Boxes. So many boxes, all around me. Why do we have to mooooooove? Oh, yeah. My stupid new sister. , Indira, 4 years old, born in India, parents dead, so my parents decided to take her in. SIGH. I just call her Indi because it's easier and she's four so what does she care? We just completed the adoption process a couple months ago, and decided after trying to fit me, an eleven year old boy, and indigo, a jumpy little four year old in the same 15 by 15 foot room, than it might be time for a change. (Plus my mom hated her old job anyway) (Go figure).
So we're moving. TO KANSAS. What is there in Kansas? Nothing. Yet somehow my mom managed to find a good teaching job there. Her classroom will probably only have about 3 kids in it though because there is NOBODY IN KANSAS. I think. I don't really know because I haven't even wanted to think about it, so I haven't done any research on the actual size of Kansas. I think there's only 600 people there though, from what I've heard. That's what Ronald, my bestest friend ever, told me.
Ronald Stevenson, only the greatest basketball player in the whole world. Who is, wait, was my best friend. Now that I'm moving so far away, I don't know what we'll be. He said we could skype. It wasn't much of a promise though. "Yeah, I guess I'll skype you or something idk," were his exact words. But I'll try because Ronald Stevenson has been my best friend ever since I've had a best friend. About six weeks ago. I've always told myself that I'm not lonely, and Ron Stevenson made me finally believe that. But I'm moving.
But back to these boxes. There's so many! They go from my floor to my ceiling. I didn't really realize how much stuff we had until we started putting it all in boxes. Oh well. The moving truck's supposed to be here in about three minutes, so then I won't have to see them anymore. Then I'm also leaving. So I don't know whether to be happy or sad. No more boxes, but no more home.
"Brady!" That's me. "It's here!" my mom's so excited, I can hear the jump in her voice. More excited than the rest of us, that's for sure.
"Bwady, come on," Indi whines, running into my room and taking my hand. She drags me downstairs, but only because I let her. Obviously she isn't stronger than me.
When we get downstairs I see a couple of tall, sturdy men waiting in our living room. They each have box carriers.
"Do we need to help carry boxes too?" I ask, to be polite. I don't want to carry boxes. There's so many, it would take hours.
"No, we're going to head off in our car with a couple in the trunk and by you guys in the back, however." Mom gives me a pointed look, telling me no complaining. "Let's head out," she waves her hand for us to follow and heads out the door. Indi runs to be right behind her and hold her hand on the way out, but I stop to look around.
It isn't really our home, not with all our things packed up, but I still have to look around one last time. I'm probably never going to see this place again. Oh, and our neighbors! Since we weren't great friends (although we did bring each other courtesy foods on holidays), we're never going to talk again! If anyone were to visit it would be Ron, not my neighbors.
I gather the courage to finally leave, moving past the men who have started loading up boxes onto their carriers and out the door. Indi opens my car door for me. "Here you go, mister!" she exclaims and dives in to the other side where she'll be sitting. I look in our vehicle and, except for the space Indi climbed through, it's all boxes.
Groaning, I climb in. At least I can see out my window. "Are we really not able to fit these boxes in the moving van?" I complain.
My dad turns around says, "Brady." He doesn't usually talk too much, but his words hold a ton of meaning.
