A New Beginning: Ellie
I jolt awake, the sound of my phone alarm cutting through the dark like a chainsaw. I groan, reaching out for it with a half-asleep, half-annoyed swipe, cursing myself for setting the damn thing so loud. Beepbeepbeep. It’s a shrill, electric buzz that makes my skin crawl and my pulse pick up so fast I can almost hear it pounding in my ears.
I blink, slowly trying to make sense of where I am. I have never been a morning person, but life has taught me a few tough lessons. The most important one? If I want to survive, I’ve got to stay three steps ahead of everyone around me. I’ve always hated mornings, but I’ve been waking up at 5 a.m. since I can remember. Had to keep the house clean, make breakfast for everyone, make sure everything was in place before anyone woke up so I wouldn’t get humiliated and could have food for the day. I know I don’t have to do it now, but at this point, it’s just a habit.
My chest feels tight, each breath coming in ragged. The dreams don’t feel real until I wake up, gasping for air, heart in my throat. It’s not really a dream—it’s like my brain is showing me every way I could die before I even get to live. I look around in search of comfort. The room’s barely lit. I can hear the city through the window right next to my bed. That’s my favorite part of this apartment—the window. I can hear the traffic, birds chirping, people yelling. It’s 5 a.m., and they’re acting like it’s noon. But that’s the beauty of living in a city that never sleeps—you’re never alone.
I drag myself upright, shaking off the last bits of panic. I look at the ceiling. “I’m okay. I’m alive. I’m strong,” I whisper. But deep down, I feel anything but. I pull myself together, shoving down all these big feelings, and get out of bed. I’m drenched in sweat. I’ve got to see a doctor for these night terrors I keep experiencing. They come every night now.
I make up my bed and head to the bathroom. When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. I’ve lost weight, my eyes look baggy and tired, and my skin is pale. I splash cold water on my face, hoping to wash away the exhaustion, and proceed to get ready for my walk.
I’m not athletic, nor am I very fit, but I like to walk. It helps me think and keeps my mind busy for a while—away from myself, away from reality. I put in my earplugs, play some Baylor Swift, and start walking. I never take the same path every day. I like discovering different routes and seeing where they lead.
I get down the four-story building I live in—no lift, by the way. As soon as I step out of the building door, the cold breeze brushes against my face. I take a right and start walking along the dirty, empty road. A few shops are just opening up.
I see Mrs. Lalita cleaning the pavement in front of her Indian grocery store. I wasn’t much into Indian food until I tried her chole (chickpea curry) and rice. It was an eye-opener. I grew up in San Viola, a small Tuscan town surrounded by fresh vegetables, cheese, amazing wine, pasta, and fragrant herbs. Indian food, though, is not just spicy; it’s like a blast of flavors in every bite.
A grin tugs at my lips as I watch her trying so hard to make her 72-year-old husband set up today’s special menu board outside the shop. It’s heavy for him. I can tell he’s struggling to drag it out, but Mrs. Lalita is so adamant that he shouldn’t drag the heavy blackboard attached to the metal stand.
As I approach them, a cheerful “Good morning, lovebirds!” escapes my lips. They both jump a little, startled. I guess my sudden greeting snapped them out of their little bubble of bickering.
Mrs. Lalita’s face lights up as she sees me. Her smile is genuine—I can see it in her eyes. They glow with happiness, positivity, and love.
Mr. Ramesh gives me a small smile too. He’s a tough man, hard to please, but very wise. He spends his evenings playing chess with his old-man club at the park every day at 6. He gives me a slight nod and then retreats, leaving us ladies alone to chat.
Mrs. Lalita is a short, slightly chubby, and undeniably beautiful woman. Her eyes are so expressive—it’s like they speak before she does. Her beautiful dark beige skin is a testament to the rich life she has lived. Wrinkles, a few small freckles, and a striking mole on the left side of her upper lip tell her story. Funny enough, that mole is how we met. You see, I have a similar one on the right side of my upper lip. One day, while I stood outside her shop reading the menu, she spotted it immediately. She has the eyes of an eagle—quite literally. She called me in and asked, “Are you half-Indian?”
I could see how she got confused. My dark black hair, big eyes, fuller lips, thick eyebrows, and warm olive skin could make some Southeast Asians take a second guess. I took it as a compliment. Even at 68 years old, Mrs. Lalita is stunning. If I could age even half as gracefully as her, I’d consider myself lucky. Suddenly, she snaps me out of my daydream by waving her hand in front of my face.
“Ellie, sweetie, you’re doing it again. Come out of Ellie’s world,” she says, a little concerned.
She continues, “I know I say this every day, but you never listen. You must take care of yourself, El. You look sick. Come to the restaurant this evening. I’ll make some soup for you.”
There’s so much motherly love in her tone. Her smile is genuine and warm, and it makes my chest feel lighter.
“I’m okay, Lali Ma,” I say, using the name all her foster kids call her. Ma means mother in Hindi, and it felt perfect for her. “But I will come for the soup, I promise. Maybe you could make some of those amazing samosas as well?”
She shakes her head, her smile widening. “Of course, I’ll see you at six,” she replies. I wave goodbye and continue my walk.
After an hour of exploring, I find myself at Leo Park, a quiet little spot about six kilometers from my apartment. I take a seat on an empty bench near the big red maple trees.
I like this park because it’s peaceful, much less busy than the other parks in New York. (Oh yes, I live in New York. It was always my dream to come to a big city and build a life of my own.)
I glance at my watch. “Shit,” I mutter. It’s almost 6:45. I need to hurry back and get ready for work. Today is my first day at the new job, and I need to do well.
Teaching little kids—it’s been my dream for as long as I can remember. Now, I get to do one of my favorite things and get paid for it. That feels like hitting the jackpot.
I shake off the lingering thoughts and start walking… fast. More like running.
I reach my apartment, quickly take a bath, and get ready. I pick out a maroon shirt with black lace details and pair it with a black pencil skirt. As I stand in front of the mirror, I debate wearing the pencil heels Jessie, my best friend, gave me as a graduation gift when I completed my master’s degree in Science and English Literature at NYU.
I have worked hard for this job—prepping for government exams, earning certifications, and making sure I left the best impression on the selection committee. It was nerve-wracking. Kings High is one of the most prestigious schools in New York. It serves not only children from privileged families but also students from challenging backgrounds, offering them the same high-quality education. It’s been my dream school for as long as I can remember, especially because of its commitment to supporting gifted students who lack financial or familial support to achieve their big dreams.
I take one last look at the mirror, fix my lipstick, and brush through my long, wavy hair. Then I roll it into a neat French knot bun. I’m second-guessing the heels Jessie gave me. They’re pretty and not entirely uncomfortable, but practicality wins. I slip on my comfortable black flats, grab my office bag, lock my room, and leave.
For today, I’ve borrowed Jessie’s car. She insisted. “El, don’t be stupid. You must make a good first impression, plus it will save you some time,” she said, giving me her I’ll-kill-you-if-you-say-no look.
The drive to Kings High takes 20 minutes. Thankfully, traffic isn’t too bad. But as I near the school, I’m greeted by a bustling scene—cars, parents, and students crowding around the building.
The school stands tall, its red brick walls and ancient castle-like design giving it a majestic yet intimidating aura.
I park the car and step out, standing for a moment in front of the towering building. My nerves start to creep in, but I take a deep breath to steady myself. Just as I’m about to head up the stairs, my phone buzzes.
It’s a text from Jessie:
Breathe. You can do anything. I loooove you!
She always knows exactly when I need her.
I gather my courage, exhale my tension, and walk up the stairs. It’s already 8 a.m., and the kids are in their classes. I need to find the principal’s office.
