Starting Over: For Dummies

Starting Over: For Dummies

“What?”

“We’re moving.”

“What?” I repeated again, not believing my ears.

“I said, we’re moving!”

“But—but we… we can’t move!”

“Honey, I know this must me hard, but we have to.”

“Why?” I asked, and my father sighed.

“For the same reason we moved last time, Jamie.” Oh, yeah.

“But can’t the Air Force, like, make an exception or something?”

“No.”

“Well, can’t I stay with relatives?” Okay, that was kind of a dumb question. All my relatives lived in Washington.  Plus, I don’t think that they would want me.

“You know you can’t do that honey.” My Dad looked at his watch as if he had somewhere better to be, stepping into the kitchen. I followed him and watched as he took out his iPhone and tapped something out, trying to ignore the fact that my life was being mauled to pieces (seriously, like torn apart by jaguars).  I stared for a moment, considering whether to make a dignified exit to my room and cry daintily or to pull a full-out freak out. I chose the latter.

“I’m sick and tired of moving!” I shrieked.

 “Don’t raise your voice at me, young lady.” He warned.

“How can I not raise my voice? I was getting settled. I have friends here. People like me! We can’t just…leave!”

“We can and we are. End of discussion. You have a week to get ready and say your goodbyes.”

“But—“

“No buts.” I stood there, mouth agape. My Dad stared back at me for a while before his features relaxed. He sat down at a kitchen chair heavily and exhaled. “This isn’t easy for me either, you know.”  Oh really? Because you don’t seem to be very understanding right now.  

I just stared, my nails digging into my palm. “Who’s making us move this time?” I said as calmly as I could (which isn’t very calm).

“They are just doing what’s better for us and the country. And right now, moving us is what’s best,” he avoided my question. I let it go, taking deep breaths.  I opened my mouth to tell him that it was okay, that we’d get through it, but slammed it shut. It wouldn’t be okay.  I was just getting used to life in Colorado, and now I was being uprooted like a tender young sapling from a bed of fertile soil (poetic, right?). I shook my head in disbelief and dashed up to my room to vent. The room I had just finished decorating. The room where I intended to have sleep-overs with my friends soon.  But noo.  Now, we were moving. Again.

What was I gonna tell everyone?

“Hey guys, I know we were just becoming tight and all, but my Dad said we’re moving, and yeah. I might never see you again. Bye.”

“Hey, I just met you, and this is craa-zyy, but I’m leaving now, so don’t forget me?”

Seriously?  No. Not seriously. Right then, I considered running away, and not having to deal with all the moving crap, ever again. But that was crazy talk.  I couldn’t, wouldn’t, leave my Dad. I was the only thing he had left. So I cried myself to sleep and the next day I told my friends.  There were some tears shed, some  serious threats to hide me in someone’s garage, and a promise to have a goodbye party. 

We had the party two days before I left. There were Oreos and lemonade and we all had a horrible time, even though we pretended it was the best thing since… well, bacon. The entire day we talked about all the inside jokes we had gotten over the six months I had been in Colorado Springs,  and how Johnny McAllister asked me out that one time, and I said no even though I liked him because I wasn’t allowed to date, and how they would all miss me terribly. It was really, really emotional. 

What sucked the most was that I knew that after I left, they would all go back to their normal lives. Johnny would probably ask Kayla Wright to the Homecoming Dance. Kayla would say yes. Everyone would have a swell time while I rotted away my young years in San Machillo, wherever that was.

A week later, I was sitting in an airplane, venting by writing in my notebook. It had been a gift from my friends, and had my initials engraved at the bottom right corner. I sighed and scribbled, my handwriting looking like a doctor’s signature because of the bumpy ride.

The plane is horrible. The seats smell. The food tasted like boiled wood.  Dad is snoring again. The kid behind to me has really leaky earphones, and he’s listening to heavy metal. The recliner to my seat is broken. I really need to pee, but the bathrooms smell like something died, decomposed, was brought back to existence by a stinky evil scientist, only to die again.

I put down my pencil and looked out the plane’s window, the scenery had changed dramatically. Mountains and pine trees had given way to a rocky beach and vineyards. We were supposed to land in the next fifteen minutes, if all went according to plan. I sighed. Nothing ever went according to plan in my life.  I looked back at the kid behind me. He was around my age, with hair that was obviously dyed jet black and two lip piercings. He also smelled like someone had locked him in a room and exploded thirty cans of Axe in there. I considered getting him to turn down his music but thought better. He would probably just cuss me out or something. So, I took out my neon green IPod shuffle and put in my earplugs. Soon I was jamming out to Stevie Wonder and Elvis Presley. What can I say, I’m an oldies kind of girl.

Soon Dad woke up and the pilot told us that we would land in ten minutes. I put on my seatbelt and got ready for the familiar ear pop that signified a change in altitude. We landed without problem, and thirty minutes later we were standing in line, waiting for our luggage. The guard by the Claims office kept shooting weird looks at me. I guess I didn’t blame him. I mean, wouldn’t you look twice if you saw a teenage girl with an wild, curly afro, purple skinny jeans, a black hoodie that read, ‘Trust me, I’m a Jedi’, and neon pink/green Converse. Oh, and I was also doing a weird, spazzed-out, hopping dance. So I’d been locked in a plane for six hours, had three cans of Coke, and chickened out of using the bathroom. I couldn’t help it!

I didn’t exactly blend in with my surroundings. My Dad seemed to notice that, and he kept looking at me and then away. I think he was a little embarrassed. I mean, he was your stereotypical tough –as-nails army sergeant, with a chest the size of a refrigerator and a mouth which never seemed to smile.  And here I was, this teenage girl who seemed to defy all the rules of fashion and modern style.  It was almost funny. It would have been, if my bladder hadn’t been about to burst.

“Dad, I really gotta go.” He shot a look back at me.

“Just hold it, the suitcases are almost here. I can see them.”

“But Dad!”

“The house is only fifteen minutes from here. You can hold it for fifteen minutes.”

“Gahh!” 

But he wasn’t paying attention.  I saw my suitcase pass by and Dad quickly snatched it as he made his way back towards me.

“Come on, there should be a car waiting for us.”

We got into a yellow cab which drove us for about twenty minutes. The twenty most agonizing minutes of my young life, actually. Soon, we pulled up in front of a modest sized suburban house. Dad got out, pulled our suitcases from the car and went to open the door. As soon as he did, I dashed in like a rabid rabbit (haha, see what I did there?) and looked frantically for the bathroom. After trying several doors, I finally found the room I was looking for.

“Oh, holy holiness, thank you God!” I dashed in and locked the door.

Five minutes again I ran out of the bathroom, barely pausing to flush the toilet. Why did I run? Well, a girl tends to hurry when she hears someone yelling, “Help! Help, it’s got me!”