No Place Like Home Page 2

  “She should join book club,” says Bren, popping his nose out of the book he’s been reading. “We do some really cool field trips. And we have an author visit in the spring.”

  I don’t want to admit that book club is right up my alley. “Are you in charge of book club?” I ask Bren. But before he can answer, someone is singing across the room, and the caf goes silent as everyone turns to watch.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Remember cute Tate from this morning?” says Ashia. “Dude can sing.”

  He’s seriously belting out a love song to one of the girls sitting next to him, and all the awestruck girls in the lunchroom are watching like they’re at a boy-band concert. Even the boys are hooting and hollering.

  “Yeah, but . . .” I stop, wondering if school has turned into a real-live High School Musical or Grease while I’ve been in the air. “Is this . . . normal? Does it happen at other schools too?”

  “Totally not,” says Ashia. “But he loves the attention and we love the show, so the teachers don’t mind. Music is kind of our thing here.”

  Not only is Cute Tate adorable, but he also has an amazing voice. It’s crazy to me that he can stand up there on the table bench and sing to a “sold-out” cafeteria. I could never. But Ashia’s right: I’m loving the show.

  When the song is over, the crowd claps and cheers, including the teachers and the lunch ladies.

  “You know, Tate will most certainly be in the musical,” Ashia whispers.

  I try to hold back a smile but totally fail at it.

  “Meet you at tryouts after school?” she asks.

  I nod. If it means hearing that voice every day I’m here, I might need to reconsider.

  chapter three

  Bren is standing in the auditorium doorway when I get there after school. He hands me a pamphlet.

  “I saw how you looked at those poetry-contest pamphlets,” he says. “Not sure why you didn’t take it yourself, but I figured you might want one.”

  Before I can even say thank you, and tell him I have no intention of entering, he’s gone. Sucked into the mass of kids in the hallway like he’s gone through a portal to another dimension.

  “O-kay.” I shove the pamphlet in my bag and head in to find Ashia. She’s front and center with a clipboard on her lap.

  “Kenzie!” She definitely wins for most enthusiastic in this place. “You’re trying out, right?”

  It all looks so fun and I kind of wish I could. “I’m here to see you try out. I can’t do it, though.”

  “Sure you can. It’s a great time. And after all the shows are done, we have this incredible cast party,” she says. “The only not-so-good part of it all is that Shelby Jacobs will probably get the lead.”

  “Who’s Shelby Jacobs?” I ask.

  Ashia points to the left side of the stage, where a girl in a fancy dress with short red hair is getting ready for her audition. “Let’s just say her amazing voice is her best quality, and I couldn’t name another one.”

  “Yikes,” I say. “I’ll be sure to steer clear of her.”

  When Shelby glides up to the microphone and sings, I sit back in shock. She’s incredible.

  But Ashia doesn’t seem to notice. “You’re going up, right?”

  The lead is obviously securely Shelby’s, and it would be kind of nice to get some feedback on my singing. If I could actually get the words to come out of my mouth.

  “I can’t go up there and sing in front of everyone,” I say.

  The girl next to me explains that they’ll call kids up for the chorus at the same time, and all I have to do is sing with the group and say a few lines of dialogue with a partner.

  Hmm. Maybe I can do this.

  Mom always told me I had a beautiful voice, and my dad says I’m a star in the making, but parents are supposed to say that. Teachers, on the other hand, don’t have to say anything nice if they don’t want to. And if I somehow manage to get cast, I can quietly tell the adviser to take me off the list.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll try,” I say. “But if I step up there and panic, you have to come save me.”

  “Of course,” says Ashia.

  More kids filter in as Ashia and I sign our names on the tryout sheet under “chorus.”

  As the auditions continue, my hands get shaky and I can’t keep my foot still.

  My group is called to the stage and asked to sing “Follow the Yellow Brick Road” as the teachers in charge walk around with clipboards, taking notes. One of the teachers gets real close and leans in like she’s listening intently. I try to stay focused, but, oh man, what is she writing down about me? Maybe I don’t want actual non-Dad feedback.

  When we’re done, they call us to the front in pairs to say our lines, and I’m assigned Scarecrow. As the girl playing Dorothy says her line, Ashia’s words run through my mind. And after all the shows are done, we have this incredible cast party.

  Yeah, not me, though.

  I guess I channel my inner sad Scarecrow, because I don’t do such a bad job with the lines. Ashia smiles from the audience, and I sort of feel bad that I haven’t told her the truth yet.

  * * *

  Dad’s already there when I get to the house. “Hi, Dad,” I say, kicking off my sneakers.

  “Hey, sweetie, how was your first day of school?” He’s sitting on the couch with his laptop, and there’s a stack of papers on the coffee table.

  “It was different from having class in an airplane, but great. I met some nice kids.” I drop my backpack on the bench in the entryway. “Why are you home so early?”

  I try to focus on him, but the packed suitcase on the floor gets my attention instead.

  “Oh, that’s nothing to worry about, Kenzie,” says Dad. “Last-minute trip for the weekend, but I found you a chaperone. You can stay here since you have school tomorrow.”

  The thing is, after only a few days in Las Vegas, I find myself missing being on the go a little. Plus, I haven’t been away from my dad for a whole weekend in three years.

  “I’d rather go with you, if that’s okay.” I sit down next to Dad and put my head on his shoulder. “It’s not like I have any plans this weekend.”

  Dad pats my leg. “Well, I’m not sure it’s the best idea to already be missing a day of school, but I know you’ll make up the work,” he says. “I just figured you might want to have a playdate with your new friends.”

  I sit up. “A playdate? Dad, I’m twelve, not five.”

  “Sorry, what are we calling it, then?” he asks.

  But I don’t even know. Hanging out? Chilling? I haven’t had friends to get together with in a long time.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Where are we going?”

  “Boise,” he answers.

  “Good. I like Boise.” I calculate the flight times in my head and plan out how long of a book to bring with me. “I’ll go pack.”

  And as I head up the stairs, I wonder how many times I’ve said that same phrase in my lifetime.

  chapter four

  I’m hanging out in the hotel room in Boise watching a movie with Genevieve, the chaperone. The Nannies to Go agency has a “thorough list” of nannies all over the country who have been “extensively screened and have excellent references.” Dad tells me this every time he leaves for work, even this time, although I already know Genevieve from our other trips here. She’s one of my favorites.

  My phone beeps with a text from Ashia.

  Where are you?! Did you get the email?!

  I didn’t realize I’d made such an impression in one day.

  I text back.

  Unexpected trip. Will be back Monday. What email?

  Whoa. An all-caps text.

  YOU’RE ON THE CALLBACKS LIST! THEY WANT YOU TO TRY OUT FOR THE LEAD!!!

  I reread the text to make sure I understand.

  I’m sorry, what now? Shelby will get the lead.

  We go back and forth for at least ten minutes, but I still can’t believe what
she’s telling me. Apparently, Shelby has made her list of demands and is already driving the teachers crazy. It’s time to tell Ashia what’s up.

  Sorry. I can’t do it. Won’t be there for the performances.

  Why? Out of town or something?

  You could say that.

  Can you be “out of town” if you’re never actually in town?

  Try anyway. You never know, right?

  I put the phone down and go back to watching the movie. I’ll give her all the details on Monday. It’s too much to say in a text, and no one ever believes my life without a whole bunch of explanation and pictures.

  An hour later, when my phone goes off again, it’s another message from Ashia with Mrs. Summers’s e-mail.

  Let her know if you want a tryout slot! Which, OF COURSE you do.

  It’s kind of impossible not to be a little bit excited about this. I’m all fluttery inside as I tell Genevieve what’s going on. Eventually, though, I stop and take a deep breath. “But it doesn’t matter if I try out, because I won’t be there for the performances,” I say. I slump into the overstuffed chair.

  “Although it could be good practice to get up onstage and conquer that fear of singing in front of people,” says Genevieve. “But I do see your point. You wouldn’t want to waste their time.”

  “Right,” I say. “And my dad said we might need to stay here an extra day, which means I’d miss tryouts anyway.”

  “That stinks,” says Genevieve.

  A picture of Shelby pops into my head. “Plus, the girl who wants the lead would probably destroy me if I did audition. Apparently, she’s not all that nice.”

  Genevieve gives me a look. “Well, don’t let that stop you.”

  I pull my knees to my chest and remember what my mom used to say.

  Don’t you ever let anyone treat you like you don’t matter. Because you do. You absolutely, one hundred percent do.

  I stretch my legs back out and sit up straight. “Genevieve, can I ask you something?”

  She nods. “Sure.”

  “Is it wrong to want to hear someone besides my dad say I’m good at something?” I ask.

  She smiles and scoots over next to me. “Not at all. Do you want me to weigh in? Or I could call the lunch crew up here for an impromptu concert.”

  I have to laugh. “Listen, I’m not saying you wouldn’t tell me the truth, but you’re all pretty much paid to be nice to me. Everyone around me tells me whatever they think I want to hear. Seriously, who would dare tell a VIP guest’s daughter she can’t sing?”

  Genevieve pauses long enough to prove I’m right. And as “extensively screened” as she is, she’s still a twenty-five-year-old big kid. “You know what? You’re right. You need this.”

  But I’ve lost track of what we’re talking about. “Wait, I need what?” I ask.

  “To hear someone tell you the truth,” says Genevieve. “Someone who isn’t being paid to be nice to you.”

  “Or related to me,” I add.

  “Right, or related to you. Plus, it would be fun to see if you could get the part,” she says with a mischievous grin. “Maybe teach that other girl a thing or two about show business.”

  I can almost see the wheels turning in her head. “But I still don’t want to waste their time,” I say again.

  “What if you didn’t?” asks Genevieve. “What if you sent a clip of you singing and they could watch it or not watch it? Their choice.”

  “I do have Mrs. Summers’s e-mail,” I say.

  “And that way, if you’re not there on Monday, you still get to audition.” Genevieve stands up and puts her hands out in that Why not? kind of pose. “You could get your feedback and then politely decline if they offer you the part.”

  “I could do that,” I say. But this is totally crazy, and I’m kind of hoping it’s all just a game of “What if?” that we’re playing.

  Without a word, Genevieve picks up the phone and tells the concierge we need someone who can play the piano, sheet music for The Wizard of Oz, and a laptop. She suggests an employee at the front desk. “Have her meet us in conference room A,” she says. “Oh, and make sure the piano is tuned.”

  I try not to abuse my hotel privileges, but it’s hard not to notice that I get whatever I ask for at our hotel homes. By the time I get changed and we make it downstairs, Ava is warming up on the piano. People can make things happen pretty quickly when they want to.

  Genevieve stops to chat at the concierge desk and then joins me in meeting room A.

  “You can do this,” she says, giving me a fist bump. “Let’s see what happens, right?”

  I nod. No reason to worry about standing in front of a live audience of a gazillion people (okay, maybe a few hundred), because I won’t even be there for the performances. But I’m more curious than ever to hear what someone besides Dad thinks of my singing.

  Ava hits the first note of “Over the Rainbow” as Genevieve starts the video on my phone.

  Now or never.

  I want to close my eyes and at least hide from the two people in front of me, but it always looks weird when singers don’t keep their eyes open.

  I can do this.

  I start soft, but when it gets to the parts when I’m supposed to let loose, I do.

  I actually do.

  Like I’m singing in the shower. Like I’m singing in the hotel room without a care in the world.

  I belt it out.

  Loud.

  And when I’m done, Ava stops playing and claps, but not Genevieve. Instead she’s in tears.

  “Was it that bad?” I ask, leaning toward her.

  She steps closer and grabs my hands. “It was that good, Kenzie,” she says. “It was absolutely beautiful. And I am not getting paid to say that.”

  Somehow I can tell she really means it. It takes me a minute to get over the shock of the compliment, but the weirdest part is that I kind of enjoyed having an audience. Even if it is a really small one.

  Genevieve opens the laptop and searches for a scene we can act out. “They’ll want to know you can handle lines too,” she says. “I mean, if you’re going to do this, do it right. You know?”

  We practice our parts (this time I’m Dorothy), and it doesn’t take us long to get it. Ava takes my phone, since she’s now gone from front-desk clerk to pianist to videographer, as the head concierge pokes her head through the door and motions to Genevieve.

  “One more thing,” says Genevieve. She rushes out to the hall and comes back with a roll of gold paper. “Might as well set the scene with your very own yellow brick road.”

  I grab one end of the roll. “Might as well.”

  chapter five

  I always used to give my parents a hard time on Monday mornings, but now I seriously can’t wait to get back to school. We didn’t end up staying in Boise the extra day, so as it turns out, I’m here for the auditions. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet, but I’m dressed, and I’ve already had breakfast and brushed my teeth, so I take the extra few minutes to finish unpacking.

  Dad and I don’t take much with us when we travel, and we only get back to our storage unit a few times a year. The last time we stopped, I grabbed my third-grade yearbook.

  I take it from my bag and scan through the class pages, finding Erin and Caitlin, who I still e-mail with once in a while. The others I remember, but we’ve mostly lost touch, and not because I didn’t try. I flip to the back, where all the group photos and school-event pictures are scattered all over the pages. The bike rodeo, field day, movie night, computer club, Spanish club. Things I never got to do in fourth grade because we left early in the school year.

  A printed picture of me, Erin, and Caitlin falls from the yearbook and onto my lap. It’s one of my favorites. The three of us are in Caitlin’s room, huddled together on her floor, arms around one another, with our science project in front of us. We’d worked on that thing for weeks. Caitlin’s walls are cotton-candy pink and covered with posters of kittens, movie
stars, and all her favorite singers. Her bed is covered with fancy pillows, and an entire corner is filled with her favorite books.

  I glance around my room. My temporary room. My empty, neutral-colored walls. My cream bedspread. My empty bookshelf. Really, the only things in here are my clothes in the closet, a picture of Mom in a silver frame, and a suitcase that’s been to more cities than most of the kids in my class. Probably more than all of them combined. Even the hotel rooms have more personality.

  “Kenzie, time for school,” Dad calls up the stairs.

  “Be right down,” I say back.

  I grab my phone and send an e-mail to Erin and Caitlin, saying a quick “Hi! I miss you guys!” I don’t even have their phone numbers to text. Actually, I don’t even know if they have phones. I guess I really haven’t been so great at keeping in touch. I start to close up the yearbook to put it away, but I look at the picture of the three of us one more time. A million thoughts rush through my mind.

  Why can’t I be a part of school activities? And why shouldn’t I try new things and see what seventh grade is really like?

  I might only be here for six weeks, but at least I’m here, in one spot.

  Can’t I cram a true middle-school experience into a month and a half? This is probably the only chance I’ll ever get.

  “Kenzie, time to go!” shouts Dad.

  I toss the yearbook on top of the bookshelf and grab my bag for school.

  “See you later, empty room,” I say.

  * * *

  To start off my day at school, I meet the infamous Shelby with a collision in the hallway. Ugh. Why can’t I walk down a middle-school hallway without crashing into someone?

  “Hey, watch where you’re going.” She takes a step back and looks me up and down. “Oh. You’re the new girl on the callback list.”

  Hmm, I’ve definitely never been described like that before.

  “I’m Kenzie,” I say. But she obviously doesn’t care.

  “Dorothy is my role,” she says. The hallway crowds part around us, and Shelby stands steady. “I hope these rumors about you auditioning today aren’t true, because that wouldn’t be a good move.”