Moving Day

Sunday. We've been in Auckland for six days, and for six days we've been living in an empty house with four suitcases, two air mattresses and one frying pan. Mum says it's an adventure. Dad says it's temporary. I say it's the most boring week of my life. My name is Lucia Herrera, I'm fifteen, and until last month I lived in Rosario, Argentina, where I had a bed, a desk and friends.

Anyway, the good news is that the container with all our things is arriving tomorrow. The removal company is delivering it at nine, and Dad has taken the morning off. As soon as the truck gets here, I'm going to unpack my books and put up my posters. Then this house will finally start to feel like ours. I'm also meeting a girl from my new school on Tuesday, so I need my clothes before then.

Monday. The container didn't arrive. At nine fifteen, Dad called the company and a very polite woman told him that the ship had been delayed in Sydney because of a storm. "It's arriving on Wednesday now," she said. Dad was going to spend the morning carrying boxes, but he went to work after all. I was going to unpack my posters. Instead, I stuck a photo of my old street to the wall with toothpaste, which works better than you would think.

Tuesday. I met Hana today, the girl from school. She's lived here all her life and she knows everything: which bus to catch, which teachers are strict and where to get the best fish and chips. I was going to wear my favorite jacket to meet her, but it's somewhere in the middle of the Tasman Sea, so I wore Mum's raincoat instead. Hana said it looked vintage. I think she was being kind.

Wednesday. You'll never guess what happened. The ship arrived, but the container didn't come off it. Apparently there's a problem with the customs paperwork. The man on the phone kept saying, "Once the documents are approved, we'll schedule a delivery." Dad asked when that would be. The man said, "As soon as possible," which in my experience means never.

Mum has started making lists. Before the container comes, we're going to paint my room. After it comes, we're going to have a barbecue for the neighbors. Until it comes, we're eating pasta every night, because the frying pan is also good for boiling water if you're patient. My little brother Mateo asked if we could just stay like this forever. He likes sleeping on the floor. He's seven.

Thursday. Hana came over after school and we painted my room together. It's pale green now, like the sea at Piha, where she's taking me on Saturday with her family. While we were painting, she asked why I seemed so worried about the container. I tried to explain that it isn't really about the furniture. It's that everything I own, every book and every birthday card, is sitting in a metal box at the port, and until it gets here I feel like half of me is still in Argentina.

Friday. At seven in the morning, a huge truck reversed into our street, beeping so loudly that half the neighbors came out in their pajamas. The container had arrived. Dad nearly cried. Mum definitely cried. Mateo was disappointed because he'll have to sleep in a bed again.

It took all day to unpack. Some things were broken (two plates, a lamp, a vase nobody liked), but most things were fine. When I opened the last box in my room, I found my old diary from Rosario. On the first page I had written, last year, "Next summer I'm going to do something brave." I suppose I did.

Saturday. Tonight we're having the barbecue. Hana's family is coming, and so are the neighbors from both sides. Dad is going to cook Argentine-style, which means far too much meat. I've put my posters up, but I've left the photo of my old street on the wall, toothpaste and all. It belongs here now too.