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My friends squealed wildly as they plunged into the freezing water. It was early June, and the creek still flowed with melting snow from higher up the mountain. Eight of my best girlfriends and I were spending the first weekend of our summer in the Colorado Rockies. We'd been exploring the woods around our cabin when two of the girls suddenly jumped fully clothed into the frigid stream. The rest of us stayed warm and dry on the bank, laughing at our crazy friends.

We had such a blast that I almost forgot the reason for our mountain getaway. But when I climbed in my friend's Explorer to head home on Sunday evening, I remembered. The trip to the mountains was a going-away party … for me.

Two weeks later, I was staring out the window of my family's station wagon as we cruised east on the interstate—away from Colorado toward Illinois. I watched the evergreen trees and road signs whiz past and silently asked God the same questions I'd been asking him ever since I found out about the move. Why does Dad's new job have to be all the way across the stinkin' country? And why right in the middle of high school?

The first day at our new house I sat cross-legged on my bed, an island in the ocean of cardboard boxes. I'd rummaged through one box and found the photo album my friends had given me right before I left. Besides pictures, it had notes from my friends and teachers. We'll miss you so much … You have brightened up my life … I'll be praying for you. … The words blurred and I shut the book before my tears could fall on the page.

I spent the next week unpacking and rearranging furniture in my room. When I got bored with that, I put on some old jeans, grabbed a paintbrush and set to work on my bathroom. I scraped off the chipping, lime-colored paint, then covered the walls and ceiling with several coats of shiny white paint. I used a pattern I'd bought at the hardware store to stencil a dark green ivy trail around the top edge of the walls. I'd never painted an entire room by myself, much less stenciled anything, so I was pleasantly surprised when the dreary atmosphere of the lime-colored bathroom turned bright and cheery. If only I could cheer up myself this easily, I thought as I dabbed highlights on the ivy leaves.

Mom took me to visit the high school counselor, and we found out I lacked a health class my new school required. The counselor said I could take a summer school P.E. class as an alternative.

I shrugged. What else am I going to do this summer? I thought, and opted for P.E.

Three days later, I wished I hadn't.

On the first day of class, I surveyed the chaos from the doorway of the gym: At least 20 kids sat, stood, slouched and jumped around on some bleachers, and a dozen or so others leaned against the walls. Three guys played basketball at one of eight hoops around the perimeter of the gym. They shoved each other and cursed, their shoes screeching against the floor an octave higher than the rest of the noise.

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