On the day we moved into our new home, Mom and Dad handed out keys to everyone except me.
When I asked Mom for one, she patted the back of my hand.
“Just ring the doorbell. We’ll hear you and let you in.”
I smiled and said okay, thinking that if I listened and tried to be more mature, they’d eventually notice me.
Later, I got the city’s only government-sponsored study-abroad spot, but my ID was in the bedroom drawer.
The documents were due by two that afternoon. I rushed home at noon, but the door was locked and nobody was there.
I called Mom. She was at the mall helping my sister pick out a costume for her performance.
“Just wait a little, okay? Your sister has a piano competition next week, and we haven’t picked out her dress.”
I called Dad. He was at the driving school practicing with my brother.
“Why don’t you borrow a stool from a neighbor and try climbing in through a window?”
I sat in the hallway and waited. The neighbors walked past, glancing at me several times.
At eight thirty that evening, they finally came back. My sister bounced in with four shopping bags.
My brother unwrapped his new headphones without even looking up.
Dad came in carrying bags and bags of things. As he passed me, he said,
“Why are you sitting on the floor? Come help me carry this stuff.”
Nobody asked how long I’d been waiting. Nobody remembered I’d said I needed to get something.
That night, I dragged out the dusty suitcase from under my bed.
They had four keys, just enough to lock up a whole family.
And I needed to find a door that would open for me.
