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I don’t know where I belong in the world. My passport says United States of America, but I’ve only lived there for a year total of my fifteen years of life. I was born in France…no wait, Algeria. Wait. Australia. Yes, I was born in some small-middle-of-nowhere-town in Australia on January 29th, 1994. But don’t ask me anything about it because 3 months later, I moved again. And again, and again, and again. And….well you get the point. I've moved a lot in my life. I've lived on every continent. Even Antarctica. Trust me, you’ve never felt cold until you’ve been there. Why have I moved so much? Because of my parents.
My parents couldn’t be anymore different. They met in college; mom was studying five different languages: Chinese, Portuguese, Spanish, French, and German. And Dad? Well he went for the freedom from his parents, and rarely ever went to classes. He was usually partying every night. So somehow, they managed to meet, fall in love (despite their very large differences), and find their dream job of traveling around the world and doing secret things they cant even tell their own child about (very unfair I know), and have me along the way. And since then, I’ve been everywhere, and never been to a school. Ever. My parents hired Jennifer, my teacher from since I was five, to travel around the world with us and teach me. Which is good, because going to a normal school means ill just get too attached and not want to leave even more.
So basically, all I know is that my parents job requires a lot of moving.
So one day, as I’m in my room in Tanzania, looking out the window at Mount kilaminjaro, something very visible from my house, I get called downstairs.
“Katherine, come down here!” I know what’s coming. The only time they call me Katherine is when it’s something serious. And the only serious thing is us moving again.
“Yeah?”, I say, walking into the living room.
“We’re moving again. To New York.” Wow. So expected.
“Okay.” I say. “Ill go start packing.” I start to get up.
I look at my parents. My dad explains.
“We promise that New York is the last place you will live before you finish high school.” “We want you to live the normal American teenager life. We want you to go to high school, and make friends. You’ve never really had friends.”
I don’t know why, but these words hurt me. It’s not my fault, I’ve never had the chance to make friends. And I don’t want to live the American teenage life. From what I’ve heard, its just all drama, mean people, and another long list of negative adjectives.
I don’t know what else to say, so I go back upstairs. “I’m going to pack.”
My mom stops me. “Kat?”
“Yeah?” I say.
“It’s gonna be okay.”
Mothers always have this sixth sense-they can tell when their kids are upset, without them even having to say or do anything.
“Okay, I say.”
And as I pack, the words replay in my head It’s gonna be okay.
I really hope so.