the hopes that a prestigious Catholic school record might give her a leg-up on college applications.
But the principal knew we weren’t the typical kind of family who paid for tuition at Saint Seraphina Preparatory Academy. All of Alice’s classmates came from wealthy backgrounds, with dynamic lawyer-doctor, contractor-designer parent combinations. They lived in three-story mansions and were driven to school by private chauffeurs in shiny BMWs and Mercedes. They carried designer bags and wore designer shoes with their neatly-pressed school uniforms. Alice, however, lived in a tiny two-bed, one-bath apartment with her physiotherapist older sister. She carried her books in a patched-up hand-me-down backpack and clunky combat boots she bought with her lunch money at a thrift store. She was dangerously smart and self-assured, but neither of those traits did much to help her blend in at Saint Seraphina.
Looking after her was a full-time job in itself, but I didn’t have the luxury of dedicating all my hours to watching out for her. Unfortunately, it was just the two of us. So I had to work.
I sighed, wincing at my reflection in the tiny overhead mirror. I would be lying to say I wasn’t attractive; I was pretty in a fresh-faced, doe-eyed kind of way that made me look even younger than I really was. But I couldn’t deny that I also looked absolutely exhausted. I was up until one in the morning helping Alice build a papier-mache and modeling clay replica of an ionic column. After shuttling her into bed, setting out her ironed plaid skirt, white shirt, and navy-blue blazer, putting her lunch money in an envelope, laying out my own gym clothes for this morning, prepping a salad to take to work, showering, and getting myself into bed-- it was close to 3 AM. And then I got up at five-thirty this morning to get here at six.
And it showed on my face. There were purplish half-moons under my eyes and my cheeks looked paler than usual, the smattering of freckles across my nose standing out against my ivory skin. My strawberry-blonde waves hung loose around my shoulders and I stepped out of my car to flip my head over and scoop my hair into a bouncy ponytail. A couple rebellious pieces still slipped free to frame my face. I heaved a deep breath, grabbed my gym bag, and headed for the back entrance to the gym. The name, THE FIGHTING CHANCE, glittered in massive gold lettering along the side of the building. I smiled to myself, feeling a wave of familiarity and fondness wash over me.
Sure, I never planned for my life to turn out this way, but I did love my job. When my father passed away, I decided to shelve my dreams of becoming an Olympic runner in order to take up a more stable lifestyle so I could take care of Alice here in Las Vegas. I had been on the fast track - excuse the pun - to success up until then, with a wall full of gold medals and a hefty college scholarship sustaining me. I was twenty-two, fresh out of college and headed to a summer training camp in California to foster my talent and further my career, when suddenly, I got the call that changed my life forever.
Our travel bus had stopped at a fill-up station when I checked my phone to see several missed calls from Alice. Confused, I had called her back immediately. In a parking lot near the California border, I crumpled to the pavement and burst into inconsolable tears. Alice hysterically explained to me that Dad had been involved in a terrible car accident. The driver of an eighteen-wheeler fell asleep at the wheel after two straight days of travel, careened into an intersection, and smashed my Dad’s old Lincoln town car into a concrete guard rail.
He was dead within minutes of arriving at the hospital, leaving Alice alone and panicked in the waiting room, suddenly an
But the principal knew we weren’t the typical kind of family who paid for tuition at Saint Seraphina Preparatory Academy. All of Alice’s classmates came from wealthy backgrounds, with dynamic lawyer-doctor, contractor-designer parent combinations. They lived in three-story mansions and were driven to school by private chauffeurs in shiny BMWs and Mercedes. They carried designer bags and wore designer shoes with their neatly-pressed school uniforms. Alice, however, lived in a tiny two-bed, one-bath apartment with her physiotherapist older sister. She carried her books in a patched-up hand-me-down backpack and clunky combat boots she bought with her lunch money at a thrift store. She was dangerously smart and self-assured, but neither of those traits did much to help her blend in at Saint Seraphina.
Looking after her was a full-time job in itself, but I didn’t have the luxury of dedicating all my hours to watching out for her. Unfortunately, it was just the two of us. So I had to work.
I sighed, wincing at my reflection in the tiny overhead mirror. I would be lying to say I wasn’t attractive; I was pretty in a fresh-faced, doe-eyed kind of way that made me look even younger than I really was. But I couldn’t deny that I also looked absolutely exhausted. I was up until one in the morning helping Alice build a papier-mache and modeling clay replica of an ionic column. After shuttling her into bed, setting out her ironed plaid skirt, white shirt, and navy-blue blazer, putting her lunch money in an envelope, laying out my own gym clothes for this morning, prepping a salad to take to work, showering, and getting myself into bed-- it was close to 3 AM. And then I got up at five-thirty this morning to get here at six.
And it showed on my face. There were purplish half-moons under my eyes and my cheeks looked paler than usual, the smattering of freckles across my nose standing out against my ivory skin. My strawberry-blonde waves hung loose around my shoulders and I stepped out of my car to flip my head over and scoop my hair into a bouncy ponytail. A couple rebellious pieces still slipped free to frame my face. I heaved a deep breath, grabbed my gym bag, and headed for the back entrance to the gym. The name, THE FIGHTING CHANCE, glittered in massive gold lettering along the side of the building. I smiled to myself, feeling a wave of familiarity and fondness wash over me.
Sure, I never planned for my life to turn out this way, but I did love my job. When my father passed away, I decided to shelve my dreams of becoming an Olympic runner in order to take up a more stable lifestyle so I could take care of Alice here in Las Vegas. I had been on the fast track - excuse the pun - to success up until then, with a wall full of gold medals and a hefty college scholarship sustaining me. I was twenty-two, fresh out of college and headed to a summer training camp in California to foster my talent and further my career, when suddenly, I got the call that changed my life forever.
Our travel bus had stopped at a fill-up station when I checked my phone to see several missed calls from Alice. Confused, I had called her back immediately. In a parking lot near the California border, I crumpled to the pavement and burst into inconsolable tears. Alice hysterically explained to me that Dad had been involved in a terrible car accident. The driver of an eighteen-wheeler fell asleep at the wheel after two straight days of travel, careened into an intersection, and smashed my Dad’s old Lincoln town car into a concrete guard rail.
He was dead within minutes of arriving at the hospital, leaving Alice alone and panicked in the waiting room, suddenly an