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feel nervous about it. I didn’t sleep at all last night. I couldn’t stop thinking and mostly worrying about what my new life is going to be like. I haven’t even seen our new house yet. My dad said he knows I’ll love it. So I’m sure I will. He knows what I like. And my room is going to be much bigger, which can’t be a bad thing. My dad says we’re a team now.
    I walked out onto the porch and sat on our stoop for the last time, watching him load the rest of our stuff into the trunk of our gray Chevy. I can’t help but feel like we’re leaving my mom behind. The house and her things are really my last connection to her. On the other hand, I want to run away from this town as fast as possible—the people who know, who point their fingers and stare at me with sad faces, and mostly all the little things that remind me of her every day. Like the way our dish towels still smell like her perfume.
    â€œReady, Kitty Kat?” My dad called from the car and slammed the trunk closed. He squinted at me and smiled. The sun was brighter than ever—a good omen, I hope.
    â€œYup!” I picked up my pink suitcase and ran toward the car, nervous and excited for our future together. I tried not to look back, but I did anyway. I needed one last look.

Laney
    â€œW hen do you think they’ll get here?” I followed my mom around the kitchen, feeling antsy, kind of like my skin was tingling all over. She’d made the four of us a huge pancake breakfast, and there was still yellow batter splattered everywhere. Mom loves to cook, but she’s a bit messy at it.
    â€œI don’t know, love. Soon, I guess.” She swiped a wet dish towel down the length of the counter and patted it dry with a paper towel.
    â€œDid you see her?” I twirled in circles on the shiny brown tile.
    â€œLaney, I told you I didn’t see her, only her father.” She washed a bunch of red grapes in the sink and added it to a bowl of big pink peaches.
    â€œWell, what was he like?” I sat down at the kitchen table, hugging my knees to my chest. I was
desperate
for every last detail.
    â€œHe seemed lovely, sweetheart. I’m sure they’ll be here soon enough.”
    â€œI’m sure they won’t. Soon enough would be
now
.” I stood up again. “What color is his hair?”
    â€œBrown.”
    â€œLike, a lightish brown? Or is it real dark, like, almost black?”
    â€œI don’t know. Sort of medium. Why do you care what color his hair is?”
    â€œI’m trying to imagine what his daughter’s going to look like.” So far she looked like a man with medium brown hair. “And his eyes?”
    â€œWhat about them?”
    â€œWhat color are they?”
    â€œLaney, I have no idea. I didn’t study him. We talked for maybe five minutes. Just long enough for him to say they were moving in next Saturday.”
    â€œ
Next
Saturday!?”
    â€œ
This
Saturday, love.
Today
. I’m just telling you what he said then.”
    â€œTell me
exactly
what he said.”
    â€œFor the millionth time, he said he and his daughter are moving into the house next to Luella’s, and that she’s eleven, just like you.” Didn’t sound like a five-minute conversation to me.
    â€œI wish they’d just get here already.”
    â€œPatience, Laney. Patience.” It’s a word I hear a lot, mainly from my parents. I guess because I don’t have any. I once tried to explain to them that clearly I wasn’t born with patience, and eleven years later it has yet to arrive. They told me that it’s not something you’re born with or something that arrives out of the blue, but it’s something you have to develop. Seems like a waste of time.
    â€œCan I take the pie and wait on their porch?” Yesterday Mom and I baked them a gorgeous raspberry pie with golden crust and oozy red goodness all stuffed inside. It took