I scramble to get as many things as I can into the box in front of me. The last box. They’re stacked against my wall, pushed next to each other in rows. There’s about five of them. Clothing. Stuffed animals. Books. More clothing. This one just has the rest of my books and figurines. “You finished with the last one?” Mom asks.

“Yeah, I’ll start bringing them down in a second.” I reply, and I close the two sides of the box shut as best as I can. I breathe in. The air in the apartment is musty. It smells faintly of the old, blue, flowery couch that dad just moved out. There are so many memories on that couch, even just from this summer. Watching movies with my older brother, squeezing onto the popout mattress with my cousins, holding Tuesday under a blanket when she was a puppy. I breathe out.

My little sister is sitting next to me, though she isn’t really helping (unless playing with her stuffed animals is considered helping—though she’s definitely helping with their divorce). “No, don’t you dare!” She yells in a high pitched voice, moving one of her teddy bears around, and then she tells it, “Now, let’s not get so tense.”

“Vinnie, could you be a little less loud? I’m forgetting what I was doing,” I ask.

“Tell Rose that! It’s not my fault she’s yelling,” Vinnie replies.

“Right…” I decide I’ll just start bringing the boxes down—it’s pointless to keep arguing about this.

I carry the first box down the long hallway of my apartment building. It’s a long, musty hallway with multiple worn-down doors with old, metal numbers on them that look as if they’re about to fall off. The carpet is a light brown, though you can hardly tell with how many stains are on it. I’m so distracted, remembering all the times I had to wrangle my aunt’s dogs when they ran out of her apartment down the hall and into this hallway, that I almost trip, but I catch myself. Of course, the things on the top of the box

don’t catch themselves. I look down at the books strewn over the floor. The Lightning Thief. How They Choked. The B.F.G. I remember stealing those first two from my older sister’s room while she was still living with us, when I was a bit younger. I guess she forgot to take them back. I set put down the box that I’m holding, and put the books back inside.

The stairs are daunting, though not as daunting as moving across the state. I start walking down, careful not to fall with each step. If I do fall, I doubt I’ll get back up. Thankfully, I get to the bottom of the stairs. I open the big, creaky door, and I step onto the chipped stone stairs. I’ve grown up in and lived in the Machias and Whiting area my entire life. It’s hard to believe I’ll ever see anywhere else as home. No way.

Finally, I’ve got the last box into the moving truck.

“You know what? This is exciting. New beginnings. Orono is much bigger than Machias, you know.”

“How much bigger?” I ask, and my mom smiles at me.

“Five times as many people. New people,” she says.

I know that’s supposed to be encouraging, but it’s even scarier. Growing up in a town where it takes an hour to drive to the nearest Walmart, and it’s basically impossible to not know everyone, it isn’t exactly comforting to know that you’ll be surrounded by strangers for at least the rest of your teen years.

ELLIOTT SPENCER, a fourteen year old from Orono, Maine, wrote “Across” as an eighth grader at Orono Middle School. Elliott writes about their experiences moving from a small town to a larger town and the anxiety that comes with moving, as well as the hope. During their free time, Elliott often crochets, goes on walks, and hangs out with their friends.

"Across" by Elliott Spencer (Penobscot County)