A QUIET FIXATION

ICE CREAMS, ASSIGNMENTS AND MAYBES

RAVEN'S POV:

People always say I’m the quiet one in the family.

And they’re not wrong.

But they never say I’m boring. At least not to my face.

Life at the Blackwood house is… lively. Loud. A little chaotic. Like someone tried to microwave a family sitcom and forgot to close the door.

I’m the only girl of three siblings. That should tell you everything. My older brother, Jason, thinks he’s a stand-up comedian. My younger brother, Caleb, is a twelve-year-old tornado with headphones. And me? I’m the buffer. The go-between. The therapist, the peacekeeper, the go-get-that-from-the-fridge girl.

Lisa—my stepmom—is surprisingly chill, especially considering she’s a full-time healthcare worker. And honestly? She’s one of the best parts of my life.

She didn’t try to replace my mom when she came into the picture. She just… fit. She listens when I talk. She reminds me to eat. She brings home peppermint tea when I’m anxious. I know not all stepmoms are like that. I got lucky.

Dad’s the type who acts all tough until I show him a cute cat video or mention I aced a math test. Then suddenly he’s a marshmallow.

They both call me “the ideal daughter.” I don’t know about that. But I do try.

Between school and home and keeping my brothers from murdering each other, I also juggle two part-time jobs. Yes, two. I work at Sweet Crumbs Bakery in the mornings before school—mostly packaging pastries, frosting cupcakes, occasionally pretending not to eat the cookies.

And in the afternoons, I shift over to Bean & Barrel, the local coffee shop, for a few hours after school. I’ve perfected the art of pretending to care when people say “almond milk, not oat.”

Why do I work so much?

Two reasons. One: I like being busy. It keeps my head quiet. Two: I’m saving up for a drawing tablet. A real one. The kind animators use. My dream is to turn the stories in my head into actual moving worlds.

And speaking of stories—I’ve had Ruth in mine since kindergarten.

Ruth Hutchinson is the closest thing I have to a sister. She’s loud. She’s bold. She’s a full-volume, glitter-dipped, highlighter-bright contrast to my grayscale self. And I love her for it.

She’s the one who stuck by me when I wouldn’t talk for days in second grade. She’s the one who made friendship bracelets in fourth grade and still wears hers.

She’s also the only reason I’ve ever gone to a school dance. She literally dragged me into the gym like it was a rescue mission. I spent the night guarding the snack table. She slow-danced with her now-boyfriend, Eric. It was still fun.

---

Friday started like most days—me slipping out of bed at 5:30 a.m. to get to the bakery, hair barely brushed, hoodie over pajamas. The smell of fresh bread is one of my favorite things in the world. Second only to butter croissants, still warm.

After the morning shift, I headed to school. Same routine. Same quiet walks. Same people not seeing me.

But that night—June came over.

Matt’s little sister. Yeah, that Matt. But let’s not go there. Not today.

June and I clicked a few months ago when she and Matt showed up at Bean & Barrel one day. She ordered a complicated hot chocolate, and I got her extra whipped cream. She smiled like I’d just invented happiness.

Since then, she drops by sometimes after school, especially on Fridays.

That night, she flopped onto our living room couch like she owned it.

"Turn on Ginny & Georgia, I need drama,” she said, already holding a spoon and eyeing the freezer.

"You know where the ice cream is," I replied, laughing.

June is ten but acts like she’s thirty. Sharp, funny, a little too honest. She’s chaos in tiny sneakers. And I adore her.

We sat on the couch with a massive bowl of mint chocolate chip between us, half-watching the show, half-talking.

"John's being annoying," she said, rolling her eyes.

"You’re ten. Why do you have a boyfriend again?" I asked, mock-serious.

She shrugged. "He gave me half his sandwich last week. That means something."

I nearly choked on my ice cream.

Then she got quiet for a second, spoon tapping the edge of the bowl.

"So… do you have anyone?"

I froze.

She was looking at me like she already knew the answer. I felt the heat crawl up my neck.

"I—uh—no," I mumbled, pretending to be fascinated by the TV.

"Uh-huh."

She smirked like she’d just solved a puzzle. But thankfully, she dropped it.

My heart was still recovering when I remembered—

“Oh my god, my assignment!”

I launched off the couch like someone had lit me on fire, bolting upstairs while yelling thanks to June for the company.

The assignment was for history. Due midnight. I opened my laptop at 8:49 p.m. and typed like my life depended on it.

Forty-five minutes in, Mom called from the kitchen.

"Raven! Dinner!"

"I’m working!" I yelled back.

"Pause and come help me cook, please. Family time!"

Family time. The two words no teenager can escape. I sighed and dragged myself downstairs.

In the kitchen, Jason was chopping onions with the confidence of a man who'd never cooked before. Caleb was stirring something that looked suspiciously like lava. Dad was tasting sauces and pretending to know what he was doing. Lisa stood in the middle, smiling like she was trying to keep a circus from exploding.

I joined in, grating cheese and dodging flying flour. It was messy. It was loud. It was us.

And then, somewhere between setting the table and stealing garlic bread off the tray, Mom said it.

“There’s something I’ve been thinking about,” she started, her tone too casual.

We all paused. That’s never a good sign.

“I’ve been offered a new position. In Crescent Ridge.”

Silence.

“Isn’t that like… two towns over?” I asked, my voice tight.

“About thirty minutes,” she said, watching me carefully. “Better pay. Better hours.”

“But... that means moving, right?”

“Possibly,” she said. “It’s not final yet.”

I looked at my brothers. Even they were quiet now.

“But we live here,” I said. “We go to school here. My friends are here. Everything’s here.”

“I know, sweetheart. We’re just… thinking. Talking about it.”

Dad cleared his throat. “Nothing’s decided yet. We’d only go if it made sense for all of us.”

But the seed had been planted.

And it sat in my chest like a weight.

I smiled through dinner. I laughed when Jason knocked over a cup. I even helped with dishes.

But inside, all I could think about was what it would mean to leave Northside.

Ruth. My job. The bakery. My drawings taped to my bedroom wall. The school halls I’d walked since I was a kid.

Even the quiet moments.

Especially those.

Because this life—flawed and loud and messy—is mine.

And I’m not ready to give it up.

Not yet.

---

Saturday mornings in our house are sacred.

They smell like burnt toast, sound like arguing over bathroom time, and feel like socks half-dry from the radiator. There’s something familiar in the chaos—something that makes the world outside feel a little less sharp.

At 8:03 a.m., Jason set off the smoke alarm. Again.

“Why do you always toast on high?!” Lisa shouted, flapping a dish towel under the beeping ceiling alarm.

“I like a crunch,” he said, dramatically biting into his blackened bread like it was gourmet.

Caleb, already in a hoodie two sizes too big, walked by with a cereal bowl the size of his head. “You like lung damage, idiot.”

I laughed into my tea, feet tucked under me on the kitchen stool.

Lisa gave me that look—the one that says I know you’re thinking too much.

She was right.

Last night’s dinner conversation still sat heavy on my chest. The possibility of moving wasn’t just a “talk” for me. It was a crack in the wall of everything I’ve built.

My room, my school, my two jobs, Ruth.

This town.

It’s in my bloodstream.

“You okay, Rae?” she asked gently, sliding a plate of scrambled eggs in front of me.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. That’s what I love about Lisa. She knows when to ask, and when to wait.

---

By 9:30, I was out the door, bakery apron in hand. Sweet Crumbs was just two blocks from our house, tucked between a vintage bookstore and a vape shop that made our entire street smell like synthetic mango.

I liked working mornings. I liked the quiet before the caffeine kicked in.

“Morning, Rave!” called Mr. Morrison, the bakery owner. His white beard was powdered with flour, his shirt permanently dotted with frosting stains. “We’ve got two dozen red velvet cupcakes to box up for that bridal shower.”

“On it,” I said, slipping into the rhythm.

Frost, box, label. Smile.

Repeat.

I liked the way the work didn’t ask questions. The way I could keep my hands busy while my brain sorted itself out.

Customers came and went. I made small talk. I laughed. I pretended like the words “new town” weren’t echoing in the back of my mind like a stuck song.

At 11:47 a.m., my phone buzzed.

Ruth: “Starbucks after your shift or I’m declaring war.”

I smiled.

Me: “Fine. Don’t bomb my house.”

---

By 12:30, we were sitting on the curb outside the drive-thru Starbucks across from Northside High. I sipped a caramel macchiato while Ruth told me all about her cheer practice drama.

“And then Madison totally tried to sabotage the pyramid again,” she said, mouth half-full of cake pop. “I swear, she wants someone to get a concussion.”

I laughed, letting her voice wrap around me like a familiar blanket.

“You’re not gonna move, right?” she asked suddenly, eyes serious now.

I froze.

“What?”

“My dad mentioned something about your mom getting a job offer. Crescent Ridge, right?”

Ugh. Mayor Dad knows everything.

“I don’t know,” I said softly. “She’s thinking about it.”

Ruth leaned her head on my shoulder. “You’re not allowed to leave me. You’re, like, my emotional support introvert.”

I smiled, but inside, I was shaking.

What if I didn’t have a say?

What if this place—this messy, loud, mine place—was already slipping through my fingers?

---

When I got home, the house was unusually quiet. Jason was out. Caleb was probably somewhere being chaotic with headphones on.

I dropped my apron and flopped onto the couch.

That’s when I heard the knock.

Three light taps, like someone politely trying not to wake a sleeping cat.

I opened the door to find June standing there, grinning.

“I brought snacks,” she said, lifting a grocery bag like it was treasure. “And gossip.”

I stepped aside. “Enter, tiny chaos.”

---

We set up camp in the living room—Netflix on, snacks out, pillows everywhere. She picked Ginny & Georgia again. Her comfort show.

We traded jokes, paused the show to mock characters, and argued over who was more toxic.

Then she turned to me, out of nowhere, and asked, “Have you ever liked someone?”

I blinked.

“No,” I lied.

She tilted her head, scanning me like she had X-ray vision.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

I stuffed popcorn into my mouth and changed the subject.

She let it go, but her smile said, I’ll ask again.

---

Later, she left with her arms full of leftover cookies and a warning: “Next time, we’re watching reality TV. You need culture.”

I rolled my eyes, heart lighter than it had been all day.

Until I walked into my room and saw my laptop still open—unfinished history paper blinking at me like a disappointed parent.

“Crap,” I muttered, throwing myself into the chair and typing like the world depended on it.

It was almost 7:00 p.m. when Lisa called again.

“Rae! Come help with dinner!”

I paused. Just five more sentences.

“Coming!” I shouted.

Downstairs, the kitchen was already warm with the smell of garlic and butter. Dad was slicing bread. Caleb was grating cheese. Jason had finally figured out how to toast things without summoning fire.

Family dinner on a Saturday night. A rare, beautiful thing.

I chopped veggies. We joked. We passed spoons and stories.

And then, mid-bite, Lisa said it again.

“I talked to the recruiter this morning.”

My stomach dropped.

“She said I have until Monday to decide.”

The room quieted.

Dad cleared his throat. “We’ll make the decision together. As a family.”

Lisa nodded. “But I won’t lie—it’s a good opportunity. Better hours. Better benefits. Less night shifts.”

I looked down at my plate.

Jason spoke first. “What about school?”

“We’d find one just as good,” Lisa said.

“But it won’t be ours,” Caleb muttered.

And for once, I agreed with him.

After dinner, I washed dishes with Lisa. She didn’t speak for a long time.

Finally, she said, “You don’t want to go, do you?”

I dried my hands. “I don’t know how to start over.”

She nodded slowly. “I know, honey. I’m just trying to do what’s best for us.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to beg her not to leave this life behind.

But I didn’t.

Because I’m the quiet one.

The good one.

The one who doesn’t cause problems.