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  “Fine,” I agree, despite a heavy feeling in my heart that says he’s only trying to soften the blow. He’s such a nice man, and I believe this is hard for him too. I can’t imagine being a dreamcrusher is easy.

  “Will you still have access to the runners-only gym?”

  “Not for too much longer, not if I can’t compete,” I huff, irritated that he’s asking and adding salt to my open wounds.

  “Well, I can give you free access to the sports medicine department’s gym, but you’ll be sharing it with both faculty and a mix of students with sports-related injuries. It can be busy, so it’s best to go later at night, if possible. We’re allowed to offer short-term passes to students with mitigating circumstances, so I’d say you qualify,” he says, handing me what looks like a prescription. “Give this to Meredith at the gym’s front desk. She’ll give you your access card.”

  “Thank you. I’ll work hard. I’ll show you I’m not out yet,” I say, determined.

  “I have no doubts. But remember what I said, it’s both knees and your hip. Don’t go making it worse. Competitions are out, period. We’re working towards leisure running here. Don’t push it.” With that, he gives me his serious doctor face before rubbing my arm in a reassuring manner. “Hope the rest of your day is better for you, Ellie. And I’m trusting you to follow my advice,” I hear him mutter the last bit as he exits the exam room, leaving me alone to fully digest his words.

  No more competing.

  Might never be the same.

  Leisure running, if I’m lucky.

  Cue dramatic music…

  I sit there in tears for what feels like forever, letting the information soak in.

  Without running, I’ll not only lose my right to the private runner’s gym, but also my athletic housing.

  And worst of all: my scholarship.

  I’m royally screwed.

  Chapter 3

  Ellie

  “No, Mom. I’m not coming home. Not yet,” I say, pushing open the door exiting the medical centre, annoyed at Dr. Robinson and also my mom, for once again wanting to give up so easily.

  Ever since my dad left when I was five, it’s just been her and me, and I can honestly say she isn’t the most confident person. Silvie can’t deal with confrontation or any type of conflict. It’s a trait I thankfully didn’t inherit. I’m more competitive, resilient, and I’ll fight tooth and nail for what I want. And right now, what I want is for my mom to encourage me to stay and fight, not to hop on the first plane home. I had hoped after she met Tom, a man she trusted enough to let in again, it might lighten her up, but with the way this conversation is going, I’d say I was wrong.

  Walking down the cobblestone path away from the athletics centre, I balance my phone between my shoulder and ear, while trying to pull my water bottle that is tangled up in the cables of my ear buds out of my messenger bag. I’m overheating in this late summer heat wave the city’s currently suffering. At the end of August, the Toronto air is muggy and humid, unlike the cooler, drier air I was used to out west in Alberta this time of year. I’m drenched, and feel like I’m drowning. I shouldn’t complain, though. It will be heavy sweater and boot weather before we know it. I glance at the hazy sky and the many trees surrounding the campus. The leaves flap limply like they, too, could use some water.

  “Ellie, sweetie,” my mom says, breaking my train of thought, “I can’t afford to help you out financially right now. I honestly think it’s best if you just fly home. Look for a job, save up to go back. It’s not like you don’t already have your bachelor’s degree. You can still get a great job without a master’s. Lots of people only finish their undergrad.”

  “Urgh. Mom. You don’t get it. I want to stay here. I have to. There are more opportunities for work here than in St. Albert. What am I going to do there? Work at Tim Horton’s? McDonald’s? Because we both know, I can get jobs there in a second. That’s not even fair. Or, what: St. Albert Centre? I could work at The Bay.”

  “You could do a lot worse than working at The Bay in St. Albert, young lady,” she interjects.

  She’s right. I’m sounding spoiled and entitled, so I try harder to articulate my actual point: “Mom, you’re right. It’s a nice place to live, to make a life. But most of those entry-level jobs require a lot of standing, and I can’t do that with my knee right now. Plus, my doctor and my physiotherapist are here on campus. But the biggest factor in my needing to stay is that there aren’t any major movies being made at home, not many opportunities for me to learn or further myself in the industry like I can here, not for what I want to do, anyway. Everything I want to study is here. I need to be in Toronto.”

  She lets out a frustrated breath, and says sarcastically: “Oh, that’s right, I forgot. All of you Easterners think Toronto’s the centre of the universe. Well, fair enough. But you’ll just have to go back and finish your master’s degree once you make enough to cover your tuition and housing. Without the athletic scholarship, I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice. Be reasonable, Ellie, please.”

  “Absolutely not. I’m not giving in that easy, and you shouldn’t ask me to either, Mom. You always give in. I can’t.”

  “Ouch. I know I do, sometimes. You’re right. But I’m not trying to tell you to give up, Ellie. I’m worried is all. I hate that I can’t fix this for you. I’m supposed to be able to fix this for you…” she whispers, and it kills me.

  “It’s all right, Mom. I’ll sort it out. I have a little time to figure something out. I’m covered for tuition for a few months still. I talked to Financial Aid; they’re seeing if I qualify for any type of bursary or other financial help. The athletics department offered to let me stay in housing for another two weeks if I need, but I’m moving in with Courtney. Ruby moved out once she graduated, so Courtney’s got an extra room and she says I can have it. It will work out perfectly; Mrs. Pierce says I don’t need to pay rent until I sort school out. She says we’re family and that Courtney isn’t paying more than the bills anyway. I laughed and said that’s because it’s her daughter. She shushed me and told me not to worry about it, for now. That all I need to cover is utilities and food. So I have a bit of time to look for a job here.”

  “Well, I’m calling Vickie and thanking her. That’s awfully nice of them. I hope they don’t think I’m being cheap or that I’m unwilling to help,” my mom adds, and I can hear tears starting to brew by the shake in her voice.

  “Mom,” I soothe, “they know you aren’t.” I hesitate, “They know about Dad,” I swallow, telling her softly.

  “Oh,” she pauses. “God, Ellie. I’m so embarrassed. I’m an idiot. They must think I’m such a naïve woman.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. But Vickie’s your best friend. I can’t believe you didn’t tell her.”

  I hear her sniffling.

  “Mom?”

  “Sorry. I’m here, sweetie. I’m too mortified to talk about it, even with Vickie. I can’t believe he took all the money, all of it. After all the years we’ve been divorced, I can’t believe he’d drain the joint account we’d had for your schooling. I knew I should have put it in your name. You were just too young. It’s my own fault. I’m an idiot. I never really thought about his name being on the statements. Truth be told, once you got the scholarship back in first year, I didn’t bother checking on the account once I stopped the paper account statements. I hadn’t looked in years. I just figured the money would be there, a wonderful starting off gift for you, a little something for you each year. I’m such a fool, Ellie. Such a fool.”

  “No, Mom. He is. He’s the asshole here. I mean of all the low—”

  “Ellie. Please. I don’t want to talk about it. I know exactly what that man is. I’ll deal with him, somehow. I won’t let him get away with hurting us anymore. I agree he is an asshole and needs to pay. I will not roll over on this.”

  “Good, I’m glad, Mom. This time he’s gone too far.”

  “I know, and I promise I will fix this. I’ll call Vic, as we
ll. I’m being silly. Of course I should have told her and Hank. I can transfer a couple hundred dollars to help you while I try to get this sorted at my end. Hopefully, I’ll have more soon. This living paycheque-to-paycheque while trying to fight him in court is tough,” she laughs. “I finally felt we were in a good place. I had a nice little nest egg for you, in case we needed it.” I hear the tears fighting for freedom again.

  “I’m okay, Mom. We’re going to be okay. You’re amazing and I love you, but keep the money. I’ve got a little left from my scholarship still. Work on making sure my sperm donor doesn’t still have his name on anything else.”

  “Already done, honey. I promise. The lawyers are working on trying to find a loophole that might force him to give it back. Anyway, enough of all the bad, let’s work on the bringing the good back.”

  “I love you, Mom,” I sniffle, tears pinching my nose.

  “You too, my girl, you too. I love you more. Keep me posted.”

  “I will. I’ll call you in a few days. Don’t be upset that I might not come home.”

  “Oh, I’m not, sweetie; just know it’s an option. I’d love to have you home anytime. I’m hoping you’ll get to come at least for a visit soon; I really want you to meet Tom. He’s been such an amazing support with you gone and all this shit with your fath—”

  “‘Donor’, Mom. Fathers don’t do that shit to their kids. Besides, I haven’t seen him in years. Fathers see their daughters. With this latest bullshit, I never want to see him again.”

  “Okay, Ellie, you got it. The Donor it is.” She laughs and I smile. My mom is incredible, considering the raw deal she got when she married my father, Lawrence Sanders Hughes: asshole, cheater, and thief extraordinaire. Not only did he leave us when I was five, he lay dormant until eight months ago when he cleared out his only daughter’s university fund, money in a joint account that was there for me since I was born. The account where my mom would put all the money I’d been given over the years from things like birthdays, gifts from my grandparents, and the monthly contributions she’d been making since I was two. Too bad she didn’t realize he still had access to it before he completely cleaned it out.

  “Love you, Mommy.”

  “You too, baby girl,” she says, ending the call.

  Now to figure out how to pay for tuition, rent, and the bazillion other things a student needs to pay for…

  Chapter 4

  Ellie

  “Here, Ellie!” my roommate—and best friend—Courtney calls over the swarm of students trying to find seats in the crowded theatre. Like a soundtrack to the hustle and bustle of the first day of school, it’s a bit of a madhouse in here.

  Thank goodness it’s our final year. Sometimes I wonder why I had to be so ambitious, self-inflicting a one-year master’s degree in cinema studies upon myself after completing four years of a bachelor’s degree at U of T’s Cinema Studies Institute. I hope it will help me in my career later on, but for now, at this time of the morning, it’s a bit of a pain in the ass.

  “Good thing hangovers make you wake up early, Courtney,” I taunt, glancing at the other students as they continue to pack the place. I plop down into the seat Courtney’s been saving for me, ignoring the array of evil looks I get from those still searching for good seats. I smile and nod to a few people I recognize. “Aisle seating. Nice work.”

  “Yeah, it’s perfect, isn’t it? Lucky for you, I’m amazeballs like that. Now shut it and give me the cure, woman,” she retorts, her voice sickly-sweet, not a hint of sarcasm to be found, nope, not from Court. Not. I laugh out loud while placing what she wants most into her extended hand.

  “Always so cheeky, eh?” I say.

  “Yup. Cheers,” she mumbles, lifting her water bottle to toast. “To ‘Sexual Aesthetics and Representations in Film’. You’d better be worth my time, and be a whole lot of learning excellence, ’cause no student in their right mind takes a 9 a.m. class unless it’s unfuckingbelievable.” Court chugs back the water (and the Advil) I’d given her.

  Shrugging off my light blue cardigan, I turn to try and appease her as I situate myself in the tight-fitting space, placing my iPad and portable keyboard on the small desktop. “I think you’re in luck. I hear this course is all sexy and fun, which will be right up your alley, with lots of clips, discussions of porn versus erotica, and, best of all, you get to enjoy the pleasure of my company, you lucky whore,” I whisper, nudging her and making her drop her hair tie as she is about to cinch her platinum-blonde hair into a messy topknot, her signature hangover hairstyle.

  “Hey! I needed that. You’re such a bully,” she whispers back, rolling her eyes and pulling another band off her wrist. “Ha. Good thing I own shares in these things.” She eyes me. “Anyway, friend, you’re the lucky one.” She gestures to our primo seats near the front of the class, and all I can do is laugh.

  “Touché, I’ll give you that for today, however let’s not crown you ‘world’s best seat saver’ yet. Let’s see who gets the good seats for the rest of the semester.” I thumb towards myself, and we both laugh, knowing it will most definitely be me.

  “I hear the wait list for this class is huge,” Court says, leaning in closer, the smell of beer still lingering. “I also heard the prof is a little slice too. Maybe it will be worth the ungodly hour.” She raises her brows up and down mischievously.

  “You really are a pest, you know that?” I laugh; reaching for her wrist. I pull off a blue hair elastic before grabbing a fistful of my own deep red hair, putting it into a low ponytail. “You really shouldn’t have stayed up drinking with Brent and Susan last night, I can still smell the booze on you,” I tease. “Maybe getting Netflix was a bad idea. Who knew you could make a drinking game out of so many shows?”

  Brent and Susan are our neighbours; they’ve been best friends since elementary school and live across the hall from us. We’ve become quite close to them over the last four years. They’re a few years older than us, and also attend grad school at the University of Toronto. They are both working on their sociology doctorates, while Court and I are working towards our master’s degrees in film, not yet sure if we want to pursue even more education.

  For me, my current financial situation is predicting a big fat “no” on the doctoral studies at the moment. Right now, I’m just happy to get more than an undergraduate degree. I’m hoping having my master’s degree will give me that little bit more of an edge when it comes to job shopping, especially if I can get my thesis published in a few journals and film magazines. With the setback of no longer being able to run competitively, my sole focus is on my career in film moving forward. Not that I thought I’d be an Olympian, but being a star track-and-field athlete definitely helped to get my name out there a bit.

  As for our friends, they’re both on the way to having their dreams become reality, Brent planning to teach post-secondary sociology, while Susan has aspirations to manage social programs for migrants. Luckily, they’re also both film buffs in the extreme. The four of us share a terrible addiction to Netflix, wasting copious amount of time watching old cult classics and films noirs together.

  Being the smarter one of the group last night, with today being the first day of classes, I opted out of partaking in their game of “Let’s Take a Sip” which entailed taking a sip every time someone uttered the “f-word” during Pulp Fiction at our place.

  “It’s not my fault,” Courtney groans, sinking low in her chair, her over-bleached blonde hair blending in with the pallor of her skin so much more than usual today. “I knew Tarantino liked the word ‘fuck’, but who the hell would have thought he’d love it that much?” She pauses, and I giggle at her scrunched up face. “Yuck. I can’t even think about it. Am I green? I feel green.”

  “Aww, poor Court-Court. No, you’re more of a yellowish colour actually,” I cackle, as she gives me her best cut-eye while running her thumb along her throat in a slitting motion. “Truth,” I shrug, “but, yeah, there were a lot of ‘fucks’, sweets. I think B
rent counted two hundred and seventy-one sips.” I try to hide my smile as she makes a low gagging sound. “All right, all right, no more drink talk, I promise.” I raise two fingers like a good Scout.

  “You know where you can stick those fingers, you dirty, lying non-Scout,” she says, her green eyes dancing with mirth. “Nonetheless, no more drink talk, please. I can’t take it.”

  “Okay. Now, sit up straight. Class is going start in a few minutes. We need you to look presentable, like a good little student, not the grubby not-so-interested one you look like right now. Hopefully, the prof won’t come near us this morning, ’cause you really do reek.” I wave my hand in front of my nose.

  “Zip it. I’ll go drown my stink in the tub when this is over,” she moans, taking another sip of water. “Now, let’s take my mind off how shitty I feel and smell.” She picks up her tablet, swiping it to life, the course syllabus displayed. “Let’s see what’s in store for us this semester. Shall we look at this fine syllabus? I can’t believe summer’s over.” Court raises her bleary eyes to meet mine as she tries to feign some semblance of excitement. “Nope. I’m not ready for adulting yet.”

  Courtney Pierce has been my best friend since the fourth grade when her family moved across the street from my grandfather, my mom, and me. Her family moved to St. Albert, from Kamloops, British Columbia, for her father’s job. He decided to open his own Tim Horton’s franchise after coming into some money when his parents passed away. I guess he and Mrs. Pierce figured our growing bedroom community would be perfect for it and their family. My mom and Vickie became fast friends, as did Courtney and I.