The Total Eclipse of Nestor Lopez

I GRIP DAD’S OLD ARMY COMPASS, willing myself not to launch it at the obnoxious raven heckling me from the bedroom window. I’ve lived in five other places, but the birds in New Haven are by far the most annoying.
“Did you hear the old lady who lives here cooks raccoons and armadillos for dinner?” the raven chirps, hopping back and forth on the windowsill. He bobs his black head at the packing boxes in my room.
“I know for a fact that’s not true.” I kick a large card- board box labeled NESTOR’S COMIC BOOKS AND DART
GUNS under my bed. The springs under the mattress groan as the box pushes against the bed frame. “My abuela is the best cook in Texas.”
“Fine. Don’t believe me. Maybe I’ll visit you in the hospital when they have to remove your small intestine after you eat too much barbecued roadkill.”
I roll my eyes. Sometimes being able to speak to animals is not as cool as you would think.
I clench my jaw and shove another box under my bed, getting down on my knees to push against the straining bed frame. This raven is keeping me from breaking my unpacking record. Moving among five Army bases, I’ve perfected my skills. I hold the record for fastest room packing and unpacking in the entire universe. You can get away with unpacking only one box of clothes for about three weeks before your mom realizes you’ve been wearing your cat-surfing- on-a-piece-of-pizza T-shirt every day. I know sorting through your boxes in front of a curious new neighbor means he’ll see all your underwear and the ratty stuffed bear you still insist on sleeping with.
But the secret to success is not to bother unpacking half your boxes when you get to your new location. That way you’re ready to go when your mom announces the inevitable.
I wasn’t surprised when Mom said, “Nestor, we’re moving to New Haven, Texas.” We’d lived at Fort Hood for six months, I was getting used to my new school, and my classmates were about to earn friend status. My teachers finally started calling me by the right name. I knew that was my cue to get ready to move again.