The moving truck\u2019s diesel growl faded into the salty Nantucket air, replaced by the hiss of waves against the breakwater. The breeze here was different from Indiana\u2019s flatland winds\u2014sharper, briny, and carrying a faint sweetness that stuck to your clothes and hair like it meant to claim you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My parents called it a fresh start<\/em>. They\u2019d sold the Columbus, Indiana house without ceremony\u2014didn\u2019t even let me pack my own things. When I\u2019d come home from my last day at the institution, my room was already stripped bare, the walls naked. Now, they\u2019d bought an oceanfront palace worth more than entire neighborhoods back home. Forty-two rooms, marble floors, glass walls opening to the Atlantic. Not because they loved the ocean\u2014they didn\u2019t care about that. No, this house was about distance. Distance from neighbors who whispered. Distance from the story of their<\/em> son. Distance from the memory of court dates, medical holds, and the months they\u2019d spent pretending I didn\u2019t exist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The werewolf in me didn\u2019t mind the move\u2014salt air was better than stale hospital disinfectant. But the human part of me\u2026 the human part had learned not to expect home<\/em> from them. Not anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The ferry ride over had been silent. My parents stood at the rail in their perfectly tailored coats, pointing out the island\u2019s lighthouses like tourists in a coffee-table book, their voices light, practiced. I stayed below, leaning against the car deck\u2019s cold metal wall, letting the thrum of the engines buzz in my chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It had been months since I\u2019d seen this much open sky. The wolf in me liked it\u2014the expanse, the smell of wind over saltwater. My parents? They liked the exclusivity. Nantucket wasn\u2019t just an island; it was an escape hatch they could brag about.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When we docked, they didn\u2019t look back to see if I followed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The mansion looked like it had been grown from the bones of the coastline\u2014white walls, black trim, every line crisp and deliberate. A driveway of crushed shells crunched under the tires as the moving crew unloaded box after box. Inside, the air was cool, faintly perfumed with something floral and expensive. Gleaming brass fixtures. Chandeliers. Floors polished so smooth I could see my reflection.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThis is where we<\/em> live now,\u201d my mother said, sweeping a hand at the grand foyer like she was revealing a stage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWe\u201d was a generous term. The way she looked at me, I could\u2019ve been the hired help.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDon\u2019t scratch the floors,\u201d she added, her voice low and sharp. \u201cOr break anything. You have a history.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I just stared at her for a moment, then walked deeper into the house without answering. She hated that\u2014when I didn\u2019t rise to her bait.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The next morning, over breakfast, I found out about the school.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019ll be going to Cape Cod Regional Technical High,\u201d my father said, flipping a page in his paper. \u201cIt\u2019s on the mainland. Ferry leaves at six-thirty. Don\u2019t miss it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked up from my untouched toast. \u201cWhy not Nantucket High? Isn\u2019t that the normal\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou need a life lesson,\u201d he interrupted, folding the paper neatly. \u201cYou\u2019ve spent too much time\u2026 indulged. At Tech, you\u2019ll learn skills. You\u2019ll meet ordinary people<\/em>. It will be good for you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My mother sipped her coffee without looking up. \u201cHumility,\u201d she murmured. \u201cIt might even stick this time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I let the words hang there. They wanted me to protest, to give them something to crush. I didn\u2019t. I just took another slow bite of toast and kept my gaze locked on my father until he shifted uncomfortably.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That evening, I stood at my bedroom window, looking across the dark water toward the mainland. Tomorrow, I\u2019d take the ferry alone, join the commuter crowd, and walk into a school where no one knew my name or my past.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In Indiana, people had called me freak, monster, worse. Here? Here I was just another face. A blank slate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But the wolf in me knew better. It could feel<\/em> something out there, in those unfamiliar streets\u2014a pull, a scent it couldn\u2019t name yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Somewhere on that mainland, there was another one. He didn\u2019t know it yet. Neither did I.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The moving truck\u2019s diesel growl faded into the salty Nantucket air, replaced by the hiss of waves against the breakwater. The breeze here was different from Indiana\u2019s flatland winds\u2014sharper, briny, and carrying a faint sweetness that stuck to your clothes and hair like it meant to claim you. My parents called it a fresh start.I […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-8","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-high-school-life"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/firstsemester\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/firstsemester\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/firstsemester\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/firstsemester\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/firstsemester\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=8"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/firstsemester\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":9,"href":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/firstsemester\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8\/revisions\/9"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/firstsemester\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=8"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/firstsemester\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=8"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/firstsemester\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=8"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
I called it banishment<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n