Alpaca My Bags Read online

  Dad pushed a fair amount of air out through his nose.

  Our education had been one without schedules and “the grind” Dad ranted against. In many ways, homeschooling had bought our family freedom. Plus, my parents said we were able to learn at a quicker pace because so much of traditional school was centered around organizing groups of students and getting everyone on the same page.

  “Can’t we keep homeschooling ourselves?” David pressed.

  My eyes shot to Dad. Were my brothers wearing him down? I hadn’t realized just how much I liked the idea of going back to school until there was a chance it might slip away.

  Luckily, Dad didn’t bite. “I’m sorry, it’s not a choice,” he said firmly, and there was a clip to his voice that wasn’t usually there. Not anymore, anyway. Not since we’d started living life out of the Adventure Jar.

  “It’s only temporary,” Mom added. “Your dad and I need to bring in some extra income while we figure out our finances. Neither of us will have time to manage your curriculums while we’re working, so, public school it is.”

  “But—” Neil protested.

  “But it’ll only be for half a school year or so,” Mom cut him off. “Until winter break.”

  Dad picked up the thread. “And, by then, we’ll have completed the Black Diamond Challenge and can move on to the next. It’s not like we’re going to fall right back into the rat race. No one is going to be ‘imprisoned by the system.’ We have our adventure challenge. We’ll fulfill it, and then we’ll move on. Just like always. You see, serendipitous.” The more Dad talked, the more he seemed to be convincing himself that this would all work out fine.

  “You know, ‘The wide world is all about you: You can fence yourselves in, but you cannot forever fence it out.’ Who said that?” Dad asked.

  My brothers and I had cut our teeth on The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Quoting the author of the most epic adventure novels ever was a common pastime in the Amundsen family.

  “J. R. R. Tolkien.” Neil said the name with reverence. He and David exchanged a look that said they were relenting to the idea of going back to school.

  “That’s right. We may not like it, but our fence is coming down. At least for a little while. Middle school for Amelia Jean, high school for Neil and David. It’ll be good for the three of you to have some shared experiences with people your own age. In fact …” As Dad trailed off, the expression on his face brightened like something pleasant had just dawned on him.

  “In fact, what, dear?” Mom asked, no doubt confused by the dopey grin on Dad’s face.

  “Colorado,” Dad said while purposely nodding like the state’s name was supposed to mean something.

  “Suuure,” Mom said slowly. “Colorado seems like a logical choice. It has some of the best skiing in the world, and it’s not too far from here—it shares a border with the state of Utah.”

  Dad continued to nod. “Right? And how many times have we said it’s a pity our kids have never met their cousin? Doesn’t this seem like a prime opportunity? Serendipitous even?”

  “Would you stop saying that?” Mom jokingly chided Dad for his persistent use of the word serendipitous. I remembered it from one of Dad’s vocabulary assignments. It meant something that happened by chance in a happy or beneficial way.

  “Fair enough, but tell me what you think,” Dad pressed.

  “Well … the younger Catherine does live in Winterland, close to a world-class ski resort.” Her gaze drifted away from Dad. For a moment she seemed to contemplate what that meant. “But I don’t know …”

  “Why not? It’s perfect!” Dad crooned. “She’s the same age as Amelia Jean. Who better to shepherd Amelia back into the school system than family?”

  Now he had my full attention. My dad’s sister and her daughter were both named Catherine. My cousin Catherine lived with her grandmother because my aunt Catherine had left when she was a baby and now lived somewhere in Europe. Every few years Dad got an email from my aunt, so we knew she was still alive. But she never came back to visit. And even though we sent a birthday card to my cousin Catherine every year, we’d never actually met her.

  “Won’t that be awkward?” Mom asked. “I mean, the poor girl was abandoned by your sister. And she lives with her dad’s mother, right? We’ve never received a response to any of the mail we’ve sent, so we have no idea if she wants anything to do with us.”

  I held my breath. On one hand, I’d always been intrigued by the cousin I’d never met. What if it turned out we were two peas in a pod, like my brothers? Then I wouldn’t always feel like the odd one out. On the other hand, Mom was probably right. It might be awkward.

  Dad shook his head. “Maybe at first. But anything worth doing usually is.”

  “I guess,” Mom said. “Winterland it is.”

  Butterflies erupted in my stomach, but it wasn’t a bad tingling. Not the kind I get when I’m about to freak out. It was more nervous anticipation—like the future held the promise of something sweet and good. “Serendipitous,” I whispered so Mom wouldn’t hear. Going back to school might be exactly what I needed. A chance to meet my cousin. A chance to make friends and feel like I belonged. A chance to participate in activities that didn’t involve dangerous mountains. That was, at least until the slopes opened …

  The tension had gone out of Dad’s dark eyebrows. And he’d gotten through to my brothers with that Tolkien quote. I could tell by their slumped shoulders that the fight had drained out of them. Mom was never easy to read. Unlike me, she stayed calm and composed no matter what. But even though my family seemed resigned to this big change, I could tell they were all scared. Even Mom.

  I couldn’t believe how the tables had turned. While I’d been biting my nails through each challenge, they really had been living their “best lives.” Now they were afraid that the Amundsen Adventure Jar Lifestyle might be coming to an end just as I was feeling excited for what lay ahead. What if my happiness always meant their misery, and vice versa? I worried we would never be in sync. I didn’t worry long, though, because my anticipation for going back to school and living in one place for more than a few days outweighed everything. For once, I couldn’t wait to hit the road.

  WELCOME TO COLORFUL COLORADO, the sign read as we crossed the state line. And it didn’t lie. The views along the sometimes straight, sometimes curvy highway were constantly changing. Red rocks, purple mountains, green trees, blue skies, and fields of gold. We were greeted by some of the prettiest landscapes I’d ever seen, and I’d seen more than my fair share.

  My brothers were uncharacteristically quiet as we drove. They were still brooding over school. Normally we’d stop at scenic overlooks or small-town museums along the way, but not this time. Winterland High and Winterland Middle were (serendipitously?) scheduled to start the next day, and there was a ton of stuff to do before then. So, we headed straight for the place where we’d park the Gnarly Banana for the foreseeable future.

  The Stargazer RV Park, located on the outskirts of Winterland, wasn’t very full. We had our pick of campsites. We chose a secluded one at the back of the park—one surrounded by evergreen trees and aspens. My brothers and I hopped out of the truck cab to explore while our parents got the Gnarly Banana situated.

  I greedily breathed in the sharp scent of pine and the musky smell of forest undergrowth. My brothers darted in and out of the trees and scrambled over boulders, their bad moods obviously lifting. It felt amazing to be outdoors after being pent up in the truck all morning.

  My parents had a long list of things to do once we’d disconnected the Gnarly Banana from the truck and connected it to the RV park’s water, electricity, and sewer hookups. I begged them to bump “Contact Catherine” to the top of the list.

  “I can’t believe I don’t have a phone number for my own niece,” Dad said, then he slightly clenched his jaw.

  “At least we have an address,” Mom said. “We can swing by on the way to register the kids for school. Knock two th
ings off our list with one trip.”

  My family piled back into the quad cab truck. It moved a great deal faster without the Gnarly Banana dragging behind. Squashed in the back seat again between David and Neil, I bounced my knees on the floorboard. I couldn’t wait to meet Catherine, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t nervous.

  Catherine and her grandmother lived at the top of a steep, winding drive fifteen minutes away from the RV park. Their cabin was made of enormous round logs and an angled roof. It was small but impressive. It was solid—like, if you were one of the three little pigs and the big bad wolf was coming, this was the house you should choose. Even the front door seemed sturdier than most. When Dad rapped his knuckles on it (because there was no doorbell to be found), the sound was deep and echoey. It sounded nothing at all like a knock on the flimsy door of the Gnarly Banana.

  We waited patiently on the front stoop until the silence grew uncomfortable. Then Dad tried again. Still no one answered. “Should we go?” Dad asked.

  “David and I can wait around,” Neil offered. “See if they come back.”

  Mom checked the time on her phone. “Nice try,” she said. “You know the office at the high school closes soon.”

  Neil grinned sheepishly in reply.

  “We’re registering the three of you for school today one way or another. We’ll leave a note instead.”

  The note explained who we were and where we were staying. It had Dad’s cell phone number printed neatly at the bottom. It also mentioned that I’d be starting seventh grade with Catherine the next day. Dad wedged the note in the crack between the door and the frame.

  I tried not to be disappointed as we drove away. Only one more day and I’d get to meet Catherine anyway. She might even call before then.

  Since we were short on time, Mom dropped Dad and my brothers off at the high school and she and I continued to the middle school. As we pulled into the parking lot, I noticed it was larger than the one-story brick building where I’d gone to elementary school. It was newer, too. It was modern-looking with geometric-shaped walls painted in earth tones—deep greens, browns, maroons, and cloudy blues.

  I wanted to get a good look around inside, but the main office was less than ten feet from the front door. As soon as we entered the room, we found a woman sitting at a desk—her nameplate said she was Ms. Horton, and that she was the attendance secretary.

  Mom explained who we were and why we were here. I was so eager to be enrolling in a school with students my age that it didn’t dampen my spirits any when Ms. Horton turned up her nose at me. At least, not much.

  “Homeschooled,” she said distastefully, like my parents had done me some great disservice by not having me in public schools all these years.

  That’s when I noticed she had squinty eyes, even though she wore glasses, thin greasy bangs, and was clutching a jar full of multicolored gel pens that she seemed awfully protective of. Out of nerves, I’d started fiddling with them as Mom introduced us. The woman snatched the jar away and repositioned the pens on her desk, out of my reach.

  “Do you have any records?” She looked me up and down. “Seventh grade, you say? Hmm … You know, she might need to be bumped back a grade or two … You should probably investigate registering her at the elementary school instead.”

  A grade or two?! I’d be a giant compared to the elementary school kids. I nearly buckled with dread. And whenever I got nervous, I acted strangely. I giggled even though none of this was funny. I tugged at a strand of hair that had loosened itself from my ponytail. Worst of all, as I pictured myself towering over and frightening a kindergartner on the playground, a Lord of the Rings quote bubbled out of me: “ ‘He had imagined himself meeting giants taller than trees, and other creatures even more terrifying.’ ”

  Ms. Horton stared at me like I had a third eye, and I gulped, worried my weird behavior had just sealed my fate.

  Luckily, Mom kept her cool. “Seventh grade,” she stated again. Then she smiled pertly and handed the woman a stack of papers, including my birth certificate, immunization records, standardized test scores, transcripts, report cards … you name it. Mom had come prepared.

  Ms. Horton shuffled through the paperwork, hmphed loudly, then said, “I’ll have to make copies and speak to the principal, but her test scores are very high. Be aware that further assessment may be required to confirm that we’re placing her correctly, but for now I’ll enroll Amelia. She can start school with our seventh graders at eight a.m. tomorrow.”

  Relief washed over me. I pictured myself at a desk, a real desk, not the cramped corner seat in the Gnarly Banana. I’d have people my age to talk to. And I’d get invited to do normal middle school stuff. Like see a movie or grab ice cream over the weekend.

  I continued fantasizing about school after we returned to the RV park. My brothers had strung up a hammock and I swung in the breeze, staring up through leaves dappling the big blue sky. I wondered if there was a cozy reading corner in the library, like there had been at my old school. Memories of first grade surfaced in my mind. I remembered safely living out adventures through the stories the school librarian shared and acting them out at recess with my friends. I had loved school. I had belonged at school. More than anything, that was what I was hoping to find at Winterland Middle.

  “What’s with you?” Neil asked. “Why do you look so happy?”

  Our parents were knocking the next few items off their list—going into town in search of jobs and food for dinner—and had left me with my brothers.

  I swung my legs over the side of the hammock and sat up straight to face him. “Um, did Catherine call while you were with Dad?” Dad had been in such a rush to get back to his to-do list that I hadn’t been able to ask him before he and Mom left.

  “Don’t know,” my brother said. “I don’t think so.”

  I felt the same small pang of disappointment that I had when she hadn’t answered the door. “No big deal,” I said, and forced a smile. “I’ll meet her tomorrow.”

  My family didn’t have the time (or money) to shop for new school clothes and supplies. So, before bed, I dusted a bit of Utah sand off a backpack, then filled it with sharpened pencils, crisp lined paper, and an only slightly beat-up purple plastic binder. I gingerly hung the pack on a hook by the door inside the trailer.

  I spent most of the night tossing and turning and woke an hour earlier than I needed to. No fairy godmother had turned my rags into a new wardrobe while I slept, so I dug out the least wrinkly T-shirt from my duffel bag—a bright orange one we’d picked up in Yosemite that screamed tourist—and a secondhand pair of knit shorts. The shorts were turquoise, and I knew they didn’t match the shirt, but they were the nicest pair I had.

  My brothers were still asleep, so I tiptoed to the back of the trailer. Waking up early was worth it to have the bathroom all to myself, and no one banging at the door telling me to hurry up. I showered and then pulled my damp hair into a loose ponytail at the nape of my neck. It was about the only hairstyle I could manage. Even if I’d known how to curl or tease or iron my hair, it wasn’t like we had the space for any beauty products in our one tiny bathroom.

  Dad was shaking my brothers awake when I slid the door open. I waited since there wasn’t room for all of us in the hallway—if you could even call it that. When the path was clear, I grabbed myself some of the milk Mom and Dad had picked up in town and opened a new box of cereal.

  Everyone was groggy at breakfast, except me. I scarfed it down and was the first one loaded in the truck. My parents were the next to join me, and when it seemed like my brothers were never going to make it into the vehicle, Mom reached across from the passenger seat and laid on the horn. “They’ll make us all late,” she said.

  Dad had found a job at the market where they’d gone for groceries the night before and his first shift started at nine a.m. Mom had seen a HELP WANTED sign in the window of a local deli. She wanted to be there when they opened to apply. But first, my parents planned to drive us in t
oday, for “old times’ sake” or something like that. After school, I’d ride the bus home, and the high school was close enough that my brothers could walk.

  Neil and David eventually made it into the truck. Five minutes later, when we arrived at the high school, they poured like molasses out of the cab and onto the sidewalk. They looked even more alike than usual, with their heads drooped at the exact same angle and their hands shoved deep in their pockets. I wasn’t the only one who noticed they were moping. “Give them a few days,” Mom said as Dad pulled the truck away from the curb. “They’ll get used to it.”

  Me, on the other hand, I marched through the front doors of Winterland Middle School with my head held high, hopeful. The sun was shining on the angled exterior walls today, and in through the tall glass windows, making cool shadows on the floor. The hallways were bright, and I was anxious to see more of the building than just the front office.

  First stop, my locker. Ms. Horton had circled it on a map of the school she’d given me the day before. She’d written the combination down, and instructions on how to open it. I’d opened a zillion padlocks before, so I wasn’t worried.

  On my way there, I made eye contact with a girl coming my direction and smiled. I thought maybe it was the light glinting in her eyes through the skylight, or maybe she was brooding over the start of school like my brothers, but she didn’t smile back. I waved, and the look on her face grew even more sour.

  I shrugged it off and carried on. A boy was standing with his back to me. He was talking to a girl facing my direction. I flashed her a toothy smile, too. She said something to the boy, and he whirled around. They both scrutinized my outfit, my shoes, my hair, my makeup (or lack thereof) before meeting my eyes. I wasn’t sure who to focus on, so my gaze darted between them. The boy spun back around, quickly losing interest. The girl shot me a withering smile and resumed talking to the boy.