I was usually the first one home. 'Home' was now a twelve-storey apartment building, just about the tallest thing in Pemrick. Pemrick was really a small town -- you could walk from one end of Pemrick clear to the other in about an hour, and see nothing and no one interesting in between.
I hated the apartment, too. That day I pulled the key to the lobby out of my pocket and let myself into the building. It was old and smelled musty, and the lobby had furniture that looked straight out of my grandmother's sitting room. I pressed the button for the elevator and waited. And waited. I started tapping my foot. Finally I set my school bag down, so of course at that instant the elevator doors opened. Angrily I grabbed my school bag. Then I paused for a second to make sure the elevator was actually there. I saw this movie once where the elevator doors opened and a guy had stepped in without looking, only to realize too late that the elevator wasn't there! I don't intend to ever let that happen to me. As it turned out, the elevator was actually there, and so I stepped into it and pushed the button for the ninth floor. The doors shut and I felt myself slowly climbing higher into the building. I was sure that at any moment I would hear the snap of the evelator cables and feel myself plummeting down the shaft to the bottom, but the elevator reached the ninth floor and the doors opened, as usual. I stepped out and sighed with relief, and looked forward to the day that we would leave the apartment building and I would not have to take my life into my own hands every time I wanted to set foot outside the building.
Apartment 907 was at the end of a gloomy hallway. But at least it had the lucky number 7 in it, and that was something to be thankful for. I took out the other key and let myself into the apartment, and shut the door behind me, making sure it was locked.
I threw my book bag down in the corner and plunked into the soft armchair -- my chair. It had been a terrible day, but at least I was home. I looked around. The furniture all looked familiar, but in the wrong places, and in weird arrangements; pictures I'd seen every day of his life hung on strange walls. Everything was cramped, pushed together; there was barely enough room to turn around in. Some of the stuff was still in boxes, awaiting the day we would find a house in Pemrick and move yet again -- as if the move we'd just made hadn't been bad enough. At least this time, I wouldn't be moving away from my friends.
I sighed and lifted myself out of the chair. On the cabinet there was a framed photograph of me with my two best friends, Mike Berrymore and Sam McCaulfur. Mike was grinning too widely, Sam was squinting like he always did before he got glasses the winter before -- me and Mike started calling him 'McCaulfour', for 'four-eyes', but Sam didn't mind, because we were all friends. I picked up the photo and stared at it. I looked at myself in the middle, my arms around my friends' necks, smiling like we'd always be together.
"Hi, guys," I murmured. "Wonder what you're doing right now." In my head I pictured Sam and Mike playing soldiers in the wooded hills around their homes, or skipping rocks on the little pond we all passed on the way home from school. Then I hurt inside, and I set the picture down and stepped out onto the balcony.
A soft breeze was blowing across the ninth floor; it moved my hair around, tossing it back and forth like my Aunt Sandy does when she sees me. I leaned on the rail and looked out across the little town I was stuck in, across forest and fields, to the distant, grey spires of the city, so many miles away. I could just barely make them out. It wasn't like it was before, looking out my window and seeing them just a couple miles away. I thought back sadly over what had happened. I could hardly believe I had left them behind, so suddenly. Just eight weeks earlier, I had been completely unaware that I was about to move. But then Mom had gotten that promotion at work... Dad still worked at the same place, but now he had to leave much earlier in the morning to get there, and he arrived home much later at night. I couldn't think of a single good thing that had come out of the move at all.
I stepped back into the apartment and shut the sliding door behind me. I looked around for a moment, not sure what to do with myself. I looked at the TV but decided against turning it on; I wasn't in the mood. Instead, I wandered into my bedroom.
Only it wasn't only my bedroom. Maybe the worst thing of all was, since there were only three bedrooms in the apartment, I had to share a room with my little brother, Kipling. A long time before, I had shared a room with Skip. But that was years ago, when he was too little to sleep by himself. Even I barely remembered those days. But Skip had been just two years old then. Now he was seven, and he never lisitened to what I told him. Worse, he seemed to think that just because we were sharing a room, all of my stuff was his as well. I reminded Skip just about every day not to touch anything that was mine, but I would still come into the room to find Skip fooling with something of mine, or something of mine would be moved from where it ought to be to somewhere else.
The first thing I always did whenever I came into the room, I would check the highest shelf on my bookcase. I had this priceless model airplane -- priceless to me, anyway -- I'd carefully built over three weeks the summer before. I would always make sure it stood there on its stand, precisely where it ought to be. If I made Skip sure of anything, it was that terrible things would happen to him if he so much as looked at that model plane the wrong way.
I threw myself down on my bed and lay on it with my arms behind my head and one foot propped on the opposite knee. Depressing thoughts of the day crowded my mind, and I felt despair rising in my heart. Why didn't they like me? Why was it so hard to make friends here? I barely looked up when I heard a second key in the front door.
"I'm home," howled Kipling to whoever else might be there. I grimaced. Skip charged into our bedroom; behind him was a second boy, short and plump, with a stupid grinning face.
"Is that Islington or Dixie?" the plump boy asked Skip, and the two of them giggled moronically at the joke. I ignored them. I was too old to be hurt by their teasing.
"That's Izly," Skip said, pointing at me. "This is my new friend, Carl Greywind," Skip told me.
"Hi," I muttered.
"Hi," said Carl. "Is that your bed?" he asked.
I looked at him. "No, it's my space ship, dingbat," I sneered.
Carl's chin dropped. "What's with him?" he muttered to Skip.
"He's usually a big jerk," Skip replied, more to me than to Carl. "Come on, let's go play video games."
"Great!" yelled Carl, dashing from the bedroom out into the hall. Skip paused for a moment, glancing back at me. He expected some sort of objection from me, I realized. But I didn't feel up to hassling Skip for no reason.
"So what are you waiting for?" I asked him.
Skip blinked, surprise showing on his face. He started to go, then paused, and said, "You wanna play?"
Now it was my turn to be surprised. It was unusual for Skip to including me in anything that he didn't have to. "Naw," I shook my head. "Thanks anyway."
Skip shrugged. "Whatever." He stepped out the doorway.
"Don't make too much noise!" I added.
"Yeah, yeah..."
I felt a little better for Kipling's invitation, but it still didn't solve my problem. I couldn't hang around with my kid brother and a bunch of grade twos. I needed friends my own age. I just couldn't think of any way to make them.
I sat up on my bed, and slowly stepped over to the door. Glancing down the hall, I could just see Skip and Carl around the corner, sitting about six inches from the TV set, having a ball. I leaned against the wall and watched them, frowning. Why was it so easy for Skip? I wondered. 'Cause they're just little kids and it's easy for them, I answered myself.
I wish I was seven again, I thought.
I turned around and flopped back on my bed.
The next thing I remembered was Dixie's voice. "Look at the precious little baby taking his nap," she cooed, lacing her fingers against her cheek.
I blinked and looked up. "I wasn't asleep," I lied.
"You snore just like Dad," she told me.
"No I don't, you're just making it up."
She grinned and dropped a hand on one hip. "One of these days I'll make a tape recording for you so you can hear what you sound like..." Dixie started making exaggerated snoring noises and I threw my pillow at her. Dixie caught it, gracefully.
"Thanks," she said, "I can use this." She took the pillow and headed for her own room.
"Hey!" I shouted. "Hey! Give it back!" I leapt from my bed and chased after her. Dixie slammed the door to her bedroom in my face.
"Open up!" I demanded. "Open up and gimme that back! Dixie!"
Skip and Carl appeared. "What's going on?" Skip questioned.
"Beat it!" I told them, and turned back to Dixie's door. I hammered on it with my fists, until suddenly it opened. Dixie shoved the pillow into my face so hard I stumbled backwards.
"Normally," she said, "I'd love to carry on like this all day. But I've got bigger fish to fry than you." I noticed she was wearing a different blouse. "I'm going to eat at Louise Tawnymane's house. Tell Mom and Dad, okay? Here's the number. Make sure they get it," she warned me. "Stick it to the fridge or someth-- Never mind, I'll do it myself," she sighed, and pushed past me, heading for the kitchen.
"Hey," I protested, chasing after her, "I can do it!"
Dixie stuck the phone number to the fridge with a magnet. She turned to me. "You're going to have to peel the potatoes tonight," she told me, poking me in the chest. "Think you can manage that without cutting off a finger, or a toe, or something?"
"Yeah, I can do it," I scowled, shoving her hand away.
Dixie looked at me skeptically for a moment, then shrugged and headed for the door. "I'll be home about eight o'clock," she told me. "Make sure you've got the potatoes peeled before Mom gets home at 5:30. And look after Skip."
"Yeah, I will. I will, okay?"
Dixie pulled a face. "Ten to one, you'll louse it up," she declared, then shut the front door behind her.
"I will not," I argued, to no one in particular.
"You'll louse it up," Skip echoed, as he and Carl, carrying a soccer ball, headed for the door.
"Hey, that's mine," I growled, and grabbed the ball.
"Come on, let us use it!" Skip whined. "We won't hurt it."
"It's my ball. You didn't ask first," I scolded.
"Fine, shove your lousy ball," Skip replied.
"What a jerk," Carl said as he and Skip headed for the door.
I got so mad I threw the ball at Skip's head. It bounced off and Skip yelled, "OWW!!" and rubbed his scalp. He turned to me.
"Take the stupid ball," I told him. "Make sure you bring it back, or don't come back at all."
Still rubbing his head, Skip smiled at Carl. He took the ball and the pair of them made for the door before I could change my mind.
"If you're late for dinner, Mom'll kill you!" I told Kipling. Skip ignored me and shut the door. I could still hear them making comments about me and laughing as they headed down the hall. Then I was alone again in the quiet.
In spite of what Dixie thought, or maybe
because of what Dixie thought, I made sure the potatoes were peeled long before 5:30.
Dixie had been right about one thing; I did cut myself, but it wasn't bad and I didn't
even bother with a bandage. And I sure as heck didn't tell her. But, it was just that kind
of a day.