The curtains separating the two sides of the room are really meant for me. When Dad put them up, Mom told me that we were doing it because “you are a young lady now and you need your privacy.” But I always sort of want to open the curtains at night.

“Okay,” Nico says agreeably.

I climb out of bed and pull the curtains back. Nico has his Super Mario Bros. bedspread pulled up to his neck, and his black hair is messy. He waves to me, and I wave back.

I remember the day Mom and Dad brought Nico home from the hospital. Mom says I can’t possibly remember that because I was only two years old, and my brain couldn’t make memories yet, but I swear I remember it. Mom brought him into the house in his little baby carrying case, and he was just so tiny. I couldn’t believe how tiny he was! Even smaller than my dolls.

I asked if I could hold him, and Mom said that I could if I was very careful. So I sat down on the couch, and Mom laid him down on my lap. She told me I had to support his head, so I did. He looked really happy being held, although he mostly looked like an old man. And then I put my finger in his little tiny mouth, and he sucked on it. And I said to him, “I love you, Nico.”

I will miss my brother being my roommate.

SIXTY-ONE

Today is moving day.

Dad got a big truck, and he’s mostly moving everything with a couple of his friends that he works with. Mom keeps yelling that he’s going to hurt his back and telling him to be careful, and he says he will, but he never gets hurt, so I don’t know why she’s so worried. I can tell he thinks it’s silly too, but he usually gives in when she gets upset like that.

My mom is a really good mom. She’s, like, the kind of mom where if you forgot you were supposed to bring in a tray of Rice Krispies squares for school tomorrow and it’s already almost bedtime, she will go out and get the Rice Krispies and marshmallows, and she’ll make it for you and make sure they’re packed and ready for school the next day. (This happened to Nico recently, so I know it’s true.) She’s just kind of your average good mom who loves us and takes care of us.

But Dad is different.

My dad can basically do anything. Like, Mom could go out and get stuff to make Rice Krispies squares and have them ready for school tomorrow. But if I said to Dad that I needed Rice Krispies squares that came from, like, I don’t know, China, then he would have them for me. I don’t know how, but he would get them by the time I needed them for school the next day.

Also, he drives this big truck, and he used to let me ride in front with him, but then Mom found out and got mad. So now he doesn’t let me, because he says she is really smart, and if she says it’s not safe, I can’t do it.

My room in the new house is big. It is about twice the size of the room that Nico and I used to share. Dad told me that I get to pick my room first, because I am the oldest, so I picked the one on the corner. It has lots of windows that I can look out while I read.

Except right in the middle of unpacking books in my new room, I start to cry.

I cry too much. Everybody says that about me. I can’t help it though! When I’m sad, I cry. What I don’t understand is why everybody else doesn’t cry more often. Even Nico hardly ever cries anymore.

Dad passes by my bedroom while I am sitting on the bed crying. He immediately drops the box he is holding and comes to sit next to me. “What is wrong, piccolina? Why are you sad?”

I raise my eyes to look at him. I am almost as tall as Mom, but Dad is much taller than both of us. When he comes to pick me up from school, the other girls at school say that he is very handsome. Also, Inara’s mom has a crush on him. But I don’t think of him that way.

“I want to go back home,” I say.

He frowns. “But this is home now. And much better home.”

“I hate it.”

“Ada, you do not mean that.”

He looks so disappointed that I don’t tell him that I do mean it. If I could snap my fingers and be back home in our tiny little apartment again, I would do it in a second.

“I will tell you what,” he says. “You give our new house a chance. And if in one year, if you still hate, then we move back.”

“No, we won’t.”

“We will! I make you a promise.”

“Mom won’t let us do that.”

He winks at me and says in Italian, “So we do it anyway.”

I don’t believe him, but it makes me feel better. Plus, when I think about it, he is probably right. Everything will be different in a year. Maybe I really will love it here by then.

SIXTY-TWO

Step 2: Try to Fit In—Badly

I’ve never been the new kid before.

I always felt bad for the new kid standing in front of the classroom, having to tell us all about themselves. And now it’s me. I’m standing up in front of a room full of fifth graders, wearing the itchy, uncomfortable pink dress my mom put out for me. There was a beautiful white floaty dress at the department store that I wanted to buy for my first day of school, but for some reason, my mom never, ever lets me wear white, so that’s how we ended up with this one. And now I don’t know what to say.

“Go on, Ada,” my teacher, Mrs. Ratner, says to me. “Tell everyone a little about yourself.”

I don’t like Mrs. Ratner. My old teacher, Ms. Marcus, was young and wore these cute purple glasses all the time, and she used to bring candy for us every Thursday. Mrs. Ratner is about a million years old, and I think her smile muscles might be too old to work anymore.

“My name is Ada,” I say, “and I’m from New York City.”

I look over at Mrs. Ratner, checking if this might be enough. It isn’t.

“I like to read,” I say. “And I used to take ballet lessons.” I haven’t taken ballet lessons since I was nine years old, but I’m hoping that might be enough.

It’s not.

“My favorite subject is English,” I go on. “And my dad is Italian so I speak Italian.”

“Does anyone have any questions for Ada?” Mrs. Ratner addresses the class.

A kid in the class raises his hand. “If your dad is an alien, is he green?”

“He’s not an alien. He’s Italian.”

“You said alien.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Then the second question comes: “If you’re Italian, how come your favorite subject is English?”

“My dad is Italian,” I explain. “I’m from here.”

“No, you’re not,” another kid says. “You just moved here. So how can you be from here?”

“I mean,” I say, “I’m from New York, which is here.”

“This is not New York City,” the first kid says.

“But it’s New York State.”