Just like Aunt Rachel had just mentioned, their trip to Cleveland was to pick up Dean and take him back to Youngstown.
Because of Dean's abnormal behavior for the past week, the professors at the school believed he had psychological issues, and the mental health center even conducted a series of tests on him.
The tests proved that Dean's behavior indeed wasn't normal, at least he wasn't currently suitable to continue with his studies.
Moreover, after Aunt Rachel had called the school to explain Dean's situation a couple of days ago, the conversation in Clark's office just now took place.
However, faced with the suggestion of taking a leave of absence, Dean refused. How could he waste such precious time of being eighteen on a break from school?
Although he came from the future and had received a modern education, attending a university was still extremely important, a universal shortcut to class mobility across any era.
Perhaps with his future perspectives, he could achieve financial freedom in ten years, but that was about it.
The wealthy class is also stratified, and to become part of the 1%, or even the 0.1%, merely having foresight is not enough.
Moreover, this is America, and his knowledge of it from his previous life was far from familiar.
So college was the best choice during this transitional period; knowledge, connections, the principles of social operation, these were all intangible assets.
Unfortunately, Cleveland State University could only be described as mediocre. After sifting through his memories, Dean found that its ranking was only slightly better than that of diploma mills.
Among the more than two thousand universities in the United States with degree accreditation, Cleveland State University could barely break into the top two hundred, a definitive level-four university.
This was incomparable to top-tier universities like Harvard and Yale, which were within the TOP 30—it wasn't even close.
If only he could get into a better school, with his GPA of 3.8, he should be able to apply to top ten universities, right?
Dean, while staring blankly through the car window at the speeding freeway, mulled over the possibility of this in his mind.
After all, a better university could provide a much greater boost to personal development, especially for a country boy like him.
"Cleveland is declining more and more," seeing Dean looking out of the window as if reminiscing, Aunt Rachel couldn't help but sigh.
"Hmm? Declining?" Dean turned and looked back at Cleveland.
There, towering skyscrapers shone in the afternoon sunlight, and the streets were bustling with pedestrians and traffic across most of the city district.
It didn't seem too bad, at least comparable to the second-tier cities he had seen in his previous life.
"A decade ago, Cleveland had a population of over 900,000, ranking ninth in America and was a famous metropolis in the Great Lakes region.
But now..." Aunt Rachel said with a hint of regret, "the entire city district has less than 600,000 people left."
The relocation of heavy industry had caused this metropolis on the shores of Lake Erie to lose its former glory.
"Father works here every day, doesn't he?" Dean asked casually, looking at Cleveland as it grew more distant behind them.
With his memories of the past, he certainly knew where his dad worked.
What he didn't know, however, were the details of his father's arrest; at the time of the incident, he, as a new guest of the century, was still hazily adjusting to this body.
And now that Aunt Rachel's family hadn't mentioned the reasons, Dean had to initiate the conversation by himself.
Sure enough, when Dean mentioned his father Pete, both Rachel and Frank became somewhat silent.
Seeing them grow silent, Dean's heart skipped a beat—his cheap father hadn't committed some sort of heinous crime, had he?
He was still thinking about applying to better, first-tier universities later on, but if a family member committed a serious crime with a terrible impact, this plan could fall through.
These elite universities pay great attention to a student's family background; they may not outright reject you, but a poor family environment is definitely a negative factor.
Seeing Dean's expression turn serious, Aunt Rachel hastened to comfort him, "Dean, it's not as bad as you think. Although Pete did some wrong things, it's not beyond redemption."
"Then please tell me, Aunt. It's important, and I'm already eighteen," Dean said, fully an adult according to federal law, albeit a few weeks short of his birthday.
"Alright," Frank, who was driving, responded first, "Dean, I believe you can handle these things. But before that, let's go home first, take a hot shower, enjoy a steaming hot dinner.
Then we can talk about this, as now isn't a good time." Frank gestured to the steering wheel he was holding.
"Sorry, Uncle Frank, I was too hasty," Dean apologized for his impulsive tone just now.
"It's okay, kid, we all know you're strong enough," Aunt Rachel, also sitting in the back seat, once again pulled him into her arms and softly comforted him.
His mother had just passed away, his father was in detention, and he had a screw-up brother who had been kicked out of the family. Dean was the only normal one left in the family.
For a kid who had suffered a series of blows like this, what more could you demand of him?
The atmosphere in the car became somewhat somber following the recent discussion, and Dean continued to immerse himself in his memories, sorting through past shadows to better understand everything he was currently facing.
Cleveland is only about 70 miles southeast of Youngstown, and their party could already vaguely see its silhouette after driving for an hour.
It was also then that Dean truly understood why Aunt Rachel had been lamenting all the way that everything had decayed.
On both sides of the Mahoning River Valley that bordered Youngstown, dilapidated factories were everywhere, rust-streaked and brown.
Windows were smashed, weeds overran the asphalt surfaces, and parking lots were empty.
From a distance, a succession of factories stretched for twenty-five miles along the highway, tombs of industry.
And Youngstown was located on the edge of this cluster of factory tombs; it was also where Dean was born and raised.
Yes, this region covered in brown also had another name, the Rust Belt.
The area where Dean was from, between Youngstown and Cleveland, lay right at the heart of the Rust Belt, in Ohio.
The car entered the city zone, and the desolation that met their eyes made Cleveland's prosperity seem far away. The streets were sparsely populated, with beggars wearing knitted hats passed out beside inconspicuous rubbish bins.
"F*ck! What's the point of the community committee, to pull votes for the Republican Party? Look at the actor they elected president, promoting economic globalization, ah?"
Perhaps it was because his mood had been disturbed by the previous conversation, but upon seeing the unkempt beggar, Frank couldn't help but burst into curses.
"Frank," Rachel looked at him reproachfully, still indignant, and reminded him, "This is Northside."
"Alright, Northside, paradise for blacks and criminals!" Frank pressed the gas pedal and sped through the Northside toward the Southside.
The Southside was a community where whites like themselves congregated. Although the racial segregation laws had been abolished for nearly twenty years, and waves of civil rights movements had surged over the years, the divide in people's hearts had not been eradicated.
At least in Youngstown, the lines between black and white remained starkly drawn.
Even within the same city, the Southside community and the Northside were two entirely different concepts.
At least you don't have to worry about a black man demanding 20 dollars at your lower back on the Southside, nor do you have to fret about a vagrant shuffling mysteriously up to you, inquiring if you want "leaf."
Squeal—a grating sound as the brake pads rubbed against the wheel hub made one's teeth cringe.
When Dean came to his senses, Frank's car had already stopped at 1319 Charlotte Street, in the Southside.
A two-story detached house, with a red triangular roof, white walls, and a small porch underneath.
Directly beside the road in front of the door was a sizable lawn and garden, with a backyard hidden from view.
This was Dean's home, the locked front door reminding him that the house was currently empty.
"Dean, go pack your things. Remember to go to Bruce Street by six o'clock this evening, you'll be sharing a room with Jerry tonight," Rachel instructed as Dean stared blankly at his house.
Bruce Street was very close to Dean's house on Charlotte Street, just a few hundred meters around the corner at the end of the road from his front door.
The third house on the left upon approaching was Aunt Rachel's house; they, just like Dean's family, lived in the Southside.
"Maybe I can stay at my own place tonight, Aunt Rachel, considering how close it is to your house," suggested Dean.
"No, Dean," Aunt Rachel looked at him seriously, "It's not safe for you to be alone at night. Youngstown now is not the Youngstown of five years ago.
Some scum among the unemployed workers are trying all means to scheme for money.
If it weren't for the news of your father's detention not spreading yet, I guarantee if you go out for two days, when you come back, that carved wooden door might no longer be there."
Dean looked at the carved wooden door of his house, lost in thought.
Well, so much for the simple and honest Youngstown.
But since she put it that way, Dean nodded in acquiescence. "Okay, Aunt, I'll make sure to go to Bruce Street by six."
Only after getting Dean's promise did Aunt Rachel feel relieved enough to get in the car. In fact, there was more she hadn't said, especially when she saw Dean silently sizing up the house, she found it even harder to speak.
If the sole breadwinner of the family went to jail, a whole host of troubles awaited them.
But she would leave all that for the evening, at least let Dean take a hot shower to relax for now.
Watching the car drive off, Dean stood in front of his house and sighed. All signs indicated that his life was starting to fall apart.
Slapping his cheeks, he pulled out his keys to unlock the patterned wooden door, stepping through it for the first time.
Even though his new life might be a mess, it somehow also seemed worth looking forward to.