpants that fit his sturdy waist, and outlining his long legs, which I knew must be muscular, and white sneakers.
Then, stretched across at the cushion with one leg over the armrest, swiping through a tablet was another boy with sandy blond hair who seemed to be about 5'9", with a lean and sinewy build, with ropy arms. His sandy blond hair was cropped short, sticking up in uneven tufts like he's run his hands through it one too many times, and his face was angular, with a crooked nose that had clearly been broken once. His blue eyes were bright but restless, darting around for mischief as he swiped through his tablet, and his skin was tanned from outdoor antics, little freckles dotted across his nose that one might not notice. He sprawled across the sofa with one leg dangling, his posture all loose limbs and casual disregard, wearing a threadbare green T-shirt, cargo shorts and sneakers.
And finally, by the TV, mashing a controller, the console's neon glow lighting his face, was a boy who was the stockiest of the three, who is about 5'10", with a build that suggested he was built for endurance—broad chest, thick arms, and legs that looked like they could anchor him through a storm. His black hair was buzzed close to his scalp, accentuating his square jaw and wide forehead, while his dark brown eyes stayed fixed on the TV screen, narrowed in focus. His skin was pale, untouched by much sun. He hunched over his controller, shoulders hunched, wearing a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up and blue jeans, his sneakers kicked off nearby.
They didn't move, didn't smile except for chase who had a mischievous grin on his face, just sized me up like I'd crashed their hangout.
"Hey, I'm Damien," I said, forcing enthusiasm past the lump in my throat.
The raven-haired boys' eyes flicked to me, then back to his screen. "Yeah, we know." His voice was low, flat, like I wasn't worth pausing his playlist.
The blond-haired boy nodded, barely lifting his head.
"Welcome, I guess." Grunted the one playing video game, thumbs slamming buttons, the game's engine roaring. No warmth, no handshake—just a wall of indifference that made the cozy room feel hollow. I stood there, bag slipping in my sweaty grip, Mom and Dad hovering behind me.
"Let's get you unpacked," Mom said, brushing past the awkwardness. We hauled my stuff into one of the side rooms—mine, with a plain bunk, a desk with a built-in dock, and a window with a chipped frame. The mattress creaked as Darren dropped my duffel, and Daemon leaned against the doorframe, smirking. "Nice crew out there. You're screwed."
"Shut up," I muttered, unzipping my bag. Mom shot Daemon a look, but he shrugged.
We worked fast—clothes in drawers, books on the shelf, a photo of me with Izzie and Jake taped to the wall. Dad kept up chatter—"You'll get used to it, kid, just like your brothers did"—while Mom folded my hoodie with too much care. Darren lingered, quieter, watching me like he wanted to say something. Desmond poked around, testing the bunk's springs. "Sturdier than mine was," he said, grinning. "You'll be fine."
Too soon, they had to go. Mom hugged me tight, her perfume clinging as she whispered, "Call us, okay? Anytime." Dad clapped my back, firm and final. "We're a phone away, Damien. You've got this."
"Thanks, Dad," I said, voice hollow. Darren squeezed my shoulder, Daemon tossed a lazy salute, and Desmond waved as they filed out. The door thudded shut, and silence crashed in. I stood in the common room, the TV's drone the only sound, my roommates still ignoring me. Alex's head tilted slightly, earphone slipping as he glanced at the door, but he didn't look up. Chase yawned. Eric swore at the screen.
I crossed to my room, floorboards creaking, and shut the door. The space was bare—white walls yellowed at the edges, a single bulb overhead, the bunks frame polished anew. I sank onto the mattress, springs groaning, and stared at my half-unpacked bag. Outside, the oaks swayed beyond the window, their shadows stretching across the countryside campus. My phone buzzed—Izzie, texting on our text chain How's the prison? I typed still standing, thumb hovering over send. The quiet pressed in, thick with the weight of being alone.
Unpacking felt pointless, but I did it—shirts folded, books stacked, a worn-out soccer ball from Jake tucked under the desk. Every move echoed in my head: This is it. This is home now. The roommates' voices drifted through—low murmurs, a laugh from the blond boy, and the raven-haired boy saying something sharp I couldn't catch. I froze, straining to hear, but it faded. They weren't talking about me. Or maybe they were. Either way, I wasn't part of it.
I flopped back, staring at the ceiling's faint cracks—old scars under new paint. CriddleFord was real now—its stone roots and worn edges, its rules, its heavy quiet. I'd wanted out, flunked that exam to prove it, but here I was, dragged in by Dad's strings and Desmond's shadow. The road ahead stretched out, uncertain and jagged, and all I could do was face it. New beginnings come with challenges, they say. Mine were already waiting—plugged in, powered up, and just outside that door.