I slammed the door and locked it behind me as I rushed into our apartment with a small grocery bag in my hands. Sobbing uncontrollably, I stood by the door, trembling. My parents saw the blood had drained from my face and knew something was terribly wrong, but all they could do was wait for me to tell my story. My mother took the bag from me, sat me on the couch, and waited for the waves of convulsive gasps and stuttering to calm. My parents had planned for us to move to the Chicago area as soon as I finished third-grade. When I told all my 8-year-old friends good-bye,…