No Place Like Home

by Dee Romito

  “What’s next?” I ask.

  Bren goes over a list of things we need to get done, and we split up all the tasks among the three of us. I have to admit we work pretty well together. It takes hardly any time at all, since we agree on almost every point.

  And then . . . Shelby’s back. She picks up one of the posters, tilts it from side to side, and puts it back on the table. “My mom works at a printing shop. I could get these done for you if you want.”

  Ashia and I exchange What the heck is happening right now? looks.

  “What?” says Shelby. “I’m not the evil witch you guys think I am.”

  Well, this is awkward.

  “Plus, I need a favor,” she says. Ah, there it is. “Tate listens to you. Put in a good word for me and I’ll do your posters.”

  Shelby likes Tate? Oh man. I should have figured.

  “I don’t know if I can do that,” I say.

  And just like that, somewhat-sweet Shelby disappears. “Is it really that hard to think of something nice to say about me? Seriously, Kenzie?”

  Um, yeah, it is.

  “I just . . . I mean . . . I don’t think I want to get in the middle of whatever this is,” I say, fumbling over my words. I can’t tell her there’s a slight chance that I might possibly like Tate. Maybe.

  Shelby looks like she’s about to explode when Ashia steps in to save the day. “I’ll do it,” she says. “I’ve known Tate forever.”

  Shelby’s shoulders relax, and she gives Ashia a huge (fake) grin. “Perfect. E-mail me the photos. I’ll have the posters done in a couple days.” And with that, she pivots on her heel and walks out of the library, her shoulders bouncing with each step.

  Once she’s gone, Bren gets his things together, stands up, and slings his bag over his shoulder. “Girls are weird” is all he says before doing a pivot imitation of Shelby and sauntering out of the library.

  * * *

  My dad didn’t exactly sign me up for photography class. He surprises me with the news when we get to Washington, DC, on Saturday.

  “I thought a lesson from a real pro would be invaluable,” says Dad. “We went to college together, and now he’s one of the most sought-after photographers. Plus, he’s really looking forward to meeting you.”

  “Dad, I meant a class in Vegas. You know, like normal kids take?” We walk along the reflecting pool toward the Lincoln Memorial. It’s one of my favorite places in the world.

  “I know, but this is better, don’t you think?” He stops, and I nod in agreement. It’s not like VIP privileges aren’t awesome, and I’m kind of glad I still get to have them on the weekends. When we get to the steps leading up to the enormous statue of Lincoln, we sit down. “I have something for you,” says Dad.

  He takes a gift bag out of the big tote he’s been carrying. “Open it,” he says.

  I pull out the tissue paper and find a black camera bag and unzip it to find a brand-new camera inside. “This is for me?” I ask.

  He chuckles and puts an arm around me. “Yes, it’s for you. I’m so proud of how well you’re doing in school. And you’re so brave to try out new things,” he says. “When you said you wanted to learn photography, I thought it made sense for you to have your own camera.”

  I turn the camera on, point it at the reflecting pool, and snap a picture. “You know, Dad, we go so many fun places, I really should start taking pictures with something other than my phone.” I check out the image on the screen. Not too bad, I guess.

  Dad gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Kuan-yin should be here any minute,” he says.

  A slim man with photography equipment slung over his shoulder walks up the steps toward us as a girl about my age follows behind him.

  “Brian,” says the man I’m assuming is Kuan-yin.

  “It’s been too long,” says Dad, and they give each other a big hug, complete with pats on the back. “And who is this?”

  “This is my daughter, Mayleen.” He puts a hand on her arm and a proud smile on his face. “And you must be Kenzie.”

  We all exchange hellos and move out of the way as a big group of tourists heads for the statue.

  “We should let the dads catch up,” says Mayleen. She doesn’t give me a chance to answer, just grabs my arm and directs me up the stairs.

  “Yeah, okay then.” I move right along with her until we get to the walls of the memorial.

  “This is my favorite part,” she says. “Everyone goes for the reflecting pool or the statue, but this . . .” She stops and faces the back wall. “Did you know this cost three million dollars to build?”

  “I didn’t,” I say. “But I do know that two presidents and Lincoln’s only surviving son were here for the dedication in 1922. My dad includes Abraham Lincoln facts in any lesson he can, and if I’m being honest, I love it.”

  “This is my favorite part of all.” She points up and reads. “ ‘In this temple, as in the hearts of the people for whom he saved the Union, the memory of Abraham Lincoln is enshrined forever.’ ”

  It’s not easy finding twelve-year-old history buffs. I like this girl. “You’re kind of awesome,” I say.

  “Kind of?” she replies with a smile. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  I laugh as Dad and Kuan-yin come back to where we’re standing. “Are you ready for your lesson?” asks Dad.

  I nod and pat my shiny new camera.

  For the next two hours, the four of us walk all over DC. Kuan-yin gives me tips on lighting, camera angles, and perspective. And it turns out Mayleen is a photography guru herself. When we get to the White House lawn (or at least the fence in front of the White House lawn), the dads sit down for a rest (older people have to do that, I guess) while Mayleen and I go take a million photos of ourselves in front of the most famous house in the country. I mean, how can we not end the day with a White House selfie?

  “Why haven’t we ever met before?” asks Mayleen.

  “My dad and I travel a lot,” I say. “Like all the time. Seriously.”

  “So where’s home?” she asks.

  “Good question,” I say. “Hotels are my home.”

  “No way. That’s so incredibly cool.”

  “It is, most of the time. But we’re staying in Las Vegas for six weeks and I’m kind of loving middle school,” I say. “Is that weird?”

  She lets out a giggle. “Oh man, Kenzie, if I could travel all the time and not go to middle school, I’d be all over that.”

  “The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, right?” I say.

  “Very true.” Mayleen hands me her phone. “Put your number in. We have to stay in touch.”

  I punch in my number and add my name with “White House Selfie Extraordinaire” as my business name. “Next time we’re in Washington, we are so hanging out,” I say.

  We walk back to the dads, who are now rested, and when they inform us that we’re all having dinner together, I couldn’t be happier. Even though I feel like I’m living two completely different lives right now (one normal and one not so much), they somehow go really well together.

  chapter ten

  When I get to school on Monday, people are everywhere, hanging election posters up.

  Ashia runs over to me with two big rolls of tape in her hands. “See why we needed to come in early?” she says, looking annoyed. “We have to get the best poster spots.”

  Madison, the girl who designed our flyers, is looking even more frantic than Ashia. “I got you guys the front display case and the gym doors, but I lost the library bulletin board. I’m so sorry.” Before I can even respond, she has already taken off, and is putting up a poster on the front of a water fountain.

  I didn’t take it seriously when Ashia texted me last night, but I guess I really shouldn’t have hit snooze on my alarm this morning. Tate is over by the office doors, getting a good setup for his poster.

  I grab one of the rolls of tape. “Where are the posters?” She leads me to two stacks of them, courtesy of She
lby, who really did come through for us. “Did you honor your end of the deal?” I ask Ashia.

  “Sure did,” she says. “I mentioned to Tate that Shelby was very helpful with our campaign and can’t she be the sweetest thing sometimes?”

  “What did he say?” I ask.

  “He laughed at me. Thought I was joking around,” she says. “But I did my part. Here’s your pile.” She hands me some posters, and I take off to the office, where I line up our poster right next to Tate’s.

  “What are you doing?” he asks. “This is my spot.”

  I smooth it down around the edges. “Yes, and this”—I point to the poster I’ve put up—“is my spot.”

  He gives me a smirk. “Too bad you’re new around here and don’t know all the best places.”

  His poster looks great. Mainly because his face takes up most of it. If only he weren’t so freaking cute.

  But I let myself get distracted for too long, and Tate is already down the hall. Probably getting those coveted spots I don’t know about.

  “Don’t listen to him.” Bren walks up next to me. “Poster placement isn’t what’s going to win this thing.”

  We walk down by the main bulletin boards and I put up another one, as Bren hands out buttons to students passing by. It’s a frenzy of activity with everyone battling for prime poster locations. Two students going in different directions slam into each other right near us. We help them up and Bren gives them each a button, never missing an opportunity.

  “Why don’t they let students put the posters up before this week?” I ask. “This is out of control.”

  “Well, there was an incident last year,” he says.

  We walk down the hall as Bren points to another place to hang posters. “What kind of incident?” I ask. Someone in the distance is ripping a poster off the wall and clearly causing a problem. “Worse than this?”

  “Oh yeah,” says Bren. “Way worse.”

  When he doesn’t tell me more, I take the bag of buttons out of his hands. “What happened?”

  But we’re interrupted by Ashia. “Hey, we only have five more minutes. Enough with the chitchat.” She hands me more posters and says, “Social studies hallway,” before heading in the other direction.

  “You owe me a story,” I say to Bren. And even though you’re not supposed to run in the hallways, I do. Because I’m not quite sure yet which is worse—having to face the principal or having to deal with Ashia if these posters don’t get up in time.

  * * *

  As if the craziness of the morning weren’t enough, there’s musical rehearsal after school, and we’re working on one of my solos.

  Oh boy.

  I’ve been shaking since the last period of the day and can’t seem to get myself together. I’m backstage in a little corner, counting down the minutes and trying desperately to calm myself down.

  “You can do this, Kenzie,” I say out loud. “It’s like singing in the hotel rooms. Sort of. Not really.”

  I must have missed the footsteps behind me, but I catch Tate’s voice loud and clear.

  “You can definitely do this,” he says. And for the first time, I notice a small hint of that faded Irish accent. “You okay?”

  I’m fairly certain my cheeks have turned the color of the Smell the Roses red crayon I used in art class earlier. I let out a slow breath. “I’m really nervous.”

  He pulls earbuds out of his pocket, attaches them to his phone, and taps the screen, then finally hands everything over to me. “Here. Give yourself a minute—you’ll be fine.”

  I put the earbuds in and Judy Garland’s voice takes over. I lean back against the tile wall, slide down to the floor, and close my eyes, totally immersed in the music. When the song is over, I open my eyes. Tate is sitting right next to me.

  I pull the headphones out and hand everything back to him. “Thank you for that.”

  “Sometimes you need to be focused on something else,” he says. “You ready?”

  I nod, not sure if I actually am. He gets up first, extends a hand to help me up, and doesn’t let go as we walk to the front.

  “You’ve got this, Kenzie,” he says. “I’ll be sitting in the front row.”

  I let go of his hand. The last thing I need right now is to be nervous about him, too. “Why are you helping your competition?” I ask.

  He smiles. “You’re not my competition here. Only on the campaign trail.” Tate glides down the stairs, leaving me standing in the middle of the stage. The whole cast is sitting behind the directors, and even the stage crew has filed into the auditorium seats. As promised, Tate is sitting front and center.

  You wanted this, I remind myself. Now take your best shot.

  I close my eyes and picture Judy Garland herself up on this stage, singing her heart out. I imagine sparkly red shoes on my feet and a tiny little dog in my arms. When the pianist plays the first note, I open my mouth to sing . . . and can’t remember a single word.

  “Are you okay, Kenzie?” asks the director, after a long, uncomfortable pause.

  But I can’t even answer her. Everyone is watching me. The room is silent.

  It is without a doubt my biggest opportunity for a bold and brave moment.

  But this time, I run offstage and fail miserably.

  chapter eleven

  It’s not that bad,” says Ashia at lunch the next day.

  “It’s that bad,” I respond, plopping my head into my arms on the table. The rest of the girls at the table try to console me, but Bren has other ideas, apparently.

  “She doesn’t need you to lie to her,” he says. “What she needs is some strategies to beat this stage fright.”

  I silently take his words under advisement.

  “You’ve got a lot to learn about girls, Bren,” says Ashia. “Sometimes we just need our girlfriends to make us feel better, even if it is a lie.”

  I pop my head up. “So it really is as bad as I think it is? Oh man, I’m doomed.”

  Ashia wraps an arm around me. “I’m so sorry, Kenzie. We’ll figure this out. We’ll find you a way to get past this.”

  Bren puts his hands out, palms up. “Isn’t that what I said?”

  Ashia shakes her head at him and gives him a not now, Bren look. Although I was thinking the same thing he was.

  “How about something to take your mind off it?” asks Bren. He faces Ashia. “Is that a girl thing or no?”

  She doesn’t respond to his sarcasm.

  “What did you have in mind?” I ask.

  “We’re starting a new book tomorrow for book club, and I was thinking that since it’s about different cultures coming together, we could have sort of an international feast,” he says. “Brilliant or what?”

  I certainly don’t want to call Bren brilliant, but it is a great idea. And planning a party might take my mind off things. That is, if I can make it through today’s rehearsal. “That sounds good. Do you want me to text everyone?”

  “Yes, please,” he says. “They can complain to you that it’s so last-minute.” He gives me a sinister smile, like it’s what he planned all along. But I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he got me.

  “What color are we wearing?” I ask. “The book cover is mostly brown, right?”

  He smiles again, but this time it’s a plain old happy smile. “You’re really getting the hang of this place, huh, sunshine?”

  And while my stage-fright disaster might suggest otherwise, I have to agree with him. For the first time in a long time, I might actually be fitting in.

  * * *

  I’m hiding in the back row of the auditorium, sending out a group text to book-club members, when a crazy thought hits me.

  I have enough friends to group message.

  In most twelve-year-old lives, this probably isn’t such a big deal, but to me, it’s huge. When a text notification goes off, I get ready for complaints. But instead it’s a really nice surprise.

  Hey, Kenzie! It’s Mayleen. How are things?


  I have to ignore it at first because a book-club text comes through. And another one. I finally type a response to Mayleen.

  Not good. Ran offstage at practice yesterday.

  Another text comes through, so I try to catch up. Everyone seems to have a reason they can’t do the feast.

  Not enough time to get it ready.

  Parents are busy tonight.

  Can’t pick a food.

  Really, people? This shouldn’t be so difficult. I respond with It was Bren’s idea and get a bunch of Ah, that makes more sense texts back. Surprisingly, they all jump on board. As irritating as Bren is, people seem to love him. The next one is from Mayleen.

  Oh man. That’s rough.

  Right?

  So sing to me next time.

  Huh?

  Sing to me. FaceTime me when you go up there. Put the phone where you can see me.

  What makes you so sure I won’t be TOTALLY embarrassed singing to you?

  Don’t worry. I have a plan.

  K is all I text back. The girl has a you can trust me kind of face.

  “Kenzie, can I talk to you for a minute?” Mrs. Summers, the head director, is standing at the end of the row.

  “Sure.” I put away my phone as she scoots into the seat next to me.

  “It can be really hard to get up there in front of everyone,” she says. “And we’re happy to work through it with you. We can talk about some strategies to use.”

  I nod and let her keep talking.

  “I just need to know that you’re committed to this,” she says. “If you’re in it for the long haul, so are we.”

  UGH. Just when I’ve semiforgotten my secret agenda, someone slaps me in the face with it. It’s either nerves or guilt creeping its way through my arms right now, but neither one is a good option. I consider telling her—I do. I mean, to be honest, backing out of this thing right now would solve a whole bunch of problems for me. But then I’ll always be the girl who ran offstage and couldn’t do it. And I don’t want to be that girl.

  “I’m in, Mrs. Summers,” I say. “Kenzie Rhines is not a quitter.” At least I don’t think she is. I’ve never actually had anything like this to quit before.