Constant

Chapter 1

Walking through the school's double doors for the first time, then stepping into the hallway and making my way to the school administration's office, wasn't as nerve-wrecking as one might expect. Probably because I had done it a billion times by now. The last time was only a month ago. I followed the signs like a robot, said hello to the secretary—Mrs. Quinn, a name I wouldn't need to remember for long—and got the usual speech about my schedule, where everything was and that I shouldn't hesitate to ask if I had any questions. What could I ever have to ask? I knew the ropes; I knew how everything worked. This school would not differ from the last or the next. With a sigh, I left the administration's office and walked to my first class. English. I wondered where in the curriculum they were—would it be another repeat for me, or finally something new? I'd read enough Shakespeare to last a lifetime.

I knocked on the classroom door, seeing the teacher through the window of the door. He met my gaze, smiling brightly, like almost all the teachers did when it was time to introduce a new student. As if they thought they'd finally reach a student and make them their protégée. One that would actually enjoy their subject. Sorry dude, but you're barking at the wrong student. It wasn't like I despised school or anything—I cared about my grades—but I also knew that I shouldn't get attached. So I never did.

"Welcome, Miss Crowe," he said, opening the door and letting me step inside. "Would you like to tell us a little about yourself?"

I gave him a tired look, shaking my head. "No, I'd rather not."

His smile faltered a little before he said, "Okay then, find an empty seat and join us in the wonderful world of—" please, don't say it "—Shakespeare." Fuck.

When class ended, I collected the pile of papers and books I've gotten, and knew I had to make the journey to find my locker before next class. I had all of five minutes.

"Hey, I'm Bethany," a girl said, falling into step next to me. "But my friends call me Beth, and my best friends call me Betty."

"Okay, Bethany," I said, knowing that making friends was a waste of time. I used to humor myself by befriending people just to have something to do—and when I hadn't lost hope. But it always ended up the same—I started liking the person, and then I was crushed when the next move was approaching.

"I didn't catch your name," she continued, "unless you want me to call you Miss Crowe." She snickered a little, and the corner of my lips twitched. Fine, that was a good enough joke.

"It's Maya," I replied, stopping mid-step and deciding to be honest with her. "And you're probably a nice girl and all, but I'm not here to make friends, because I'm probably moving in a month or two anyway, so... don't bother. Okay? But thanks."

I forced a smile, and she looked confused. I recognized that look. There was always at least one that tried to befriend the new girl, and whenever they got turned down, they looked exactly the same. The same fallen face, not believing their bad luck and wondering why they didn't fit the mold for the new girl. I continued my journey of finding my locker, and luckily, Bethany didn't follow.

Turning people down had become second nature to me, and I didn't even think much of it anymore. It was my go-to reaction whenever someone tried to befriend me. Mom and I moved a lot—like, a lot. For the past seven years, I had gone to over twenty different schools, in just as many places, in a handful of states. Mom couldn't keep a job, and instead of trying to find a new job in the same town, she always shuffled us off a few hundred miles to start us over. Every move was "the last move", and every house was our "forever home". Until it wasn't. I couldn't even remember the last time I felt that I actually had a home, and not just somewhere to live. I held no delusions of Highstone, Maryland, being anything different. In a month, we might be in North Carolina for all I knew.

I found my locker and awkwardly juggled my papers and books as I tried putting in the combination with one hand. It opened with a click, and I pushed the papers and books inside and kicked the door closed with the heel of my foot.

I could have spent the entire day sleepwalking, and I wouldn't have missed a thing. My current classes were covering things I had already read, and I spent my lunch hour in the library, googling my college options. My grades were all-over the place and I knew my picks were slim. I had gone from C's to B's and A's to D's without even doing anything. I never knew what to expect whenever the report card came. I couldn't blame my teacher's though, because how the hell do you grade someone that's only been in your class for a month?

I had just entered my junior year of high school, and I still had another year to come up with the grades that would get me into college. It was all I cared about. Getting into a school–any school–and get to stay in one place for longer than five minutes sounded like paradise. When I turned eighteen, Mom couldn't force me to move away with her any longer, and I could stay put. But that was still six months away, and God only knew where we'd be by then. Connecticut? Alabama? We hadn't done Alabama yet. Maybe Florida would be nice. I didn't know what I would do without my mom, but staying put felt more important than staying with her by this point. When the bell rang, I reluctantly went to class. History. A useless subject—why read about the past, if you're not willing to learn from it?

The classes were full of people, and they all morphed into one faceless creature. No face mattered. They were all the same. The clothes were all the same; the crowds were all the same; the personalities were all the same. Between the schools I had been to, the only noticeable difference was which sport was their pride and joy. In Highstone High, that sport seemed to be soccer. At least that was what I had gathered after spotting their mascot wearing soccer cleats and having a soccer ball for a head.

Mom was in the living room when I came home, and I was surprised to see her.

"Aren't you at work?" I asked.

"My shift got canceled," she replied, swiping on her phone.

"Oh, why?"

"I don't know," she replied, but her tone was avoiding, and it was clear she knew why. I sighed.

"Did you lose your job already?" I asked, point blank.

Her eyes shot up, looking at me, annoyed. "No," she declared. "There was a schedule mishap, is all." She looked back down at her phone as she continued to swipe. "I promised you," she continued, "we're not moving anymore. This is it."

"Yeah, I've heard that one before," I replied under my breath.

I left her to her devices and walked over to my room. Our small little two-bedroom house was one of the better ones we'd had. We'd gone through apartments and houses and trailers, each more run down than the other. At least this house didn't have mystery stains on the carpet or torn wallpaper. It was... fine. Mom didn't want to tell me how much it was to rent—because that's what we did: we rented; we could never buy a home, which also added to the feeling of every house being fleeting. Money was scarce and Mom often earned below minimum wage. We were at the bottom of society—all because Dad left.

Mom showed me her phone.

"Look, there's a fall fair this weekend," she said, as I glanced at her phone.

"Yeah, so?" I asked, uninterested.

"They have a business fair too," she said, putting emphasis on the word. "I could get a better job—or a second job, for that matter. We can go together?"

"I don't know..."

"Please, sweetie, it'll be fun," she said, pouting with her lips like a child wanting something from an adult. The irony was that I was the adult in our relationship, while she was out flying on her delusions of grandeur.

"Fine," I said, with a huff. She squealed in delight.