Amelia Gray Is Almost Okay

The Chapter Where You Don’t Feel Sorry for Me


Today is my thirty-ninth last day of school. If that sounds complicated, it’s not really. You see, Dad gets a new job in a new town every four weeks. There’s thirty-six weeks in the average school year. And we’ve been on the road for the past four and a half years. It’s basic math (which I’ve now taken in thirty-nine different schools).

But if you’re already starting to feel sorry for me, or send out invitations to my pity party, you can stop right there. I love traveling around with Dad. We call it our “life on the go.” I’ve seen more of this country in the past four and half years than most people ever do.

And even though we rarely live in the same place for longer than a month, our life is actually pretty routine. Like right now, on my thirty-ninth last day of school, Dad is back at the hotel, packing up the car like always, and I’m sitting in the last row of my latest social studies classroom, blending into the chair. You’d think it might be difficult to blend into an object as inanimate as a chair, but it’s not if you know what you’re doing, and you’ve had a lot of practice . . . which I have.

Thankfully, Silver Springs Middle School in Georgetown, Colorado, has gray chairs and I already own plenty of gray clothes, so that makes it easier. Back in Astoria, Oregon, I had to buy a pack of ugly green T-shirts that made me look like a walking pickle. It was a bad scene.

At the front of the classroom, the teacher, Ms. Something-or-Other (I’ve stopped trying to remember their names), is talking about some independent study program she’s hoping people will sign up for over the summer, but no one is listening because they’re too busy obsessing over the yearbooks, which were just distributed at lunch. Today officially marks the end of the sixth grade, and no one in this room wants to spend their last day of sixth grade thinking about studying over the summer.

Except me, of course. I’ve already got three potential subjects picked out. Not for the independent study program. For Dad’s and my YouTube University. That’s another part of our normal routine. In each town we stay in, we pick a subject to master on YouTube. We’re just wrapping up our study on the Macedonian Empire. That was totally Dad’s pick, by the way. I think he was trying to get back at me for choosing Hollywood Makeup Skills when we were in St. Augustine, Florida. To his credit, Dad was a pretty good sport about being my model.

“Oh my gosh! Did you see Caden’s yearbook picture?” someone whispers in front of me, and I know immediately that it’s Harmony Baker. Not just because she’s sat in front of me for the entire four weeks that I’ve been at this school, but because I recognize the way her voice gets all squeaky when she’s talking about a boy she thinks is cute. “He looks so good. I mean, look at his hair!”

“So swoopy,” says her friend Molly. “How does he get it so swoopy?”

“He must have some kind of special swoop gel,” says a girl named Astrid, causing the other two to giggle into their hands.

“Look at those eyes,” croons Harmony as she gazes longingly at the open page of her yearbook. She kind of looks like she’s starving and Caden’s picture is a really juicy cheeseburger. Or veggie burger in Harmony’s case. She’s a devout vegetarian. All three of them are.

“So sparkly,” says Molly.

I casually lean forward to check which page number they’re all drooling over and flip open my own yearbook. Second row from the bottom is a picture of the swoopy-haired, sparkly-eyed Caden Harris. Next to his name it says “Jazz band.”

I look through a few of the other names on the page, reading the single line of text that is printed next to each one.


Luke Franzen--Book club

Kylie Fuller--Debate club

Jenny Fukada--Basketball team

Benjamin Gardner--Math Olympiad


I don’t have to look up Harmony, Molly, and Astrid to discover what it would say next to their names. The matching paint stains on their shoes and cool vintage clothes pretty much say it all. Not to mention the numerous pictures of the three of them that appear all over this yearbook, each one capturing them with a tangle of arms thrown around each other, holding up their latest pastel drawings or watercolor masterpieces or perfect pieces of pottery.

I keep scrolling down the list of names on the page until I get to the one that has a big blank space next to it. And instead of a photograph, there’s an empty gray box that says “Not pictured.”

“Who’s Amelia Gray?” Harmony asks, clearly arriving at the same name I just did.

Astrid shrugs. “No idea. Maybe she left early in the year?”

Or came late, I say silently in my head. Never aloud. Never aloud.

“Huh,” says Molly. “Sixth grade is not very big, though. I wonder why we never knew her.”

“She probably wasn’t in any of our classes,” says Astrid.

Or she was sitting right behind you in social studies for the past four weeks and you never saw her.

Harmony nods conclusively, like she’s a detective in one of those crime shows whose team has finally stumbled upon the missing piece of evidence. “Yeah. That’s probably why.” She tilts her head and studies the empty gray box where a picture should have been and, with a sad click of her tongue, says, “Too bad, she looks nice.”

Molly and Astrid crack up so loudly, the teacher finally takes notice and tells them to be quiet. They turn back to the front of the room, still giggling, while I slowly flip my yearbook closed.

In case you haven’t already figured it out, Amelia Gray is me.


The Chapter Where My Dog Is the Most Popular Girl in School


When Dad pulls up to the curb of the school’s pickup zone, the back window is rolled down, and Biscotti is sticking her head out. Her light brown fur blows in the early June breeze. The moment she sees me, her little wiry tail starts thumping wildly against the back seat.

“Well, look who it is,” I say as I approach the window. Biscotti is wiggling so uncontrollably now, I’m afraid she’s going to wiggle right out the car window. “It’s my little floofamus-maximus. Are you my little floofamus-maximus? Yes, you are.” Biscotti lets out a whine of excitement as if to say, Yes, that’s me! I’m the floofiest of all the floofamus-maximuses!

“She’s been whining like that all day,” Dad calls from the driver’s seat. “I think she knew today was the first day of summer break.”

I hold Biscotti’s precious little face between my palms and gaze so deeply into her big black eyes, I can see myself reflected back. “Did you know it was summer? You did, didn’t you? You’re the smartiest, smarty-pants doggie in the whole wide world.” I give her a big kiss on the forehead, slide my backpack through the window onto the back seat, and reach for the passenger door. But I’m stopped by the sound of the loudest squeal I’ve ever heard in my life and turn to see three girls rushing toward me. Or rather, rushing toward Biscotti, because let’s face it, with Dad’s car being the same gray color as the classroom chairs, I’m pretty much invisible standing next to it.

“That is the cutest dog I’ve ever seen!” shrieks Astrid. She already has her phone out and is snapping pictures of Biscotti, who I swear is posing.

“Oh my gosh!” cries Harmony, gazing at Biscotti not too dissimilarly from the way she was gazing at Caden Harris’s yearbook picture a few minutes ago. “Look at that face!”

“So squidgy!” says Molly, who has already extended her hand to pet Biscotti. Normally, that’s not the smartest thing to do. According to Casper Jones, the dog expert Dad and I watched on YouTube, you should never pet a dog you don’t know without asking if the dog is friendly first. But it’s pretty obvious from the way Biscotti is practically trying to wiggle right into Molly’s outstretched arms that she’s not just friendly, she’s pretty much best friends with anyone she meets.

“And that color!” says Harmony. “It’s like a cappuccino.”

I actually think she’s more the color of a toasted marshmallow, I respond proudly in my mind. And just as sweet.

“I wonder what kind of dog it is,” says Astrid, still snapping photos. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

That’s because she’s one of a kind.

“It definitely looks part Yorkie,” says Harmony. “Maybe a yorkiepoo! Half Yorkie, half poodle. My grandma has one of those and this dog kind of looks like hers.”

Yes, but Yorkies bark a lot. And Biscotti hardly ever barks. Except when Dad is unfolding those noisy hotel ironing boards. She hates those things.

“But look at the ears,” says Molly. “They’re sort of triangle shaped, like a corgi. Maybe she’s half corgi and half something else. Like a Labridor.”

It’s called a corgidor and trust me, I’ve considered it. Especially after watching Biscotti jump headfirst into just about any body of water she comes across.

“I don’t think they look like corgi ears,” chimes in Astrid. “She could be part Chihuahua.”

No! I think at the exact same time as Molly says, “No! Definitely not Chihuahua,” which makes me smile. “Maybe some kind of terrier . . .”

“She’s a supermutt,” someone says, and it takes a moment for everyone--including myself--to realize it was me. The three girls all turn at once and seem to startle at the sight of me standing there, blending into the passenger-side door.

“Oh, hi,” says Harmony. She’s studying me like she’s trying to locate my face somewhere in her memory. “Are you new?”

“Um--I--” I stammer as I watch Dad enter our next destination into the car’s navigation system and an ETA of “27 hours” flashes on the screen. “No, we’re just passing through.”

Technically, it’s the truth. Technically, it’s the truth everywhere we go.

Molly looks between me and the dog, and her face pulls into a frown. “Oh. Too bad. Georgetown is really nice.”

I glance across the street from the school, as though I can see the whole town from here. “Yeah, it seems nice.”

I wouldn’t know. The most I’ve seen of this place is the middle school, the library, the dog park, and the local craft store where I picked up yarn for Dad’s and my attempt to master knitting--don’t ask, it didn’t end well--and, of course, the inside of the Georgetown Historic Hotel.

Biscotti gives an impatient little whine, and just like that, all the attention is back on her. Which is way better than it being on me.

“Awww. She wants to say hi to us,” says Harmony. “Can we hold her?”

I nod and open the car door and Biscotti does a dramatic super dive out onto the sidewalk, wiggling with all her might. The girls squeal and bend down to say hello and Biscotti practically leaps into each of their laps, offering up cuddles and kisses and anything else she can think of.

She makes it look so easy.

“Well, we better go,” I say, bending down to scoop up Biscotti. “Come on, Miss Snooty Patootie.”

“Awww!” whines Molly. “Don’t go. You’re so cute!”

I grab Biscotti’s paw and make her wave goodbye.

“Bye!” the girls call out in unison as I place Biscotti back into the car. She immediately gets to work investigating all the new smells my backpack has collected over the day. Behind her, from over the top of the back seat, I can see our collection of exactly two suitcases, one duffel bag, and one cardboard box.

“All packed up?” I ask, getting into the passenger seat and buckling my seatbelt.

“Ready to roll,” Dad replies with a grin. “Georgetown, Colorado, it was nice knowing ya. Summerville, New York, here we come!”

I hear a growl from the back seat and turn around to see that Biscotti has managed to open my backpack and is hard at work ripping pages from my Silver Springs Middle School yearbook. I guess she’s as eager to leave this place behind as I am.

“Biscotti, no!” I scold, reaching back to pull the yearbook away from her. “Go lie down.”

She gives a little huff of objection but eventually curls up in her bed and I lean back to buckle her safety harness. I know Casper Jones would call her obsession with ripping up paper a “bad behavior” that we should work on, but I prefer to think of it as an endearing quirk.

After tucking the now-slobbery yearbook into the side-door compartment, I connect my phone to the radio, find where we left off in our audiobook, slide off my shoes, and get comfy for the twenty-seven-hour drive to New York.

Like I said, our life is pretty routine.

As Dad pulls away from the curb, I glance out the window at Harmony, Molly, and Astrid, who are huddled together sharing a bag of chips while they all laugh at something Astrid is showing them on her phone.

I can feel Dad watching me out of the corner of his eye. “Everything copacetic?” he asks, which is just a super fancy word for “okay.” (We mastered vocabulary back in Marietta, Ohio.)

I spin again in my seat to look at Biscotti all curled up in her bed, before turning back to my dad. I take in his salt-and-pepper hair, which he hasn’t gotten cut since Cody, Wyoming, the small stain on the sleeve of his shirt from when we tried to make edible slime in Fairhope, Alabama, and his fingers on the steering wheel, which are still calloused from when we learned how to play guitar in Red River, New Mexico.

I smile and give him a thumbs-up. “Totally copacetic.”


The Chapter Where My Dog Is the Most Popular Girl in School


When Dad pulls up to the curb of the school’s pickup zone, the back window is rolled down, and Biscotti is sticking her head out. Her light brown fur blows in the early June breeze. The moment she sees me, her little wiry tail starts thumping wildly against the back seat.

“Well, look who it is,” I say as I approach the window. Biscotti is wiggling so uncontrollably now, I’m afraid she’s going to wiggle right out the car window. “It’s my little floofamus-maximus. Are you my little floofamus-maximus? Yes, you are.” Biscotti lets out a whine of excitement as if to say, Yes, that’s me! I’m the floofiest of all the floofamus-maximuses!