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boxes marked “kitchen.”
    I smother my Cheerios in a cascade of milk and open three drawers to find the silverware. Then I move a box so I can sit at the table. Mom sets her cup down and moves a box so she can sit across from me.
    â€œWe need to do laundry,” I say.
    â€œTomorrow. I promise. There’s a Laundromat not too far away.”
    I smirk. “In Wellington, everything’s not too far away.”
    â€œYou should shower.” Mom reaches over and runs her hand back and forth across my head, making even more of a knot of my dark curls.
    â€œCan’t. It’s already 7:22. Don’t have time,” I say between mouthfuls.
    â€œSomeone is coming to hook up cable this afternoon. You’ll be home, won’t you?”
    â€œWhere else would I be?”
    â€œI don’t know. I thought you might want to join a sports team or something.”
    That came out of nowhere. I stop eating. “What kind of sport?”
    â€œAny sport. Hockey? Basketball? It might be good for you.”
    â€œAre you joking? It’s not like I’m going to become the next Wayne Gretzky just because we moved to Minnesota.”
    â€œHow do you know if you don’t try?”
    â€œI can’t skate and my ball skills are nonexistent. How’s that for trying?”
    Mom swirls her finger around the rim of her coffee cup. “I’ve never pushed you to do anything you didn’t want to do, Baxter. I’m not that type of parent. Maybe I should have, though.”
    Her voice makes me stiffen. She doesn’t play the guilt card often, but I can hear it coming out now.
    She straightens up. “Did I tell you I used to play volleyball in high school? It’s a good feeling to be part of a team, to work together toward a common goal. You could use that type of experience.”
    â€œI was in the Cub Scouts in California,” I remind her. “For two years.”
    â€œScouting isn’t a sport.”
    â€œOkay, it’s not volleyball, but there’s definitely a competitive edge to getting that traffic safety badge.”
    That doesn’t even get a small laugh. Mom purses her lips. “Okay, maybe something other than sports. Newspaper club or Debate. No, forget Debate. I don’t know, Baxter. You spent the last few years cooped up at home except for the time you spent at the research center with Dr. Anderson and your tutor. Three years of watching old sitcoms on TV. But now you have a clean slate, a chance to start fresh. To do something different.”
    Her pity seeps across the table and into my bowl of cereal, making a soggy mess of the Cheerios. What she really means is that I have the chance to be something different. Someone besides who I am: the Memory Boy.
    I put down my spoon. My stomach feels bloated, as though the cereal has expanded. Mom takes a small sip of her coffee. She’s watching me, hoping for something that I can’t give her. Her look makes me feel guilty. I ratted on her boyfriend and now she’s moved us to northern Minnesota, the opposite end of the earth. She’s left her friends and family and her job and Dink—well, he was the main reason we moved. But she did all that, mostly for me.
    So I say what she wants to hear, even though it’s difficult because I know it’s a lie, and I have to grit my teeth to get it out before it escapes back inside.
    â€œOkay.” I force a half smile. “I’ll find something. Maybe they have an art club.” I figure it’s the least I can offer after all she’s done for me. Mom’s always considered herself somewhat of an artist, so she’ll love the idea of art club, if Madison High has such a thing. I can slop some paint on a piece of paper, even though I’m not artistic in the least.
    Mom’s face brightens. “I have a feeling this place is going to be great for both of us. Just don’t forget—you’re not the Memory Boy