You’re young. You’ll adapt. We’re moving, and that’s final!”

“Do you care at all how I feel?” I bit my bottom lip holding back what I really wanted to say, selfish, self-absorbed, self-serving, self-centered, something like that.

“Oh don’t be ridiculous!”

“Every time we move it eats at me.”

“You’re such a drama queen!” she snarled.

“No, I’m not!” I defended my stance. “Normal people don’t do this.” I pointed to the suitcase. “Normal people settle down, get a steady job, and build a life.” I continued making my point. “Normal people don’t move from town to town, living in suitcases, not knowing where their next meal is coming.” For once, I was speaking my mind. “No, Mom, only you prefer living like a gypsy! Your behavior is irrational.” I’d heard once that the truth would set you free. Not in my case. Not ever, and especially not today.

“Irrational! Unlike your stuffy self, I’m adventurous!” Sara picked up a mirror checking her cherry-red lipstick. Then she tossed it on the bed, with a deep sigh, she attempted to wheel the voice of reason into this insanity. “Look! Try to look at this as a going-away birthday.” She forced a smile, fake as her hot pink fingernails.

I exhaled a defeated sigh. As my hope crumbled, I punched back. “I hope you’re not planning another excursion, camping in the city? Or should I say homeless?” I stiffened knowing the consequence of my riposte.

Sara glared at me with murder in her eyes. A glint I saw often. “Why, I don’t have a clue to what you’re talkin’ about!” Sara’s Southern accent was more distinct whenever she lied.

At that moment, I thought of my father. A touchy subject for Sara. “If Dad were alive, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We certainly wouldn’t be bouncing from town to town chasing rainbows and unicorns either.”

Bringing up Dad in an argument was fighting dirty. And watching Sara winch over the mention of him gave me a spike of triumph. She couldn’t handle memory lane very well. It was as if she’d put Dad’s memories in a shoebox and stuffed it away in a dank basement. She even went as far as forbidding me to speak of him. I reckoned his death hurt her so much it was like a dagger to her heart. And at times, I didn’t mind twisting the proverbial knife.

“You can call your friends when we get on the road.” Sara bit out. “Go pack! I want to be on the road by sundown.”

“I’m tired of getting dragged off to these flea-bitten towns.” Determination became my fuel to get my point across or else die trying. “I want to have a normal teenage life. Do stuff with my friends.” I threw my hands in the air. “I can’t do this again! I won’t go!” For the first time ever, I stood my ground, and it bit like a snapping turtle.

“You don’t have a say!” Sara shouted, hands to her side, flexing.