Aspen Heights, Book 1: Chosen

Elita

I glanced at the alarm clock perched precariously atop a stack of books on my nightstand and groaned.
I was sitting on the floor, criss-cross applesauce, with 2 suitcases open in front of me.
I had approximately 33 minutes before it was time to leave for Aspen Heights Academy, AKA my inevitable doom. I had meant to set my alarm the night before, but being my typical self, I completely forgot. Also being myself, I had only just begun packing 2 days ago, and was still not finished.
You wouldn't think I would have much to call my own, being a foster kid and all, but ever since being placed with Carol, I'd been spoiled rotten. Clothes, shoes, books, toiletries, decor, you name it, Carol bought it. Everything but a phone, because "phones are addictive and the last thing you need at your age is eye strain and brain damage."
I stood up in the middle of my messy room, feeling overwhelemed. I was nowhere near ready.
I rubbed my puffy eyes groggily. I had hardly gotten any sleep last night. I was so nervous, even more nervous than usual, to be starting at a new school. I thought at first that maybe this was due to the fact that it was a boarding school, something I've never tried before, but later decided against that theory. I was excited about the boarding aspect of it. I'd never even seen the place before, but the thought of it just gave me the shivers, but not in a bad way. I felt an odd... connection to it, stupid as that may sound.
I glanced over at the piles of books strewn across my bed and sighed. The arrangements had been made so suddenly, I didn't have any time to prepare. I wished I could bring all my books with me. One downside to boarding school.
I jumped at the sound of footsteps coming down the hall toward my room. It was my foster mom, Carol. The familiar thwick-thwack of her flip-flops startled me every time, even after nearly 2 years of living with her.
"Elita, are you almost packed? We should get going..." she trailed off as she opened the door and stared at the numerous towers of miscellaneous books creating a cityscape across my bedroom floor.
I smiled sheepishly and shrugged.
"Elita," she said, disapprovingly. Her hands were on her hips and her mouth a thin line. She was short and skinny, and all around not intimidating, no matter how tough she tried to appear.
"Elita, please explain to me why there are books strewn all across your room, clothes all throw about and... is that a half eaten sandwich?"
Pastrami and cheese. Last night's dinner. "Sorry Carol." I rubbed the back of my neck and stared at the floor.
"Forget about it. Just be ready. We need to be out of here within 30 minutes, tops," she warned.
It was hard to take Carol seriously most of the time, but I tried to follow her rules. Today she was wearing a bright orange blouse paired with a floral skirt. She was wearing makeup even though I tell her she doesn't need it.
She was only in her 30s, barely old enough to have been my biological mother. She seemed even younger to me though, almost more like a friend than a mom. Which was a relief, because I didn't have many friends. I did occasionally grieve my lack of a mother though.
Every once in a while Carol would scare me, but only when I got her really angry. Like the time I accidentally punched Hillary Williams in the face. She snatched my book out of my hands and started reciting words found nowhere in the book in an attempt to humiliate me. Good try Hillary, but I could humiliate myself just fine, thank you. So I acted without thinking. That's something I do sometimes. I'm not a violent person though, really. I just act on impulse and sometimes I go into survival mode. In fact, most of the time I'm pretty quiet and skittish. But sometimes people just bring things out of me. Maybe it's the trauma of foster care.
But even in that instance Carol couldn't stay angry long. She told me that while she didn't condone my actions, Hillary was a big buffoon, and it was okay to defend yourself at times... just not that way.
Even now, I knew I could make Carol smile. I put on my best dumb blond voice (I don't think hair color determines intelligence by the way, it's just a saying) and scoffed.
"Yeah, you know, I was thinking about it, and I really don't think I'm gonna need any books. I mean, who even reads anymore, right?" I asked sarcastically. "Like, hello, seriously?" This was an inside joke between me and Carol, and sure enough, she giggled.
"Okay, well, you are right that you're not going to need all of your books, but it's always good to have a few favorites on hand, don't you think?"
Carol was a reader, just like me. Many weekends, weekday evenings, and holiday breaks were spent in silence as we read side by side, on the couch, or the porch swing outside.
I rolled my eyes dramatically. "Not when they weigh 50 extra pounds Carol!"
We both burst out laughing. I was going to miss Carol a lot.
"Okay, well as your foster mother, I'm going to require you to take at least half of them. What if there is a book emergency?"
I stifled my laugh, attempting to play along. I sagged my shoulders in mock defeat.
"Really? You're pulling the foster mother card? Well, fine, I will lug these silly books all the way across the state, just for you."
Carol's eyes gleamed and she pointed at me in a silent command to get packed before she began thwick-thwacking back down the hall.
As I was reaching down to grab a stray pair of underwear, I glimpsed myself in the mirror and froze. I stood up straight and stared at my reflection.
My frilly white blouse suddenly looked entirely too childish. My worn jeans made me think of a hobo, and my ratty Converse sneakers looked about 1,000 years old. Carol was always buying me new clothes, but I felt I had no sense of style, and I would never give up my Converse, no matter how ratty they got. Luckily my feet seemed to have stopped growing, and I prayed I didn't have a sudden spurt.
I was one of the shortest in my class, and although I was of around average weight for my age and height, I appeared quite small. This made me feel small, not just size-wise, but mentally.
I tucked a strand of golden brown hair into my messy bun and smoothed out my blouse. The neon orange nail polish I had applied last week was almost all chipped off. I was a mess. I wanted to not care about what others thought, but I couldn't help wanting to make a good impression on my new classmates. This could be my chance to make real friends, and not be known as the school psycho.
I turned my head and glared at the strange, spirally birthmark on the right side of my neck. It was stark white color. Part of me thought it was kind of cool and unique, but ultimately, it made me different, and different made it hard to fit in. As hard as I tried to push the nervewracking thoughts away, I couldn't help but play scenarios over and over again in my mind, imagining how meeting my classmates would go, and what impressions the kids at Aspen Heights would have of me. I wish I could stop worrying so much about the way I was perceived by now, having transferred to a good 15 different schools throughout my life, but it was never any easier to cope.
I my head in an attempt to shake the distressing thoughts away, and instead tried to focus on double checking my mental packing list. Most of the little organization I practiced took place only in my head, where information was almost certain to be forgotten. Self-sabotage at its finest.
I took another look at my clock and pouted, shoving a few final items into my bags before aggressively zipping them up and gathering them by the door.
I took one last good look at my room before turning to leave. I was gonna miss this place. I was used to moving around a lot, but getting used to new surroundings and letting go of the old ones never got any less mournful. At least I would be coming back here... hopefully.
"Bye. I'll be back," I assured my room, hoping saying so aloud might make it true, before rolling my suitcases into the hallway and shutting the door one last time.