No Place Like Home

by Dee Romito

  “I don’t need any help,” I say to answer her. But now Bren is confused.

  “Fine. You don’t need my help. I get it,” he says.

  “Wait!” I shout, getting the attention of both Bren and my new bathroom friend. I swing the stall door open.

  “Listen, both of you,” I say. I point to the phone. “I’m talking to my friend, Bren.” I point to the lady in the red shirt and dark jeans. “Bren, I’m talking to a lady in the bathroom.”

  The woman smiles. “Oops. Sorry for the confusion.”

  I head for the door. “Bren, I have to go see some Wizard of Oz memorabilia because I’ve been looking forward to this for years and I’m not going to let Shelby ruin that for me.” I stop talking because I’m out of breath.

  “O-kay,” says Bren. “Call me later?”

  I nod like he can hear me. “Oh, right, I will.” I hang up the phone and put it in my pocket. I turn to apologize to the lady in the bathroom, but she’s already in one of the stalls.

  Dad is waiting for me when I get out to the hallway. “Now is everything okay?” he asks. “There’s obviously something you’re not telling me.”

  I want to tell him. I really do. But he’ll be so disappointed in me, and I can’t take any more of that right now.

  “For now, Dad, can we say I have a few things to fix and leave it at that?” I ask.

  Dad puts an arm around me. “Sure. Let’s be off to see the Wizard.”

  And as if nothing in the world is wrong, we skip down the yellow brick road.

  chapter nineteen

  Instead of heading back to Las Vegas on Sunday, Dad surprises me with another trip to DC. “Since you have two days off from school, we’re taking a little detour.”

  When we get to Kuan-yin’s house, I run up the steps to the front door. Mayleen opens it and practically tackle-hugs me on the porch.

  “I am so excited to see you!” she shouts.

  I laugh and catch my balance. “I can see that,” I say. It’s a strange thing that a month ago I didn’t have friends who were excited to see me, or for that matter, friends who’d be mad at me if I wasn’t honest with them. But now I do.

  The two of us run into the house, the echo of our dads’ voices behind us as we parade into the kitchen, where a million snacks are laid out.

  “My mom got them ready before she left for work,” she says. “You’ll get to meet her later.”

  “I can’t wait,” I say. Because that’s another thing I didn’t have before—moms to hang out with.

  We head up to her room, and Mayleen sits on her bed as I plop into the beanbag chair. It’s white and fluffy and I could seriously sleep right here. Yup, no hotel on this trip. Mayleen’s mom insisted.

  “So, what’s up, Kenzie?” asks Mayleen. “Your face is telling me things.”

  I bite my lip. I can trust her for sure, and she already knows what’s been going on, but saying what I did over and over is making the guilt take hold of me.

  “Everyone knows,” I say. “Or they will soon.”

  She sits crisscross applesauce and leans forward. “Yikes. What happened?”

  I tell myself not to do one of my long sentences, but I feel it coming anyway. “I told Ashia because it was getting so hard not to and I thought she’d understand, but she didn’t, she really didn’t. And Shelby overheard. Do you believe that? She was standing there probably the whole time and I didn’t even know.”

  Mayleen’s eyes get wide. “Uh-oh. What did she do?”

  “Nothing at first, but then she texted me and said that I better give up Dorothy or she’d tell,” I say, taking a breath. “But Bren convinced me to tell everyone first, and Ashia said I had to make it right, so I wrote a letter that Divi was going to send out to the cast of the musical and the student council.”

  “Okay, okay,” says Mayleen. “That’s a good idea, I think.”

  “Except before Divi could send it out, Shelby decided time was up.”

  Mayleen pushes her top teeth to her bottom teeth. “Eep.”

  “Right?” I say. “So I’m standing on the yellow brick road—”

  “Wait, what?” she asks.

  “We were at the Judy Garland Museum,” I clarify. “And I got a text from Divi. And then I sent a text to Bren and he called me, but this lady in the bathroom thought I was talking to her.”

  Mayleen puts a hand out. “Okay, slow down. Your point is that by now everyone must know, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Where’s that letter?” she asks.

  “On my laptop, downstairs. But I also sent a copy to Divi,” I answer.

  Mayleen grabs her computer from her desk and sits back on the bed, motioning for me to sit next to her. “Forward the e-mail to me from your phone,” she says.

  I sit quietly as she reads, not sure why I’m so nervous. She already knows everything. And she’s still my friend.

  “This is great, Kenzie,” she says. “You say you’re sorry and you explain why you did it.”

  “But it doesn’t matter,” I say, leaning back onto her pink pillows. “I didn’t get it out in time.”

  “So what?” She closes the laptop and leans back with me. “The important thing is that you send it.”

  I consider what she’s saying, and maybe it does make sense.

  “Will it even make a difference?” I ask.

  “It will to the people who matter,” she says. “Let me talk to Divi.” She reaches for my phone.

  I probably should stop her. I should tell her to forget it. I should leave it alone. But instead I listen to my new friend and let her dial Divi’s number and have a ten-minute conversation about how to make this happen. By the time she hangs up, we’ve reworded the letter a bit. But before she sends it off to Divi, I stop her.

  “Wait. I can’t send it yet,” I say.

  “Why not?” she asks.

  “Because I need to make things right with Ashia first,” I say. “That apology won’t mean anything if it doesn’t come directly from me.”

  “You go back Wednesday, right?” asks Mayleen.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “May the force be with you, my friend. You’re going to need it.”

  chapter twenty

  Wednesday morning I walk through the halls with my head down. I haven’t talked to Ashia since that text on Saturday, and except for Divi, I have no idea what’s going on with everyone else. I’m guessing I’m about to find out.

  Shelby and a couple of her friends (I still don’t know their names) stop me before I get to my locker. “Hey, Kenzie,” says Shelby with a wicked-witch kind of smile.

  “Hi, Shelby.” I push my way to my locker, only slightly knocking her out of the way. “Nice to see you.”

  She laughs and steps closer. “I ran into Mrs. Summers as soon as I got here this morning. She’s looking for you.” She and her two minions start walking away, but then she stops. “Although I’m pretty sure Tate won’t be looking for you.” She laughs as she leaves.

  I try to calculate the measurements of my locker to figure out if I can climb in there and hide out for the day, but I’m afraid I might not make it with only three tiny air slats.

  Once I have my things ready, I head to homeroom. I run into Ashia on the way. “Oh, hi,” I say.

  She smiles a tight-lipped smile.

  “Can we talk? Like sneak out at lunch or something?” I ask. “Please?”

  She takes a few seconds before she answers. “Not today, okay? I’m not saying no, but I’m not there yet.” Before I can even come up with something to respond with, she’s gone.

  The warning bell rings and the halls clear out, with a few people at a time disappearing into classrooms. I stand there until there aren’t any more echoes in the hall and there aren’t any more people to run into. But I’ve forgotten something important. Mrs. Summers doesn’t have a homeroom to get to.

  “Kenzie, can I speak with you for a minute?” she asks, coming out of nowhere.

  “Oh,
I, um . . . I have to get to homeroom. Sorry,” I say. I’m fully aware that my attempt to walk away isn’t going to work, but I have to give it my best shot.

  “I’ll call your homeroom teacher,” she says. “It’s not a problem.”

  We walk to the chorus room in silence and Mrs. Summers directs me to sit down. She calls my teacher and gets the okay to keep me trapped in here with no more excuses to leave.

  She sits down next to me. “I think you know why I asked you here.”

  Asked me here? Ha.

  “Yes, ma’am.” There are times in life where a “sir” or “ma’am” is your best shot at proving to someone you’re a respectful kid, even if the evidence suggests otherwise.

  “Can I ask you something?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Why didn’t you tell us what was going on?”

  All I can think is that teachers should know it’s not “can” I ask, because of course you can. As Dad would remind me, it’s “may.” But I know better than to give Mrs. Summers a grammar lesson right now. Instead I clasp my fingers together and squeeze, making sure I don’t look directly at her.

  “I wanted to see if I could do it,” I say.

  “Well, that’s understandable. But maybe a better solution would have been to simply ask us for some feedback,” she says. “Or, fine, try out, but then come clean.”

  I nod. “I thought about that. I really did,” I say. “But everyone was excited and I was excited and then there was Shelby and . . .” I trail off, reminding myself that it probably doesn’t matter what I say. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have misled everyone.”

  When the bell for first period rings, Mrs. Summers stands up. “You need to get to class. You do understand I need to recast your part?”

  Time for another “Yes, ma’am.” I’m hoping she’ll let me leave on that note. No further humiliation. No more explaining. But no.

  “You’re a very talented young lady, Kenzie. But I have to say I’m disappointed.”

  * * *

  Kids give me all kinds of dirty looks as I walk down the hall. No one says a word to me. I get that people are mad, but is this what middle school really is? People who don’t even know me give me the cold shoulder just because everyone else is doing it? It gets even worse in English.

  “Come see me after class, please, Miss Rhines.” Mrs. Pilchard starts her lesson before I even get to my seat.

  I turn around to see if Bren is still talking to me, and, thank goodness, he gives me a smile and a thumbs-up.

  I pay no attention during class, even though being in the front seat makes that feat really difficult. I count the days I have left in this place. Seven and a half.

  At the end of class, Mrs. Pilchard takes a few envelopes out of her desk drawer. “I received the results from the poetry contest,” she says. “We have a very poetic group of students in here. Two of you got honorable mentions, and one of you won first place overall.”

  There are some oohs and aahs, although it’s pretty clear which kids don’t care one bit.

  “Congratulations for the honorable mentions.” She hands one envelope to a girl on the far side of the room and one to me. “Congratulations, Miss Rhines.” She’s saying congratulations, but her eyes are saying Too bad you won’t be here to enjoy it.

  The last one, the first-place envelope, she hands to Bren.

  I turn around and give him a big smile. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. Nice job on the honorable mention,” says Bren. “Good luck with Mrs. Pilchard.”

  I go to her desk once everyone has left, as instructed. “You wanted to see me?” I say.

  “Yes,” she says. “I’m very proud of you for your accomplishment, and I can’t blame you for wanting to try, but the awards ceremony is in two weeks and it appears you won’t be here to attend. I do hope you’ll continue writing, though.”

  And that’s it. That’s all she says before shuffling through her papers, packing up her bag, and walking out the door. Aren’t teachers supposed to help students? I can’t be the only middle-school kid who’s ever done something wrong.

  Half a day to go, but here’s the problem. That includes lunch. And when you’re the one kid no one wants to talk to, even I know you don’t set foot in the lunchroom.

  chapter twenty-one

  I find a spot in the library where I can sneak my food. All by myself.

  I’m finally going to middle school with tons of other kids, and I’m all by myself.

  “Hey.” Tate’s voice startles me, and I spill some of my applesauce on the table.

  “Hi.” I go with a one-word response since I have no idea what to say to him.

  “I wanted to talk to you at lunch, but I saw you duck in here,” he says.

  Well, at least he wanted to talk to me. But then again, so did Mrs. Summers and Mrs. Pilchard.

  I wave my hand at the empty seat.

  “No thanks. This won’t take long,” he says. “I heard Shelby is going to be Dorothy.”

  “Yeah, good news travels fast,” I say, biting into my sandwich so I don’t have to awkwardly look busy.

  “And obviously you can’t be co–vice president,” he says. It’s like he’s waiting for confirmation from me, but I’m pretty sure it’s already been confirmed. “So, no need to come to the meetings.”

  I finish chewing. “Right. That’s what I figured.”

  He stands there for what feels like an hour and then finally speaks. “Do you even care about what you did, Kenzie?”

  There is no correct response here. Do I stay quiet? Do I attempt to apologize? He doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to hear it, but I decide to try anyway.

  “Yes. And I’m sorry, Tate.”

  He pauses for only a few seconds this time. “I’m sure you are,” he says.

  And with that, he turns and leaves. Not that I expected anything else.

  Bren and Divi seem to have accepted my apology, although they’re certainly not going out of their way to be seen with me. Tate is obviously a wee bit upset with me. And Ashia? I’m still not sure if I can get her to forgive me, and I’m terrified to try.

  It doesn’t take long before I get my chance. When I leave the library just before the warning bell, Ashia is at her locker. I stop myself from trying to sneak by and plant my feet right in front of her before I can change my mind. “I really need to talk to you,” I say.

  “Kenzie, I told you this morning that I’m not ready,” she says, continuing to get her books organized.

  Was it really only this morning?

  “I’m sorry, Ashia. I’m so very, very sorry and I want to explain.”

  Ashia stops what she’s doing and turns to face me. “Look, I’m angry, okay? You lied to me. You lied to all of us. You let us get attached to you, knowing you were leaving in six weeks. You took on all these big responsibilities and had no intention of ever carrying them out.”

  I try to get a word in quick before she tells me to get lost. “So you’re saying if you knew, you never would have been my friend in the first place?”

  She doesn’t say anything. Maybe she’s thinking about what I said?

  “I’m saying that I’m hurt, Kenzie. And I’m not ready for your explanation,” she says. “I don’t hate you. And it’s not that I never want to talk to you again. But right now, give me some room to process all this, okay?”

  It’s technically a question, but when she grabs her things and walks away, it’s obvious she’s not waiting for an answer.

  * * *

  Thursday morning in homeroom, as I sit there trying to stay busy and ignore the fact that no one is talking to me, there’s an announcement over the loudspeaker. “Kenzie Rhines, please come to the main office. Kenzie Rhines, please come to the main office.”

  I get why they repeat the exact same thing they just said—because no one ever listens the first time. But today, I certainly do not need it repeated to the entire school that I’m being called down to what will obviously be the principal’s office. />
  A chorus of “ooh” echoes through the room until the teacher puts a stop to it. “Go ahead, Kenzie,” he says.

  I walk down the empty hallways with only distant voices making their way through the homeroom doors. In a few minutes, these halls will fill with students and talking and yelling from one end of the school to the other. It’s not like that in airports. There aren’t periods of empty terminals opening up to a flood of people. Only for late-night flights, when there aren’t many people there to begin with. Otherwise there is always commotion. Always people stopping right in front of you who you have to maneuver around. Always activity and chatting and cell phones and the hustle and bustle of people needing to be somewhere else.

  I’d like to be somewhere else right about now.

  As I enter the office, I’m pretty sure even the secretary gives me the evil eye. “Have a seat,” she says. “Mr. Kumar will be with you shortly.”

  Five seconds later he opens his office door. “You weren’t kidding,” I say to the secretary. She doesn’t appreciate my joke.

  “Miss Rhines.” Mr. Kumar stands back so I have a clear path to the chair of doom sitting in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

  He sits down in what is hands down the most comfortable chair in the school—the kind you can tell is pure luxury without even sitting in it. I don’t say a word.

  “May I call you Kenzie?” he asks, as if he had any intention of giving me a choice. At least he got the grammar right.

  I nod.

  “Kenzie, it has come to my attention that your stay with us will be very short,” he says. “And that, as a matter of fact, you had this information all along.”

  I review what he said and don’t find a question in there, so I let him keep talking.

  “Which wouldn’t be much of a problem, except that we were not aware of this fact,” he says. “And, to further complicate things, you’ve taken on some roles and responsibilities that require you to be here longer than your short stay would allow.”

  I should be paying attention to his words, his tone. But more than anything, I sit here wondering why principals can’t talk so regular kids can understand them.