But then again, part of me knew that he couldn’t stay in his shell forever. As much as I wanted to shield him from the discomfort of being the outsider, I knew he had to face the challenge, to grow, to find his place in the whirlwind of school life.

I told myself over and over again he would be fine. After all, he had already changed so much over the past few months. He wasn’t the same withdrawn boy he had been when he first arrived. He was opening up in his own way—learning to trust, communicate, and be present in the world around him now that he’d been in a better place emotionally.

But despite that, the day before school started, something felt off. Blake had been quiet all morning, more so than usual.

He wasn’t withdrawn, exactly, but there was a kind of heaviness to his silence. I studied him carefully from across the kitchen table, watching the way he pushed his scrambled eggs around his plate but never actually taking a bite. He was wearing a black Vans T-shirt, the kind with a simple logo on the chest, and cargo shorts. His brow was furrowed in thought, his eyes averted, his jaw set in stubborn silence.

Dad was immersed in the morning paper, pretending not to notice Blake’s tension, but I could see the occasional glance he stole in his direction. He wasn’t fooling anyone.

Mom, as usual, was doing her best to fill the silence. She had already gone on about the weather and was now reminding Blake for the third time to double-check his backpack.

“You ready for tomorrow, Beverly?” She stood at the counter, her back to us, obliviously flipping pancakes.

“I guess so,” I answered, pushing my cereal around. “I think I’ll be okay.”

“You’ll do great. It’s just middle school, not the end of the world.”

Blake’s lips pressed together in a thin line, and I tensed, trying to figure out if he was just nervous or if something else was going on.

The low hum of the radio cut through the tension, and the unmistakable beat of Snoop Dogg’s Who Am I (What’s My Name)? filled the room.

Mom immediately stiffened, her fingers still wrapped around the pancake batter spoon. She shot a quick glance at the radio before reaching over and turning the dial, cutting off the song mid-verse. “I don’t want you two listening to that nonsense,” she said, her tone heavy with disapproval.

She didn’t understand the appeal of those kinds of songs, nor did she want us to hear ones she deemed inappropriate.

I could tell it only added to Blake’s frustration.