We moved to Evansville three years ago when my mom got a new job. It was good that she got a new job since she was constantly crabbing about the old one. I just wish it could’ve been a little closer to where I really wanted to be. I mean, I tried to be supportive when she told me about it, and I tried to get into looking at new houses and stuff, but the truth is, I seriously thought about asking my best friend Jennifer if her family would adopt me rather than move. Heck, I seriously thought about asking STRANGERS to adopt me rather than move.  

I remember when Mom told me about her new job. She came in my room, sat on my bed and took my hands. “Rhiannon, lovey,” she said. I knew it was serious. It’s always serious when she calls me “lovey”. That’s her way of trying to treat me like I’m a little kid. Ever since I grew tall enough to look down on her, that’s been a lot harder to do.
But my stomach did a little hip-hop into my throat and I felt like I was going to hurl because I just knew it was something awful like, “your dad and I are getting divorced”, or “I have an incurable disease”. But no. She said, “I’m going to take a great new job in another town. It’s a great place called Evansville, Indiana. We’ll have a great new house and you can help pick it out! Even with a pool, if you like. Won’t that be great?” Notice that the word “great” was mentioned a lot. Not a good sign.
OK. Not a brain tumor. Just utterly ruining my life.

I’ve read stuff that people write about how moving is such a great adventure—new people, new places to see, get out of your rut, yada yada yada. They made it seem so incredibly cool that it reminded me of when my dog, Genna, chases rabbits in the back yard. See, Genna is a “muffin”— a very chubby golden retriever. When she chases rabbits she runs full out (which is still pretty slow), and her eyes get so big that you can see the whites all around. Her tongue hangs out and she slobbers, and she makes this high pitched “Yip-yipping” noise. That’s the kind of frenzied excitement that people describe when they talk about moving to a new place and “starting a new life”.

Well, let me tell you, my memory of moving was my Grandma standing on the sidewalk by the car trying not to cry, and not doing too well because her face was puce colored and puffed up like a plum. My friends were all trying to hug me goodbye at the same time, and shouting their email addresses at me which I immediately forgot, and I was trying not to blubber. Then I had this 12 hour car ride with my dad listening to the “golden oldies” on the radio all the way (JUST SHOOT ME!)  and Genna in the back of the mini van whining and throwing up every 10 minutes so the whole car smelled like dog barf. Now that’s excitement. Yip Yip.

When we got to the new house, my room felt funny and I didn’t couldn’t find any of my stuff in all the boxes, and there weren’t any kids my age in the neighborhood, and the backyard was a mud hole since they were trying to put a pool in but it rained every day for 3 weeks.

I tend to be naturally pessimistic, but this was really depressing. Anyway, I was pretty bummed when I started my first day at Evansville Day School. The place was way bigger than my old school, and I didn’t know anybody. Back at my old school, I knew everything—how high I could roll my skirt without having the teachers call my mom, where to go for lunch even if it did kind of creep across the plate on its own, how to cut gym without getting a detention. And, of course, I had a group of friends that knew me and all my strangeness, and I knew them and theirs. I didn’t have to worry about manners (since NONE of us had any) or worry about saying something dorky, or getting lost between classes. And I didn’t have to worry about being “normal”.

See, I’m not your every-day-run-of-the-mill-normal kid.  I’ve got a little problem with normality. Frankly, it’s boring, so I tend to find interesting ways to amuse myself. They tend to be, as my mom puts it, “a few sigma north of the mean”. That’s her way of saying I break out in occasional bouts of weirdness. Back at my old school, after 6 years and the infamous episodes with the exploding volcano, the magic potty, and the Big Bag o’ Bat Guano (none of which were technically my fault, I’d like to point out), no one expected normal from me. With this new school, I felt like I had to hide the real me until I scoped the place out, and had a chance to see what the people were like. But, what if they weren’t as tolerant as my old school? Man, were they doomed to disappointment! And that probably meant I was doomed to a life of complete and utter boredom and loneliness until I graduated. It wasn’t a pleasant future to contemplate. I could feel a bout of weirdness coming on, but I fought it down. That was no way to start a new life. Yip Yip arroooo.

My mom walked me in the first day (gawd, it was soooo embarrassing. But Ok, a little comforting too. Don’t tell her I said so).  The Head of Middle School and my social studies teacher, Mrs. Richardson, met us at the office and offered to show me around to and introduce me to a few kids. I’m usually pretty quiet, and I admit it, a little shy, but that day I set a new record. I don’t think I said one word that whole morning to anyone. The kids all knew each other, probably had gone to school together since they were Pre-K. Now in 6th grade, they knew all the inside jokes and had history together. I was the stranger in the room, and I felt like I had this huge, sentient zit on the tip of my nose the way they all just looked at me. I was beginning to wish I’d followed through with the adoption papers.

Then, something strange happened in the last period before lunch. Strange as in “wonderful”. (Or maybe just plain strange). We were in Social Studies, and we were supposed to talk about where our ancestors came from. Mine came from Ireland on my Mom’s side—I have the reddish hair and pale skin to prove it--and I’d actually been to Ireland once. So when Mrs. Richardson called on me, I managed squeak out something about how I’d kissed the blarney stone.

Suddenly, a cute girl named Grace jumped up from her desk, knelt down on the floor, put her shoes on her knees and started shuffling around singing “I’m a little leprechaun, I’m a little leprechaun.” All I could do was blink at her with my mouth hanging open. The teacher, Mrs. Richardson, just rolled her eyes and announced to the class, “Grace has left the building!” She didn’t seem very upset, which was pretty stunning, given the circumstances. So, I snuck a look around.  None of the class seemed particularly surprised or disturbed by this turn of events. As a matter of fact, no one seemed to be paying a lot of attention. One girl was looking out the window at the birds and making tweeting noises. One boy was chewing on a wad of something that looked suspiciously like paper. The boy next to me was muttering something about “The Knights of the Shattered Shield”, and his notebook had pictures of hapless knights being devoured by hungry dragons. The color red figured prominently. Yowzer.

I looked at Grace, at the tweeting girl, at the boy chewing his cud (who smiled at me and belched. Nice one) and the one with the technocolor notebook and realized: These people were just as nutsy as I was.
Maybe more.

Maybe I was going to be all right after all.