I'm lost. I always feel like I don't know exactly what to do, just enough to get by in life. Sometimes I think about how pathetic it sounds. Why should I need other people to help me? I never need them any other time. Yet, I can never stray from the flock, because I'm too afraid of getting lost.

I bet George Washington never said that. Or Mahatma Ghandi. Sometimes, I wonder what it's like to be extraordinary. I'm stuck in mediocrity, and I need to escape.

I take a deep inhale of the cigarette, keeping it in for a long time. I feel it warm my insides, and for a moment, I feel satisfied. Leaning my head up, I let the smoke create a mist around me. A car passes by.

Alone on the freeway. I don't know why I like it here. Somehow, I just feel like it's the only place busier than my mind, and I like feeling like a beacon of peace. I wrap my thin peacoat around my frame. The cold seems to leak in and surround my body. I shiver as if Jack Frost himself were embracing me.

I don't want to go home. It's not my home. It's more of a place to rest my head. My foster parents are bland people. Nice, but plainer than a saltine cracker. I wander in the general direction of my car. The car is a sort of bribe they gave me to like them. I like being able to drive wherever I want. As long as I'm home before ten on school nights.

I turn to a station playing an old Pink Floyd song, and think about my state. Isn't that what everyone worries? What if I'm really different and I don't know it? I just feel like my head is a cage. I don't speak enough to let my thoughts out.

Tomorrow my school starts. I got here a week ago, and I got a little while to settle in because of winter break. I pull up to the house. A pretty house, the kind that you would see in a magazine. Letting myself in, I go up to my room. The smell of dinner wafts through the air.

"Dinner in 10 minutes, Lana!" I'm not hungry. I wouldn't say that and worry them, but I'm too nervous. I know everyone will hate me. They have every time before. I've been in foster care since I was 10. I don't like to think about before. Carefully, my numb hands look through my clothes. I lay out a worn blue short-sleeved shirt. Alongside, I lay out my favorite skinny jeans, and lace up boots. Carelessly, I throw my big grey sweater on the pile, and head downstairs.

Spaghetti and meatballs. My stomach churns, containing too many butterflies to keep any food down. I poke at the food, keeping conversation to avoid worry.

"How do you feel about school tomorrow?" Tammy asks. She is a pretty, slightly over middle aged woman, with shorter blond hair and smile lines.

"Fine."

"Do you know where the school is?" Richard says, clearing his throat. He has short brown-gray hair and wears thin glasses. He works in the city and plays golf on the weekends.

"Yes." I droned. "May I be excused?" They nod and I leave, wanting to e alone.

In my room, I flop down on the full size bed. I turn to hit the stereo, where Beastie Boys blare. I decide unpack. These people don't seem to hate me. My two pairs of shoes: old lace up boots, and black converse high-tops. My shirts that were mostly old vintage band tee shirts, and soft plain colored shirts. I had a couple pairs of jeans, worn and torn. Now I had a real coat, the thin peacoat Tammy and Richard bought me. My last family, a bunch of prissy country clubbers, had gotten me yoga pants, which I found comfy.

My prized possessions were my records and record player a jar of sea glass, and a Polaroid. The sea glass was from a trip to the ocean my mother and I took. The Polaroid was of my mother and I, hugging as if we never wanted to let go.

I miss my mom. She loved me.