No Place Like Home

by Dee Romito

  For Nathan and Kiley.

  You are my greatest adventure.

  chapter one

  When I was little, I used to wish I could fly. I dreamed of soaring through the air and seeing the world from far above it—with the houses and trees becoming so tiny I could put them in a dollhouse, and all the little automobiles turning into toy cars before my eyes. But I’m pretty sure that somewhere along the line, the universe got its signals seriously crossed, because this life of mine isn’t quite what I meant.

  “Dad, can I please finish my dessert before I do the essay on the thirteen colonies?” I ask. Does it count as school when you’re thirty thousand feet in the air and your dad is your teacher?

  A blob of warm, fudgy icing slides down the side of my brownie and helps make my point.

  “Sure. I have something to talk to you about anyway.” Dad pushes his tray into the arm of his seat (yeah, fancy contraptions in the fancy seats) and turns to face me.

  Translation: serious conversation.

  I dig my fork into the brownie and shove a big mound of it in my mouth.

  “I know it’s hard for you to be flying all over the country like this, Kenzie,” says Dad. “You don’t get to do a lot of the things other twelve-year-olds do.”

  We’ve had this conversation before. Dad tells me how sorry he is that his job forces us to travel all the time. No, literally, ALL THE TIME. We don’t spend more than a few days in one place before we’re on our way to the next stop. He’s a consultant for companies trying to go green, yet we guzzle up fuel like crazy getting to all his meetings. Kind of ironic.

  We lost my mom three years ago, and while Dad couldn’t afford to give up his job, he also wasn’t about to go anywhere without me anymore. On that first day we were on our own, those were his exact words. He knelt down in front of me, gently grabbed my hands, and said, “Kenzie, I’m not about to go anywhere without you anymore.”

  So he told his company he wouldn’t fly international (uh, hello, Dad—Paris and London?!) and that they had to let me travel with him. That’s our deal and I get it. I always tell him it’s okay, and that it’s actually sort of fun staying in fancy hotels and getting to see different cities, because it is.

  What I don’t say is that I miss having my own bed, a place for my things, and a best friend I can see every day.

  “Sweetie, are you listening to me?” asks Dad.

  Clearly, I haven’t been. There’s chocolate on my chin, and Dad’s face is all excited-looking. I totally missed something.

  “Sorry, what did you say again?” I ask. “Ooh, did they approve the assignment in Minnesota? Because you said next time we could go to the Judy Garland Museum.” The Wizard of Oz is my all-time favorite movie, but we’ve had to skip the museum the last three times. Fun side trips aren’t easy to squish into jam-packed meeting days.

  Dad laughs. “No, that’s not it. I said we’re staying in Las Vegas for about six weeks.”

  It takes me a good ten seconds before I really get what he’s saying. “Six weeks?” I ask. My mouth drops open, and not for another bite of brownie. “What? Why? I mean, how is that even possible?”

  Dad smiles like he’s amused by my response. “This one’s a big project. They rented us a house, and I was thinking you might want to enroll in the local middle school for—”

  “Yes, please!” I don’t even give him a chance to finish. “A real school with real kids and lunches full of tater tots and those cute little milk containers? Who wouldn’t want that?”

  Dad chuckles again. “It sounds fun, doesn’t it?”

  Yes, it so does. KIDS. Like, people my size, not dressed in business suits or hotel-employee uniforms. No chaperone assigned to me while my dad is in meetings. Teachers who don’t go totally overboard with assignments and projects. I haven’t been to an actual school in a while, but I’m pretty sure they’re still the same.

  Dad takes my enormous smile as a yes. “Okay, then, it’s settled,” he says. “We’ll take care of the paperwork as soon as we get there.”

  Although Vegas isn’t where we’re headed now. We’ve got Chicago, Santa Fe, and Denver to hit first.

  Dad glances over at my essay notes and taps his finger on the paper. “ ‘Foreign’ doesn’t follow the i-before-e rule, remember?” He taps again, this time at the bottom. “And two n’s in ‘tyranny.’ But otherwise it’s looking good, sweetie.”

  I correct the mistakes, circle them, and add a couple of stars as reminders. They will most definitely be on this week’s spelling test.

  “But I guess we can skip the essay for now,” Dad adds casually.

  Yes! Homework pass for the win.

  Dad gets up to use the bathroom, and everyone else in first class is either asleep or has headphones on, so for a few minutes it’s like I have the place to myself. I quietly sing the chorus of “We’re Off to See the Wizard,” bopping my head from side to side. And to top it all off, the flight attendant asks if I’d like another brownie. FYI, the answer to that is always yes.

  * * *

  After the one-day trips to Chicago and Santa Fe, we arrive in Denver, exhausted. These shorter trips totally wear me out.

  Our first stop is always to see Fiona at the hotel concierge desk. They’re the people who take care of whatever you need (dinner reservations, tickets to a show, a toothbrush because you forgot yours), and regulars like my dad get to know them pretty well.

  “My favorite guests!” says Fiona when she sees us. Her beautiful British accent is quite possibly my favorite ever.

  She comes out and gives us each a big hug, and I immediately catch the familiar scent of her lilac perfume. She’s the kind of absolutely gorgeous that makes it impossible not to notice her instantly. She seems almost as tall as my dad, although I’m guessing she’d lose about four inches without the heels.

  “I’ll phone the kitchen and order a fresh apple pie,” she says. We don’t bother telling her we’ll never finish it all, because she’ll insist anyway. Fiona uses only two words when she calls the kitchen—“VIP” and “pie.” “You can take what you can’t finish back to your room,” she says when she hangs up.

  The three of us find a comfy spot in the lobby because Fiona also insists we relax when we get here. She’s one of the reasons I love this place.

  “How have you been?” Dad asks her.

  But Fiona waves him off. “My life is nowhere near as interesting as yours. What have you been up to, Kenzie?” She loves hearing about where we’ve been, even if all I have to say is that I got to order an ice cream sundae from room service in New York City.

  “Well, there is something exciting,” I say. Her eyes open wide, and I hope I don’t disappoint her. “We’re staying in Las Vegas for a while, and I get to go to middle school for six weeks.” I try not to jump all over the place with excitement, but Fiona does it for me. She slaps her hands on the glass table between us, and her chair scoots back a few inches.

  “Six weeks? Middle school? How fabulous!” The lobby chatter quiets down for a few seconds, but people quickly go back to their conversations. “Lucky girl. You’ll make lots of new friends.”

  “I hope so,” I say. “I mean, I won’t be there long enough for anything major, but it’ll be nice to be around other kids.”

  Dad excuses himself to go get us some water. As if he needs to get it himself. All Dad has to do is tip a finger in the air and they’ll bring him whatever he wants. Regular guests get really good service.

  “But six weeks, that’s half a term,” says Fiona with a smile. “You’ll adore it!”

  Her enthusiasm is yet another thing I love about her. Plus, she’s put into words exactly what I’ve been thinking. I have six weeks to be a kid in middle school. Six weeks to have a nor
mal life and actually live in one place for more than a weekend. I didn’t even realize how badly I wanted that until now.

  “You’re totally right,” I say. “As always.”

  Dad is heading back to us, and Joanne from the Nannies to Go agency Dad uses walks through the front door. She gives me a high five with her red, manicured nails hitting the tips of my fingers. I’m happy to see it’s Joanne, because she always has some grand adventure planned for us. Although Denise (the other nanny I adore here—I call her Denver Denise) takes me to the absolute best restaurants.

  “Did you finish all your homework on the plane?” asks Joanne.

  I nod. “What are we doing today?” I ask.

  “It’s a surprise,” she says. “But let’s just say your nails will never have looked better, your feet will be totally smooth, and you’ll be able to tell all your friends you saw the hottest new movie.”

  “So it’s not a surprise,” I joke. And as much as I can’t wait for my next adventure in middle school, I have to admit I might miss all this pampering a little.

  chapter two

  I’m a weird mix of nervous and excited like it’s my first day of kindergarten. Dad insisted that he walk me into school to make sure I was all set, but I insisted even more that he absolutely not. We had already toured the school when we got here from Denver on Tuesday. I know my locker combination, and I have my schedule. I’m as ready as I’m going to be.

  I step through the big glass doors to Sagebrush Middle and into a sea of kids. And, technically, while it’s my first day, everyone else has already been in school for more than a month.

  I should be watching where I’m going, not eyeing all the middle-schoolness around me. Instead I smack right into a girl with short dark hair propped on top of her head with an elastic headband.

  I should say I’m sorry.

  Help her pick up her books.

  But I just stand there.

  This is so not like elementary school.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  I’m still not moving. What is wrong with me?

  “I’m Ashia,” says the girl, apparently not fazed by my stone-statue look.

  “Kenzie,” I manage to squeak out.

  “Well, hello, Kenzie,” she says. “I’m guessing it’s your first day?”

  I nod.

  “Don’t worry—this place looks like a zoo, but it’s pretty easy to get around.” She draws out her vowels the tiniest bit with an exotic accent I can’t place. I wonder if I still sound like a Northern Californian.

  “Thank you,” I say. “It’s all a little much.”

  And just when I think I can do this, the cutest boy I’ve ever seen rushes past me. I don’t even try to hide the head whip I do to catch another glimpse of him.

  Ashia laughs. “That’s Tate O’Dea. I can introduce you later if you’d like.”

  I shake my head. “No way. I mean, no thank you.”

  “Okay, but the offer stands. So, do you know where you’re going?” she asks.

  “Not really.” Even though I was here a couple days ago with my dad, it all looks so different with the halls full of kids. I pull my schedule from my backpack and hand it over. “Can you help me find my homeroom?”

  “Sure. I’ll walk you there,” she says. “Ooh, and we have the same lunch period! You’ll have to sit with me.”

  On the way, she points out all the things I need to know, like where the nicest hall monitors sit; how to avoid the principal, Mr. Kumar, at all costs; and a secret shortcut to my first class. She promises to meet me at lunch, which makes me feel better already.

  “And you should totally join drama club,” says Ashia. Her “totally” comes out as a beautiful “toe-tuh-lee.” “Tryouts for the musical are after school today.”

  I secretly love to sing. In the shower. Giving a concert in our hotel room. In the rental cars with Dad. But not in front of anyone else.

  “I’m more the stage-crew type,” I say.

  Ashia nods. “Whatever you want, but you do have excellent timing. We’re doing a classic this year.”

  I’m still stuck on the way she says “egg-cellent” when she gives me a light smack on the shoulder. “Oh, sorry, right. A classic. Which one?” I ask.

  “The Wizard of Oz,” says Ashia. “It doesn’t get any better than that.”

  No, it sure doesn’t. Not in a million years would I have expected fate to plop down in front of me like this. I stop in my tracks and grab my new friend by the shoulders.

  “Did you say The Wizard of Oz?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “It’s my all-time, can’t-possibly-convince-me-it’s-not-the-best-movie-ever, favorite,” I say. But then my shoulders droop. “Never mind. I couldn’t possibly stand up in front of all those people and talk, let alone sing.” Plus, I’ll be long gone before the performances. But I don’t tell her that yet.

  We walk again, in what I’m guessing is the direction of my homeroom.

  “You can do anything you want to do,” she says.

  Yeah, if only.

  “Think about it.” Ashia points to the open doorway we’re now standing in front of. “This is your stop. I’ll see you at lunch.”

  And in an instant she’s off down the hall. I turn to face a classroom full of new faces.

  I’m a whole lot more nervous than I thought I’d be today, but at least I have tater tots and Ashia to look forward to.

  * * *

  I take a seat up front in English class.

  To act like I’m not totally out of place, I open up one of my notebooks to write my name inside. But my chair is jolted from behind, and my pencil flies across the paper.

  The boy behind me mouths a Sorry when I turn around.

  Ten seconds later, it happens again.

  This time I jump into airplane passenger mode. It doesn’t happen very often in first class, but when Dad and I have to fly coach (I’m not a snob, really I’m not, but first class is all kinds of AWESOME), having a kid kick my seat is a pretty regular thing. Unfortunately.

  I turn around and get my friendly face ready. On try number one, you go for polite. “Maybe you don’t realize that every time you do that, my chair moves,” I say to the boy behind me.

  “Right. Sorry,” he says out loud this time.

  Students are still coming in, chatting with their friends as they make their way to their seats. The teacher is busy flipping through her plan book and doesn’t seem to notice all the noise.

  I go back to writing, and this time I’m trying to jot down the notes from the board when my head jolts and my chair moves forward a good two inches.

  On try number two, you lay out the consequences. This requires a stern look.

  “Listen, I don’t appreciate having my chair kicked. I suggest you stop it or . . .” Wait, what are the consequences in a classroom? Telling the teacher and becoming the class tattletale is probably not the best move.

  “Or?” asks the boy, daring me to finish my sentence.

  I dive into my bag of tricks and manage to find one that might work. “Or the sticky red juice I have in my lunch bag might accidentally squirt behind me and you’ll need a good soapy bath after school.” Not my best (especially since I don’t actually have a lunch bag), but it works especially well with active little boys on planes. As long as their parents can’t hear me, that is.

  “I don’t bathe often,” says the boy with a smirk. “So that would be a disaster.” He sits up straight and plants his feet firmly on the floor.

  Good. He does not want to see try number three.

  As soon as the bell rings, Mrs. Pilchard smacks a stack of brochures on her desk. “We have one item of business to get out of the way first. The countywide poetry contest begins today, and you have one week to submit your entries. Five winners will be chosen, and if you’re one of those winners, you’ll get a very nice prize pack, your poem will be published in the local newspaper, and you’ll have the chance to read it aloud at a fancy awards dinn
er. I’d consider it if I were you.”

  Darn. She had me until “read it aloud.” No chance of that happening. And fancy dinners certainly aren’t anything new to me. Still, I eye that pile of pamphlets on the way out of class, debating whether or not to grab one.

  I don’t.

  The hall is like an airport terminal at Chicago O’Hare. Luckily, I’ve already mapped out my route to lunch, so I keep walking straight until I need to make a right turn. When I finally make it to what I’ve been told to call “the caf,” I search frantically for Ashia. Shoulder bumps from the crowd keep knocking me from side to side, so I get out of the way and head for the lunch line.

  Once I have my food (stuffed-crust pizza day!), I scan the room again for Ashia. Right now I’m wishing I had a solid seat assignment. Seriously, the world of airplane travel has gotten that right. It would at least make this new-kid-in-the-cafeteria thing much easier.

  “Kenzie!” Ashia is running toward me like I’m her long-lost puppy. “You’ll still sit with me, yes?”

  I nod and follow her, grateful to have someone to have lunch with. A friend to have lunch with.

  “Hey, everybody, this is Kenzie.” She rattles off the names of the girls at the table, and when she gets to the end, she points toward the lone boy. “And this is Bren Clarke. Our resident book nerd.”

  He turns his attention to Ashia. “We’ve met. Sort of,” he says. “She sits in front of me in English.”

  It’s not until now that I notice what his T-shirt says. I READ. WHAT’S YOUR SUPERPOWER?

  Maybe he’s not as bad as I thought.

  “I’m Bren.” He sticks out his hand.

  I take it and give a strong shake like my dad taught me. “Kenzie,” I say. “But for now I’m going to call you Beckham, since you kick like him.”

  Bren laughs. “Well played, Kenzie,” he says. “Well played.”

  Ashia nudges me. “You two done flirting? Lunch is only thirty minutes.” She sits down, leaving me standing there with heat rushing to my face.

  “We weren’t—”

  “It’s a joke. Sit down.” Ashia motions to the open spot.

  For the next ten minutes, Ashia tries again to convince me to try out for the musical. I consider telling her exactly why I can’t, but she’s so excited that I let her keep talking.