by Manfred Koehler

Missionaries? How random can my parents get? Mitch thought. Who decides to become a missionary anymore—especially when their kid is already 12 and has to leave all his friends behind.

Mitch slumped through the halls of Luxembourg Christian Academy, wishing his parents would've found a real job. He wanted to get back to Minneapolis and his old life. Turning into a classroom, he made a beeline for his desk. He mumbled hello to several people.

No one but Annalina even paid attention.

Sitting down, Mitch snuck a peek toward Annalina's desk and caught her looking his way. Mitch snapped his gaze toward the blackboard.

Why is she studying me?

Suddenly, two girls laughed, jabbering away in what sounded like French. Could've been Dutch for all Mitch knew. He didn't care. He was just sick of feeling ignored. This was his fourth day of classes, and he had yet to have a decent conversation with anyone.

Does everyone here speak two languages? Mitch thought. Annalina speaks, like, three! I can hardly get English to fall out of my mouth. Maybe I'll quit talking.

Mitch's lips pursed in grim determination. That was the answer. Ignore them back. He stared around the classroom, looking for all the things he didn't like about Luxembourg Christian Academy.

About the only thing that isn't different is that school starts in September, he thought. The paper is abnormal, like, smaller. And what's with the leather backpack, Hans? Weird.

Mitch stared while Hans shyly sat at his desk. He noticed Annalina was watching Hans, too. Mitch looked away, glad she was studying someone else for once.

Another boy walked into the classroom.

Wow! I'd have to save my allowance for a year just to buy a sweater like that. What's his name? Xavier? No, Alexander. That's right. And don't call him Alex. He likes his full name. Brother. Maybe I should have him call me Mr. Mitchell William Sole from now on. I want to go home.

Book Bash

But Luxembourg was his home now. Mitch shook his head. He had begged his parents to take him back to Minneapolis. His dad simply told him to be patient. “Culture shock,” he called it. Every missionary family went through it. It would pass.

Yeah, right. Fast like a snail.

Mitch piled up his books. He stood one of them on its spine. Then he let his head sink to the desk. Everyone disappeared, including Annalina.

Yep. Ignore them back. That's how you survive around here.

Five seconds later, his book fell to the desk. Whap!

“You hiding back there?”

Mitch's head shot up. It was Alexander. The Great. Mr. "Fancy Sweater."

Mitch gave him his best leave-me-alone-forever glare. Alexander didn't seem to notice. “You play football? We're having a game at lunch.” His smile was warm.

Football? Oh, right. Must mean soccer. I haven't seen a REAL football since I stepped off the plane.

“Naw, I don't play.” Mitch hoped Sweater Boy would get the hint.

“You can always learn. I didn't start until last year.” Alexander was still smiling.

“Yeah, well, that's just too much of a head start for me.”

Alexander's smile disappeared. “Suit yourself.”

Mitch propped the fallen book back into position and shrunk behind it.

Unfriendly Fire

Three-and-a-half hours later, Mitch sat on a bench in the academy's back terrace, chewing a PB&J sandwich. Boring, but it sure beat bratwurst and sauerkraut. And Mitch was by himself—just as he wanted it.

Then Hans walked up with his leather backpack strapped over one shoulder.

Aren't you supposed to be playing football or something? Mitch thought.

“Isn't dis place vonderful?” Hans asked, hands pointing around the terrace. Hans' German accent was strong, making Mitch wish he was on the other side of the Atlantic again.

“Compared to what?” Mitch slowly replied. “The Gobi Desert?”

Wow, what's going on inside of me?

Hans stared at him blankly. “Vhen I vant to feel alone, I come here sometimes,” he finally said. “Is dat vhy you come?”

“You got it, bro. So why are you interrupting me?”

Hans' face went hard, then he turned away. With a hand on the door, Hans looked back, his voice a whisper: “I am looking for a friend. You do not seem to vant one.”

The door closed behind him.

Mitch's face felt hot. He scarfed the rest of his sandwich, wondering why he couldn't keep his mouth shut.

Maybe the PB&J will glue it closed. Hope so.

Prickly Personality

Two hours later, Mitch stood on the curb outside the academy, wishing it was Friday already. He stared at the busy streets around him.

Some of the cars here have three wheels. How bizarre is that? He thought. And what's that girl eating with her french fries? Mayo? Gross. I'd rather eat ice cream with mustard.

The french fry girl headed toward him. Suddenly, Mitch recognized her.

Oh, no. Annalina, Miss Multilingual.

Annalina held out a fry, a big dab of mayonnaise on its tip. “Would you like a try?”

Mitch wrinkled his nose. “No, thanks. I'm not into toxic waste.”

Help! Why do I say stuff like that?

“Only ketchup for you, right?” Annalina smiled mischievously. Her English had only the slightest trace of accent.

“It's the only way to eat them,” Mitch said.

“You're not adjusting real well, are you?”

“Adjusting?” Mitch asked. “Who needs to adjust?”

“You do.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I see you off by yourself a lot. You make fortresses out of your textbooks.”

Mitch stared at his book bag, embarrassed. “What if I'm just a private person?”

“I don't buy it. That's not how God designed us—to be all by ourselves. But if you want friends, you have to act like one.”

“Yeah, well, this is the first real conversation I've had all week. That school is a pretty tight little club. How am I supposed to find a friend when no one talks to me?”

Annalina met his harsh tone with her own. “You think that's everyone else's fault?”

“Are you saying it's mine?” Mitch didn't have to think further than today's conversations with Alexander and Hans to know the answer to that question.

“My father uses an expression that describes you, Mr. Mitchell Sole: 'You're a porcupine in a room full of bubbles.' “

Ouch. Mitch shook his head and stared at the curb. He knew it was true, he just didn't know what to do about it.

Change for the Better

“You've had too many changes, way too fast, right?” Annalina's voice seemed kinder now.

Mitch looked at her. “I'd say so.”

“And you never picked Luxembourg as a place to live.”

Mitch just nodded, wondering if this girl could read minds.

“And you probably miss your friends back in America.”

Mitch kept nodding, a tear brimming in one eye. He wiped it in frustration.

“Listen here, Mitch. I've lived in three different countries since my parents decided to become missionaries. I've experienced a lot of change. Change can make you really ugly inside. But it doesn't have to.”

Change doesn't have to make me ugly inside? I think it's a little too late for that.

“What can I do?”

“Bring Jesus into the picture,” Annalina said.

Jesus. Wow. It'd been a long time since Mitch had thought about Jesus as anything other than his Savior.

Could He really help with this I-hate-living-in- Luxembourg thing?

Mitch dug his toe into the curb.

“Start talking to Jesus, a lot. He never changes,” Annalina continued. “He's a friend who's always there. Tell Him about all the things that bug you. Don't just mumble about it in your mind.”

“Is that what I've been doing?”

“It's what I used to do,” Annalina said. “I've been there. I've left a bunch of friends behind.”

Mitch watched a tear well up in her eye. Suddenly, she grabbed his shoulder. “But it's way better telling Jesus about it. He can give you the frame of mind to accept change. Got it?”

Mitch nodded. The girl made sense.

Annalina stuffed another french fry with mayo into her mouth.

“Besides, life would be boring if all we experienced was the same old thing every day. Don't you think?”

Mitch nodded some more.

Annalina held out another french fry. It dripped with mayo. Her smile was more mischievous than ever.

Mitch gobbled it out of her hand with a chuckle.

That didn't taste too bad, he thought. But I'll pass on the ice cream and mustard. Thank You, Jesus. We'll be talking a lot more from now on.

“So?” Annalina was already preparing his next french fry. “What's it like, stepping out of a boring life?”

In the distance, Mitch saw Alexander emerge from the academy, a checkered ball in hand.

“What can you teach me about a game I used to call soccer?” Mitch replied.

	Q: Where do rich cooks live? A: Beverly Grills. Jesse S., 10, California Clubhouse Jr. Click here to subscribe