Max smiles a real smile. “Just think, Amber, after school you won’t be coming here, you’ll go straight to our new house!”
I do think about this. It is not a happy thought.
I look around. It is the last time I will be leaving for school from this house. My house. Except it doesn’t look like my house anymore, it looks like a place for boxes.
“Amber, come on,” Mom says impatiently. “We’ve got to get going.”
“Not yet,” I say. I run up to my room. Like the rest of the house, it is filled with boxes. The shelves are empty. My closet is empty.
I kiss the door frame. “Good-bye, room,” I whisper. “I will miss you.”
Trying not to cry, I run back down the stairs. I rush past Max without kissing him good-bye and out to Mom’s car.
I get in my side. Mom gets in the driver’s side. She puts on her sunglasses. I can’t see her eyes.
When we get to school, she gives me a kiss. “Wish me luck,” she says.
I get out of the car. I don’t wish her luck. She doesn’t notice.
I go to the cafeteria, which is where the kids who get to school early are supposed to wait until first bell. I sit by myself. A few minutes later Mrs. Holt spots me as she is walking by.
She comes in and says, “It’s moving day, isn’t it, Amber? I’m glad you’re not moving far away. I would hate to lose you.”
I am feeling lost anyway, but I don’t say that. I know it would be stupid to say that I feel like I am homeless when so many people really are homeless. But I really don’t feel like I have a home right now.
“I could use some help,” Mrs. Holt says. “Why don’t you come with me?”
I am glad to leave the cafeteria.
When we get to our classroom, Mrs. Holt says, “Would you like to help me finish this new bulletin board, Amber?”
Big red letters at the top of the bulletin board say OUR CLASS HAS THE RIGHT MOVES.
“It’s a surprise for Miss Isobel,” she tells me. “It was Mr. Robinson’s idea. He went to her website and found all these great pictures from when she was a champion dancer.”
I begin to think my father and Mr. Robinson have a lot in common.
Mrs. Holt asks me to help her decide how to place the pictures. We take turns stapling them to the bulletin board.
“You have a very artistic eye, Amber,” she says.
I can’t help myself. I smile. It’s my first smile of the day.
I have never had a day go so slow and so fast at the same time. Part of me wants school to be over so I can get to the new house. Part of me wants the school day to never end.
It does.
I was expecting Mom to pick me up, but it is Max instead.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. I realize that sounds rude, so I quickly add, “I mean, I was expecting Mom is all.”
Max gives me a half smile. “Your mother said I should come get you because I was driving the movers nuts telling them where to put each box and in what order.”
“Are they still unloading?” I ask him.
He nods. “I think they’re moving in.” He looks at my face. “That’s a joke.”
“I got it. I’m glad you can still make jokes.”
Max shrugs. “It’s what I do when things get tense.”
I look at him. “I thought you were all excited about this.”
“I am! But that doesn’t mean it’s not hard . . . . . and tiring! Remember, I went through it just a little while ago when I moved in with your mom and you. And this is a much bigger move.” He makes a face. “I know I’ve been a little bit of a pain about this.”
“You have,” I say.
“You didn’t have to agree so quickly!” He smiles at me.
The drive home is very strange since we are traveling on streets that I’ve never seen before.
The houses in our new neighborhood all look kind of alike . . . . all brand-new . . . . . . even the ones like Kelly’s that have people living in them. The only way I can tell which one is ours is by the huge moving van parked in front of it.
We go inside and I discover there is one way in which the new house is just like the house we left behind. There are boxes everywhere!
My mother is wearing a scarf over her hair and has a smudge of dirt on her nose. “Welcome home,” she says. “Well, almost home. It will feel more like home in a while.”
Two big men come past her. They are carrying a couch. It is not our couch, so it must be the one that belonged to Max. It is clean and new looking.
I wonder how long it will stay that way. Which makes me wonder if Max really knows what it is going to be like to have a kid in the house.
Chapter
Eleven
I, Amber Brown, am standing outside our old house. Mom is beside me. We went out to pick up Chinese food while Max stayed home to open boxes. But we have made a detour to do one last thing.
Mom is holding a bottle of red wine and an envelope. I am also holding an envelope, only mine has glitter and stars. Both envelopes say the same thing on the outside . . . . . WELCOME TO YOUR NEW HOME.
We go inside. It feels strange and empty.
We walk into the kitchen. No table . . . . no chairs . . . . . the only place to put anything is on the counter. Mom sets down the bottle of wine. She leans her envelope against it, then picks it up again and says, “Would you like to hear what I wrote?”
I nod.
Mom opens her envelope and takes out the letter.
Welcome to your new home. I’ve included a list of plumbers, electricians, our favorite pizza place, the best place for Chinese takeout, and a fun bowling alley. I hope you will find it useful.
Even more, I hope you will be as happy here as I have been. This house has seen a lot of joy and, of course, some sorrow. I hope your time here will be one of much joy and little sorrow.
May you love this place as much as I did.
Sarah Turner
Mom folds the letter back up.
“I thought you weren’t happy here,” I say.
“Not true. This house has a lot of wonderful memories.”
“Even with Dad?” I ask, thinking of the horrible year when they were deciding if they could stay together and then told me that they couldn’t.
“Yes, especially with him,” Mom says. “This is where we brought you home. This is where we watched you grow up.”
“That’s what Dad said. Do you want to hear what I wrote?”
“I’d love to, if you don’t mind.”
Dear New Owners—
I hope you like glitter because I wrote this with my glitter pen. I use glitter a lot . . . . . you might find a little bit of it here and there, especially in my room. It is at the top of the stairs.
I love my room and I got to decorate it myself. I don’t know who will be living there now, but I want them to have fun.
This house has had a lot of fun and some sad times too.
I look at Mom. “We wrote almost the same thing.”
“It’s the truth,” she says.
I smile. “Now let me read the rest of this.”
I, Amber Brown, have loved all of this house . . . . . and I hope you will too. Here is a joke I wrote just to welcome you:
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Hope.”
“Hope who?”
“Hope you will be happy in your new home!”
Your friend who has never met you,
Amber Brown
Chapter
Twelve
Miss Isobel flings open the classroom door. She looks at the wall and cries, “The bulletin board! It is lovely!”
She has come to pick us up for Friday afternoon dancing, but the bulletin board has distracted her.
Mrs. H
olt smiles and says, “Amber helped design it.”
“Then we must have our picture taken in front of it!” exclaims Miss Isobel. She places me next to her.
I wait for her to mangle my name. She doesn’t. She simply whispers, “Stand sideways. That’s the way to take a good photo.”
We angle toward each other. Mrs. Holt takes our picture.
Some of the kids are snickering, and I start to feel embarrassed. On the other hand, I am happy she liked the bulletin board. And it’s kind of neat learning that trick for photos.
Sometimes I think that everything that happens in my life has at least two emotions attached to it.
It can be very confusing to be me.
At the dance lesson we learn the T-A-N-G-O.
Miss Isobel claps. This is not to applaud, it is her way of getting our attention. “Now lift your left hands above your heads,” she orders. “Curve your arms when you make the turn. They should look like a scorpion’s tail. Press your forearms together like peanut butter and jelly. Look at Fredrich and Brandi . . . . . they are doing it just right.”
“I love peanut butter,” Bobby says. He licks his arm, then presses it against mine. I am disgusted. But then when we actually do this part of the dance, he is really good at it. I am not. In fact, I am so not good at it that I am making him look bad too.
“Come on, Amber. Pay attention!”
Having Bobby Clifford tell you to pay attention is like having a kindergartener tell you to grow up.
“I’ll count it out for us,” he says. “It will be easier that way.”
Mrs. Holt is standing nearby. She touches Bobby’s shoulder. “I am proud of you. Miss Isobel said that you students would learn kindness from dance . . . . to actually see it . . . .”
Bobby blushes, and I decide not to tell Mrs. Holt that he was more frustrated than kind.
When Mrs. Holt has moved away, Bobby says, “Look, Amber, I really want to win this. It’s a contest, remember?”
I realize that as far as I know, Bobby has never won anything before.
I try harder, and this time when we do the scorpion, I don’t trip on my feet.
At the end of the lesson I go to get my backpack. As I pick it up, Mrs. Holt says, “Amber, can I have a minute with you, please?”
I want to say, “No! School is over for the week!” but I know that would not be smart. So instead I say, “My dad is waiting for me.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve spoken to him already. He said he would be happy to wait a bit longer.” She smiles and adds, “I think he wanted to help Miss Isobel pack up.”
I sigh and follow Mrs. Holt back to our room. When I was messing up the dance, I felt like I had two left feet. Now I feel like I have a concrete block tied to each foot.
Mrs. Holt motions for me to sit next to her desk. She sits and faces me. Then she says four of my least favorite words in the world. . . . . . “Amber, I’m still worried.”
I get a knot in my stomach. Hearing those words from Mrs. Holt is scary. And I don’t mean Halloween scary. I mean “life as I know it is about to end” scary.
“Mr. Poindexter has been in touch with me. Your scores on the practice tests at Saturday Academy are still in the danger zone. He says that particularly in the math problems, you get lost in the words. I know you’re smart, Amber, but you’re just not using your brainpower. If you don’t pull your scores up for the real test in two weeks, I don’t want to think of the consequences.”
I want to pretend I don’t know what she means . . . . . . but my stomach is telling me that I do know . . . . . . summer school instead of summer camp.
“What should I do?” I ask her. I am trying not to cry.
She answers with one word: “Focus.”
I am truly sick of hearing that. “Everybody keeps telling me that,” I say. “But no one tells me how!”
Mrs. Holt makes her thinking face. Finally she says, “There’s no easy answer for that. But try this. . . . . Order yourself to think of one thing at a time, one problem at a time. Don’t let your mind move so fast. It’s a wonderful mind, Amber, but it ties you in knots sometimes. Tomorrow when you’re at Saturday Academy, pay attention to how you pay attention.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Think of it this way. Each time you’re trying to answer one of the test questions, it’s like following a path through the woods. If you stick to the path, you’ll get to the destination. If you go off the path to smell the flowers or chase a rabbit, you’ll get lost and not find your way back. Just stick to the path.”
“But people always say you should stop to smell the roses,” I say.
Mrs. Holt laughs. “That’s good advice for life, but not for while you’re taking a test! Now scoot. I want to get home, and your dad is waiting.”
I start to scoot. But at the door I stop and turn back. “Thank you,” I say. “I’ll try to stick to the path.”
She nods and smiles, then points and says, “Right now the path leads to your dad’s car.”
I resume scooting. But when I get to the parking lot, I find something I wasn’t expecting.
Chapter
Thirteen
Dad and Miss Isobel are leaning against the Hot Tamale. Dad is laughing at something Miss Isobel has just said. He looks happier than I’ve seen him in a long time.
Miss Isobel smiles when she sees me. “Ah, there you are, Amethyst! I was just telling your father about that wonderful bulletin board.”
“Isobel is coming home with us,” Dad says happily. “She’s offered to cook dinner tonight.”
He’s grinning at me as if this is good news. And it is, kind of. But it’s also confusing. I like Miss Isobel, and it’s fun to be with her. But this was supposed to be my time with Dad.
Is he dating her?
Is she his girlfriend?
And why didn’t he think to ask me before he invited her to join us for our Friday movie night?
Miss Isobel is shaking her head. “Your father tried to cook for me earlier this week. It was very sad. Tonight, I will cook. You can help if you like. Cooking is like dancing in the kitchen.”
Dad says, “We’ve rented Singin’ in the Rain. It’s Isobel’s favorite movie too.”
Miss Isobel steps away from the Hot Tamale. “I will follow you home,” she says. Then she climbs into her VW.
Dad and I get into the Hot Tamale.
I cross my arms over my chest.
“So, is there something I need to know? You cooked for Miss Isobel this week? And she’s cooking for us tonight? And sharing our movie with us? And you never bothered to ask me what I thought about it?”
Dad blushes a little. “I suppose I should have warned you. But with the move going on this week, I didn’t think it was a good idea to call.” He smiles. “I was actually trying to be sensitive. You don’t mind that I’m seeing Isobel, do you? I thought you liked her.”
“I do like her! But this is supposed to be our night together.”
“But we will be together. When Isobel heard about our movie musical night, she was so excited. Just think, we’ll be watching with a real dancer.”
I do think, and I think it sounds like fun. But I also think my father should have let me know before he invited Miss Isobel to join us.
I also think I have too much to think about.
When we get to the house, Miss Isobel takes a machine out of her car. “This is a food processor,” she tells me. “We’ll need it tonight. Your father is very nice, Aquamarine, but his kitchen . . . . oh, it is such a man kitchen. Sadly underdeveloped.”
When we get inside, she heads straight for the kitchen. I notice that she seems to know her way around. My father follows her, but she turns him and pushes on his shoulders. “Go do something with the wine,” she says. “Watch one of those sports things. In here, tonight, it shall be t
he ladies.”
She sets the pot on the stove. “We are going to make pesto,” she tells me. “It’s so easy. Presto pesto! Fresh basil, pine nuts, a little olive oil, and some garlic . . . . you will like. It’s bright green, like an emerald.”
“That’s one name you haven’t called me yet,” I tell her.
She winks at me. “Lucky for us there are so many jewels.”
Isobel and I actually have fun making dinner.
“It’s time to eat and watch the movie,” she tells me when we are done. “I know you have your Friday night tradition of eating in front of the TV. Of this I do not normally approve, but tradition is tradition, and this is your home.”
We carry the bowls into the living room and set them on the coffee table. Dad has three wineglasses out. He pours wine into two of them. “Be right back,” he says, and disappears into the kitchen. He comes out with a can of cream soda and pours some into the third glass for me. We clink glasses, then settle on the couch. Dad starts the movie. He is sitting in the center of the couch, with me on one side and Miss Isobel on the other.
I love, love, love the movie.
But I am also keeping an eye on what is going on beside me. By the time the movie is half over, Dad has his arm around Miss Isobel and she is leaning against him.
I remember when he used to sit like that with Mom. It makes me sad to think of that, but I am also a little bit glad for him.
When the movie is over, Dad tells me it’s time for bed.
“Thank you for letting me share the evening with you, Garnet,” Miss Isobel says.
I curtsy.
Dad hugs me. As I go to my room, they are cleaning up.
* * *
When I get up, Dad is sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee.
He looks serious, and I wonder if I have done something wrong. When I sit down, he says, “I’ve been thinking, Amber.”
“Uh-oh,” I say.
He chuckles, but then gets serious again. “You were right. I should have told you in advance that Isobel was going to join us last night. I’m sorry I didn’t.”
Amber Brown Is on the Move Page 5