Chapter 0: The Error

The Study Abroad office was smaller than Edison expected, and warmer. A single oscillating fan pushed the air around without much conviction. The woman behind the desk smiled politely and gestured for him to sit.

“So,” she said, folding her hands. “Where are you thinking of going?”

“Somewhere that speaks English,” Edison replied.

She nodded. “We do have one English-language exchange. It’s run through the Honors College.”

“That’s fine,” Edison said.

She hesitated. “You’re not currently in Honors.”

“I should be,” he said, evenly.

She turned to her screen. “Students are invited based on academic performance.”

“I graduated high school with a 3.9,” Edison said. “I’m carrying a 3.9 here too.”

She looked back at him, interested now, but unconvinced. “If you’d graduated with a 3.0 or better, you would have been invited.”

“I did.”

She smiled — not unkindly, but reflexively. “That’s not what we have on file.”

“Can I see it?” Edison asked.

She rotated the hanging file folder 90 degrees so Edi could see its contents, too.

At the top of the transcript, in bold capitals, it read: FINAL GPA: 2.9

Edison stared at it, waiting for it to rearrange itself into something sensible.

“That’s wrong,” he said.

She tilted her head. “We get that a lot. But the numbers don’t lie.”

“No,” Edison said. “That’s actually wrong.”

He leaned forward. “Can we go through it, please?”

She began using her fingers to move down the rows and over the columns of classes and grades. English: A. History: A. Science: A. French: A. French again. And again. Math—

“AP Trigonometry,” Edison said, before she could read it aloud. “Mr. Moody.”

She paused.

“That was the B,” Edison added. “Only one I ever got.”

He could still see the classroom if he tried — the low windows, the blinds always half-closed, the dusty eraser slammed on his desk when Edi threatened to drop the class instead of taking a C. “Just do the final, and see how you get on,” Moody argued. Mr. Moody was a good man and a great teacher. He insisted that understanding why mattered more than getting the answer right. It had seemed noble at the time. Much to the chagrin of his friends who’d worked hard all year and barely passed, Edi genuinely aced the final. Moody rewarded him with a B. It vindicated them both. It had also knocked a tenth off his GPA.

He took a pen from his pocket — the same one he used to mark pizza boxes during his shifts — and began writing on the back of a leaflet.

“Four points for an A,” he said. “Three for a B. Divide the total points I earned by the total points available.”

She picked up her own pen and did the same calculation.

They finished at the same time.

“Three point nine,” she said quietly.

Edison nodded. “That’s what I said.”

She frowned at the file. “This transcript would have been typed manually… she said, her voice trailing, allowing Edison to come to his own conclusion.

Edison felt the explanation arrive before the consequence.

“Mrs Brandau,” he said.

The counselor looked up. “You know her?”

“She was the secretary at my high school,” Edison said. “She was good. Everyone liked her.”

There was no accusation in his voice. Just recognition.

“She must have hit a two instead of a three,” the counselor said. “That’s all.”

That was all.

Mrs Brandau. Momma B. The mother of Laurie, the Cheerleading Captain. A woman Edison trusted, typing late in the afternoon, pressing the wrong key once. Not negligence. Not incompetence. Just a small human error that had been photocopied, mailed, archived, and believed by everyone, without ever being seen by Edison himself.

Architecture at Cal Poly, San Luis Obispo. The scholarship. The letters that never came. None of it had required malice to be erased. Just an innocent typo.

“I’d like to appeal for Honors,” Edison said.

She nodded. “You’ll need to make a case.”

“I can,” he said.

And he did. Persistently, politely. He brought transcripts. Letters. Syllabi. He explained — more than once — why someone with seven years of French had chosen not to apply to Avignon, why he wanted to study abroad in English instead. He argued not for special treatment, but for accurate arithmetic.

Eventually, he was admitted to the Honors College.

Eventually, he applied to study English literature at the University of Wales, Swansea.

With uncharacteristic optimism, he bought a guidebook. More predictably, he didn’t read a single word of it.

A few weeks later, while he was working the kitchen at Pizza Hut, his manager called him to the front. “Edi, one of the tables wants to ‘speak to the chef’,” she said rolling her eyes. Edison emerged into the dining area to see the Study Abroad counselor sat at a table with what he presumed to be her colleagues. They had ordered a medium pepperoni and a round of soft drinks. The crinkled, greasy napkins and red plastic dappled cups were scattered across the red and white checkered vinyl tablecloth.

“Hi Edi,” she said, as she wiped the corners of her mouth. “I hope you don’t  mind, but we wanted to tell you in person: you got in! But… the student who was meant to go to Aberystwyth asked to swap. They don’t teach her major.”

Edison waited, not quite sure how the other student had anything to do with him.

“So,” she continued, casually, “you’re still going to Wales. Just not Swansea.”

He nodded.

At the time, it didn’t feel like anything at all.