3 - C H A N C E

"Abbie Chance Taylor," my mom repeats, making me cringe. It's an involuntary reflex at this point, both because I hate my first name but also because when she says my full name, I know she means business. And not good business, either. "Where were you this whole time? Do you have any idea how worried we were? You can't just disappear with every new town we move to, you know that—"

"You didn't even notice I was gone until the morning came and you didn't find me when you went to wake me up that time we were in Spain. You don't even have the right to be mad if you can't pay enough attention to notice when your own kid is missing. Besides, it doesn't seem like you were trying very hard to find me." I gesture around the nearly deserted grocery store and raise my voice in a bad imitation of my mom's high-pitched and raspier tone. "Oh no, my kid's gone missing. Guess I'd better go buy some bread."

I look up to find her still looking at me expectantly, seemingly ignoring my previous rant. She does that a lot—she's always immune to my outbursts, which I have to admit is probably a good thing since they happen more often than I'd like. I don't exactly have anger management issues, but I do tend to lose control of myself when I get tired.

Unfortunately, the times when I get tired and lose control of myself the most are when we travel and get jetlagged. Which also happen to be the times when my anger at myself, at my parents, even at the world in general is at its worst. The times when my emotions are the rawest, when they're just waiting to burst out, making me cause the people around me the same pain that I feel.

I hate this side of me. The side that gets angry at the world and lashes out. The side that's immature and can't stay under control. I think part of the reason I'm so curious about Noah is that he was able to keep himself under control, to accept the pain without dishing it back out to compensate. I admire him for that.

"Where were you?" she repeats. "And who was that boy? He wasn't getting you into any trouble, was he? I've told you countless times not to talk to strangers. I don't say that just to hear myself talk, you know."

"I was out, and he was helping me," I answer evasively. It's not that I don't want her knowing where I've been, but I'm just so frustrated that I don't want to cooperate. Even if it makes me seem like a bratty little kid.

"Out won't cut it," she counters, looking at my dad for help. That makes me snort, though, because I know my dad won't do a thing. He's so passive that he even hates correcting me or my mom, let alone disciplining me. I could call him passive to a fault, I guess. Most of the time, I appreciate his pacificism, because I hate getting yelled at. Who wouldn't? But sometimes, when he refuses to take a side or acknowledge something, it seems like he doesn't care. And that hurts, too.

"Can we go home soon?" he asks hopefully with a noncommittal shrug. He's trying to appear calm, but I can't help but notice the way his hands twitch. Not that I'm surprised, of course—confrontation always makes him anxious. "I'd like to go to bed. We've been awake for the better part of the last twenty-four hours. I'm sure we'd all like to go home and rest."

"Well, whose fault is that?" I mutter under my breath. "And it's not home."

"You shouldn't do that either," my mom says, shaking her head. "It's rude to mumble like that. You know that, Chance."

It makes me angry that she stays so calm. That she carries herself with such a shameless air of superiority, as if she's looking disdainfully down at the world around her in disappointment for having not been perfect enough to satisfy her. It feels like she uses her ability to stay calm as a weapon against me, as if to point out how much better she is than me. To point out how my feelings are invalid.

Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with confidence. My dad isn't nearly confident enough. But when that confidence turns into toxic disdain, when it makes someone make others feel inferior, then it's gone too far. People like that make me so extremely uncomfortable that I try to avoid them at all costs. Which sometimes results in me walking out on my own mother.

"Fine. I can say it louder if you want." I stare at her with my arms crossed, waiting for a protest, an objection, anything at all. I don't get one. Raising my voice, I say, "This isn't home. You say that every time, but it's never home. And we wouldn't be in this situation if—"

"Please, Chance, that's quite enough," my dad interrupts, looking around frantically to see if there's anyone watching. "Let's just go home. You two shouldn't be arguing now; you're too tired and you'll just end up saying things you regret." He puts one hand on my back and the other on my mom's, pushing us towards the door and nodding apologetically to the employee behind the customer service desk on the way out.

"Easy for you to say," I grumble. "You're not the angry one."

"Abbie," my mom says, her voice getting sharper. It makes me flinch; her tone is so sharp, so pointed that it almost causes me physical pain. It seems to pierce through my head, echoing around for a few seconds until I finally shut it out.

"Don't call me that."

I jerk my shoulder out of my dad's grip and storm off to the car, getting in as soon as he unlocks it and slamming the door behind me. Part of me is slightly ashamed to be acting like a disrespectful and rebellious teenager—which I pretty much am, though that's beside the point—but the rest of me is so angry that I can't bring myself to care.

The car ride home is tense and silent. I lean my head against the window, focusing on how cold it is against my cheek rather than how my mom keeps stealing glances at me using the tiny rearview mirror and my dad refuses to look at either of us as he drives painfully slowly down the road. He's always been the driver that everyone hates because they refuse to go even one mile per hour above the speed limit.

I close my eyes, the passing streetlights causing my vision to grow brighter and darker every few seconds. The seatbelt bites into my shoulder, the window is numbing my cheek, and the unpleasant smell of chemicals that come with the new rental car makes my nose hurt. My neck has a crick in it and tweaks every time I move, and my back hurts from having sat so much today. I'm so uncomfortable that I want to cry. But I'm almost too tired to cry; a single tear traces its way down my cheek, but the rest just stay swimming in my eyes, blurring my vision.

When my dad pulls into the driveway, I open the door before the car even stops moving. Decidedly ignoring my mom's protests as I get out of the car, I duck under the garage door once it's high enough off the ground and walk inside without looking back.

The warmth of the house is a welcome change from the frigidity of the winter air outside. My cheek, numb from the cold, starts to tingle. My fingertips start to tingle, too, which startles me for a moment. I hadn't realized they'd gone numb. But I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, since my clothes are still slightly damp, bringing with them a chill that seems to soak into my bones.

After kicking my shoes off by the door, I make my way down the hallway, through the kitchen, and then around the couches in the living room, cursing the stupid layout of the house the whole time. I shouldn't have to walk through every single room on the whole entire first floor when the stairs are less than ten feet from the garage door. Who thought it was a good idea to put a wall in the middle?

As soon as I get upstairs, I collapse on the bed, laying as still as possible for a few seconds while I stare blankly at the room around me. Boxes are piled up in all four corners, taking up almost the whole floor. The room is tiny, after all. The only empty floor space forms a path from the door to the bed. But I don't mind that much. At least the boxes cover up most of the ugly stains on the carpet left over from years of previous renters.

After a few seconds, I adjust myself into a more comfortable position. But when I roll over, something crinkles in my pocket. I take reach my hand in and pull out a crumpled receipt with Noah's phone number. Noah had wanted me to text him.

Texting him this soon feels kind of awkward. Scratch that, texting him at all feels awkward. I've never had anyone my own age to text. But he did ask, so I unfold the paper and grab my phone from the desk where I left it earlier today. Maybe I really should make more of an effort to remember it, but I've never really had a reason to before.

I could now, though.

Sighing, I type out a message: Hey Noah, this is Chance. The guy that screamed at you and emotionally blackmailed you into buying him a hot chocolate.

He replies right away. omg ur alive!!!!!! i was kinda worried bc it took you a long time to text

I got lectured, but it was fine. She kept asking me questions about you.

what'd u tell her?

That you were helping me find my house.

awwww why didn't u tell her that we've become such great friends??

She would've asked me more questions. I'm too tired to deal with that

And I'm not lying. We just got here this morning from Tokyo, and even though I slept on the plane, I'm starting to feel the effects of jetlag. Well, starting is an understatement. I've been feeling it for hours. Since I got on the plane, really. Traveling is the absolute worst.

omg i can tell ur tired bc you forgot a period at the end of ur last sentence lol

why do u text so formally??????

I don't know.

I've never texted anyone before.

oh right

i forgot...

Yeah.

so...Abby?

*Abbie

I scowl, chiding myself for responding out of habit. Out of anything we could be talking about right now, this is probably one of the worst things. It's not that I have bad memories associated with the name or anything. I just hate it. Who would give their son such a girly name on purpose? Abbie Chance Taylor.

And even after people get over the shock of my first name, they can never spell it right anyway. I'm not sure what my parents were thinking. I think the problem is that they weren't thinking. Not at all.

Can we PLEASE not talk about this????? PLEASE Noah

I regret the message immediately after I send it because I know Noah wasn't going to listen. Especially since I responded so strongly. I'm honestly not sure why I'm still bothering to text Noah if he was being so annoying, but it's almost thrilling in a way I haven't felt in a long time.

but......

pleaseeeeeeeeeeee

i wanna knowww

wait where'd u go,,,,,

abbieeee come backkk

abbieeeeeeeee

helloooo????

I'm not here.

i don't think that's how texting works lmao

sooo are you gonna tell me

or not???????

I smile, realizing Noah just gave me the option of staying quiet whether he meant to or not. It's a little shocking how different he is over text compared to how he acted in person. But although he's completely different, it isn't bad; it's kind of amusing to think about how ridiculous he'd sound if he talked like this in real life.

"or not"

dang i set myself up for that one

fine, fine

so how's life

Through a yawn that makes my eyes water and my jaw hurt, I type out, I'm tired, so I'm going to bed. Bye.

My phone makes a thumping noise as I turn it off and haphazardly toss it onto the floor. I reluctantly stand up and cross the room, trying to remember where I put my pajamas. But as soon as I'm about to open my suitcase to start a long and probably futile search, my door swings open and my mom steps in the room.

"Looking for these? I thought I'd bring them in. Looks like good timing." She holds my pajamas out to me. Now that she's taken off her high heels and washed off her makeup, she looks decently relaxed, but more exhausted than she did before. And I do have to say that her hippo cardigan still looks ridiculous. I have no idea where she found something like that. I don't remember seeing it before.

"Thanks, Mom," I say, my tired smile mirroring hers. But my smile fades quickly as I find it to be too much effort to keep up. Especially since it isn't genuine. I'm still mad at her from before.

"About earlier..."

I close my eyes and lean my head back, sighing. "Can we not talk about that now? I'm too tired to think."

"Okay. I just wanted to apologize. I know moving around so much isn't easy. Your father and I, we try to understand, even if we're not doing a great job. Do try to remember that we don't like moving either."

"Yeah." That doesn't really make me feel any better though. It's like when my mom takes away my books as punishment and then tells me to remember how she doesn't want to do it either, but it's for my own good. If it makes both of us sad, why not just not do it? Not reassuring at all.

"I'll let you sleep now. Good night, Chance."

"Good night." I watch as she turns and walks out of the room, my room, pulling the door slowly shut behind her.

Sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to have a room completely to myself. A room where I could unpack all of my boxes because I'd know I was there to stay, where I could buy silly things as decorations to hang on the walls and put on my dresser to give the room a sense of personality. Renting houses is convenient, but none of them ever feel like home. Especially because I know I won't be there long enough to justify putting the decorations up.

I find myself wondering about Noah as I put on my pajamas and get into bed. Not about him specifically, but about his experiences and what he said earlier. That he'd never even moved houses. That he stayed out of his house as much as possible because he liked independence, but that he knew this town so well he was getting bored of it.

I've never made a legitimate effort to get to know any of the cities or towns we stayed in. I wasn't going to be there very long, so what's the point? I had no need to spend time and effort getting to know a place that I'll probably never see again. I have better things to do. Like sit around and mope.

As I lay in the darkness, trying but failing to fall asleep, I wonder more about Noah himself. Why didn't he leave me alone when I lashed out at him? It wasn't that I hadn't hurt him; I could see the emotion in his eyes when I called him a clumsy idiot, when I said I didn't need help from someone like him. And the emotion wasn't fear or anger—it was more of a dull acceptance, a sadness that I wasn't prepared to see. He said he doesn't have family problems, and maybe he doesn't, but he's not completely okay. There's something there that's eating at him.

Not that he'd tell me, of course. Or that I'd expect him to. But if he needed help, I'd help him, I think. Not just because he helped me earlier or because I feel guilty about losing my temper at him, but because I'd genuinely want to. Something about the thought of him being sad makes me sad.

And that scares me. Because I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. I'd have thought that by moving around so much, I'd have tons of practice talking to other people. But unfortunately, at this point, I have more practice hiding and blending in with a crowd than I do communicating. And while being able to hide and blend in is normally useful for me, I'm really wishing I knew how to communicate better.

I turn over in bed and pull the covers over my head, refusing to overthink this. I'll just make myself more confused than I already am, and I really don't need any more stress. Instead, I focus on how cool the sheets are on my face and how strange they smell. Soon enough, I'll get used to it, just like I've gotten used to everything else.

My warm breath gets trapped by the sheets over my head. I turn over again as the sheets start to get unpleasantly hot, sticking my head out so I can breathe the cooler air. I hate that after being awake for nearly twenty-four hours, I still can't fall asleep, especially because I'm equally tired mentally as I am physically.

I reach for my phone and turn it on to see one last message from Noah on the screen, sent about half an hour ago: Good night, weirdo.

Good night, I reply, setting it back down and staring out into the darkness. As tired as I am, I can tell it'll be forever before I fall asleep.