Convenient.

Far.

Lonely.

My two best girlfriends are starting their first day of senior year at Bryce Academy today. My old school. In the city. I wanted to stay. Mom didn’t like me taking the train on my own, though. So I’ll have to live vicariously through the pictures and texts they send. This morning’s was a shot of Gaby frowning by my old locker. Morgan tried to get her face in the shot too, but all I caught was her ear. She was terrible at taking selfies. I miss them. But there’s some strange comfort in visual proof that they miss me too.

It’s hot here in the summer—hotter than in the city. There are more bugs, and the grass is itchy. It’s green everywhere, and I’m not really used to that either. The houses all seem…old. Everyone has a front porch, and driveways that stretch into these enormous garages that sometimes aren’t even attached to the houses at all. That’s going to suck when it snows.

“Kensington!” Mom yells again, her voice less bubbly than before. The edge in her tone makes my lip tick up into a faint smile; I prefer her being real.

“I’m coming!” I yell, sending a quick heart image message to my two friends, then shoving my phone into my back pocket. I pause at the stairs to look out over the vast emptiness that is my new home. Our things are trickling in, but everything seems swallowed up by this house. It’s not like the brownstone we lived in just south of Wrigley. Everything there was tight, and cramped, but it all had its place. Everything was at home. I was at home.

And now I’m here.

“Put the piano in the dining room…yes…about there. Perfect. Thank you,” my mom says, quickly removing the sheets and pads from my piano. I think she thinks unveiling it quickly will somehow make me happy, like she’s just pulled a bouquet or chocolates out of a hat.

“Where are we supposed to eat?” I ask, looking at my piano as it sits squarely under the dated, brass chandelier of our new dining room—like the world’s cheapest spotlight. I had a practice room before, in our old house. Nothing fancy, just a door that I could close anytime I wanted.

I miss that door.

“We have a breakfast bar in the kitchen. It’s fine. It looks nice there, doesn’t it?” she asks without really asking. She walks back to the kitchen, her half-eaten sandwich dangling from her hand.

I think my piano looks stupid there. I think it looks stupid anywhere but in its home back in Chicago. But this isn’t really about what I think, so I keep my mouth shut and follow my mom’s footsteps into the kitchen where a ham sandwich sits alone on a gigantic white plate. The wastefulness amuses me, and I lift my sandwich, brush away the single crumb, and put the perfectly clean plate in the dishwasher.

“Thanks,” I say, holding it up and taking a bite. Mom purses her lips, but she goes back to her lunch in front of her computer at the counter.

My mom finishes her sandwich quickly and without much conversation, then begins carrying boxes from the garage to various rooms around the house. Everything has a label: TOWELS, DISHES, CLEANING SUPPLIES, MOVIES, and KENSI for the few boxes that go to my room. I haven’t been called Kensi or Kens out loud in years. I miss that too.

The kitchen has more boxes than I do; most of my things are still in the back of the Honda. My music books were already here and waiting for us when we unlocked the doors this morning. Dad brought them on his way to the office, afraid they’d get misplaced or damaged during the move. I could never say this to him, but there are only a few pages in that box that I really care about—the ones with notes I wrote, for me, for my ears and heart to hear.

I’ve been playing the piano since I was about three. My grandmother left my mother her old piano when she died, and I somehow knew what to do with it the moment the movers left it in our home. I couldn’t reach the pedals, and my fingers barely spread far enough to strike a chord, but I could hear something and instantly mimic the sound. Music came to me before most of my words, and my father was quick to nurture my gift.

Dad plays brass instruments, so he always sought out the help of others to instruct me. My first music teacher was no longer able to teach me after a year, and I outgrew the next by the time I was ten. I’ve been studying with Chen ever since. He’s a music composition professor at the University of Chicago and has scored many of the independent shows that play in the theaters downtown. My father hired him to give me private lessons, to challenge me and make it impossible for the best programs in the country to ignore me and “my gift.” But what my father doesn’t know is that when Chen comes over—while he’s not at home—we play jazz.