Alpaca My Bags

by Jenny Goebel

  “Amelia Jean?” Dad asked. “What are you looking for?” He stepped down from the cab and made his way toward me.

  Hiding was no use at this point. I held out my colorfully dyed hands. “Mittens,” I said sheepishly as Mom caught up to us.

  “What on earth happened?” she asked.

  “It’s a long story,” I hedged.

  “Try us,” Dad said. The lack of emotion in his voice was unnerving.

  But I spilled everything anyway. How I’d been certain I had enough time to work at the ranch and get back before they returned. How I’d mistaken the freshly dyed fibers for ones that were already dry. And how I thought mittens might be a good idea for the interview. That maybe I could pass them off as a fashion choice instead of cover for a silly blunder.

  As the truth came flowing from my mouth and I felt lighter, I could see it weighing down my father by degrees. Before Winterland, I’d always been completely honest with my parents. Granted, I hadn’t had much opportunity in the past five years to keep anything from them. But it wasn’t like I’d been harboring a deep dark secret. I might’ve lived a sheltered life, but I knew there were a ton of worse things I could’ve done than gone to work without their permission.

  My parents were silent for the longest time. Finally, Dad said, “I specifically told you to come straight home after school.”

  “Technically, I did,” I pointed out. “And then I went to the ranch.”

  “This isn’t the time to get smart with me, Amelia Jean.” The way Dad said it, like I’d just severed his last nerve, made me cringe. “We’ll deal with your disobedience later. Right now, we need to leave, or we’ll be late to the interview.”

  It was a toss-up which I was fretting over more—facing Principal Stinger for the interview or facing Dad afterward. My throat was tight, and my arm and leg muscles were tensed to the point of shaking on the ride to Winterland Middle. Then there was the creepy way Mom and Dad were staring out the front window of the truck, not saying anything. The silence did nothing to suppress my dread. In fact, the longer it went on, the more nervous I grew.

  Worse than the silent car ride was how quiet the school was when we walked in the front doors. Our footsteps echoed down the hallway. If the principal’s office were located any deeper in the building, it would’ve felt like a death march getting there.

  I’d seen Principal Stinger in the halls before but never up close. In some ways, he resembled an orc from Lord of the Rings—short but broad, with high cheekbones, a baldish head, wrinkly skin, and an angry glint in his eye.

  “Please, sit down,” he instructed my family, then pointed to the three chairs across from his desk. His office smelled like stale coffee and microwaved leftovers. When we’d settled into the seats—some of us less than others—Principal Stinger began. “Now, I understand, Amelia, that you were homeschooled for five years—from grade two through grade six.”

  “That’s right,” Mom piped up.

  Principal Stinger shrank his back into his seat with a look that I imagined only school principals (and orcs) could give. “I’d like Amelia to answer for herself,” he said.

  Mom tried to laugh it off. “Sorry, my mistake.”

  “ ‘Never laugh at dragons.’ ” I whispered the Tolkien quote half to myself and half to my parents. They glared at me, then both bobbed their heads in Principal Stinger’s direction until I understood that they wanted me to reply to his question. It seemed redundant since Mom had already provided the information he was seeking, but I croaked out, “Yes, sir,” anyway.

  Principal Stinger took in the sight of my colorful scarf and mittens. I instantly regretted my decision to wear them to the interview. Maybe someone like Cat could’ve pulled it off as a fashion statement—a choice to stand out from the crowd. I was painfully aware, however, that on me, the out-of-season wear appeared to be a child’s attempt at dress-up. Like a toddler smearing lipstick on her face or trying on her mother’s high heels.

  I slid my mittened hands beneath my legs and sat up straighter.

  Principal Stinger cleared his throat. “Let’s move on, shall we? The test scores you provided to Ms. Horton are high,” he said. “But your grades these past few weeks have been … inconsistent. Can you explain why, Amelia? Are you finding certain aspects of the seventh-grade curriculum to be too challenging?”

  “No,” I said, and I wanted to leave it at that. But I also wanted to stay in seventh grade—now more than ever, since I was starting to get along so well with Cat and a few of the others. So I thought the mature thing to do would be to expand my answer. “The work isn’t challenging, but … but the schedule is. It …”

  Mom and Dad both seemed entranced, waiting to hear what I had to say. They leaned closer to me, and I noticed Mom was gripping the chair’s armrest extra tight. And that was … unsettling. I’d always relied on them to know everything about me, about my life. Now that I wasn’t under their constant watch, they honestly didn’t know how school was going for me—if I was sinking or swimming. Principal Stinger had wanted me to answer for myself because I was the only person who could provide answers about me anymore.

  “Yes?” Principal Stinger prompted me to continue. “What about the schedule?”

  “It …” I wet my lips. “It’s just that it takes some getting used to. Keeping track of it all. I run out of time on some assignments, because … because I spend too long thinking about a topic or a problem. And sometimes, I guess I forget that I need to do things at certain times or be at a particular place when someone wants me to be there. I never had to do that before.”

  I snuck a peek at Dad, trying to gauge if he was still angry at me for going to the ranch after school instead of staying at the trailer. But his face was like stone.

  Principal Stinger’s lips, on the other hand, curled into a smile. I decided he might resemble a wizened wizard more than an orc. Not Gandalf exactly, but along those lines. He nodded. “Ah, thank you, Amelia. That’s an astute answer. And the other students? Do you feel like you’re fitting in here? Making friends?”

  I was thankful then that I’d managed to delay this interview until today. Because now, when I said, “Yes, I do. I am making friends,” I didn’t have to lie.

  Principal Stinger smiled again, and I thought to myself, This is going really well. Despite Ms. Horton’s wishes, I didn’t think I’d be sent back to elementary school.

  But then Principal Stinger turned his attention to my parents and said, “Everyone’s main objective here should be to place Amelia where she’s going to be the most successful. It sounds to me like there’s been a few bumps, but that she’s adapting to seventh grade both academically and socially. My only concern is that she may not yet be as proficient in personal management as her peers. Middle school requires greater responsibility and organizational skills than elementary school.” Principal Stinger bent forward and brought his hands together in front of him. “We want our students to be their own advocates. That’s why our first few attempts at communication are always through the student. However, I understand Amelia neglected to pass along important information regarding this meeting.”

  I didn’t like the change in direction this conversation was taking, nor the way my dad was nodding in agreement.

  “Amelia might benefit a great deal from repeating sixth grade. It would give her an opportunity to learn the nuances of navigating a more structured environment on her own, but with safety nets still in place. Elementary school allows for better communication between staff and parents. And a classroom teacher would be able to provide more individual support as she learns how to manage her time. Middle school is a big jump up from first grade. I wonder if it wouldn’t be better for her to ease back into the school system at the elementary level.”

  Orc! my mind screamed. Definitely an orc!

  “I don’t know …” Mom hemmed. “Granted, Amelia Jean did not pass along Ms. Horton’s letters. But, overall, I think she’s very responsible for her age.”

 
; Dad elevated his eyebrows and tipped his head in the direction of my mittened hands as if to say, Really? You do?

  Mom silenced his nonverbal cues with an icy stare.

  At the same time, Principal Stinger said, “As her parents, do you often find yourselves jumping in to rescue Amelia from tricky situations?”

  Mom puffed out her cheeks, then blew a stream of air. “Okay. Yes, all the time, but—”

  Principal Stinger cut her off. “You don’t have to explain. It’s only natural for parents to want to smooth the way for their children. But Amelia needs to learn how to rescue herself. It’s part of growing up. Ultimately, it’s your decision. But I think you should seriously consider where the best place is for that to happen. It might just be in sixth grade.”

  I shook my head. This can’t be happening.

  “Absolu—” my dad started, but this time it was my mom who did the cutting off.

  She placed her hand on Dad’s. “Thank you. We need to give it some thought,” she said in way that made it clear the interview was over. “Shall we?” she said to Dad and me as she rose to her feet.

  Principal Stinger stood to shake all our hands and then ushered us out the door. I might’ve been happy to go if my seventh-grader status wasn’t still in jeopardy. Little did I know then that far more than middle school was on the line.

  I deposited myself at the kitchen table and braced for a lecture. I assumed once we were behind closed doors, Dad would feel free to let loose. What he did was far more upsetting. He blew in like a storm cloud and went straight for the computer.

  “Dad?” I asked. He ignored me.

  “Mom?” I tried. She shrugged and shook her head.

  The only noise that filled the trailer for the next ten minutes was the sound of Dad’s fingers angrily clicking and clacking on the keyboard. It was beyond uncomfortable, but I felt trapped in place as I waited there, glued to my seat.

  Mom busied herself with chores around the trailer—wiping the table down with a cloth, then folding a bushel of clean laundry.

  No one spoke a single word until Dad spun around and faced us. “We’ll climb the fourteener the day after tomorrow,” he said. “Saturday, we leave for Wyoming. I’ve booked a spot at an RV park close to Jackson Hole.”

  Goose bumps instantly rose on my skin, and blood pounded in my ears. No. No. No. Please no. I didn’t want to leave Winterland now. Not even if staying meant going back to sixth grade. I didn’t want to leave when my life here was just starting to feel ripe with possibility. Before I could say as much, Mom belted out, “What? What about our jobs? What about the kids finishing a semester of school? You didn’t think to discuss this with me first?”

  “We’ll make it work,” Dad said quietly.

  Mom glared. “We’ve always tried to teach the kids to face their problems head-on. One bad interview and this is your solution—that we just run away from it?”

  “It’s not that …”

  “No? Then what is it? Because, to me, this feels an awful lot like cowardice,” Mom fumed. Even-tempered, levelheaded Mom was fired up. I would’ve been shocked if I wasn’t already panicking about Dad’s decision. The walls of the Gnarly Banana—which were close together to begin with—seemed to be shrinking in around me.

  “We’re not ready,” Dad said. “We’re not ready to reintegrate like this. Not after all this time. It’s too much change too fast. Principal Stinger was right. It’s too big of a leap, not just for Amelia; for everyone. For heaven’s sake. It’s been two weeks, and the kids are hiding things from us already.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like naming the dog when I specifically said not to. And traipsing all over town without telling us where they’re going. Do you have any idea where David and Neil are right now?”

  Mom looked flustered. “At an after-school club? Hanging out with friends, maybe. I guess I don’t know …”

  “That’s what I thought. And our daughter completely disregarded my instructions this afternoon. Instead, she went to a job she had no business taking in the first place and got who knows what all over her hands.”

  I wanted to protest but was still in too much shock. My time in Winterland had just been drastically cut from a few months to a few short days.

  Mom inhaled deeply. Afterward, her shoulders curled slightly inward with defeat.

  “Amelia isn’t ready for this,” Dad said. “Principal Stinger said as much. And we’re not ready for this, either. There’s got to be a way to ease in slower … for all of us. I say we get back on the road … see how much we can fund writing for the Zhangs’ blog. Then we’ll start signing the kids up for classes at community centers along the way. Maybe do some courses online that require group participation. But this? Diving headfirst back into society? Clearly, this isn’t working.”

  While Mom mulled over Dad’s words, I finally found the nerve to speak. I knew better than to bring up the alpacas, but there was something, someone rather, important that Dad was forgetting. “What about Cat?” I said. “We can’t leave her now.”

  Dad’s eyes met mine. “Amelia Jean, I’m so glad you’ve had the opportunity to meet your cousin. But that was all this was ever intended to be—an introduction. I feel awful that my sister hasn’t been here for her. But your cousin isn’t our responsibility. Hopefully, we can stay in touch, but we can’t base our life around her. I’m sorry.”

  And that’s what sent me over the edge. “Right,” I said furiously, “because with us, nothing is ever permanent. You make us give up everything!” I said. Then I flew out of the trailer, letting the door slam shut behind me.

  I didn’t want to be, couldn’t stand to be, trapped inside the cramped trailer with my parents a moment longer. But, with nowhere else to go, I found a flat log on the edge of the forest and collapsed on top of it. Annie sidled up to me and nudged her wet nose beneath my arm. I stroked her soft red fur and tried my best not to cry.

  That’s the way my brothers found us a half hour later when they came strolling up the drive. Neil sat down on one side of me, David on the other. We all stroked Annie’s back.

  After a spell, David asked gently, “Amelia Jean, is everything okay? What’s going on?”

  I took a deep breath and broke the news.

  I expected Neil, at least, to rejoice. He usually loved this part of the Adventure Jar lifestyle—packing our bags and embarking for a new destination. Maybe he was holding back for my benefit, but all he said was “Okay,” flat-like—no excitement, no disappointment. Just “okay.”

  David was a different story. I sensed he was angry but also sad. A storm raged in his columbine-blue eyes as he lightly ran his fingers through Annie’s fur. Annie licked his hand in return. “I don’t see why we have to go now,” he said.

  After that, we remained quiet until Mom stepped out of the trailer, a smile frozen on her face. “It’s safe,” she joked. “Come on inside. David, I think it’s your turn to cook dinner.”

  And that was that. As much time as we spent together, my family members weren’t the best communicators. Typically, we gravitated toward action rather than discussion. From what I could gather, though, Mom and Dad had sorted things out. Dad had apologized for acting rashly, but heartbreakingly, the move was still on. The worst part was that I knew it was all my fault. I’d let Annie’s name slip. I’d disobeyed Dad so I could hang out with a herd of alpacas. And I’d messed up big-time at school—proven I couldn’t handle seventh grade any better than I could handle rappelling off a cliff.

  Shame, anger, and self-loathing warred inside me for the rest of the evening, but the real victor was fear. Fear kept my tongue tied and my emotions bottled inside. I thought about pleading with Mom and Dad to stay in Winterland a while longer. As many times as I’d been forced to overcome my fears, I couldn’t make myself speak up. It was the same as when I’d wanted to visit the ranch instead of hiking. I knew, just like then, that the words would never work their way out. Rachel had been wrong about me. I didn’t have gr
it, at least not when it was important. So, I did the only thing I could—I resigned myself to leaving.

  What’s the point in going to school, if it’s our last day?” Neil asked. David shifted in his seat. My bed had been folded and replaced with the tabletop.

  I wrapped a colorful hand around my orange juice glass. I’d scrubbed my fingers and palms two more times before bed and a third time this morning, but my hands were still shockingly rainbow colored—a hard-to-miss reminder that our early departure was my fault. My stomach dropped.

  Dad, in a cheery mood now that a move was on the horizon, had woken early. He used his upbeat energy to scramble eggs for breakfast. I didn’t feel like eating. “To say goodbye?” I answered Neil’s question with what sounded like another.

  David met my eyes and offered me a weak smile. He wasn’t totally sold on the move, either. I could tell.

  “Your dad and I have to turn in our resignations and collect our meager paychecks today.” One side of Mom’s mouth lifted. “I’m betting there are textbooks that need returning, and you should probably notify your teachers … and Ms. Horton,” Mom said to me. Then she stared into the depths of her coffee mug before adding, “I’ll stop by the attendance office after work today to officially withdraw you. But, yeah, let the staff know, and say goodbye to your friends. It’ll be good for you to have closure.”

  Mom continued examining the contents of her mug. I wondered if she was thinking about when we sold our house, picked up everything, and said goodbye to everyone we’d ever known. It was a long time ago, but I remembered the way she’d quietly cried as we drove out of town. Had that given her closure? Goodbyes were hard no matter which way you spun them.

  My mouth felt dry, but I needed to speak. There was something I had to ask. “Does that mean I can stop by the ranch and say goodbye to the alpacas? I also need to tell Rachel that she’ll have to find someone else to work for her.”