On Sundays we go to church. It's fine—I don't have anything against going, but the way Mrs. Jeffries manages Sunday mornings is absolute hell. It's even more chaotic than when she's getting everyone ready for school in the weekday mornings. On Sundays, she bosses me around and dictates what I wear. I only own a handful of clothes, none of which are church-appropriate, so Mrs. Jeffries makes me wear hand-me-downs from her sister. All the clothing is at least three sizes to large and definitely not my style. Some shirts—or blouses, as Mrs. Jeffries calls them—have sparkles or even ruffles on them.

Yeah, no thanks. I'd rather stick with my sweatshirt and jeans.

Despite wearing the over-sized and putrid clothing before, I can't seem to put it on this morning. I stand in the bathroom, motionless, just staring at the clothing folded nicely on the counter next to the sink. Mrs. Jeffries picked out a light pink blouse with flowers cuffing the sleeves and collar. The shade of pink is faded and one of the ironed-on flowers looks to be peeling off. Mrs. Jeffries also picked out a pair of khakis with fake front and back pockets, which is definitely not ideal. No way am I wearing those khakis and faded pink shirt.

I know that as soon as I put on the pants, they'll just slip right back off my hips. I'm not even a stick-thin person, so it makes it look even worse.

My glare shifts to the bottle of pills that never fail to bring me some relief. I debate whether or not to pop a few pills, just to feel better, for a few moments before I decide that I might as well. I toss a couple into my mouth and swallow them. I feel them glide down my throat.

There's a stern knock on the door, making me jump. I've been in the bathroom for too long.

"Hurry up, I need to brush my teeth!" Trevor calls from the other side of the door.

I scoop the clothes up and toss them in the hamper filled with dirty clothes and tuck my bottle of pills into my sweatpants pocket before opening the door. Trevor, who was leaning against the wall next to the door, straightens and gives me a look and he steps into the bathroom. Before he shuts the door, he mutters, "Took you long enough."

I cross my arms and turn around. Mrs. Jeffries, Savanna in her arms, is standing a few feet in front of me next to the entry way into the dining room. She and Savanna are already clad in their Sunday attire. Mrs. Jeffries' eyes slide over my body.

"Why aren't you dressed yet?"

"Because the clothes you make me wear are hideous."

Mrs. Jeffries raises her brow. "Really? They can't be any worse than the clothes you wear on a daily basis."

I roll my eyes.

Mrs. Jeffries bends over and sets Savanna on the hardwood floors. She runs off towards the sound of her father making coffee in the kitchen.

"I won't tolerate the eye-rolling and attitude, young lady," she snaps as she points at me with a stern finger. "You're going to wear what I laid out for you and you're going to be presentable for church."

"How are those rags presentable?" I ask, throwing my arms up.

Mrs. Jeffries doesn't appreciate the increase of my volume. "Don't raise your voice at me, I am the adult and you're—"

"A young adult," I fire back. "I'm a legal adult in less than two years, so don't talk to me like I'm a baby." I spin on my heel and take a step towards the staircase, but Mrs. Jeffries grabs my arm and pulls me back. The sound of the pills rattling in my pocket causes her to pause and stare deep into my eyes.

"Are you high?"

"Don't touch me!" I shout, twisting my arm out of her grip and placing my hands on her shoulders to shove her lightly to get away from me.

Mrs. Jeffries stares at me in shock. I turn away and start for the stairs once more.

"Don't you dare lay your hands on me!"

"Then don't touch me!" I scream without turning around to face her. I know she's angry. I know her face is red. I know she resents me.

I hear Trevor comes out of the bathroom and ask his mother what I did, I hear Savanna whine because she is scared of all the commotion, and I hear Mr. Jeffries enter the room and yell at me to get dressed and ready to go to church because it will do me good. I know that it probably will, but I ignore everything and just storm up the staircase and lock myself in my room.

▂▂▂▂▂▂

The next day before school, while Keegan is tutoring me, I don't really respond to anything. I don't respond when he asks how my morning is or how I'm doing with the material we're discussing.

It takes about ten minutes for him to finally feel stumped. He sits back in his chair and runs a hand down his face, thoughtful as he studies me.

"Are you just going to sit there or . . . ?" Keegan asks, more curious and wanting to actually know the answer rather than with an attitude. He tilts his head and waits for an answer, but after waiting for a second, he adds, "I don't want to waste my, or your, time. If you're not going to contribute to this then this is just useless."

I look up at him and sigh. "You know what, this is a waste of time," I say as I stand from my chair and pull my backpack over my shoulder, grabbing my Econ book from the desk separating us. Keegan's brow furrows as he watches me reach for the door handle.

"Wait, I didn't mean it literally—I mean, I just wanted to get you to focus." Keegan stumbles over his words as he rises from his seat as well.

I groan and look at him from over my shoulder. "I'm leaving now," I tell him impatiently.

He frowns. "But you need to improve in your classes."

"You don't know what I need," I laugh humorlessly, turning around fully. "You don't know me at all."

"I know more than you think."

My bitter smile dies instantly. "What the hell does that mean?" With each word I spit out I step closer to Keegan. "You don't know anything about me."

Keegan doesn't falter. He stands tall and and looks down at me as he answers, "I don't know a lot, but I do know some things."

I step closer. Our shoes are inches apart. I look up at him, glaring, and say, "Like what?"

"The last person I was asked to tutor was abused by his dad," he replies, brows pulled together as his eyes dart between mine, searching. "I also was asked to tutor someone who's parents got deported. You must have some messed-up past or something since I was asked to tutor you as well."

I want to punch him like I punched Blake Anderson. This kid thinks he has it all figured out. He thinks he's the next Einstein. He needs to just shut up and leave. I should just leave.

"That's not a fact," I flare.

"I also know that you haven't worn your hair in a braid since I complimented it." He quirks an eyebrow in challenge. "That's a fact."

I subconsciously touch my hair lying limp on my shoulders. I didn't think he'd notice or care.  I used to always braid my hair because I hate how thin it looks. It's just limp and always greasy, and braiding it hides it.

Keegan sighs and runs a hand through his dark curls on his head. "Look, can we just continue studying for your Econ test on Friday? I think you've come a long way and could definitely pass it if we keep working."

My eyes drop to my hair, then rise to Keegan. I build my walls back up and let my face harden once again.

"Fuck you."

I turn and leave without another word.

▂▂▂▂▂▂

After school I go straight to my room. Shoving Mrs. Jeffries—which wasn't even that big of a deal since I barely even touched her—and getting caught with those pills got me grounded for, approximately, as long as I stay in their care. At this rate, I'll probably be in a new home or group house in no time, if my mother doesn't gain custody out of nowhere. It's unlikely that'll happen. However, knowing my luck, it's not impossible.

When I get to my bedroom I immediately go for my CDs, but they're all gone. They even took my earbuds and iPod. Apparently being grounded means that I have to live like a prisoner. I only get to leave my room to go to the bathroom and school. I get my dinner served to me after everyone has already eaten, which is actually not that bad. The lack of people I hate watching me eat makes up for the cold meal.

I argue with Mr. and Mrs. Jeffries about my music, but they don't budge. It's like talking to brick walls with attitudes. I eventually give up and call them some rude words and return to my bedroom and slam the door behind me.

Dinner is brought to me at about nine o'clock at night. It's a simple Hot Pocket and a snack pack of chips. When it's brought to me, I ask Mrs. Jeffries where the drink is. She takes away my chips and shuts the door in my face.

I roll my eyes and sit on the edge of my bed. I bite into the Hot Pocket, the juices and steam from the microwaved food product burning my tongue. Despite the burning, I immediately take another bite, chew, and swallow. My eyes start to water as I continue eating the scorching Hot Pocket.

Soon enough, I can't see through the tears in my eyes. About half the Hot Pocket is left, but my mouth and chest burn with such intensity that I just lie the plate on my bed and lie back on the sheets, staring up at the ceiling motionless.

Sometimes I just want to leave. Go to Europe. Or Sweden. Or anywhere, really. I just want to get out of this room, out of this house, out of the foster care system, out of my situation, out of my mind.

I just want to leave, but it feels like my feet are cemented to the ground and I'm chained to a wall, bound tight. I can't move.

I can't breathe.