DYLAN

"A boarding school?" I shout. "You're sending me to a boarding school? We moved all the way across the Atlantic so you could stick me in a boarding school for my last year of high school?" I'm downright pissed. And I think I have a right to be.

Dad won't even look at me right now. Apparently he's sending me to this school called "Watford School of Magicks". (Which just sounds like some bullshit preppy magician school, if you ask me.)

Dad coughs into his fist. He's nervous. Oh no. This is bad. He's about to make it worse. I don't want to hear any more. LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA. I'M SINGING. IN MY HEAD. TO BLOCK OUT THE SOUND OF MY ONCOMING DISAPPOINTMENT. It doesn't work. I can still hear him.

"It's actually not run like a Normal American high school. You'll have one more year after this."

And there it goes. The bomb. I'm frozen in place. I can't breathe. I can't think. He just up and moved me to a whole nother fucking country, and tore me away from everything I know. Tore me away from Mom. And now he's sending me away to this preppy ass magician school for two years. I'll be 19 by the time I graduate! Just imagine returning home for college and having to explain why I graduated high school at 19! "Oh yeah, my dad decided that going into my senior year he should stick me in a high school that made you take a whole nother FUCKING YEAR for NO FUCKING REASON!"

Okay, I'm calm.

No, I'm not.

I can't feel anything. I'm completely numb. I'm lost. I don't know what to say. We've been in England (apparently there is a difference between England, and Britian, but I still can't figure it out) for a week, and I've barely unpacked anything. What I have unpacked is scattered everywhere around my new room. Which I will apparently be leaving in two days. God, I love it when Dad doesn't tell me shit.

I dig through boxes and piles of crap without saying anything else to Dad. When I finally find my old Saginaw Spirits duffle I yank it free from whatever the fuck is covering it. I don't hear anything break, so I don't care. I pull the flaps open on the box labeled "CLOTHES" and begin grabbing armfuls out at a time. Once I've emptied the box, I start pushing shirts and pants around, shoving my favorites into the duffle. Old hockey jerseys. Stupid graphic tees. Jeans. Jeans of different shades of blue. Ripped jeans. Thick Levi jeans. Acid washed jeans. Jean shorts. I like jeans. I think for a second, then snatch up my jean jacket too.

I start going through my books, sticking my ride-or-dies in a little box. I grab my unabridged copy of Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. A trans boy necessity. I also swipe my entire Percy Jackson collection. A few more books go in the box before I fold the flaps in. I stick some spare toiletries into the duffle alongside my clothes. One more look around the room. I grab Collie, the oldest stuffed animal I still own, and a family photo.

"Okay, Dad. I'm ready," I huff. This still doesn't feel real. Nothing in the past five months has felt real. And that's probably not going to change anytime soon.

"You don't have to leave yet, son," Dad sighs.

"Yeah, well, I've gotta settle in and everything. Besides. Classes started a week ago. I can't let myself fall behind." I won't look at him either. I know I'm being an asshole, but I don't care.