No Place Like Home Read online

  It’s not what she says that I’m afraid of—it’s what she doesn’t say.

  I really don’t want to cause trouble. I don’t want to get on anyone’s bad side. I’m only trying to enjoy being a regular kid for once. “I’m—” I’m about to say I’m sorry. That I’ll take back my audition if it’s a problem. But then I picture my yearbook full of activity photos and my empty, temporary room. And overpowering all the noise in the hallway, I hear more of my mom’s words. The pieces of advice she was determined to give me while she still could.

  There are moments in life when you have to be a little bit brave and a whole lot of bold. Deep down where it counts, you’ll know how.

  I’m pretty sure this is one of those moments, and whether I’m ready or not, it’s time to make a decision. I’ll be gone in a little more than a month, and I have no intention of letting Shelby Jacobs stop me from having some fun while I’m here. “Brave and bold” is officially my new motto.

  I take a deep breath and squeeze my books a little tighter. “You have a beautiful voice, Shelby. Good luck.”

  I walk past her with a confidence I didn’t know I had, because what do I care? I won’t even remember her once I’m gone.

  * * *

  Middle school might not have room service, free shampoo, and random celebrity sightings, but it has more activities than even most front desks can offer. Now the question is, how far can I actually get on my own, as a regular kid with no VIP privileges?

  Only one way to find out.

  Bren is already in his seat when I get to English, so I head right over and sit down in front of him. I slide a very rough draft of a poem I wrote during science class across his desk.

  “Any chance you could look this over for me?” I ask. “I want to enter the poetry contest.”

  He picks up the paper and scans it. “What, no good morning, sunshine?”

  “Good morning, sunshine,” I repeat. “I also want to join book club. What do I need to do?”

  I realize that joining a book club might not seem like a brave and bold move, but it’s a big deal to me. The only clubs I get to be a part of are the rewards clubs at the hotels or the gold clubs for car rentals. (And, technically, my dad is the one who’s the member.)

  “Well, first of all, this needs some work,” he says. “But it’s a good start.”

  Wow. It’s weird having someone other than Dad critique my work.

  “Can you be more specific?” I ask.

  Bren writes some notes in the margin, circles a few words, and adds a smiley face at the bottom. He hands it back to me.

  “You know how to spell onomatopoeia?” I ask.

  “Yes, Bren know how to spell,” he says in a caveman voice. “And he know that onomatopoeia is word that sound like what it describe.”

  I laugh, loud enough to get the attention of the next row. “No, no, I don’t mean it as an insult. I’m actually impressed,” I say. “My dad is a spelling drill sergeant. We spent three weeks on that one before I got it.”

  I jot down “splash,” “drip,” “buzz,” and “achoo” to get the onomatopoeia ideas flowing. “Wait, what’s second of all?” I ask Bren.

  “What?” His eyebrows angle down.

  “You said ‘first of all’ about the poem,” I say. “What’s second of all?”

  Mrs. Pilchard closes the door, letting us know it’s time to stop talking.

  Bren leans forward on his desk and whispers. “Book club meets after school on Wednesdays. Wear purple.”

  * * *

  Having a place to sit at lunch is such a relief. Having a new nickname from Bren, not so much.

  “Hello, sunshine,” he says, getting right back to his book.

  Ashia comes rushing over with all her usual enthusiasm. “Are you going to do the callback?” She grabs me by the arms.

  “I already did,” I say. “Well, sort of. I sent Mrs. Summers a video audition.”

  “A video audition?” she asks. “Is that even allowed?”

  “I have no idea,” I answer. “But I was out of town and didn’t know if I’d be here today. I’m not sure if they’ll even count it.” I sit down, trying to act like it’s no big deal, even though it totally is. SO big. “But I’m here, so maybe I will? I don’t know yet. Callbacks aren’t until this afternoon, right?”

  Behind me, someone is singing, and I wonder if this school might have more kids willing to put on a show in front of the whole cafeteria. Nope, definitely Tate.

  But instead of just singing at his table this time, he’s walking toward ours, singing “There’s No Business Like Show Business.”

  “Is this kid for real?” I ask Ashia.

  “Oh, he’s the real deal,” she says. “His family came here from Ireland when we were in kindergarten. It’s always been rumored he was some kind of royalty.”

  It’s not hard to picture Tate as a dashing prince.

  As he sings, he gets closer and closer to our table until he’s standing right in front of me. The whole room is focused on him, just like the other day, and he’s eating up all the attention. But when he grabs my hand and pulls me up on the table bench, I’m convinced I’m going to pass out.

  “What is he doing?” I lean down and whisper to Ashia.

  She shrugs, and when the song is over, I get my answer.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please say hello to Dorothy, the lead in this year’s musical!” Tate holds my hand in the air and turns me to face the rest of the room.

  OH. MY. GOODNESS.

  I don’t know what to feel first. Shock? Happiness? Total embarrassment?

  “I got the lead?” I ask Tate. “But they haven’t even finished callbacks.”

  “Didn’t need to.” He jumps off the bench and gives me his hand to help me down. The chatter has picked back up as if what just happened is not the least bit strange.

  “Mrs. Summers said your video blew them away,” he says. “By the way, I’m Tate.”

  Yeah. Is there anyone in this school who doesn’t know who he is?

  “Have they already posted the roles?” I ask.

  “Not yet,” he says. “But I managed to get the inside scoop, and I had to meet you.”

  He had to meet me? The words run through my head as I catch a glimpse of Shelby across the room with a supervillain-got-foiled expression on her face.

  “Were you supposed to announce it?” I ask. “Um, like that?”

  “Don’t worry. I got the okay.” Tate points to the doorway, where Mrs. Summers smiles and waves before she casually turns around and heads down the hallway.

  Last-week me would be freaking out right about now. TOTALLY FREAKING OUT. But the new, carefree, I’m-leaving-anyway Kenzie Rhines has a different reaction. “Oh. Thanks for delivering the message.” I focus my gaze directly on Tate and smile. “You’re really cute.”

  I expect to be utterly humiliated by the words that just came out of my mouth, but strangely, I don’t care. The kid already knows he’s adorable, and soon enough I’ll never have to face him again.

  His eyes open wide and he’s silent.

  This should be the part where I panic. The part where I wish I could take back what I said. But instead I wink at him.

  I wink at the cutest boy in school, after telling him he’s cute.

  And then I laugh. Because for the first time in a long time, I’m not the least bit concerned with my next destination.

  chapter six

  Poetry contest. Book club. Lead in the musical. Middle school is like a buffet of activity choices. It doesn’t matter if you’re into music, art, sports, or books—there are a million things to do. And it’s weird, because there are a million things to do everywhere I go, and Dad can pretty much get us into anything. But here it’s all up to me. Only me.

  I stand in front of the class council poster. SEVENTH-GRADE ELECTIONS. Hmm.

  “Your boy Tate is running for class president,” says the voice behind me.

  I turn around and find Bren chewing on a p
iece of licorice. “Is that breakfast?” I ask, ignoring his comment.

  “Are you planning on running for something?” he asks, ignoring my question. I’m not even sure it’s an actual conversation at this point.

  “That’s not healthy.” I decide there’s no reason to answer that last one, either.

  “You should run,” he says. “About time someone other than Golden Boy gets everything.”

  I don’t know much about anyone here yet, but I’m not surprised to hear that Tate does it all. “Are you running?”

  Bren shakes his head as the warning bell rings for homeroom. “See Mrs. Pilchard if you’re interested. The deadline to get your name on the ballot is Friday.”

  I have no intention of putting my name on that ballot, although it does sound interesting.

  As soon as Bren walks away, Ashia catches me looking at the poster. “Are you thinking of running?” she asks.

  We walk toward our homerooms through the crowd of students. “Me? No. Just trying to stay informed,” I say.

  “It’s a great idea,” she says. “I’m awesome at organizing, and I have a bunch of friends in art club who could help with posters. It would be fun.”

  Everything she’s saying sounds kind of amazing, but running for class president would really be pushing it. It’s a yearlong commitment I wouldn’t even come close to finishing.

  We’re at my stop. “From what I hear, Tate will win it anyway,” I say, trying to talk my way out of this.

  Ashia stands firm. “You might be exactly what this school needs, Kenzie Rhines. Fresh ideas. A new take on things. A girl with a plan.”

  “But I don’t have a plan,” I say.

  “Come to my house after school.” She slinks away before I can argue. “We’ll make one.”

  * * *

  Musical rehearsals don’t start until next week and book club isn’t until tomorrow, so after school I get the okay from Dad and walk home with Ashia.

  “Ashia, I love your enthusiasm, but I am not running for class president,” I say, lounging in the papasan chair in her bedroom. It’s a total middle-school girl bedroom with purple walls and posters all over the place. It definitely beats my bland walls. “I’m not even president material.”

  “You are what you believe you are,” says Ashia, waving a hand in the air like she’s a spiritual guru.

  “I have a question,” I say. “Why aren’t you running for class president? You’d be amazing at it.”

  “Um, no,” says Ashia, flipping open a notebook.

  “Why not?” I ask. “You participate in a million things, everyone likes you, and you said yourself that you’re great at organizing.”

  She’s silent, which I take as a sign to keep going. “You’re super friendly, you seem pretty smart, and you have great ideas. I mean, other than your idea of me running for president. That was a bad one.”

  She smiles. “You really think I’d make a good class president?”

  “I really do,” I say.

  Ashia bites her lip and plays with the tassel on one of her bright-pink pillows. After a minute or so of what seems to be some intense thinking, she takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” she finally says. “But on one condition.”

  “And what’s that?” I ask. “You want me to run your campaign? That could be fun.”

  Ashia scoots to the corner of her bed so she’s sitting right in front of me. “No, I want you to be my vice president.”

  I laugh, until I see the look on her face. “Wait, you’re serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious,” she says. “Think of all the fun we’d have.”

  And I do. For one glorious minute, I think about all the things Ashia and I could do together as a team. If I were going to actually be here to do it.

  “I can’t.”

  “Well, then I’m not doing it either,” she says. “It won’t be any fun without you.”

  I adjust as much as I can in the papasan. “I don’t think the point of it is necessarily to have fun. You’re supposed to want to do good for your class and make changes that will improve their school experience,” I say.

  Ashia stares at me. “See what I mean?” she says. “You’re a freaking natural at this. Listen, Kenzie, I think I really want to do this. All those things you just said convinced me. But I need you. I can’t win this thing without you by my side. Please?”

  Oh man, this is tough. I finally have a friend I love hanging out with, and she’s asking me for a favor. One tiny favor that wouldn’t make a lick of difference to me, but that would make the rest of her school year awesome.

  “Pretty please?” she says when I don’t respond.

  Maybe I actually could help her make some changes for the good of the class while I’m here. I’d have at least a few weeks “in office” to get things done. And I can’t imagine it would be all that hard to find a replacement seventh-grade vice president. Although I thought schools did this differently.

  “Wait, don’t they elect a class president and vice president separately?” I ask.

  She smiles like she can tell I’m softening up. “Most schools do,” she says. “But Mr. Kumar thinks it’s important to mirror the way it’s done in the real world. So the president chooses her running mate.”

  “Well, that makes sense,” I say. “Except I doubt middle-school kids are choosing the most qualified person for the job. They’re picking their friends.”

  Ashia laughs. “Yeah, pretty much. So, not quite like the real world.” She hugs the pillow on her lap. “Come on, you and me. What do you say?”

  I think it all through one more time. All the reasons I absolutely should not agree to this, and all the reasons that maybe I should.

  “Okay, let’s do it,” I say.

  Ashia jumps off the bed with a squeal and gives me a gigantic hug. She’s surprisingly strong. And in this moment, while I’m not really sure I made the right choice, I do know that I picked the right friend.

  “Now let’s see what qualifications you have so we can start a list.” Ashia gets out a piece of paper and a pencil from her desk drawer. “What positions did you have in your other school?”

  It’s the first time the subject has come up, and I’m torn between telling her the truth and keeping up with my very vague background story. But one thing I know for sure is that telling her I’m leaving in less than six weeks will stop this mission in its tracks—and maybe even this friendship. I can’t take that chance.

  “Um, line leader?” I say.

  Ashia laughs. “No, seriously. Anything official? Any clubs in sixth grade we can list?”

  Yeah, frequent-flier clubs.

  “I wasn’t all that involved in school activities last year,” I say.

  “Okay, not a problem. How about things outside of school?” she asks. “Dance? Book clubs? Group activities?”

  I sit up straight. This one I’ve got. “Well, I danced with the Chicago Ballet once. And once I got to fill in for a townsperson in a Broadway musical. I mean, I didn’t have any lines, but still. Ooh, and I got to assist the stage crew at a Maroon Five concert.”

  It’s not until Ashia’s jaw drops and her eyes practically pop out that it dawns on me how not normal all of that sounds.

  “Did you really do all that?” she asks.

  This totally could go either way, but I decide to let her in on a little snippet of my world. “I really did. My dad has a ton of connections.”

  “Do you have pictures of all that?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “See, now we have a plan,” she says. “People are going to eat this up. What else you got?”

  We spend the next hour with me telling stories of my adventures and her writing down the best parts. I’m careful not to give too many details and to make sure I mention regular things like homework and cleaning my room. I don’t mention it’s hotel housekeeping that does that for me.

  “Can I ask you something?” she says, but it’s only
the polite intro to what comes next. “Is it just . . . you and your dad?”

  I run through all the stories I’ve told her today. I never said my mom wasn’t around anymore, but it’s painfully clear since she’s not a part of any of them. “Yeah.”

  She waits, as everyone always does, because how do you ever know if it’s okay to ask?

  I sit on the edge of the chair, hug one of her throw pillows, and stare down at my feet. “You know how sometimes there’s a really horrible flu that goes around and on the news they casually mention that a couple people died of complications from it, but you don’t pay much attention because, well, it’s a couple people and you don’t know who they are?”

  I turn my gaze toward Ashia and she nods.

  “One of those people was my mom,” I say, kicking my feet back and forth. “She got a bad infection and they couldn’t . . .” It doesn’t matter how long it’s been; it’s still the hardest thing in the world to say those words.

  Ashia leans forward and puts her hand on mine. “It’s okay, Kenzie. You don’t have to tell me all of it. I’m so sorry.” And then she says something I wish more people did. Something people are afraid to say, but that can be the absolute best thing in the world for a girl who misses her mother. “Tell me something about her?”

  I look up and smile, slowly. “She loved to ice-skate,” I say. It’s the first memory that pops into my mind. “I was never very good, but she’d take me all the time.”

  Ashia goes over to her bookshelf and picks up a trophy. “I like to skate too,” she says, handing it to me.

  “Wow. You figure-skate?” I ask.

  “Sort of. I gave it up this year to do more at school, but if you want, we could go together sometime. I mean, if that’s something you’d want to do.”

  “I’d like that,” I say, releasing my grip on the pillow.

  Ashia sits down on the bed, close to where I am in the chair. “Will you tell me more about her? I bet she was amazing.” This time she smiles, and when she does, I get this swirl of gratefulness through my whole body. I forgot what it was like to have a friend to talk to.