I type back:
Daisy: Sorry, we had to move.
There’s a pause, and I imagine Megan’s black-lined eyes bugging out of her head. The thought makes me laugh out loud.
Megan: Again???!!!???
“Unfortunately,” I say aloud, even though she can’t hear me. Then I type:
Daisy: Again. Bees.
Megan: I’m going to start calling you Honey.
Daisy: Please don’t.
Megan: I guess daisies attract bees, too, don’t they?
Daisy: I promise to post twice this week. Setting up my new room. Chat later?
Megan: Love you madly
Daisy: Love you more
I set aside the phone and pick up the paint roller.
People might say it’s stupid to spend time decorating a space you’ll likely soon abandon, but to me, putting my stamp on each new bedroom is a crucial part of any move. I mean, seriously: I live with science-obsessed secret agents; my bedroom is my retreat. And more than that, it’s part of the cover. Assuming someday someone wants to see my room, it has to be in line with my personality. It has to look permanent.
For the first three days in Omaha, when Mason and Cassie are setting up the lab in the basement, I pretend I’m the designer on a home makeover show and create my perfect space. Since my sixteenth birthday’s not for another month, I have to get Mason to drive me to Target, a crazy place called Nebraska Furniture Mart, and the paint store, but after that, it’s all me and my vision.
In this house, I’m going for tranquil. I paint the walls a nice, mellow gray and cover as much of the wood floors, which are badly in need of refinishing, with a super-plush rug. On one full wall I install a new white open storage unit, then arrange my white nightstand and bed frame from Frozen Hills in the little nook part of the L-shaped room. I put the brown desk that I’ve had since I was ten under the largest window; when I find that it doesn’t look right, I paint it lavender.
Then I add the little details that make all the difference. I sort my books by the color of their spines and stack them horizontally in the little storage-unit cubbies: a librarian’s worst nightmare. I frame and hang only black-and-white prints and posters; I reroll all the others and store them under the bed. I thrift-shop on Etsy and craigslist to find an oversized D wall decal, a mirror to hang over my new black dresser from Target, sheer white window coverings, and a gray-and-white-striped beanbag chair.
“Where’s the electric staple gun?” I ask Mason on the morning of the day before I’ll start school at Omaha Victory High School. Mason’s in the office waving motion commands at a massive computer screen tethered to one of the three tiny computers in the house.
“What do you need it for?” he asks.
“I’m re-covering my desk chair,” I explain. I don’t mention that I’m covering the seat with the fabric from my old comforter. Although, to be fair, I’m upcycling, so he should be proud.
“Garage,” Mason says, rubbing his eye sockets. “Third drawer on the left. And be careful.”
“I can’t kill myself with a staple gun.”
“Probably not, but how do you feel about blindness?”
“I’ll wear goggles,” I say.
Mason shakes his head at me and goes back to his work.
I head downstairs in search of power tools.
When my room is finished, I sit and enjoy it for about five minutes; then I get antsy. I head down two flights of stairs to the lab in the basement to see how it’s coming along.
“Holy, bright!” I say, squinting under the megawatt fluorescent bulbs covering every square inch of the ceiling.
“We need to see what we’re doing,” Cassie replies.
“Mission accomplished, and then some,” I say.