University Admissions Office - August 2012
The air conditioning in the admissions building hummed with bureaucratic chill. Jenny stood before the counter, a folder of documents clutched in her hands. The woman behind the glass partition wore a name tag that read Marge and an expression of profound disinterest.
"Next."
Jenny stepped forward. "I need to update my permanent records. There's been an error."
Marge didn't look up from her computer. "Error number?"
"It's not a number. My family status. It's listed incorrectly."
That got a glance. Marge peered over her reading glasses. "Family status is verified by tax forms and notarized statements. We don't make errors."
"This one was made," Jenny said, her voice steady. She slid the folder under the glass partition. "My legal guardian, Linda Granger, has provided updated documentation. I am an orphan. Both parents deceased. My previous records were… mistakenly linked to a living donor family."
She'd practiced the words in front of the mirror at the lake house all summer. Orphan. Deceased. Mistakenly linked. They tasted like ash, but they were the key.
Marge opened the folder, her fingers stained with cheap ink. She shuffled through the papers Linda's lawyer had prepared—a masterpiece of omission and carefully worded affidavits. A death certificate for a "John Thomas" (a conveniently common name, deceased twenty years prior, no relation). A notarized letter from Linda stating she was the sole surviving kin and guardian. A court order of guardianship that was real, though its context was creatively interpreted.
"This is highly irregular," Marge muttered, but she was already typing. The system loved paperwork, not truth.
"It's legally binding," Jenny said, quoting the lawyer. "As per statute 7B-300, familial status can be amended upon presentation of probate documentation and guardian verification."
Marge blinked, impressed despite herself by the recitation. "Alright, alright. I'll process it. It'll take 48 hours to update in the system. Your scholarship—"
"The Crenshaw Merit Scholarship for Orphaned and Displaced Youth," Jenny said. "My application is already linked to my student ID. The status update should trigger final disbursement."
"You've done your homework."
"I had to."
Marge stamped a form with finality. "Done. Next!"
Jenny took her receipt, her hands trembling only once she was outside in the blistering late-summer sun. She leaned against the red brick wall, breathing in the smell of cut grass and diesel from a distant lawnmower.
It was done. In the eyes of the university, Jennifer Grace Thomas was now parentless. A ward of her grandmother. A statistic for their diversity brochures. A recipient of charity meant for those with real tragedy.
Guilt, sharp and sour, rose in her throat. She swallowed it down. This was survival. This was using the system that had failed her. The scholarship was her lifeline—full tuition, room and board, a stipend for books. It was freedom. She'd earned it with her grades, her debate record. She just… tailored the circumstances.
Work with what is, she reminded herself. And what is, is that you have no family to support you.
She pushed off the wall and headed toward the dormitories.
Weston Hall, Room 307
The dorm room was a sterile box—two beds, two desks, two closets, a window overlooking a concrete courtyard. It smelled of industrial cleaner and fresh paint. It was the most beautiful place Jenny had ever seen.
Her new roommate hadn't arrived yet. Jenny took the bed by the window, claiming it with her single, worn duffel bag. She unpacked slowly, methodically: her few clothes, her books, the debate trophy (second place, a silver cup that felt heavier than gold), her notebook of facts. She placed the photograph of Jade in the drawer of the bedside table, facedown.
She was hanging her last sweater when the door burst open.
A whirlwind of color and noise filled the room. A girl with a riot of dark curls wrestled an enormous, overstuffed suitcase through the doorway. She was talking to someone in the hall. "…and I told him if he thinks I'm carrying his lacrosse gear, he's got another think coming! Oh—hi!"
She spotted Jenny and grinned, a brilliant, infectious thing. She dropped the suitcase with a thud. "You must be Jenny! I'm Kate. Kate Miller. Your new prison cellmate for the next nine months." She stuck out a hand. "I promise I'm neater than I look. I just… pack with enthusiasm."
Jenny took the hand, surprised by the firm grip. "Jenny Thomas. And the room's yours to arrange. I don't need much space."
Kate's eyes swept the room, taking in Jenny's meager possessions on one side, the blank expanse of the other. Her smile softened, just a fraction, but she didn't comment. "Well, I need all the space. And then some. You've been warned."
For the next two hours, Kate unpacked with a chaotic energy that was somehow soothing. She filled the room with life—a woven rug from a trip to Morocco, a string of fairy lights, a collection of thrift-store frames waiting for photos, a small potted succulent she named "Spike." She talked the entire time—about her huge, loud family back in Connecticut, her high school boyfriend Mark who was so annoying but also kind of wonderful, her panic about choosing a major.
Jenny mostly listened, organizing her side of the room with military precision. The contrast was stark.
"So," Kate said, flopping onto her newly made bed. "What's your deal? You're giving off strong 'mysterious new identity' vibes."
Jenny's spine went rigid. "What do you mean?"
Kate waved a hand. "Oh, don't panic. It's a compliment. You're just very… self-contained. Most people show up with their parents, crying, taking a million pictures. You're here alone, with one bag, and you've already alphabetized your textbooks. It's impressive. And a little intimidating."
Jenny relaxed incrementally. "No parents. Just me."
"Cool." Kate didn't press. She just nodded, as if that explained everything. "I have approximately six hundred relatives outside in the parking lot refusing to leave. Want to come down and meet them? It's overwhelming, but there's pizza."
The invitation was casual, inclusive. Jenny hesitated. The thought of facing a big, happy, normal family made her chest ache.
"I should finish unpacking," she demurred.
"Suit yourself. More pepperoni for me." Kate bounced up. "But I'm grabbing you a slice. You look like you could use it."
She was gone in a swirl of laughter and perfume.
Jenny sat on her bed, the silence rushing back in. She looked around at Kate's vibrant half of the room, then at her own stark half. Two worlds, divided by an invisible line.
For the first time, she wondered if she'd made herself too empty. If in building walls to keep the bad out, she'd also kept everything else out.
The First Week
University was a shock to the system. Not the classes—Jenny was prepared for those. It was the sheer, sprawling mass of humanity. The constant noise. The expectation of socialization.
She attended her seminars, took meticulous notes, and retreated to the library. She ate meals alone, quickly, in a corner of the dining hall. She was a ghost in a sea of boisterous life.
Kate, by contrast, was a social supernova. She seemed to know everyone within days. Her side of the room was always filled with people—friends from her sociology class, her cousin Ian who was a junior in the architecture school, her boyfriend Mark who visited every other day.
Jenny would come back from the library to find a group debating politics over cheap wine, or Kate painting someone's nails, or a impromptu study session in progress. She'd murmur a greeting, slip to her desk, and put on headphones.
One evening, about a week in, Jenny returned to find Kate alone, staring at a pregnancy test on her desk.
The color had drained from Kate's face. She looked up as Jenny entered, her eyes wide with sheer terror.
"Oh," Jenny said, stopping short.
"Yeah," Kate whispered. She picked up the test, her hand shaking. Two pink lines. "Oh, god."
Jenny closed the door softly. She didn't know what to say. This was so far outside her realm of experience. "Are you… sure?"
"Three tests." Kate's voice broke. "Mark and I… we're so careful. Except that one time after his birthday party…" She dropped her head into her hands. "My parents will kill me. His parents will disown him. We're nineteen. We're idiots."
Jenny stood awkwardly by her bed. The right thing would be to offer comfort, to hug her. But she didn't know how. Instead, she walked to the mini-fridge, took out two bottles of water, and handed one to Kate.
"Here."
Kate took it, a watery smile touching her lips. "Thanks." She unscrewed the cap but didn't drink. "What am I going to do?"
The question hung in the room. Jenny sat on the edge of her own bed, facing Kate. "What do you want to do?"
"I don't know!" Kate cried, then lowered her voice to a frantic whisper. "I want to finish school. I want a life. I love Mark, but we're kids. We can't raise a baby. But…" her hand drifted to her stomach, a protective gesture so instinctual it made Jenny's heart twist. "It's a baby. My baby."
They sat in silence for a long time. The sounds of a dormitory at night filtered through the door—laughter, music, a distant shout.
"You could… not have it," Jenny said quietly, the words feeling clinical.
"I know." Kate's tears spilled over. "I've thought about it. But I don't think I can. It doesn't feel like an option for me."
"Then you have it."
"And then what? Drop out? Give it up?" Kate shook her head violently. "I couldn't. I'd always wonder. Always look for them."
Another long pause. Jenny's mind, trained for debate, began analyzing the problem. Weighing variables. "Is there any support? Family?"
Kate let out a bitter laugh. "My family is traditional Catholic. This would be the scandal of the century. They'd support me, but it would come with a lifetime of shame and 'I told you so's.' Mark's family is even worse. Old money, big on appearances. His mother would probably ship me off to some home for wayward girls."
The parallels were too sharp, too painful. Jenny saw her own mother, trapped by pregnancy, marrying for respectability. She saw a child growing up in the shadow of that decision.
"There has to be another way," Jenny said, more to herself than to Kate.
"Unless you know how to magically become independently wealthy and socially respectable overnight…" Kate trailed off, wiping her eyes. "Sorry. You don't need my drama. I'll figure it out."
But Jenny was no longer listening. She was thinking about the system. About appearances. About the loopholes people like the Thomases used to maintain their perfect facades.
An idea, wild and dangerous, began to form in the back of her mind. A hypothetical. A logical solution to an illogical problem.
She pushed it away. It was insane.
But as she watched Kate cry silent, terrified tears, the idea didn't feel insane. It felt like the only piece of solid ground in quicksand.
"You should talk to Mark," Jenny said finally. "Tonight. Before you spiral."
Kate nodded, sniffing. "You're right. God, you're always so calm. How are you so calm?"
Because my whole life has been a crisis, Jenny thought. I've had practice. "Go find him. I'll be here."
After Kate left, the room felt too quiet. Jenny looked at the discarded pregnancy test wrapper in the trash. She looked at her own reflection in the dark window—a pale, serious girl who knew too much about the cost of family secrets.
She opened her notebook of facts. On a fresh page, she wrote:
New Problem: Kate is pregnant.
Variables: Social shame, financial instability, family disapproval.
Desired Outcome: Kate keeps baby, finishes school, has support.
Obstacle: Legitimacy. Society's rules.
She stared at the words. Then, slowly, she added one more line:
Potential Solution: A strategic marriage of convenience.
She immediately crossed it out, the pencil lead digging into the paper. It was a foolish, romantic novel idea.
But the words remained, ghostly and visible beneath the scar of the pencil mark.
A blueprint for a different kind of cage. One you could enter with your eyes open.
One you could design yourself.