My favorite time of day are those very first few groggy moments upon waking up. I realize that these are are most people's most dreaded moments — when their alarm goes off and the fog lifts and they realize the reality they'd just been living was but a dream, and their now imminent reality is that they have to leave the comfort of their soft, warm beds and go to work or school or wherever life demands.

But it's not like that for me. For one, I don't dream. Sometimes I wish I did, for I would love to spend some time with my mother again, projection of my mind or not. The only alternate realities sleep brings me are those of terror. And when the nightmares don't come, my sleep is black and pictureless. I can't remember if I dreamed before Mom was taken from me, but I like to think I must have.

When I first wake up, and it's just me alone in my room, there are no colored auras. None at all. Only normal colors appear in my vision: the neutral beige of the walls, the paper white of the door, the mahogany of the wooden desk, the slate gray of the years' old laptop that sits atop it. I can pretend that my mom is in her room with my dad and we will all eat breakfast together in a few minutes once I'm all ready for school just like we used to do — sugary cereal and black coffee and runny eggs.

But eventually my aching bladder commands me to make the journey down the hallway to the bathroom to relieve it, passing up my dad's open bedroom door in the process. His bed is empty, the sheets ruffled and the comforter awry. I hear the shower in his bathroom running. Mom is still gone.

I continue down the hall to the half bath. I flick the light on and take my first look in the mirror. My hair is still black; my eyes are still green; I still have all the ribs Eve had.

"My name is Alyssa," I recite to my reflection, and she recites it back to me. "I am seventeen, and I am from Chicago."

Day two. There is no reason why it can't go by as smoothly as day one.

🦎

          Eli slips in to first period just at the bell's final toll. He can't see the look Mathers gives him, nor can he feel the annoyed aura Mathers projects.

Mr. Mathers puts an example problem on the board and tells us to answer it in our notebooks, and then we will discuss it. I hear a shift in the desk behind me, and then Mathers looks in my direction, his aura once again magenta.

"Yes, Mr. Whitney?"

"Is this for points?" The voice behind me asks.

I swear I see Mathers roll his eyes. "As I have said before, Mr. Whitney, it should not matter whether any task I assign you is for a grade or not, as every problem you answer in this class should be worked with the mindset that it will be counted towards you. You should always solve math equations with the mentality that your grade depends on it, so that you will give it your best effort. We all want 'A's, am I correct?"

Several students nod, regardless of his question's clear rhetorical tone.

Eli raises his hand again, I presume, because this time I'm positive our teacher lifts his eyes to the ceiling in frustration.

"Yes, Mr. Whitney?"

"Okay, but, is it for points, though?"

A few students snicker while the rest remain either annoyed or apathetic. Mr. Mathers takes a seat at his desk, paying no mind to Eli's repeated question. He sets the digital timer that faces menacingly outward.

"You have six minutes," he says.

Two minutes go by and I have already solved the equation. I am about to double check my work when something lightly taps my shoulder. I want to ignore it so badly. I almost do. But somehow I know that long boy will continue to pester me until he breaks my attention.

I turn around silently and lift my brows at Eli in question.

He taps at his blank sheet of paper. "Do you know how to do this?" he whispers. At least, I think he thinks he's whispering.

"Look at your notes," I whisper back.

"I didn't take my meds that day. Can I see yours?"

I hear Mathers clear his throat and I shift forward in my seat, my face prickling with sudden heat.

"Mr. Whitney. Miss George. Do I need to separate the two of you?"

The majority of the class lifts their heads to look at us, and I feel the tips of my ears redden.

Eli is quick to answer, of course. "No, Mr. Mathers. I was just explaining to Miss George how to solve the equation."

I... Hell no. I look back down at the correctly solved equation in my notebook, angry and embarrassed — cherry and lime.

Mathers doesn't even blink. "Miss George, if you are not understanding the material presented to you in class, it would be wise for you to stay after for some one-on-one tutoring."

I nod once, respectful, but when Eli taps me on the shoulder with his pencil again, I realize Mathers wants a verbal response. "Um, no, thank you. I think I've got it."

"Then how about we keep the talking to a minimum, hm?"

I don't even so much as turn my head for the rest of the period. I don't need to be labeled as a troublemaker. Troublemakers get remembered.

In physics, I'm partnered up with a student called Chen to complete an assignment together. Chen has violet hair, almond eyes, and an eyebrow, lip, and nose piercing, and they just strike me as one of those people that you don't want to mess with. I try to read them, but their aura is blurred, much like the secretary in the office. Completely void of all emotion. Chen is quiet, and we do our work in silence. Which I appreciate, because I can pretend I'm working alone.

Every time I move, I miss some school in the process. Because of this, I have fallen farther behind than I should be. About two years behind. Since I have all the time in the world to study, though, I do. At first I'd slacked off in school, unimportant as it seemed in the long shadow of grief cast by my mother's tragic passing. But after, I decided that if school was all Dad would allow of me, then I was going to excel at it. Maybe then he'd feel a little bit of remorse for my wasted fate. As if any of this was his fault, his doing.

I pride myself on my intelligence. It is my only security. And it unnerves me that I can't even accomplish the one thing I'm good at on time. But I don't voice this. I pretend I am the same age as my classmates. There's no reason to further differentiate myself from them. There's no reason to be remembered.

At lunch, I linger by a bathroom until all the cliques and packs — unchanging from school to school — find each other and form a line. First come the various jocks in their letterman jackets — laughing, shoving each other, and being loud as sin, as if they are the main characters of this small town after-school serial. Their auras are mostly yellow and confident royal blue. A group of girls too beautiful for the basic cable network that airs our show follow closely behind them, their auras ranging from magenta to green. They roll their eyes at the jocks and talk amongst each other, complimenting one another on their bangs and shoes and bags and occasionally batting eyes at a baseball player when their fellow girl isn't looking. And, lastly, a small circle of excited-aura'd boys and a couple of girls with notebooks who I've seen play a very heated card game in the common area before school join the line. After that I take my cue. I mosey in towards the back, unnoticed.

"Hey! Hey, Alyssa!"

Almost unnoticed.

I almost don't turn around. I had gotten a little too used to being called Alice, maybe. But he calls the name again, my new name, and I realize it's for me and I recognize the voice, of course.

I turn around, and here comes long boy, trotting from out of the nearest hallway and reaching me in a matter of seconds, his wide stride and legs like stilts leaving me no option of escaping. He is flanked by two other boys, one his match in height and gait and the other with darker skin who averts his eyes from me quickly. Neither of their auras are anything significant.

"Oh. Hey."

He turns to either side of him, a huge grin taking up most of the real estate on his face. "Guys, this is the girl I was telling you about. This is Alyssa."

The tall one gives me a dopey grin and a large wave, his aura turning yellow. "Hey, Alyssa," he says.

The second one gives me an up-nod but still doesn't look at me. His focus is currently being claimed by a small scratch on the face of his very expensive-looking watch. I humble myself — everything looks expensive to me.

Eli puts a hand atop the tall one's shoulder. "Alyssa, this is Dex." Then the other hand atop the shy one's shoulder. "And this is Reggie."

"Hi," says Dex, so I say hi again, too. Reggie says nothing. This is all extremely awkward. Avocados with strawberry pepper jelly vinagrette.

I consider excusing myself back to the bathroom and waiting it out, but I'm already in the very back of the line and I don't want to risk missing lunch. A group of kids I recognize from my AP classes walk up to the line next, and I know I've missed my chance.

We wait in line together, and Eli makes a few attempts at starting a group conversation, which consists of mostly him talking and asking yes or no questions and the rest of us just nodding. I assume he'll eventually give up, but he doesn't. Not even when we've received our trays and milk cartons and I am forced to follow them to their table due to me not knowing anyone else and my very empty stomach. I hurriedly scan the lunch room, searching for something or someone to save me from what's to come. I know only one other person, and I don't see them. I'm not even sure that I would be welcome to sit with them. I consider for a moment sitting alone but worry that I would stand out by doing so.

The table I now reluctantly stand at seats two others who'd opted for cold sandwiches from the line on the other side of the cafeteria and had taken their seats some time before us.

"Yo, 'Jah, who's the broad?" one of the sitting boys asks. He has flippy blond hair and big biceps and his aura reeks of over-confidence.

"Excuse me?" I ask. I was not gifted with the effort it takes to get on with arrogant teenage boys.

The blond lifts his brows at me in surprise, as if he's not used to anyone — read: girls — questioning his authority.

"Cut it out, Sam," Eli glares at the blond.

The blond chuckles.

Dex sets his tray down atop the table and takes a seat next to the blond. Reggie sits across from Dex and next to the other boy. Eli sits beside Reggie and I, of course, am left with the seat across from Eli. Once we are all settled, Eli begins the introductions. I get a read on all of them.

The blond one's name is Sampson — "with a 'P'"— and he is pretty fit, like his name would suggest. I presume that he plays some sort of sport for York High, although he does not wear a letterman jacket, so I have no way of inferring which one. He smirks at me suggestively around Dex, his aura the slightest of purples, a curious interest, albiet a bit performative, and I can smell his cheap cologne. Everything smells expensive to me until it isn't.

Eli calls the boy across from Sampson by the name of Jules. He wears a small gold cross on a chain around his neck. Once he speaks, I catch a Hispanic accent although I can tell he tries to hide it and I wish I didn't know why. He's not shy, like Reggie (who is now fixated on expressionlessly glaring at his mashed potatoes through the thick square frames he wears), but he keeps his words and eye contact both to a minimum in an act that comes off self-preservation-like. Also not unlike Reggie, neither of their auras are any one thing in particular.

Dex is paler. He has buzzed black hair, a flannel jacket tied around his waist, and a skateboard clipped to his bookbag. While all the introductions are being made, he maintains a goofy look on his face that makes me believe he has no idea what anyone is saying, but his aura never strays far from a pale yellow. I'm
briefly reminded of Michael Kelso.

Thankfully, none of these culprits seem to take too much of an interest in me after the initial avocado-pepper-jelly has passed, all turning back to their lunches and each other. But it is painfully obvious that Eli is the leader, their common denominator, and they will put up with me for his sake.

Eventually the boys fall into a challenging discussion of some video game, and Eli, who doesn't seem as enthralled by it as the rest of them, turns his attention back to me. He reaches over the table and breaks off a piece of my untouched oatmeal raisin cookie. I lift my brows at him, but I don't protest. (Putting raisins in a cookie kind of ruins the point of the cookie, if you ask me.)

He then begins a winded spiel about the bees and how essential they are to earth's survival. The monologue is entirely unprecedented, but he jumps right into it as if we've been debating about it for the entirety of the lunch period. He ends his speech, the tail of his final sentence rising in tone, and I realize he'd asked me a question, although I don't know what it was.

"You're a real 'paint with all the colors of the wind' kinda guy, aren't you?" is what I say, although I can't remember deciding to actually voice the thought.

He tilts his head at me and I can't tell if he's laughing at me or offended. "Oof, kinda racist."

I tilt my head back at him, assuming he's joking. "Oh? How so?"

"Pocahontas," is all he says before he continues on about the bees.

🦎

          The nights are my least favorite parts of the day. Part one starts directly after school and consists of homework and watching Netflix with Dad, me on the couch and he in his chair — the one piece of furniture he's had since before I was born that he makes sure to transport during each move. We watch mostly sitcoms, probably because our lives have enough drama in them that we don't need to watch other peoples', fictional or not. "Seinfeld", "My Name Is Earl", and "M*A*S*H" are some of his favorites. We eat our dinner in the living room, and I think my favorite sound in the world is my father's laugh.

This is the easy part. This is the part I wish the rest of the night would mimic.

Part two begins with early evening. On good nights, I take a quick shower. On bad nights, I sit in the bath for sometimes hours on end and ponder the thing that is my life. All these years I've accomplished this under the ruse that I'm reading a book or doing homework, but what Dad doesn't know is that really I'm having a dainty (hefty) existential crisis.

Sometimes I go through what I call the "middle-aged" phase, where I decide that I'm probably going to die pretty soon, and what do I have to show for myself?! Nothing. No record of me anywhere. No noteworthy accomplishments. I've never fallen madly headfirst into love; I've never had my heart broken by a lame excuse from the godly lips of a hormonal teenage boy whom I'd believed the world to have revolved around. I've never dropped out of college to hitchhike to California and write a novel, never read the Bible in its entirety, never experimented with taboo forms of self-expression.

And the question that haunts me the most: How long has it been since I've felt real joy? Pure, unbridled joy?

Other times I grieve for the things I have lost. My mother, of course. But more than that. The beautiful house in the prim and tidy neighborhood we lived in. The way I would stand in the ocean tide and let the waves bury my feet deeper and deeper into the sand. My childhood best friend, Melly Hardwick, with her missing front teeth and wild red mane. I wonder how she's doing now. She would have graduated two years ago come May. I wonder if she still lives on Cockatoo Lane, the second house on the right with the palm trees out front, the downstairs bedroom with the pink frilly lace on the pillow cases. If she ever got rid of that lisp. What books she's read, her coffee order, her favorite band. Is she creative? Is she athletic? Is she in college?

I wonder about others, too. Jenny Lenox, a friend from the first move. Aminga Jombai and Kara Lindsey, two friends from the second move. Dylan Braun, my first schoolgirl crush, and Frankie Stevens, my last schoolgirl crush. Around move five I hoisted my white flag. Eventually I leave and have to falsely promise that I will keep in touch with the friends I've made when I know that I can't. I'd only tried this once. I'd made a Facebook account when I was thirteen so I could contact Aminga and Kara. I'd accidentally left it up on the desktop, and that had been the first and only time I've ever heard my father curse. So I've found it's easier to just... not do the friend thing.

Dad and I can't really do the family thing either. I often wonder about my grandparents on nights like these. My dad was an only child, but he wasn't close to his parents for whatever reason. My mom never knew her father; she was raised by her stepfather and her mother who'd had her late in life and died unprecedentally of complications from a hip surgery when my mom was in high school. I remember her having a younger sister. Aunt Kimmy, was it? I can only remember meeting them all a handful of times. I wonder if they remember that they once had a granddaughter and a niece who was named after the dewy first morning breath of the trees.

The third type of crisis, however, is often the worst. I close my eyes and pretend that the powers that be will catch my monster soon, and that he will be behind bars and I will be free. It's been so long since I was able to live... I fear that I've forgotten how.

My current short-term goal is to be able to go to college. But what will I do there? What will I study? Will I get asked out on dates? Will I be invited to parties? Where will I finally settle down? Will I get married? Have kids? Will I track down Melly and Aminga and Kara and my grandparents and apologize and explain to them why I never called? Or will I start completely over? Erase the past and reinvent myself? When there's no record of your true identity, you can become anyone you want.

Who will I become?

I sink down into the tub until all of me is submerged, and then I scream. I push as hard as my tiny lungs are willing. I squeeze my eyes shut tight. The bubbles muffle the sound of my desperation, and it's kind of like a metaphor.

The moment that I emerge from the bathroom, fingers and toes like prunes, initiates the beginning of part three. In which I will attempt to silence my mind and allow sleep to take me. Sometimes it takes minutes; sometimes it takes hours. Sometimes I fall asleep with "Truce" by twenty one pilots on repeat in my headphones and wake up with my phone on the edge of the bed and a voice still singing: "Now the night is coming to an end. The sun will rise and we will try again. Stay alive, stay alive for me."

Tonight, I will not dream. And tomorrow, the sun will rise and I will try again to become Alyssa, the newest girl responsible for keeping Aspen alive.

My still-wet hair dampens the pillow as I crawl into bed. I pull the covers up over my head as if they will double as a shield from the thoughts that haunt me. When I awake in the morning, both too groggy and anxious to enjoy my favorite moment, I can't remember if the shield had worked or not.

__________

If you're here because @LilianaAra directed you here, whaddupppp?!! Come say hello 'cause I wanna meet you real bad.

Disclaimer: Oatmeal raisin cookies are my favorite kind of cookies.

Soundtrack: "Truce" - twenty øne piløts