Megan’s outfit.

Megan's new house

Rain began to fall heavily against my bedroom window as I looked out to see what would be my view for about a year. I’m currently sitting on my window seat which is why I picked this room. I have no say in where we live but I can pick my room. Oh, yeah. That seems fair.

I sighed heavily and began to look around the empty room. My mom and I just started moving in today. We’ve been in London for a week but we’ve been staying in a hotel. I began hearing noises from downstairs. It must be the moving people bringing in our stuff. I knew I’d have to move eventually, but at that moment I didn’t want to. At that moment all I wanted was to look outside and watch the rain.

I stared in a daze as I tried blocking out thoughts of the inevitable anxiety I would soon be facing just like I do every year I go to a new school. You really would think I’d be use to it by now. After all, this is going to be my tenth time. I’m going into the eleventh grade this year and I just turned seventeen last week. Now, I know when most people hear “birthday" they think fun, party, and friends, but my birthdays couldn’t be more opposite. Sure, I’ll get some money from family and even some money from mom, but I haven’t had a single birthday party since I was seven.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice getting money from relatives that I never speak to except for holidays and even then they feel like complete strangers, but to me, my birthday is just another huge reminder to me of how insignificant I am in this world. My mom barely wished me a happy birthday when she was quickly out the door to go to an important meeting with some new clients and blah, blah, blah. It didn’t really matter where she was. Because she’s gone most of the time I stopped caring exactly where she was or what she was doing a long time ago. It’s not that I don’t understand that she has to have a job since my dad was a complete jerk and abandoned us. But there’s a difference between getting involved at work and abandoning your kid. Which is why I find irony in the fact that my mom complains about my dad leaving me when in fact, she might as well have left too.

Anyways, the highlight of my birthday is always when my only friend calls. Her name is Chloe. She lives in the United States and I’ve known her since I was in kindergarten. She always knows how to cheer me up. Or at least feel like I have a reason to continue living. I haven’t tried to commit suicide or anything, but let’s just say there have been several times that running out in front of a car seemed very tempting…

Some guys started carrying in boxes full of my stuff and I took it as my cue to leave. I glanced out of the window once more then began to make my way to the upstairs living room. Or should I say, formal living room. The off white couch was now in its place up against the corner wall next to the stairs that took you down to another seating area. There were boxes scattered around as well. I walked a bit more and was in the kitchen, where I saw my mother. On the phone of course. She was wearing work clothes as she always is. Just as I was about to go check out the downstairs, I had to stop mid-step.

“Megan, I have to go to the office. It’ll be a while. Please, be a dear and make sure everything is brought in. Also, when they get done, give them this check and sign my name. Ok?" my mother said in her light and bubbly high pitched voice. “Sure, mother. I would love to commit forgery for you." I said in my usual sarcastic tone. My mother gave me her usual look she gives when I say something sarcastic or something intended to be funny. “It’s not forgery if I’m telling you to do it."

I grabbed the check, rolled my eyes, and began to walk away. “Whatever. I’ll do it." I barely made two steps when she said, “And Megan, please get some rooms set up, would you? I’ll help some later when I get home or in the morning." I stopped dead in my tracks. This happens literally every year, I don’t know why I’m surprised every time. She never helps arrange the rooms. I almost replied, but instead I continued on my way downstairs.

All of the furniture and boxes were already here, so I decided to go ahead and start arranging. Just as I was about halfway through, one of the moving guys came in. “I need you to sign this." I quickly took the paper attached to a clip board and scribbled down my mothers signature. “Thank you. And have a nice day." he said as he left.

“Have a nice day"

I began to repeat the phrase in my mind. People say it so often, yet very few times do we actually stop to think about whether or not the person we are saying this to will indeed “have a nice day." It’s weird how a phrase that is said so much has such little meaning. When you say “have a nice day" to someone, you don’t know if they will. Maybe they won’t. Maybe they can’t. You don’t know what all is going on in their life. It really is strange to think about how many people we pass by that are going through so much in their lives that we can do absolutely nothing about. Or so it seems. Very few ever find out if it’s possible because no one tries. It’s strange to stop and think about the immense amount of people out in the world that wish that one, just one person would care enough to see how exhausted, worthless, and hopeless they feel. But sadly most of the time no one does. Instead we all continue to carry on like robots in a never ending cycle. Just waiting, hoping, and wishing, that someone, someday, somehow, would finally break that cycle.