A thirteen year old girl experiences the drama of moving, making new friends, and everything that goes with it.
My name is Billie Liberty.
This is my house. Or, was. Today I'm moving on, leaving Chicago, and going down to Oklahoma. My father's company, for which he is an executive, decided to transfer him. It's a better job with more pay, and we get a bigger house, but still.
It's only ten in the morning, and already I can tell that the day is going to be a disaster. The moving van was late. My Dad, who is clad in a pair of slippers and his bathrobe, is arguing with the moving van guy. My Dad can be sort of a hothead.
Mom is arguing with my little sister Sue Anna, who is whining because all of her toys already have been packed in boxes. I personally think that she just needs a good smack on the side of the head. No one else agrees with me.
As I'm standing on the lawn, freezing in a tee-shirt and short jean skirt, I hear a noise in the bushes. I look up. It's Laurie Kemper, my best friend since kindergarten. As usual, she jumped the fence that separates our yards instead of coming down the sidewalk like most people.
"Billie!" She screams, and then suddenly we're hugging eachother, and crying, like the couple of hormone-ridden girls we are. "I'm so glad I made it in time," she shrieks. "I was afraid you'd be gone!"
Before I can tell her that I would never leave without seeing her, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a little wrapped package. "Here. I brought you something,"
I open it. It's a photograph, glossy and colorful, of the two of us laughing up in the treehouse Laurie's dad built in her backyard. The photo has been framed, and along the border in gold script it reads, "Laurie and Billie, age 13."
"Thanks," I say. "I'll keep this forever."
All our furniture has been piled on the lawn, and now the moving men are beginning to lift it into their truck. Superior Transport, it says on the side.
"Billie," My mom yells. "We're leaving now." She's already strapping Sue Anna into her booster seat in the back of her car. I sigh. "Coming," I call back. Then I look at Laurie. "I guess this is it."
"Oh, Billie!" Laurie bursts into tears again, and I have to bite my lip to keep myself from doing the same. I give my best friend a last hug, maybe the last I'll ever give her, and say, "I'll call you."
Laurie stands at the corner and waves until our car is out of sight.