AN: Welcome to my new story. I know. I stopped posting chapters. I'm really sorry about that. I don't know how long this story is going to last, but I'm going to post two thousand words every day for the next week to get it started, and decide on a posting schedule from there. If you have any questions, feel free to PM me, and I should respond pretty promptly.

A note: the writing style for this story is not very complicated. I'm trying to put down words as the protagonist would think them, letting the words flow and tangle as necessary. It's not flawless grammar because of that, but my chapters are pretty well proof-read and I don't think you should have a problem getting through them.

I really hope you enjoy.

-Addi

Are people supposed to be excited for the first day at a new school? I'm definitely not. I mean, it's nothing new. It's my tenth school in twelve years, this one happening to be in Chicago since my mom opened her new therapy office here, but it doesn't really matter anyway, I guess, since I'm probably just moving away next year anyway. My mom can't find a city to settle in. She calls herself a free bird (which is a term I will never be caught saying in my entire life), and she uses that as an excuse to travel the country. But it doesn't really matter to me. I just stay unobtrusively quiet at school and let my parents take me wherever they want, subtly keeping a suitcase half-packed in the corner of whatever room I happen to be staying in, prepared for our next sudden move that will usually casually be announced over dinner ("Well, kids, I just don't have the patience for the forty-five minute commute to my office every day, so we're moving across the country" – which, obviously, is a foolproof solution to that ridiculous problem.)

At least this time, I'm not sharing a room with Caleb, but the room is pretty small, with just room for a bed and a desk and a dresser – I don't have a closet, but it's better than sharing one with Caleb, and plus, I only have one dress and it can be folded up since it's cotton. Just outside my room is the bathroom, which is going to be convenient, since Caleb's room is down the hall and therefore he'll have to walk down the hallway, but he has a window seat with a nice view, so it evens out in the end. We got here last week, and, used to moving like this, have already unpacked all our boxes. My dad cuts up the cardboard from those boxes and we'll use them as plates until the moving van arrives (it got delayed or something and ended up in Texas. I don't have very many possessions besides clothes, but I have my grandma's necklace, my phone, my earbuds, and my computer, and that private collection sort of demolishes the typically nonexistent desire for gadgets. I'm not a fan of gadgets. They fill up space and are usually useless.

Anyway, school starts on a Monday, and I wake up at six thirty from my obnoxious alarm's blaring ringtone, which is clearly indifferent to the fact that I am a teenager and am therefore entitled to sleep. Well, clearly not, I guess, seeing as I'm most likely spending the entirety of my junior year getting up at six-thirty for an activity that is useless in my eyes (school). I swing my legs over the side of the bed and somehow manage to clamber out while blinking the drowsy desire for sleep from my heavy-lidded eyes, nearly tripping on a stray slipper as my feet land on the wood-paneled floor. I find the other one and shove my feet into them, then pad my way into the bathroom. Brushing my teeth roughly, I force myself not to think about the impending day of school, force myself not to think about the procedures and rules and structures that will throw me off just like every other school has in the past, try not to think about the people there and if I'll ever meet a friend as good as Susan and if Caleb will ever get over her and if he already has and then my thoughts start to spiral and when I come back to reality I realize I've been brushing the same tooth for five minutes and an uneasy feeling swirls in my gut and I just want to go back to bed and shut the world out and sleep all the pressure away.

But of course I can't, and as soon as I finish brushing my teeth I have to figure out what I want to do with my hair, and since I can't be bothered with anything complicated today I brush it out and put it up in a messy ponytail and am in the middle of deciding whether to use mascara or not when I'm interrupted by a voice cloaked in drowsiness.

"Bea, you almost done in there?"

"Sorry, Caleb," I call, opting for just lip gloss because I have foundational oppositions towards the concept of makeup, and plus, my mascara is three years old and I'm a little scared of getting an infection from it. I probably should replace it at some point. "I'm coming out."

I open the door and let a hunched over, messy-haired Caleb slouch his way in, then shut the door behind me and head back to my room to get dressed. Getting dressed is really not that hard for me, since I chose what I would wear last night – dark blue jeans and a creamy fitted shirt topped with my Grandma's necklace and white Converse that aren't really white anymore. I top it off with my favorite black hoodie, which is the key to going unnoticed if I sort of slouch behind the hood – I love it so much that I don't think I've gone outside the house without it in a really long time (I lived in Maine most recently, so even when it was summer I wore it). It's sort of my best friend. I can rely on it more than people – outside my family, of course – and it really does render me basically invisible to people at school. I tuck my phone into one of its pockets and grab my black backpack, which contains a few notebooks, my planner, a binder, my computer, and its charger, which is vital because my computer loses battery quicker than I lose house keys (which sounds manageable, but really, it's not). Then I trudge my way downstairs, grateful we were able to rent a house this time instead of a tiny apartment and therefore we have adequate room for a family of four.

Mom's waiting in the kitchen, standing in front of the stove, where she's making pancakes. She's dressed in a dark blue dress that sort of swirls around her, and her dark brown hair is tied back in a loose braid. "Sweetheart," she says by way of greeting, and I grab a seat at the little square table.

"Mom, you didn't have to make pancakes," I say tiredly, knowing she got up early to do it.

"That's nonsense," she responds, and yes, my mother uses the word nonsense. "It's your first day of school at Roth High, and I want to make sure you enjoy it."

I bite back a snarky response and settle for a tamer one. "Are you counseling at the school again?"

She smiles and dishes pancakes onto a plate for me. "No, honey, I'm going to work exclusively at my practice. I shouldn't have a problem getting clients." She hands me the plate and syrup. "Careful, it's hot."

I take the plate and wince a little, quickly setting the plate and syrup down on the table. Just as I'm about to pour the syrup on, Caleb stumbles in, grabs it from me, and then takes another plate of pancakes and promptly drowns them in it.

"It's hot," he says, muttering a curse under his breath, which Mom pretends not to hear.

"Well, serves you right," I say, smiling a bit as he basically throws the plate onto the table and then rubs his hands off on his black jeans.

"What was I supposed to do? I knew you weren't going to pour the syrup right." He takes a seat, tossing the playful insult at me casually. I immediately engage.

"Oh, really? How was I going to transgress the imperatively pertinent laws of syrup-pouring?"

"Well, for starters, you have a shamefully few amount of pancakes on your plate," he returns swiftly. "They wouldn't have done the syrup justice." He shovels a bite into his mouth and winces again. "I forgot it's hot."

"Genius," I say, grinning a bit.

"Well, as I was saying," he continues, tossing his tousled dark hair out of his eyes, "you would have been insulting by pouring only a few drops of the syrup onto them."

"Okay, guys, let's not get into this," Mom says tiredly, but Caleb just laughs and continues.

"Not only do you waste the efforts of our heroic mother here by eating a mere three pancakes, you then leave them nearly dry, which completely ruins the point of them and offends not only your mother, but I as well."

"Three pancakes are a lot." I take the syrup back and pour them over my pancakes. "By the way, you're driving me home after school today, okay?"

Caleb's very social, so he'll probably have made at least twenty new friends by the end of the school day, and sometimes he completely forgets about me, which is rather inconvenient. One time I walked for an hour to get home because he decided to go study at a friend's house without telling me – on the first day.

"Yes, Bumble, I will," he says, using an old nickname for me – when Caleb was about six, he connected bumble and Bea (bee) and it stuck, leaving me with the nickname today, though I don't mind it at all – I actually like it. "I'll text you when I'm ready to leave. It'll probably be around thirty minutes after school gets out."

I really don't understand why Caleb would want to spend more time at school than he has to, but I don't argue; instead I finish my pancakes and clear my plate, washing it off in the sink and then putting it in the dishwasher. I check my watch and realize we have to leave, so I give Mom a quick hug. "We have to go," I say, my voice muffled against her. "I'll see you tonight?"

"Yes. I love you so much, Bumble." She pulls me tight. "Have a great first day, okay?"

"Okay," I say, and grab Caleb by the wrist, pulling him out the door amid his spluttered protests about unfinished pancakes.