Chapter 22 - Orientation
Bellmore orientation began on a Monday in August.
Exactly eight weeks after the kitchen.
Jada noticed because of course she did.
Renee drove.
Tamika did not.
That decision had taken three conversations.
“I want to be there,” Tamika said.
“I know.”
“I’ve imagined your college move-in since you were little.”
“I know.”
“I bought storage bins.”
“Mom.”
Tamika stopped.
Jada continued.
“I need the first day to feel like mine.”
Tamika cried.
But she said okay.
That mattered.
Bellmore’s campus looked exactly like the brochure and nothing like it.
The buildings were real now.
Students dragged mini-fridges across sidewalks.
Parents argued over parking spaces.
Orientation leaders shouted directions.
Jada stood beside Renee outside Hawthorne Hall.
“You good?” Renee asked.
“No.”
“Excellent.”
Jada laughed.
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
Renee lifted a box.
“Nobody is good on move-in day.”
Jada’s roommate was named Alexis Carter, a biology major from Baltimore with purple glasses and six decorative pillows.
Within twenty minutes, Alexis’s mother had offered everyone bottled water and introduced herself three times.
Jada found herself jealous.
Not of the pillows.
Of the normal mother.
Then she hated herself for the thought.
Renee seemed to notice.
“You can call her.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
After unpacking, Jada stepped into the hallway.
She opened her phone.
A text from Tamika.
No pressure to answer. I hope the room has good light. Grandpa would be losing his mind today.
Jada smiled despite herself.
She typed:
It does.
Then after a moment:
I’m here.
Tamika replied:
I know. Proud of you.
No heart emojis.
No guilt.
No request for a picture.
Jada sent one anyway.
Her beside the Bellmore sign.
Tamika reacted with a single blue heart.
Jada put the phone away.
Orientation sessions covered academic advising, campus safety, student employment, housing rules, and tuition deadlines.
At the financial aid table, Jada’s name triggered a quiet conversation.
Her special circumstances appeal had been finalized.
The emergency grant would continue for spring if her situation remained unchanged.
Jada almost cried in front of the financial aid officer.
Instead she said, “Thank you.”
The officer smiled.
“You earned your merit award. We’re just making sure the family crisis doesn’t erase it.”
Those words stayed with her.
The crisis doesn’t erase it.
Darrell and Tamika had made choices.
Those choices were real.
The damage was real.
But they did not retroactively erase Jada’s grades.
Her essays.
Her late-night studying.
Her acceptance.
Her work.
That evening, Jada attended a first-generation student dinner.
She almost skipped it.
Then the speaker, a professor named Dr. Malcolm Avery, said something that made her stay.
“First-generation students are often told their education belongs to the whole family.”
Jada looked up.
“That pressure can be beautiful when it means support. It becomes dangerous when it means ownership.”
Her throat tightened.
Around her, students nodded.
Jada realized she was not the only person carrying family expectations into a classroom.
The details differed.
The weight did not.
After dinner, she called Renee.
“How’s it feel?” Renee asked.
“Like everybody here knows where they’re going.”
“They don’t.”
“They look like they do.”
“That’s college.”
Jada laughed.
Then Renee’s voice changed.
“What?”
“Darrell’s lawyer contacted Leah.”
Jada’s stomach tightened.
“What now?”
“He wants to accelerate the settlement.”
“Why?”
“King Home Solutions is shutting down.”
Jada sat on a bench.
“What does that mean for the money?”
“The warehouse is being sold.”
“And my secured portion?”
“Looks like you may recover it sooner.”
Jada stared at students walking beneath campus lights.
Six months earlier that news would have consumed her.
Now she was standing at Bellmore.
She had an eight-thirty class the next morning.
A roommate arguing with someone about string lights.
A student ID in her pocket.
Her life was moving forward while Darrell’s business collapsed behind her.
“Okay,” she said.
Renee sounded surprised.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want details?”
“Tomorrow.”
A pause.
Then Renee smiled through the phone.
“Look at you.”
Jada understood what she meant.
For months, Darrell’s choices had dictated the rhythm of her life.
Every email.
Every hearing.
Every bank statement.
Now she had somewhere else to be.
“Tell Leah I’ll call tomorrow.”
“I will.”
Jada ended the call.
She walked back toward Hawthorne Hall.
Her phone buzzed.
Tamika.
Sleep before your first class.
Jada laughed.
She replied:
You are not allowed to parent me about sleep after stealing my college fund.
Three dots appeared.
Then:
Fair.
Jada stopped walking.
She laughed harder.
Not because the betrayal was suddenly funny.
Because for the first time, the truth could exist in a sentence without destroying the entire relationship.
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The wound was still there.
But it no longer controlled every room.
