Ernie nested the last pair of green socks in the moving box between neat piles of yellow and blue ones.  Rainbow order, of course.  She dragged her Everything Notebook toward her and whipped out the pencil jammed in the spiral binding.  Ernie scanned the long to-do list and carefully drew a line through Organize Socks.  Next up, Short Sleeve T-shirts.

               Ernie stood and walked across the room.  It wasn’t her room.  Just the room.  Her bedroom was in Virginia, which was exactly, precisely 724 miles away.  She found the box labeled Ernie’s Bedroom—Shirts and dragged it over by the sock box under the curtainless window.  She ripped off the packing tape, threw it into the middle of the room, and tipped the box on its side.  Shirts spilled out in a colorful heap, and Ernie sat down to fold them before placing them in orderly stacks back inside the box.

               There was a light tap on the door frame, and Ernie looked around.  Her mom stood in the doorway, dressed in running shorts and shirt, sunglasses perched on her head.  “How’s the unpacking going?” she asked, eyes widening at the tipped-over boxes still filled with clothes lining Ernie’s walls.

               “Fine.”

               Her mom slowly walked into the room and pulled open the top drawer of Ernie’s dresser.  Empty.  She pulled open the next drawer.  Same.  “Ernestine Marko, what are you doing?”

               Ernie glared over her shoulder at her mom whose Smushed Lips of Disappointment told her exactly, precisely what was coming next.  Her insides began to boil nervously, but she turned back to her t-shirts and didn’t respond.

               Her mom sighed.  “Ernie, we’re here.  We’ve moved.  I know change is hard for you, but your dad and I need you to be flexible.  Illinois will be good for all of us.”

               “Not for me, it won’t,” Ernie mumbled, tears sprouting in her eyes at the word “flexible.”

               Her mom sighed again and walked over.  She crouched down to side hug Ernie, the only kind of hug Ernie could tolerate.  “We can’t go back, Ernie.  Our only choice is to go forward.  The sooner you accept that, the happier you’ll be.  The happier we’ll all be.”

               “I hate it here.  I want to go home,” Ernie said, whacking her hand on her thigh.  “Me plus moving equals one horrendous mistake.”

               Ernie’s mom levered herself off the floor.  “We’re trying so hard, Ernie,” she said, her voice cracking a little.  “So hard.  We need you to try hard, too.”  She sniffed and dabbed the corners of her eyes.  “I’m going for a run.  Marathon training waits for no one!” she said, trying her best to sound cheerful.

               Ernie reached for her Everything Notebook and pencil.  Short Sleeved T-shirts

When Ernie didn’t respond, her mom said, “I love you, Er-bear.”

               Exactly, precisely forty-seven seconds later, the front door opened and shut.

               “I love you, too, Mom,” Ernie whispered.