Where I Live (5 page)

From Mom—a batch of brownies
in a star-covered tin,
all mine.
I can keep them in my room.
Away from Twink.

 

From Dad—twenty dollars.
The start of my new-bike fund.

 

From Grandpa Joe—a poster of
the Horsehead Nebula.
And a moon-shaped bank.

 

From Rose—the purpy flopple.
So I will never forget her.
(As if I could.)

Rose says
she is tired of crying.
Tired of thinking about
all the ways she is going to
miss me.
“I have an idea,”
I tell her.
“Make a list
of all the things
you won't miss about me.”

1. I won't miss all your sky talk. Nebula this. Sunspot that.

2. I won't miss your winning every single Scrabble game.

3. I won't miss reading your diary.
Borrrr-ing.

4. I won't miss the way you stuff your face with brownies.

5. I won't miss your booming burp after you drink a can of soda.

6. I won't miss how you show my mom your A's in science.

7. But I might miss ... you

Dad loves
the old shed
in the back garden.
He loves
puttering
among the flowerpots
and hand tools.
Sometimes
he brings his lunch
out there,
sits on the old
rickety stool.
Twink says
he's practicing
his jokes
on the spiders.
I say
he just likes
the quiet.
Twink says
that's dumb—
nobody likes quiet.
I say
I like quiet.
Sometimes.
I wonder—
will Dad miss
the quiet,
the shed,
the puttering?

This is my last night
in my room.
My bed frame
and mattress
lean against
the wall.
I'm lying
in Dad's old
sleeping bag
staring at
the blank spaces
where my astronomy charts
used to hang.
Tears spill
like crying stars
from my eyes.
I hear Twink
giggling at
one of Dad's
silly jokes.
Ha.
Ha. I'm
never
laughing
again.

I say my mad-sad good-byes.
Good-bye to my room
with the midnight blue walls
that look like night sky.
Good-bye to the yellow house
with the white shutters,
to the maple trees
and the daffodils
asleep in their beds.
Good-bye to Mrs. Clifford,
who stopped over
with a bag of
homemade cookies.
Good-bye to Rose,
who stands waving
as our car pulls off.

 

I watch her from the back window
until she is a tiny speck—
the hardest good-bye of all.

Grandpa Joe's house
is white stucco
with a wide porch
and window boxes
overflowing with
geraniums.
There is the pine tree
I helped him plant
two years ago.
Grandpa points to a window.
“That's your room,”
he says.
“I had it painted
midnight blue.
Your astronomy posters
will look fine there.”
This is Grandpa Joe's house.
This is where he lives.
Slowly
I carry my suitcase
up the front steps.

When I walk into
my new room
there is a balloon
tied to a chair.
It says WELCOME.
But that is not
the surprise
I'm talking about.
The surprise is
a brand-new
computer
sitting on the desk
that used to be
my mom's
when she was a girl.
Grandpa Joe stands
in the doorway
grinning.
“Now you can e-mail
your friend Rose
every day.”

When you move
and go to sleep
for the first time
in a new room,
you feel strange.
Even if your new room
is midnight blue
like your old one.
Even if you are in
your own bed.
Even if your family
is in the same house.
Even if the same moon
that hung over
your old neighborhood
is hanging in
your new-neighborhood sky.
No matter what,
that first night
you feel strange,
spooky, and a little
lonely.

It's been a week
since we moved.
Today Dad told me a joke.
I faked a laugh.
Mom baked brownies—
my favorite.
I didn't eat a single one.
Grandpa Joe asked:
“Who wants to play chess?”
Twink, who doesn't know
a rook from a pawn,
piped: “Me!”

 

Everyone seems
to be trying to
make me feel better.
I don't
feel
like
feeling better.