Page 1 of Yours, For Good

Chapter 1

Nora

THE LIST OF REASONS why I shouldn’t be an optimist was nice and long, including the fact that I was currently elbows-deep into cleaning a ten-stall, semi-public bathroom.

To start, I had no known living family. The only person I had ever known to be mine was my mom, but she had died seven years earlier. Now I lived in a charity home for university students in need, and I was in charge of several rotating chores, including cleaning ten toilets twice a month. In fact, at the moment, the smell of bleach tickled my nose, as I scrubbed a particularly disgusting spot behind a white porcelain bowl.

And yet, I believed great things awaited me.

Growing up I had so many questions, but my mom never explained why it was her and me against the world for so long; she had said she'd tell me when I was older and could understand. All I knew was that she had chosen to have me and, at some point soon after, she left with me never to see her family again. I never met my sperm donor or his family, either. I knew my mom had emigrated from an unspecified Latin American country late enough in life to have an accent, and had wanted to add to her Early Childhood Educator diploma to obtain a teaching degree. That was it.

Sadly, she didn't get the chance to explain why it was the two of us. She passed when I had just turned nineteen. It was a couple of years later that I got the scholarship that landed me at the John Grier Home, and I started later than most toward my degree.

A single drop of sweat slid down my neck, but I ignored it. In less than forty-eight hours, I had an appointment with Mrs. Lippett, the director of the John Grier Home. During that meeting, she would tell me if I had been accepted into any of the five grant programs JGH students could apply to, and a positive result would be the ticket to my freedom.

The end of dependency and infantilization.

My toes were numb, and I stood to allow circulation back into my lower limbs. My hands were sweaty inside my rubber gloves; I threw the bright yellow things in the bucket full of cleaning supplies next to me. The stall was pristine enough, and I needed to catch my breath. The next toilet could wait.

I stepped out of the small cubicle and washed my hands. Once thoroughly clean, I bent to drink water straight from the faucet, using my hand as a cup. At this short distance it was easy to notice the hard water stains marring the white surface of the standing sink. I closed my eyes not to see them, but made a mental note to leave them soaking before I moved on to the next toilet.

These past six years had been a blessing wrapped in a straitjacket of obligations and responsibilities. Now, only three days away from my Master's degree, I counted down the hours until I could walk through the John Grier Home's main door to never return. Whether I got a grant or not, I had maxed out what the charity offered, and it was time to leave.

It both terrified me and exhilarated me. I had no real possessions, beyond a meager couple thousand dollars I'd saved by doing every job my degree and responsibilities allowed— I had tutored younger students and worked for college professors as a research assistant or PA.

I sighed and I put my hands on the edges of the sink and hung my head, eyes still closed. I gave myself another minute to settle down, and focused on the spark of hope burning in my chest. I paid attention to it; sought it inside my chest. Tried to grab it and place it in a crystal case to protect it from dust. I needed that hope, if I was to continue working toward my goals.

Once I crossed that big, two-panel wooden door at the front of the building for the last time, I could spread my wings and fly away into the horizon.

I was twenty-six years old and I had worked hard to make my way, and the final push to get my degree had been rough. Applying for those grants had only added to it, to the point I had been sleeping less than six hours a night for weeks at a time. Anything, to get a financial seed to start my business right away.

But even if I didn't get the money— I'd make it work, somehow. My life was about to begin; I could feel it in my bones. Any minute now, and it would happen. Everything I had dreamed of would be at my fingertips.

I'd rent a room— the security deposit would eat up most of my savings, but that was fine. If I didn't get the grants then I'd get a job— almost any job would do— and I would save and start my business. Just like my mom had done when she got her ECE diploma. I would have a beautiful organization where college students and recent graduates could tutor young children and youth, taking my mom's dreams further than she ever could. I would grow the business into a professional, nation-wide provider of specialized care for children and teens, including after-school care. No one would have to feel lost and alone like I had been, whether as a young person needing the support or a student needing to find a way to sustain themselves.

My ten-year plan was clear and bright and—

"Eleanora! Mrs. Lippett wants you to go to her office."

Tommy Dillon, a scholarship student a couple of years younger than me, interrupted my daydreaming by slamming the bathroom door open.

"What, no singing today?" I straightened and pushed against the sink.

Tommy grinned. "I can always siiiiing for yooooouuuu…"

The sound echoed from the walls around us and I begrudgingly smiled. Tommy was known for singing in the hallways of the manor, a fact other students hated twice as much as I did.

"Is she angry?" I asked.

My meeting with Mrs. Lippett wasn't supposed to happen until two days from now. A sudden call to her office wasn't likely to be good news— Mrs. Lippett wasn't the kind of person to excitedly summon you to share joyful tidings. Just a couple of weeks earlier, Susie Hawthorn, one of the three people with whom I shared a room, had been fetched and given a final warning. One more false step— she wasn't the most industrious of students— and she would be kicked out of the JGH. It had put the fear of failure in all of us.

I briefly checked the state of my hair in the mirror; it was wavy and it tended to curl up and get messy in humid environments. If I looked somewhat presentable, that might get me a couple extra points in the director's opinion. I was always up for getting a couple extra points. Especially this close to my goals.

"I don't knoooooooow…" he sang again.

"Please stop."

"I don't know," he repeated, "but better not risk it."