Even though my entire street was made to look exactly like my old street back home, all you had to do was walk a few blocks and you’d find yourself among big stone castles, sprawling bungalows that seemed to go on forever, and all-glass, oceanfront places as big as resorts.
I guess most people adapt better than I have.
I guess most people dream bigger—dream beyond what used to be.
But back when I first arrived, I couldn’t see it like that. I couldn’t imagine anything better than what I’d had in the past.
Though clearly things were beginning to change, and there was no doubt I was changing too. So I did something I’d never done before—I plopped onto my bed and looked at my room with a critical eye—trying to see it as though it was the very first time.
Trying to see it through the eyes of cheerleader girl, Bodhi, or some other teen.
And the bad news was—it looked childish.
Maybe even—babyish.
Lacking in sophistication and style, for sure.
I mean, yeah, I still liked the same pop stars and celebrities whose pictures were taped to my walls. Heck, I still liked my bedspread and the big pile of shiny, fuzzy pillows that hogged so much space they threatened to spill onto the floor. I even liked most of my furniture too.
But that wasn’t the point.
The point was that my room, no matter how much I still liked it, belonged to the twelve-year-old version of me—not the teen I was determined to be.
It was like lugging your baby blanket along on your first day of school—it was time to toss out the old and move on with the new.
I gazed all around, wondering where to begin. Then, in a fit of inspiration, I squinched my eyes shut, and when I opened them again, I found myself sprawled in the middle of a huge canopy bed with purple velvet drapes that swooped down from either side, and a big gold crown perched high at the top—just like the one I’d once seen on TV.
Buttercup stood in the doorway, his di
sapproving nose pitched high into the air, refusing to step onto the leopardprint carpet, and whining in a way that tugged at my heart.
Knowing I should try to come up with some kind of compromise, something we could both enjoy, I shut my eyes again, and this time when I opened them, the walls were light purple, the floors were dark wood, and I’d swapped the big, flashy canopy for a more normal-sized bed with a green satin headboard.
After manifesting a turquoise-colored couch that sat along the far wall, a zebra-print rug that lay right before it, a crystal chandelier that hung overhead, and a mirrored dressing table with a white velvet stool to go with it, it was time for the fun part—the accessories! So I busied myself with pillows, sheets, an aqua duvet woven with bits of silver threads, and some cool modern art that hung on the walls.
“So?” I turned to Buttercup, smiling as he put one tentative paw in front of the other, finally showing his approval in his willingness to make himself at home by sniffing every corner.
Then I gazed down at my clothes, seeing I was still wearing the same jeans, ballet flats, and T-shirt I’d had on since I’d returned from the earth plane. An outfit that just a short while before seemed super cute, but not anymore. So I closed my eyes and changed that too—swapping the jeans for skinny cargos, the ballet flats for ankle boots, and the T-shirt for a sparkly tank top and shrunken black blazer. And I was just about to manifest a new, fully loaded iPod with a zebra cover just like the rug, when the front door swung open and my parents both called, “Riley? Buttercup? You home?”
I sprang to my feet. Ready to make a mad dash for the door. Eager to see them—to see how they’d react to the makeover—until I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and stopped short.
The changes weren’t as great as I’d thought.
They didn’t really go past the surface.
The clothes just sort of hung there. And the boots made my legs look bony and ridiculous.
Replacing the old stuff with newly manifested stuff was the easy part.
The kind of real change I longed for lay just outside of my reach.
So even though I was happy to see them—no, scratch that, overjoyed would better describe it—instead of greeting them with the giant hug that I’d planned, I took a moment to swap the new clothes back to the old, then I stood by my couch, arms folded before me as I said, “You don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”
My dad stopped in the doorway, took a moment to survey the room before he looked at me and said, “Do what?” He smiled, reached toward my nose—an almost exact, albeit smaller, replica of his. Just about to tweak it in the way that always made me laugh—but right before he could, I slipped out of his grasp.
“You don’t have to keep checking in on me like this! You don’t have to pretend that you actually live here when I already know that you don’t. I’m not a baby!” I cried, sounding, well, pretty babyish—even to my ears.
My mom stood behind him, tucking a lock of blond hair that was nearly the same color as mine back behind her ear. Her pale brow rising in a way that took all of my effort to not give into my feelings, to not let loose with the tears and barrel straight into her arms.