Moving On.

1. Letter of Regret

"Eliza!" Jordan yelled down the spiraling stairs to my new room. I had just moved into the Quinn's family about three months ago, going on four next Tuesday.

I sighed to myself, annoyed with him like I am every time he says my name. I've told him multiple times before, I go back Lizzy, not Eliza. L-I-Z-Z-Y.

Pulling out my cherry red earbud, I screamed back, "What Jordan?"

"Mail's here! There's a thing for you from the gov-....gove..." The four-year old stumbled over the large word, but I already understood it.

Government. A letter from the government.

Not again.

I anticipated this moment every time I moved; that one day, the letters will stop. That one day, my friends will stay my best friends forever rather than temporary. That one day, my home will stay where my heart is. That one day, I can have a real family. That one day, it'll just be normal.

But no. The world just seems to hate me enough to not have one single wish of mine fulfilled.

Thanks a lot Universe, you're kind of great.

"Coming!" My steps were sluggish as I trudged up the old hickory steps to the main floor, knowing for sure the exact reason why Jordan called me up there.

The stairs led up to a general large dining room with plenty of leftover space. Maroon paint was still lingering on the walls until I entered the kitchen, which then switched to a vibrant lavender. As I passed by the dining table seated for five, along with my odd-looking, baby blue chair among the dark caramel ones, the marble counter to the far left had stacks of papers. Letters, to be exact.

I searched through the pile; some addressed to Mindy, others to Walter, even a select few had Jordan, Clare or Carter's name on them.

Then, as I thought my hope had been revived, was the damn letter with my full name printed on it in blocky letters: ELIZA MAY "QUINN".

That letter of regret. Of shame. Of hopes destroyed.

Opening, but regretting as always, I barely glanced over the typical "We're sorry, but your 'parents' don't think they can handle you" crap to get to the real source: my next location and my moving date.

I've seen just about all you can see of Maine, my local state, even since I was born to whomever and somebody Brooks.

I shuddered inward. Brooks.

My eyes roamed over the town, county, state address with my destination time: 5:30 A.M., Wednesday, and a taxi would pick me up at 'home'.

I don't think the government ever considers my needs. Like the most important. Sleep.

I didn't bother reading the rest. Just walked stiffly to the paper shredder, let the ripper do its job, and the memories of previous families came back on its own. For the seventeenth time.

Seventeenth. In six years. Almost three moves a year. Only four months per family.

The Old Wheeler was going back on the road again. His once fancy chocolate had turned into a dull brown, His legs growing worn. The bumpy roads hadn't done anything better to His bottom either. All in all, I needed a replacement before He started wimping out on my adventures. Maybe for the twentieth family, I'll get a New Wheeler.

But, the O.W. would have to do for now. I was not your typical girl who needed a walk-in closet with shirts and jeans in every color and shade, no sir. Because of my tiny hourglass figure that never seemed to reach a height above 5'4" since the ninth grade, I just kept the same ten shirts, six jeans, five sweatshirts, four pairs of bras and panties, and three pairs of socks. Along with my special pair of rusty red sneakers.