Nothing about our move to Merckwood Drive excited me.

I remember how my parents had dropped the news on me last minute,

leaving me with a little less than a week to even process it.

A strategic move that made me hate them more than I ever thought I could.

My dad's new job wanted him right away, they said, and it was a last-minute decision.

I wasn't so gullible that I bought that nonsense.

I knew that you don't just land a new job and buy a new house all within a week.

They could have given me more time.

They should have given me more time.

Anyway, Merck would drive. I remember how my stomach

sank as we pulled into the street and I got the first look at my new home. The house was what my parents called a fixer

upper. He just needs a coat of paint, my father said with his usual self-assurance,

giving his words their own coat of bright happy paint, trying to make

me believe this place was something I'd ever choose.

The house looked like it loomed forward to peered down at me, judging me unworthy of its shelter.

The grass out front sprung up in uneven tattered clusters, and it was popmarked with the ugly patches of dry, barren soil.

A dilapidated swing squatted in the corner nearest the home. Its frame rusted and the twines are spending the

seat frayed and threatening to snap at any moment. My mom turned and looked at me with

bright eyes as the car pulled into the driveway.

Exciting, isn't it?

I kept staring out the window so she wouldn't see my face getting hot and my eyes watering.

I opened the door and slid out of my seat as soon as the engine turned off.

...