The next morning, Dad wakes me up at eight o'clock. Realizing where I am, I sigh, turn my phone on, and, seeing the time, proceed to toss the phone across the room and go back to sleep. Around 8:30, I awake once more, this time to cold water on my face. Dad had broken out the squirt guns again. Considering the options-stay in bed and risk him finding a bucket vs get up now and take a nap later-I roll out of my sleeping bag and pull my hair up.

When he realizes I am really getting up, Dad retreats from my room. I can hear him moving around in the kitchen, making more noise than usual. I stumble out of my room and sit down at the kitchen table.

Wait, kitchen table?

I blink a few times, looking down at it in disbelief. Furniture already? I dare a glance around the room. My dresser, the pieces of my bed frame, and my desk sit among ten or twelve white boxes and plastic totes carefully labeled, "Kitchen," and "Myka."

"Dad, where's all your stuff? Where did you have time to bring all this up here?" I ask him gently.

"Tossed and turned all night. Finally got up at five and started bringing things in. I figured you needed your stuff more than I needed mine," he shrugs. "I can live out of a duffel for another day or so." When he sits a toaster strudel in front of me, I tune him out. The icing is spread in the spread in the shape of a house with a little stick figure father and daughter. I roll my eyes and scarf it down. "After you're done, we can start putting together your furniture." I nod and chug my milk. He begins to drag my dresser into my room.

As I put my dishes in the sink, the doorbell rings. I walk down the stairs to the door, wondering who it could possibly be. I open the door to find an extremely attractive boy standing on my doorstep with two boxes labeled "Myka - Books" in Dad's barely-legible scrawl. "Um, hi," I start, immediately self-concious of my messy top knot and my baggy pajama pants.

He smiles weakly from behind the giant stack, "Hi, could you move?"

"Um..." I move to the side, pulling the door open wider. "Yeah..." I mumble as he hops up the stairs. I close the door and follow him up, reaching the top of the stairs just in time to see him set the boxes down.

Dad steps out of the bedroom. "Thanks, Chase," then noticing me: "Oh, Myka! This is Chase. Chase, my daughter Myka."

The tall blonde kid turns to look at me with bright blue eyes and smiles brightly, "Hey."

"Um, hi," I say, searching for what to say next. "Where did-what are-who are you?"

"Myka," Dad starts.

Chase laughs, "No, it's fine. I live in the next building. I saw your dad unloading when I went running this morning, and after I got back and showered, I started helping him."

I nod, still somewhat suspicious. "Well...thanks? Nice to meet you?" I pick up the pieces of my bookshelf and carry them into my room, closing the door behind me. On my own, I assemble my beloved bookcase.

A few minutes later, Dad comes in with a box of my books and sits down on the floor. "That was kind of rude, you know."

"Yeah, I know, but you can't expect me to know how to react when you drag a teenage boy into helping us move in."

"I didn't drag him into it. He volunteered. Actually, he didn't even do that. He just picked up a box and followed me. He's fine. He just wants to help."

I pause, contemplating the situation. A teenage boy who wants to help these random strangers move into their apartment must either be super dorky, have no friends, or just be a complete loser, attractive or not. "Dad, I just want to move in fully before I start meeting people." I finish putting together the shelf, and Dad begins handing me books to place on it.

A thick packet, folded in half, falls out of a book. I pick it up and look at it. It's several pages of sheet music. Oakville High School Marching Band, Mellophone 2

Realizing what it is, I look up at Dad. "Please tell me you're not screwing with me."

He smiles, "Why would I screw with you about this?"

I throw my arms around him. "But how? I don't even understand! These require auditions and lessons and lots of advance notice!"

He laughs, "Right after I found out I was getting a job transfer, the first thing I did was figure out where we would be living and where you would be going to school. I called the school and talked to the band director. He was hesitant at first, but after he saw video of you last season and heard recordings of you playing, he was sold. Rehearsals start July 14th."

I stare down at the music, laughing in disbelief. With another marching season ahead, maybe it won't be so bad living here after all.