Chapter 2

Alexa Perry POV:

Tuesday morning I picked up my canvas bag and left early. Inside were the things I needed for the visa.

The Swiss consulate was in downtown Chicago. A student visa required a certified criminal records check, an apostilled transcript, and proof of independent health insurance. I didn't have a car and my credit limit wasn't high enough. Craig and Dolores weren't paying a cent.

The transcript authentication cost seventy-five dollars, saved up from tips at the library reservation desk during the term. Ten dollars an hour, seven weekends. I folded the application form and tucked it inside the cardboard cover of my advanced probability textbook.

Getting into the city meant two transfers, six hours round trip, and I had to be back by three to start the pot roast.

At the door, my mother stopped me.

"You have to drive Colton to the sports medicine clinic at ten," she said, scraping burnt eggs into the trash. "His hamstring was tight after the scrimmage yesterday. The coach wants an ultrasound before the regional qualifier."

"I have an appointment in the city at ten-thirty," I said.

My mother turned around, spatula still in her right hand, oil dripping off the edge.

"An appointment for what? You don't have class on Tuesdays."

"A first-round interview for a local administrative assistant position," I said without blinking. "If I miss it they'll cut me from the candidate list."

My mother didn't answer right away. She narrowed her eyes and priced the excuse in her head.

"Then take the bus into the city. Colton can't drive with his leg, and Craig needs the sedan for a client in Aurora. Take the nine-fifteen commuter bus from the highway station."

Colton came into the kitchen in gym shorts and a sleeveless jersey, yawning wide.

"Hey Alexa, since you're going to be at the transit center anyway, stop by that sports store on Clark Street and pick up the ankle brace I ordered. Put it on your own card, I'll pay you back next week."

He never paid me back.

Three months earlier he'd used my student account to buy textbooks, eighty-five dollars. It was still sitting there.

"That store is three miles from the terminal," I said.

"Then walk faster," Colton said, opening the fridge and drinking from the carton. "My recovery window matters. Mom, tell her not to be so difficult about a small thing."

"Don't talk back to your brother, Alexa," my mother said. "Grab your bag and go. Be back by three, and you're starting the pot roast."

I walked two miles along the shoulder of the county road before I caught the commuter bus into Chicago.

In a building on Michigan Avenue, a woman named Vane looked through my scholarship documents from behind a glass partition.

"Your scholarship covers tuition and housing, plus a monthly stipend paid directly from the university research fund," she said, stamping a blue register. "Will your parents be submitting supplementary proof of support?"

"No," I said, my voice steady. "I'm an independent adult applicant. All funds go directly to my personal account."

"Very good. Your paperwork is extremely complete, Miss Perry. Your student visa will arrive within seven business days."

I came out of the tower into a noon sun that was wet and hot, and my chest was lighter than it had been in ten years.

I took the elevated train two stops south, paid for Colton's ankle brace with the last twenty in my wallet, and carried the box back onto the bus.

I got home at three-twenty, shoulders burning from the weight, dust from the gravel road up one pants leg.

Colton lay on the living room couch playing a shooter online, the ring of light on his headset glowing green.

I set the box on the coffee table in front of him.

He opened it, looked, and his face fell.

"This is the right foot. I ordered the left. You can't even check left from right?"

"That was the only box they had left," I said. "The clerk printed the pickup slip, it doesn't say which foot."

Colton kicked the box onto the carpet.

"I rolled the left one last week. These things are footed — wear it backwards and you wreck the ankle when you run. How am I supposed to use this during finals week?"

My mother came out of Craig's study with a stack of folders.

"What's the shouting?"

"Alexa picked up the wrong brace," Colton said, dropping the controller on the cushion. "She knows I have the regional weigh-in Friday and she couldn't even look at the box."

My mother stared at me.

"Can you do one thing for this family without turning it into a disaster? Your brother trains his body to collapse every afternoon playing for this town, and you can't even get an ankle brace right."

"I rode a bus for forty minutes and walked three miles," I said, looking straight at her face. "There's a receipt on the counter. I paid with my own money."

"Money you earned while living in our house rent-free," my mother said, stepping closer. "Don't play the martyr. If you don't want to run errands for this family you can move your things to the curb tonight. Now go downstairs and clear out those old boxes behind your bed — Craig needs the space for his golf clubs."

I didn't answer.

I went down the stairs and into the laundry room.

Behind the folding bed were three boxes, all of my childhood: the graduation tassel from high school, the ribbon from a fourth-grade science fair, a blue binder holding four years of state university awards.

I lifted the cover of the binder.

Dean's List certificate of merit. First place, regional undergraduate mathematics competition. A handwritten commendation from the dean of the College of Science.

My parents never once came to an awards ceremony.

Junior year I competed in the regional math cup, and Craig refused to drive forty minutes to the school auditorium because Colton had a freshman varsity scrimmage that night.

"A math competition won't get you an athletic scholarship, Alexa," he told me at breakfast the next morning, buttering toast. "If Colton stays healthy he can play Division I. That's what real success looks like."

I carried the binder to the metal utility sink and tore each certificate down the middle.

The scraps went into a grey garbage bag, on top of the spent lint filters and used dryer sheets.

I took out my phone again and opened the photo album. Thirty-seven pictures: award ceremonies, certificates, timed selfies I'd taken myself outside auditorium doors. I deleted them one by one. At the seventh I stopped. In that one I was alone, standing by the side door of the auditorium, the light pressing in from behind so my face was dark and nothing was visible.

I deleted it anyway.

Passport, birth certificate, vaccination records, the black flash drive — those four I kept.

Overhead, Craig paced in his study. Heavy footsteps.

"Alexa!" His voice came down through the heating duct, muffled. "Did you take the dry-cleaning ticket off my dresser? I need the grey suit tomorrow night for the athletic booster dinner!"

I stood still in the dim laundry room and listened to the duct vibrate.

"I haven't touched it, Dad," I said quietly.

"Then go find it!" he shouted. "And wash Colton's jersey on delicate! He has practice at first light!"

The empty boxes were at my feet. I flattened the cardboard and pushed it behind the water heater.

Seven more days and my visa would arrive.

Upstairs they were planning Colton's championship party, calculating his odds at an athletic scholarship, arguing a little over whether Blake's winter dance team needed custom warm-up jackets.

They didn't know that in less than two weeks, the girl who washed the jerseys and scrubbed the greasy pans would be gone from that house completely.