The Girl Who Never Asked for Anything

The year my parents divorced, they each gave me a key. Dad said, "There'll always be a room for you at Dad's new place." Mom said, "Wherever Mom is, that's your home." I believed them. For the next decade or so, I rotated between two houses. Mom said my stepfather was a light sleeper, so I shouldn't shower after eleven at night. Dad said my six-year-old sister didn't like strangers, so I shouldn't leave my room unless I had to. I did everything they asked. I thought that as long as I was good enough, there would always be a door left open for me. Until the day Mom said she had a business trip and told me to sleep at Dad's. I dragged my suitcase to Dad's house, only to find that my key wouldn't turn in the lock. Dad spoke through the door, saying they'd just installed a keypad lock. "What's the code?" He was quiet for a few seconds, then only said Sophie was running a fever, and I should go back to Mom's for the night. When I doubled back, the lock at Mom's had been changed too. Hanging beside the porch was a wooden sign celebrating my baby brother's first birthday: WELCOME HOME, BABY NOAH. On the phone, Mom said the guest room was now being used by the nanny who took care of the baby, and I should stay at a friend's place for the night. I sat down on the front steps, staring at the two useless old keys in my palm. If neither of these doors would open for me, then I had no reason to claim either of these homes as mine. … I stuffed the keys into the pocket of my hoodie and pulled up the handle of my suitcase. The wheels rattled and stuttered along the concrete driveway. At this hour, nearly every house on the street had its lights on. Through the windows, I could see people cleaning up after dinner in their kitchens, others sitting on couches watching TV. I didn't stop. The dorms would already be locked at this hour. I walked along the street and stopped at the convenience store on the corner. I pushed the door open. The welcome bell chimed. I bought a cup of instant noodles. Didn't add hot water. Didn't open the seasoning packet. I peeled back the paper lid, broke off a chunk of the dry noodle brick, and chewed. My phone lit up on the counter. A text from Mom. Claire, did you find somewhere to stay? I'm really sorry, things are just so hectic here right now. I'll send you some money tomorrow. Two minutes later, a text from Dad. I'll explain the lock situation in a few days. Sophie's been fighting a cold, so don't come over just yet—don't want you catching it. I looked at the two messages sitting side by side on the screen. My lock screen was still a photo from that summer at the beach, the year I turned ten. I opened Settings and switched it to the default solid-color wallpaper. Reply to Mom: Okay. Reply to Dad: Got it. I tossed the rest of the noodle brick, cup and all, into the trash bin by my feet. I laid my head down on the counter and closed my eyes. The next morning, I dragged my suitcase into the school dorm. Maya, my roommate, spotted me in the mirror and turned around. "Weren't you supposed to be at your dad's this week? Why'd you bring your stuff back?" I shoved the suitcase as far under the bed as it would go. "Not going anymore. I'm staying on campus from now on." Maya handed me a bagel from her desk, still in its plastic bag. "Your parents are unbelievable, tossing you back and forth like that. And you—you're way too patient. If it were me, I would've lost it ages ago." I took the bagel and bit into it. The cream cheese had gone cold, congealed against the bread. "Losing it wouldn't change anything." I chewed and swallowed. That afternoon, my academic advisor, Dr. Hannah Reed, sent me an email with an application form attached. Remote School District Teaching Program. Two-year term. A place in Montana called Red Creek. Population: one thousand one hundred and eighty-four. I opened the form and wrote my name in the first field. Six weeks until the start date. Between now and then, all I needed was a place to sleep. Before lights-out, Mom's transfer came through. Fifty dollars. Along with a voice-to-text message. We're throwing Noah's first birthday party this weekend, I'll send you the address later. Wear something bright, would you? Stop showing up in those dingy gray things all the time—you look washed out. I accepted the transfer and moved the money to my campus card. I didn't reply. The phone screen went dark. The only sound left in the room was Maya's breathing. I rolled over and faced the wall.