It feels like I'm stuck in thick mud. I'm sluggish to clean the bathrooms of the group home and walk slow in the halls. I earn a few passive aggressive looks from students who walk around me, rushing to their classes as to not show to class late. My mind is foggy and I zone in and out of lectures and one-sided conversations with teachers. It's like I'm going through the motions with my head down and my ears plugged. It goes like this for the rest of the week.

It kind of sucks. But I don't really care. I just pop a few pills and the monotony goes away. I don't feel better, but I feel different. I'm not sure if it's an improvement, but it's better than nothing.

Ms. Müller keeps asking me about my goals. I told her that I don't really have any, but she insists that I should make some.

What's your dream house? Every teenager has one.

I told her that I don't care. After going back and forth a few times, she gave in and instead asked about my future family plans.

Okay, but how about a family? Do you want to get married and have kids?

I told her no. I can't walk down the aisle without someone who's be willing to marry me or a father figure's arm locked with mine. I can't wear a white dress and pretend I'm a pure, innocent girl that wants to give her whole heart to someone and expects him to give his whole heart back. I can't imagine bringing a child into this world and posing as their role model.

Ms. Müller hasn't given up on my goals, but she has given me some slack. She probably still feels bad about my recent displacement, and I used to be annoyed by it, but I don't really care anymore. It's whatever—at least I get to occasionally miss class for our meetings.

Thursday evening I find Margot, the roommate with the green hair who dropped out of school, with a bottle of beer. She's a tipsy mess and isn't even trying to hide the bottle even though she'd get a hefty punishment for having alcohol in the group home. I told her to hide it, but she responds with, "Miss Caroline can kiss my ass." Then she brings the bottle to her lips and takes another drink.

In my head I think, Fuck it. I take the bottle from her. Margot starts to protest, but then her anger dissolves into bubbly laughter as I take a long swig, the alcohol burning down my throat. We share the rest of the bottle until the bottom's dry and we're both wasted beyond comprehension.

When I wake up in the morning, it's like my head is being banged on like a drum. My neck feels stiff and my temples throb. It's Friday, so I get ready for school by replacing my jeans with a different pair and putting on fresh deodorant. I watch Margo sleep-in in envy as I pull my worn backpack over my shoulders. Maybe I should drop out of high school, too.

The bumpy bus ride to school makes my headache grow worse. I'm prepared to just skip and go to the city park to hang out and wait out the hangover when I'm stopped in the hallway by the person who keeps popping up everywhere.

"Morning, Turner."

I close my eyes in exasperation and exhaustion. "Morning, Rivera."

"So when and where do you want me to pick you up tonight?"

I nearly choke on my saliva. "Excuse me?"

"My game's tonight," Keegan replies shortly. "So?"

My short fuse cuts out. "Why do you keep insisting that I need to go to your game?!"

Keegan blinks in surprise at my sudden outburst. A few students turn and glance at us before turning away. I didn't mean for my voice to be so loud, but I can't help it. I'm so done.

"I told you why," Keegan defends himself. "I want you to come."

"No you don't!" He needs to cut the bullshit. Everyone needs to cut the bullshit.

He frowns, glancing around at the small crowd of people watching us with curious eyes. "Why not?" He asks slowly.

"I've been nothing but mean to you!" I exclaim, stepping forward and clenching my fists at my sides. "Why do you even keep talking to me?!"

"Because you have no friends."

I stare at him. His face is hard, his brows pulled forward and his eyes filled with an unreadable emotion.

He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and sighs deeply. He sends a short look at the onlookers, and they get the message and mind their own business again.

Keegan looks back at me, but his eyes don't meet mine. "I feel sorry for you, okay? You're new and you make it hard for anyone to want to be your friend."

"I don't need your pity." I don't need anyone's pity. I don't need anything from anyone. People are just going to screw me over anyways, everyone's only looking out for themselves. Keegan was just talking to me to make himself feel better.

My glare on Keegan doesn't waver as I turn and storm out of the hallway and out the front doors of the school.

I hope he feels highly of himself now.

▂▂▂▂▂▂

I don't move from my bed on Saturday or Sunday. I sleep most of those days, and when I'm not sleeping, I stare at the wall with my back to the rest of the room. The girls I share a room with ignore me and don't even try to talk to me. Even when I'm up and moving, we don't really talk. It's a silent agreement among us all—don't ask questions, don't get attached, keep to yourself.

Monday morning, I'm woken up harshly by Emily shaking my shoulders. My eyes open one at a time.

Emily stands back and plants her hands on her hips. "Miss Caroline needs you."

Covering my eyes with my arm, I let out a small groan.

"Now."

I groan louder and roll out of bed. I don't bother changing out of the clothes I've worn for three days straight and just head out of the room and down the stairs to Miss Caroline's office. I knock on the door once before she ushers me in.

When I step inside and shut the door behind me, I realize that Miss Caroline isn't the only one waiting for me. Sitting in one of the plastic chairs pushed against the wall are Jeremy Hall and some woman I've seen at court hearings before, but never actually met.

The woman opens a manila folder and takes out a sheet of paper upon my arrival.

"Thanks for coming down, Ellis," Jeremy says with his sickly smile, although by the way his eyes swiftly look over my wrinkled clothes and greasy hair, he disapproves of my state. The woman beside him shares the same look.

"What's going on." I just want to go back to bed. I don't think I can handle anything else this week.

"Well," Jeremy starts, taking the paper from the woman's manicured hands. "You know how your mother has been making progress over the past year?"

I stare at him blankly and cross my arms. I really don't want to hear anything he has to say about my mother. Most people have some sort of relationship with their parents, whether it's terrible or amazing. I don't have a relationship whatsoever with mine. All she did for me was show me how to hide drugs and how to get money and a place to stay when you have nothing on your name. She always put her needs before mine, but it doesn't make me hate her or anything. It's human nature to put yourself first.

Jeremy continues, "She's been granted the privilege to have visitations with you again, if you want to go through with it."

My initial reaction is to say no and just turn on my heel and return to my somewhat-comfy bed, but then something hits me: if she gains custody of me again, then I wouldn't have to live in strangers' homes anymore. This whole monotonous cycle of moving from foster family to foster family would be over with. Additionally, I know my mother—she isn't strict and doesn't actually care about me. She doesn't care if I go out or come back home at three in the morning. She doesn't care about anything at all.

It shocks both myself and Jeremy when I say, "Sure."

▂▂▂▂▂▂

There's a bunch of boring work that goes into having visitations again. Jeremy talks me through some of the things he has to do before he can set up any visitations, and I start to wonder how he even does what he does. I mean, his job just sounds so draining. Boring paperwork and dealing with troubled youth and adults? No one wants to deal with that, but I guess someone has to do it.

I thought that I was going to have to avoid Keegan at school, but he pretty much does all the work for me. I saw him once in the hallway, and he didn't walk up to me and ask me to go to another one of his games. I feel his gaze on the side of my face during lunch hour, but when I turn and locate him, he's talking with his friends and laughing.

Despite always feeling inclined to punch him in the face when he smiles, having him not smile at me is somehow worse. I want to punch myself in the face now.

The days go by and eventually, in the middle of the week, Jeremy picks me up from school and takes me to the town park where my mother supposedly is. At first it doesn't feel real—I haven't seen her in years. The last time I did, she was crying, her black mascara running down her cheeks as she pleaded that she was the real victim, not me. She even started to throw some of the blame of how she ended up so messed up on me because, apparently, I was an awful child who made everything harder for her, and if it wasn't for me, then her old boyfriend would still love her and her life would be perfect. Which isn't true. She was addicted to drugs before she even had me.

So going to see her for the first time in years doesn't really register to me completely until we pull into the parking lot of the park and I see her. Rory Turner.

She's slumped over a picnic table, the woman I saw in Miss Caroline's office sitting across from her.

Rory has gained a little weight since our last encounter, her clothes no longer hanging off her sharp bones. Her weight, her eyes, which are no longer shadowed by dark bags, and her aging skin are the only differences I see.

Jeremy turns the car engine off and steps out of the car. I follow suit, my eyes never leaving my mother's figure as I unbuckle and climb out of the vehicle.

I follow loosely behind Jeremy as we approach the two women at the picnic table. Rory hears our footsteps and looks over her shoulder at us. Her gray eyes, the ones I inherited, immediately lock with mine.

"Hi," Rory says, a placid smile playing on her thin lips.

My throat tightens.

It's been so long. She's a part of my past, and her being in front of me makes it rush in all at once. Her injecting drugs into her bloodstream while I watched as I sat in her lap when I was five. The car crash, and the impact and blood and the shattered glass and the scary first responders. The countless line of boyfriends my mother and I lived with.

Everything from my nightmares that haunt my sleep to my inability to trust or love anyone points back to the woman in front of me.

And she's smiling at me.

The fact that she doesn't immediately apologize for my shitty life is almost enough to make me turn around and leave. However, because I know that if I walk away now I won't be able to leave the system for good, I keep my feet planted.

Jeremy watches me impatiently.

My eyes don't leave Rory's. She shifts under my piercing gaze, her eyes—the same shade as mine—darting from me to Jeremy to the woman sitting across from her and back to me.

I don't even realize that my eyes are filling with tears until I blink and my vision gets blurred. I don't let the tears fall, though. Not for her.

Jeremy clears his throat. "Do you two want to catch up?" He looks at me and motions to the picnic table. "Why don't you have a seat, Ellis?"

I don't immediately move, but I eventually tear my eyes away from Rory and take a step forward, sitting down on the picnic table across from her and next to the other woman with a good amount of space between us.

Rory's chapped lips quiver slightly as she smiles and sits forward, setting her hands on the table. Her long nails are coated with chipped red polish.

"How's school going? Still straight A's?" She asks after struggling to find something to say.

I scratch my nose. "No. School's okay, though."

"You always loved school," Rory says fondly as she tucks her thin, bleached hair behind her ear.

"Not really."

Her smile falters. "What grade are you in now?" Rory asks. Her voice is so fragile and scratchy. It hasn't changed much, but it has gotten more nasally over the years. It's annoying.

"Why?"

Jeremy looks between Rory and I. He stays quiet.

Rory glances down at her nails and picks at them. Her brow is pulled forward.

"I want to know," she replies, her voice still sounding like nails on a chalkboard. "If this is going to work, I'd like to get to know you some more."

"You shouldn't have to try to get to know me in the first place," I shoot back. Rory doesn't respond. I lean forward and narrow my eyes at her. "Do you even know how old I am?"

Rory looks at the woman beside me with her mouth open, no reply coming out. She shuts her mouth, purses her lips, looks down at her hands folded in front of her, and looks back up at me.

"You're fifteen—"

"I'm sixteen."

Rory runs a hand down her face. "Cut me some slack, I've been away for so long and . . ."

"That's no excuse."

Rory sighs. "Did you just come here to scold me about how I'm a terrible person? Don't you think I know how terrible I am?" Her voice cracks at the end. Her eyes fill with water, and she covers her face with both of her hands as she shakes her head. "I'm the worst mom ever."

"You're not my mom."

This makes her cry even more. Do I feel bad? Kind of, but I let all the anger I've held back tramples the guilt as I watch her sharply.

Jeremy folds his arms and gives me a look of warning. The woman beside me extends a hand and tries to comfort Rory.

"I think, if we want this whole thing to work out, we should be accepting of one another and the fact that you're both here to make this work. Isn't that right?" The woman proposes, her hand rubbing Rory's shoulder.

I cross my arms and lean my elbows on the wooden table. "Sure."

"Good." The woman's maroon lips tug upwards into a small smile. "Let's get you two on track."