Free To Hold by Alessandra Torre

CHAPTER 1
    “J ennifer?” I look at my new ID dubiously.
    Is there a problem? Drew asks dryly.
    I frown, trying to decide upon an answer to his question. “I don’t know. I just never really pictured myself as a Jennifer.” Jennifers play tennis, like pink, and draw hearts in notebooks. I have already spent twenty-six years straddled with the girly disaster that was Candy. If I am going to get a new name, I want it to be strong, with a backbone. Like Alexis. Or Jinx. Shit. I’ve obviously spent too much time in a strip club. “Do I get a choice?”
    “No.” He smiles thinly, his grin all sharp teeth, no humor in its grimace.
    I sigh. “Then Jennifer it is.”
    “Nathan has already decided that you will be referred to as Jenny.”
    Jenny . I puff out my cheeks in exasperation. Even worse .
    My name is only part of the problem. I stare at the racks of designer clothes, designed for someone other than young vixens with a body worth showing off. According to my new workout regime, delivered by an energetic ball of annoyance named Beth, I will be having my ass kicked for two hours a day, twice a week. Following that schedule, and my new diet (also delivered in irritating cheerful fashion), I will be down a dress size within thirty days. What is the point of all of that hell if it is going to be hidden by three layers of couture?
    I flip through the racks, every hanger holding some variation of the same thing. Classic colors. High necklines. Low hemlines. Cardigans — a whole freaking shelf of them. Lace. Panty Hose. I shudder, grabbing the panty hose packages and tossing them in the general direction of a trashcan. My wardrobe has been cheerfully delivered by Rosit Fenton — a forty-ish bald, round, gay man — whose outfit contains more color than this entire wardrobe combined. He also supplies me with a book.
    “When you flip through the book you will see the outfit selections,” he drones in a nasally tone that reeks of dignity and culture. “Each outfit has a number, shown here.” He points to a giant number, placed to the side of a blouse, so big and clear it looks like it was created for a six-year-old. “The numbers correspond to a hanger. So all you need to do is pull the hangers and you will have your outfit!” He closes the book with a sharp crack, smiling at me in a way that is typically reserved for those of a lesser intellect.
    I don’t need a book that matches blah with blah; I can master that disaster all on my own. I force a smile, trying to present an exterior that is gracious and refined. “Thank you.”
    And so begins my first day as Jenny — polite, reserved, Jenny. I grit my teeth at the name.

CHAPTER 2
    Word: 5 letters; second letter is ‘U’.
    Clue: something justice will not erase.
    I smile at my father. He is weak, the monitors showing dismal results that I am now an expert in. My eyes flit between his weak face and the numbers, numbers that constantly change, never giving me a moment’s rest. There’ll be a moment of brief elation, followed by a heartbeat of despair. I see these numbers in my sleep, they dominate my dreams, always traveling in the wrong direction, my breaths quickening as they increase, incessantly beeping at a rate that parallels my heart.
    His condition has improved only slightly since my last evening at the Crystal Palace. Nathan had him moved to a nicer facility called Crestridge; Dad now has a private, corner room with windows that open to a bloom-filled garden. I visited him three times before his move, enough times to realize the marked difference between the two facilities. His other doctors didn’t have time to answer my questions, giving my father a cursory glance as they made hurried adjustments to his chart. The new doctors are patient, informative, sometimes spending a half hour with us discussing minute changes in his condition. It is through their gentle answers that I am fully realizing the bleak situation: we need a miracle. Unless things