“Bob has all this stuff,” my mom told me. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for new dishes.” I wasn’t so sure. I still remember eating my mom’s homemade birthday cake off the chipped red plates. The big bowls were the ones we filled with popcorn for movie nights. My mom always used the mug with the broken handle for chicken soup when I was sick. When we were packing up that old stuff, I couldn’t imagine life without the dishes. I couldn’t imagine a life where I’d have to share my mom. Actually, I hadn’t been able to imagine life in California at all. All I could think about was what I was losing.

“It was such a pretty wedding, wasn’t it, Mattie-mouse?” my mom asks, cradling the photo in her palm. I nod. The wedding wasn’t like a wedding in a movie—it wasn’t in a big church, just in the backyard of our house in Saint Paul. Someone took this photo of us right after we ate cake. I can tell because I have a smear of frosting on my cheek. But my mom looks perfect. Beautiful. And happy. I’m certain I’ve never seen her this happy. She’s squeezing me so hard. Just looking at the photo, I can feel her tight grip on my shoulders.

She tucks the photo into the plastic sleeve of the last page of my book, like it’s the happily-ever-after part. With mine finished, the other albums are ready to be filled with strangers’ stories. I think about my new school, the new people. Whether I like it or not, this might be the beginning of a story, not the ending.

“Yours is done,” my mom says. She pushes my photo album aside to make room for the next one just as Lucas and Kenny barge through the front door.

Amazingly, I survive day three at Poppy View. Social studies with Mercedes Miller staring at me from across the desk. Lunch with my welcoming committee. Math, where I learn how far behind I am. Now I just need to make it through my afterschool mythology study session with Mercedes Miller.

I check the clock in Mrs. Ellingham’s room. Mercedes was supposed to meet me here at three ten. It’s three fifteen now. Mrs. Ellingham left to make copies, so I pace the empty room alone. On the cinderblock walls I spot a sign on the bulletin board that says ASK WHAT YOU CAN DO FOR YOUR COUNTRY in big red and blue letters, a colorful map of the world, and a list of classroom rules, which includes NO GUM, NO HATS, AND ALWAYS BRING A SMILE. I’m definitely not smiling now.