I stood in my kitchen leaning back against the counter. I could feel the draft from the window above the sink hitting my back. It only added to my chills; I was in a solemn mood as it was. Halfway through my junior year of high school, I had just gotten home from school after a disastrous midterm exam and now this. Dad had beaten us home and told us he wanted to have a family meeting that night. He said there was something important to tell us. I had a feeling it would be bad. Would it be about the move?
A family meeting meant I would have just enough time after leaving Wednesday night youth group to grab something to eat at Wendy's with my growing circle of friends before racing home. The summer before, three of us had started carpooling up to First Baptist Church of Leesburg.
Now our group of friends was up to about a dozen people that would regularly meet at church and eat at Wendy's afterward.
I knew a move was coming. Our three year term in Albany, GA would be over in the summer; that meant we would pack up all of our most important belongings, leave some behind, and go live somewhere else. This system was so ingrained in me that I had developed what I call the "three year itch". Every three years I subconsciously get ready to pack up, move out and leave. The only thing that didn't change was the inevitability of change; the Marine Corps is so efficient and precise, you could set your watch to it.
Driving home from church I gathered my thoughts: A move was inevitable. Maybe Dad could extend for a year and let me graduate in Albany. No, that wouldn't happen. Maybe...