Today is moving day.
Dad got a big truck, and he’s mostly moving everything with a couple of his friends that he works with. Mom keeps yelling that he’s going to hurt his back and telling him to be careful, and he says he will, but he never gets hurt, so I don’t know why she’s so worried. I can tell he thinks it’s silly too, but he usually gives in when she gets upset like that.
My mom is a really good mom. She’s, like, the kind of mom where if you forgot you were supposed to bring in a tray of Rice Krispies squares for school tomorrow and it’s already almost bedtime, she will go out and get the Rice Krispies and marshmallows, and she’ll make it for you and make sure they’re packed and ready for school the next day. (This happened to Nico recently, so I know it’s true.) She’s just kind of your average good mom who loves us and takes care of us.
But Dad is different.
My dad can basically do anything. Like, Mom could go out and get stuff to make Rice Krispies squares and have them ready for school tomorrow. But if I said to Dad that I needed Rice Krispies squares that came from, like, I don’t know, China, then he would have them for me. I don’t know how, but he would get them by the time I needed them for school the next day.
Also, he drives this big truck, and he used to let me ride in front with him, but then Mom found out and got mad. So now he doesn’t let
me, because he says she is really smart, and if she says it’s not safe, I can’t do it.
My room in the new house is big. It is about twice the size of the room that Nico and I used to share. Dad told me that I get to pick my room first, because I am the oldest, so I picked the one on the corner. It has lots of windows that I can look out while I read.
Except right in the middle of unpacking books in my new room, I start to cry.
I cry too much. Everybody says that about me. I can’t help it though! When I’m sad, I cry. What I don’t understand is why everybody else doesn’t cry more often. Even Nico hardly ever cries anymore.
Dad passes by my bedroom while I am sitting on the bed crying. He immediately drops the box he is holding and comes to sit next to me. “What is wrong, piccolina? Why are you sad?”
I raise my eyes to look at him. I am almost as tall as Mom, but Dad is much taller than both of us. When he comes to pick me up from school, the other girls at school say that he is very handsome. Also, Inara’s mom has a crush on him. But I don’t think of him that way.
“I want to go back home,” I say.
He frowns. “But this is home now. And much better home.” “I hate it.”
“Ada, you do not mean that.”
He looks so disappointed that I don’t tell him that I do mean it. If I could snap my fingers and be back home in our tiny little apartment again, I would do it in a second.
“I will tell you what,” he says. “You give our new house a chance.
And if in one year, if you still hate, then we move back.” “No, we won’t.”
“We will! I make you a promise.” “Mom won’t let us do that.”
He winks at me and says in Italian, “So we do it anyway.”
I don’t believe him, but it makes me feel better. Plus, when I think about it, he is probably right. Everything will be different in a year. Maybe I really will love it here by then.
