The Letter 

Dani Krebs

It was a miserable day in Cambridge; the clouds overpowered the sun and the wind roared, as if it was shouting at something, or someone. My house, perched on the hill, stood out against all of the other homes. In a neighborhood where everyone drove Porsches and closets full of Versace were the norm, my house was the odd man out. The little fish in a big pond. But I loved my little fish. The way the pearl white popped against all of the other pattern stoned mansions, mine was unique. It was all I wanted in the place I called mine. I stood outside, taking in all the howling and hissing. I was only 22, and I looked it. My shadow, swallowing the far mailbox, was my only protector. My hair, perfectly free of knots and as soft as a blanket, hung close far down my back. The chocolate brown color ran through my silky head, making my ocean blue eyes pop on sight. There was no color in my face; a ghost in a girl, and everyone knew I had a better chance of winning the lottery than getting skin cancer. My eyebrows, arched like a monument and as dark as the night, dared everyone to mess with me. I was still a girl, but I was so much more than that; I had my life planned out. I was going to graduate cum laude. I was going to be at the top of my class at Harvard Medical School. And I was going to be the best Neurologist in the country. I had big dreams, HUGE dreams, but the letter delayed me.
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