Her name is Samantha but she makes us call her Sam.
During the day she lives with the nuns, but at night she roams the streets.
Every day she walks to school with slow unwilling steps.
Every day she is forced to hide her genius.
Every day she does what she is told.
Her rosary, clutched tightly in her right hand, the only thing she can call her own.
During the week she wishes to be someone else, wishes to be freed of her destiny.
Except on Sunday, on Sunday she is happy.
On Sunday she wears a new dress and shiny shoes.
On Sunday she can sing.
On Sunday she is Samantha, but on Monday she is Sam.