Leaving California is never easy, especially when you’re fifteen years old. The night before my father’s job moved my family to St. Louis, Missouri, we had dinner at the Charthouse in Malibu. It was a pink and orange sunset. Seagulls gathered, uttering mournful cries that to my teenage ears sounded like painful goodbyes. I watched a pelican dive into the Pacific, pursuing its dinner beneath the waves. I turned my attention back to my plate. The thought of leaving my home state and its beautiful wildlife to move to the frigid Midwest had all but killed my appetite. I looked back out the window and saw a small pod of dolphins playfully chasing one another. I wanted to cry.