CHAPTER 1
Moving out of New York City was a special kind of torture—cardboard boxes everywhere and the certainty you were making a terrible mistake. We started at 5 a.m., aiming to leave by noon. My early boxes were neatly labeled “BOOKS” and “CLOTHES,” but by hour four, I was just cramming stuff wherever it fit.
A photo strip fell from my eighth hoodie as I shoved it into a box. Four shots: Sabrina and me with iced coffees, summer-sweaty. First frame normal, second with straw wrappers up her nose, third her biting my ear, last us looking traumatized. Classic Sab, my best friend since third grade.
The memories hit like a two-punch combo: the brain punch, then the gut. Suddenly it was August, 1 year ago. Sabrina and I were supposed to be at SAT prep, but instead, we had spent the afternoon rating every pizza place on Manhatten, ending up sticky with melted cheese and guilt. I could practically taste the grease, hear her laugh echoing off the subway tiles.
I pressed my thumb against the photo, as if I could smudge myself back into that day. Then the dopamine hit wore off, and the reality of my current situation punched through the suitcase still mostly empty and the clock taunting me from the wall.
“Alara! I’m not seeing a lot of progress in there,” Mom’s voice called through the cracked door. She only ever used my full name when she was one emotional beat from meltdown.
“I’m making excellent progress,” I said, shoving the photo strip into the front pocket of my backpack and zipping it shut like the problem was solved.
“I just have a highly refined organizational system. You wouldn’t understand.” A pause.
“Is your system the same one that left a half-eaten bagel on the printer?”
That was definitely me, but I was not about to cave. “That could have been anyone’s bagel.”
She muttered something in Turkish that sounded like a curse but probably translated to “my idiot daughter.”
Then: “1 hour, Alara. We have a schedule.”
1 HOUR. That was how long it would take me to choose which shoes to wear—on top of the existential nightmare of packing up my life. I dropped onto the bed, surrounded by boxes and shirts I still needed to fold and pack away. But first, I needed a folding playlist, which meant finding my charger, which somehow will turn into me reorganizing my boxes. because you know… priorities. .
“You’re spiraling,” I told myself out loud because that sometimes helped. “Just put clothes in the box. Like a normie.”
I grabbed a stack of shirts and tried again. I balled it up and stuffed it in the suitcase, then immediately regretted the lack of folding and yanked it out to start over.
It was during this internal debate roll or fold? that my little brother, Emir, poked his head into the room.
Emir poked his head in. “Mom says thirty minutes or your bed goes to Goodwill.”
“Tell her I’m actively coming.”
He surveyed the chaos. “Crime scene much?”
“Go solve a Rubik’s cube.”
“Already did.”
He snatched three mismatched socks from my floor, stuffed them into my duffel. “Speed-packing. Easy.”
“Touch my stuff again and I’ll stuff you in a box.”
“Promises, promises.”
The door swung shut behind him.
Focus. Dad’s new job had exiled us to Highmont—population: who cares. My only Carolina reference was some football show probably filmed in Vancouver.
I tossed hoodies, jeans, and too many pairs of Nikes into the box.
By now every surface was buried with packed boxes. My anxiety spiked with each item that didn’t have an obvious place. A pile of “important sentimental crap” grew on the bed. Finally, I ditched the idea of order and just started throwing the remaining stuff into whatever box was closest. Damn being organized.
But who was I without all this clutter?
From the hallway: “Alara! Five minutes!”
“Coming!”
I yanked my duffel shut, sitting on it to force the zipper closed. The movers were already grabbing boxes. My eyes caught on Sabrina’s fantasy novel, still open to the last page. I squeezed the worn book with its curling pages, remembering Sab’s words: This book is you, babe. You with a sword and less impulse control. She wasn’t wrong.
My phone buzzed—a text from Sab.
Sabrina: u packed yet?? lol I bet ur room looks like a war zone.
I thumbed a reply: it’s less war zone and more post-apocalyptic. If I die in here, avenge me.
A second later: I will literally kill anyone who tries to take u from me
I stared at the screen for a long beat, then tucked the phone into my jeans.
Mom was waiting in the hall, arms folded. “Let’s go,” she said. She looked at the mess behind me, and something in her face softened. “You don’t have to take everything, you know.”
I shrugged. “I know. But what if I need it?”
She sighed from her toes. “That’s what everyone says. Until you run out of space.”
Space was the whole problem. Highmont would have too much of it—too much sky, too many empty sidewalks, not enough noise.
In the elevator, boxes teetering, Emir texting, I watched the floor numbers count down my last moments as a New Yorker.
When the doors opened, I expected one final symphony of sirens, vendor bells, and shouting kids. Instead, just my footsteps and someone else’s muffled goodbye.
I hoisted my bags, took a deep breath, and muttered to nobody, “Guess that’s it, then.”
The city always smelled best in late morning, after the garbage trucks passed but before the sun turned the sidewalks into a terrarium. Wet stone burnt sugar from the bakery, and maybe the Halal cart across the street, or the remains of the garbage, whatever it was, it smelled like home.
The moving truck door swung open. Mom appeared with two breakfast sandwiches.
“Alright, fifteen minutes to say goodbye to Sabrina, then we’re on the road.”
“Fifteen? That’s nothing!” I protested, eyeing Sabrina waiting a few feet away.
“Just enough to say what you need. Hurry, or I’ll pack you next.” She grinned.
“Fine! But you owe me extra snack time on the drive.”
“Deal! Now go.”
I lugged my duffel behind me, cursing the city’s obsession with uneven pavement. I walked down the block and nearly tripped over a pile of yesterday’s freebie newspapers, most of them still crisp, as if the world had finally run out of patience for bad news.
Sabrina waited at her stoop, next to the lion with the skateboard-smashed nose. Cross-legged with venti Starbucks in hand, phone in the other, headphones circling her neck. Her Nirvana shirt had faded to gray under a denim jacket crowded with mismatched pins.
I hadn’t even sat down yet before she started in.
“You look like you slept in a recycling bin.”
I dropped the duffel with a thud.
“That’s because I did. It was very eco-friendly.”
She rolled her eyes and made room on the step, patting the cold stone.
“You bring the goods?”
I reached into my backpack, pulled out a slightly squished bacon-egg-and-cheese.
“It’s still warm. I risked my life for this.”
Sabrina took it reverently, peeled back the foil.
“I will treasure it always.”
She took a bite, chewed thoughtfully.
“This is the last one, isn’t it?”
“Don’t say that,” I said, even though we both knew it was true.
“It’s just the last one for now. I’ll be back. You know. For holidays. Maybe.”
She made a show of wiping away a fake tear.
“Your optimism is disgusting.”
“I did what I could.”
I drank half her coffee before she could protest.
We sat in silence, watching the city pulse around us. Fast, loud, chaotic and comforting.
Sabrina nudged me with her elbow.
“Are you ready for Hicksville?”
“It’s not called Hicksville,” I lied. “It’s Highmont. And I heard they had electricity now.”
She snorted.
“Yeah, but do they have bagels? Or even people who know what a bagel is?”
“Doubtful.”
I thought of the empty house waiting for us, the silent streets, the dark forest at the edge of the property.
A chill crept up my neck.
“I’m going to die out there.”
“Don’t say that,” she said, mocking my earlier tone.
“I can’t do AP Math by myself. Also, who else is going to correct my Turkish?”
I smiled, even though it made my cheeks hurt.
“Duolingo is a thing, you know.”
Sabrina made a face.
“Duolingo doesn’t have your mom’s accent. Or her death glare.”
I started to laugh, but it came out as more of a hiccup.
She pulled something from her pocket, held it out to me.
“Here. So you don’t forget me when you’re off drinking sweet tea and marrying your cousin.”
It was a bracelet, homemade, strung together with chunky wooden beads and alphabet blocks that spelled SAB + A.
I couldn’t help it; I started to cry.
“Holy crap, you’re really leaving,” she said, her voice cracking just a bit.
I wiped my nose on my sleeve.
“Don’t go full drama queen on me.”
She punched my arm, hard.
“Don’t you dare go southern belle on me. If you start saying ‘y’all’ unironically, I will fly down there and strangle you.”
“You can’t afford plane tickets.”
“I’ll steal one.”
Her grin was wobbly, but it was still there.
We hugged then, full-on, both of us clutching so tight it felt like our ribs might fuse together.
When we finally let go, she said, “Promise you’ll text me every day.”
“I will.”
We stood, and I slung the duffel over my shoulder.
Sabrina didn’t say goodbye, not really. She just shoved me toward the curb.
I started walking, my feet heavy, the sounds of the city following me like an old song.
I put the bracelet on. It pinched a little, but I left it there.
I heard my mom’s voice from the curb.
“Alara, we’re going to hit traffic if we don’t leave now.”
I hoisted my duffel, but I couldn’t move.
I walked to the car, climbed in, and slammed the door.
As we pulled from the curb, I looked back.
Sabrina was still there, hugging herself, staring after us.
The Toyota jerked forward, tires squealing over the old pigeon, and that was it.
