“Are we there yet?” my eight-year-old brother, Allen, asked for the seven hundredth time since we left Massachusetts.

            “No, Allen. Now, shut up for God’s sake!” I moaned, already beyond annoyed and wishing this trip would be over. We’d been driving for six days on our way from our old house in Hijen to our new one in Kendall. (That’s in southern Florida just in case you don’t already know.)

            “Keira, be nice to your brother,” Mama snapped, agitated as well from the long ride.

            “But Mama-“ I started to complain.

            “Are we there yet?” Allen said again.

            “But nothing young lady, it’s been too long of a trip for you to start fighting now.” And with that I crossed my arms and slumped down in my seat. I hated to be silenced but she was right. I hate it when she’s right! I thought bitterly.

            “Are we there yet?” my brother repeated.

            “No! Now if you don’t shut up I’m going to slap you into next week!” I screamed. His face immediately scrunched up and he started wailing a cry that only I and my sisters knew was fake.

            “Keira!” my father’s abnormally deep voice commanded as he slammed on the breaks, “Out of the car! Now!”

            “But-“

            “NOW!” I didn’t have a choice but to obey. I swear I saw Allen grinning through those phony tears. He was obviously very pleased with himself. I wanted to go ahead and give him a nice smack but I’d only get in more trouble. If that was even possible.

            “What was that all about?” Daddy roared. I just clenched my jaw, trying to think of an answer, and glanced through the window of the huge black Dodge Ram. Mama was holding Allen in her arms (he was still putting on a good show for her) and my thirteen-year-old sister, Elaine, and six-year-old sister, Jennifer, were doing their best not to collapse in a fit of laughter. “Well? I’m waiting.”

            Not coming up with anything really clever, I decided to play the cramped car card. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” I began, “It’s just that we’ve been driving now for almost a week now and I’ve just had enough of, ‘Are we there yet?’ It gets pretty annoying after the thousandth time.”

            “I know sweetheart,” Daddy said, bringing me into a hug (it worked!), “We’re almost there. We’ll probably be on the road for another two hours max so just try to ignore Allen for now. Where’s your CD player?”

            “It died two days ago.” (stupid batteries)

            “I think we’ve got more AA batteries in one of the tack trunks.” (alright, who’s the idiot that put batteries in the tack trunk?) Bam! I’m off the hook! I thought, very, very happy with my performance. I wanted so bad to stick my tongue out at Allen like a three-year-old and tease him about how his little charade didn’t work.

            Back in the truck, Daddy revved the engine and for some reason ‘On the Road Again’ started playing in my head, making me grin. Exchanging the dead batteries with the new ones and plugging the headphones into my ears, I turned to look out the darkened window, pushed play, ZOEgirl immediately blasting in my ears, and prayed for a speedy two hours.

 

            “Sweet freedom!” I yelled, stumbling out of the truck wanting to do like they do in the movies and get down on my knees and start kissing the ground. But as always my OCD keeps me from doing so for fear of messing up my jeans. It had taken exactly two hours, eight minutes, and twenty-six seconds to get here from the spot we had pulled over at. (Yeah, I counted.) It was already pitch black outside as we staggered over to the front door carrying several thousand pound bags in each hand. (Okay, they weren’t really a thousand pounds but they might as well have been!)

 

            I tossed the suitcases to the floor with a BANG! right in front of the stairway. Actually, it was where the stairs were supposed to be pulled down from the ceiling. Even though there were four bedrooms in the small ranch house, I’d decided to make a room out of the attic. (Way more privacy!) I reached up for the string to pull the steps down but my five foot two body couldn’t reach. So I jumped, grabbing the string but also slipping on the shirt sleeve that was hanging out of my bag.

            “Ouch!” I yelped, my elbow crashing into the floor and shoulder into the wall. Why am I such a klutz? I wondered, inching my way up, and cradling my now injured arm. Hey, at least the stairs were down. I’m going to have to get Dad to lengthen that. I swiped up my bags and trudged up the steps.

 

            My first night in the new er…home was rough. The house was at least sixty-years-old and creaked something awful. All I could do was toss and turn and try to get to sleep. (And let me tell you: it wasn’t easy!) All night it was creak, thump, creak, creak, creak, thump, slam, creak! So out of a fit of sleepless aggravation I slipped out the bed and threw a pair of shorts and a crumpled old t-shirt on, then pushed the stairs down while hoping beyond hope that the noise wouldn’t wake anyone.

 

            Darting out the back door, closing it ever so carefully behind me, then sprinting across the backyard, over the fence, onto the ranch, and into one of the four stables.