by Tammar Stein
“Believe me”—I grip the nubby fabric–covered armrests of the cheap office chair—“I may be younger than most of your investors, but I’ve seen what money can buy and what it shouldn’t. I don’t need more clothes. I don’t need to try my luck in the stock market. I don’t need a trip around the world.” I pause. “I’m not saying that one wouldn’t be nice, but I don’t need it.”
“Yet you ‘need’ to invest in my company?” he asks skeptically. “I do not mean to be looking a gift horse in the mouth, and I do not usually try to talk investors out of investing in my company”—here he shoots me a look—“but you have to admit, viewing it from my perspective, this all sounds remarkably fishy. I have the feeling there is a giant catch in there somewhere.”
I nod. “You’re right. There is a catch.”
He raises a single eyebrow. The phone rings. He glances over at it but doesn’t answer. I take it as a good sign.
“Before I tell you what the catch is, I have some questions for you. I was very impressed with several things during your presentation.” I mention the research-based breakthrough he had with algae and fuel production; brackish-water production is an amazing development that he’s engineered. His expression changes as he listens to me, clearly surprised that I followed what he lectured on. “But there are a few issues that you didn’t address. What’s your financial longevity?” It was one of the first things Delaney Cramer grilled me on when we talked. Without deep pockets, he’ll be out of business in weeks, no matter how great his ideas.
I can see him make the switch, actually see him stop looking at me as a punk kid and start talking to me like an investor.
“Between a couple of government grants and three principal investors, the company has held its course,” he says, clearing his throat. “The company was formed eight months ago and it has enough capital to last another six, but that’s assuming I stay on a shoestring budget.” He waves a hand to indicate the shabbiness of his office. As if I haven’t noticed.
“What are your future financial needs?” I ask from a list of questions I prepared ahead of time.
“In order to grow, we can’t realistically stay at this level. But we need to find the perfect combination of algae and output, the proverbial needle in a haystack. That takes time and money, two things that are in short supply.”
The knot around my heart, the nervous cramps in my belly fade at this. I want to jump out of my seat with joy. The professor notes my relieved expression and the poor man looks both annoyed and puzzled as he sits back and crosses his arms. His eyes are dark and liquid and I’m gambling everything I’ve got that there’s a kind soul behind them.
“What you’re describing, your major obstacle to success, I know someone who could help you with it. That’s the catch. My friend, the one you met the other night, he’s been working on a business plan to help you get past some of those hurdles.”
The astonished look on his face would be comical, if only it weren’t followed by a look of visceral disgust.
“Your friend? Gavin Armand?” He shakes his head. “You know he was expelled from Tech? For cheating?”
“It’s not what it seems,” I quickly say. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I will not be a part of this,” he says, cutting off all discussion. My stomach twists in disappointment. Some of what I feel must show on my face, because his face softens a bit. “In my experience as a professor for many years,” he says, not unkindly, “once a cheater, always a cheater. I do not need that kind of person here. I have two part-time employees. We do not have room for the deadweight or the liability of a cheater. My God, the last thing I need now is a lawsuit for patent infringement, or industrial theft or who knows what!”
“He’s not a cheater! He won’t steal or lie or cause you any trouble.” He’s clearly not convinced, and why should he believe me? I change tactics. “What have you got to lose here? He can’t cheat to help you. He can’t steal the business plan because it doesn’t exist. Either he can pull one together or he can’t. He shared some of his ideas with me and they’re great. So here is the final part of my offer.” Standing up, hands shoved in my pockets, I play my last card. “I’m not offering to invest a million dollars in your company, I’m offering to give it to you. A donation. Nothing in return. Not shares, not profit, not future royalties. Nothing. I don’t even want my name mentioned, not to Gavin or anyone. All I ask in return is that you look at Gavin’s plan. If it’s not good, if it’s not what you need, then you can say no thank you, and keep the money. But if it’s good, you hire Gavin.”
The offer shocks him.
“Why would you do that?”
I’m not ready to answer that question. “It’s my money. It’s my decision.”
The phone rings again and this time he doesn’t even glance at it.
“You’re busy,” I say. “I know you need to get back to work. Do we have a deal?”
The phone rings over and over. His computer beeps with incoming messages. A plane roars overhead, heading for the nearby St. Pete/Clearwater airport. I stand like a soldier, holding my breath.
“I don’t accept ultimatums,” he says flatly. “And I don’t give second chances.”
Disappointment is like lead in my veins. He won’t consider looking at a business plan for a million dollars? Humiliating tears rise along with a lump in my throat. If this doesn’t work, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, where I should go. I only have four days left to figure this out. For a moment, the ground yawns open under me and I sway, gripping the edge of the desk for balance.
“But,” he says, and I stop my circling panic and force myself to listen, “I pride myself on having an open mind. I do not give second chances but since you claim he never cheated in the first place, I will take a look at his business plan. But do not think you can scam me, young lady. I have been teaching for fifteen years. I have seen over seven hundred students try every trick in the book.”
“It’s not a trick,” I say stiffly. It’s not Gavin he’s insulting now. He’s implying that I cheat too.
“Fine,” he says. “But he needs to finish it soon or it’s moot, regardless of our mutual misgivings,” he adds, almost reluctantly. “A former ‘esteemed’ colleague of mine has announced he’s giving a talk at the Symposium on Biofuels, Bioenergy and Biotechnology.”
I look at him blankly.
“His topic is algae as fuel, and his specifics are remarkably similar to mine. He’s recently formed a company called EarthFuel.”
“Good name,” I mutter.
“He’s an idiot,” Isakson says crisply. “But he’s savvy, and as it turns out, investors are bedazzled by a slick website and glossy four-color brochures. EarthFuel is expected to announce that they have successfully grown algae in brackish water. The sudden research breakthrough is identical to mine. Apparently, one of his students has been copying my files.” He presses his lips together. “So, while your infusion of cash is much needed, and your intentions seem honorable, you might as well know that in three months this company could be rendered obsolete.”
Funny how he didn’t mention that little gem during the fund-raiser.
“Why don’t you file for a patent right now?”
“I filed for a provisional patent.” He rises to face the dirty window looking out on the quiet street below, his hands on his slim hips. “It’s a place holder, if you will, while I work out the exact details for the official patent. There is a one-year deadline to complete it with the exact details. My year is about to expire, right around the time of the symposium. Once it expires, everything I put in the provisional patent is public knowledge and fair game. I believe Professor Parks is simply waiting out the clock and then he will file for his own patent. But I cannot file the patent yet. It’s taken me longer than I originally planned to finalize my numbers.”
“Gavin’s proposal can do that.”
“I find that unlikely.”
I hate that Isakson’s bad opinion and rigi
d thinking about Gavin could ruin my whole plan. He’s probably thinking something along the same lines, resenting a young person like me who has so much money (and therefore has power over his company) that she can dictate his actions. He must be bitter that after all his hard work, someone is about to swoop in and steal it. But, I remind myself, I might be able to fix that. I came here to buy Gavin a chance to prove his innocence to the one man whose opinion he values, and in doing so, I could save Isakson’s company as well.
“You’ll hear from me by Friday,” I promise. It seems cosmically aligned for everything to fall into place, or fall apart, on my birthday, the day of the week that God created man.
“I look forward to it,” Isakson says.
He watched her enter the building, looking so scared that he wanted to call out: “Ain’t nothing gonna bite you, girl!” just to make her smile. But girls today, they didn’t smile when you thought they would. They glared at you, or pretended they never heard you. Some of them yelled nasty, awful things. And there was nothing you could do because you were dirty and they were clean. So he kept his mouth shut when she walked by—she never even noticed him—but he decided, as a favor, to keep an eye on her bike.
Time had stopped having meaning for him, so he wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, leaning against the wall with a clear view of the bike and the street. It couldn’t have been that long. Unless he’d fallen asleep. Lately, he kept losing time. He’d have no memory of getting to a place. Be holding an empty burger wrapper with no memory of eating the burger. Sometimes he wished it were a sign that things would be over soon. Other times it scared him. A man like him can’t lose track of reality like that. He had to be on guard. So he gave himself missions, like an undercover superhero. Captain Homeless. He sniggered to himself. No one ever knew they’d been protected, that they’d huddled under the shelter of his watchful eye. He chased away a car thief once. And there was one time he was sure he’d prevented a mugging. Not that anyone said thank you.
The door opened and the girl strode out. Walked out like she owned the world and had not a care in the world. Almost made you wonder if it was the same person. He eyed her suspiciously as she fiddled with the bike lock. Debated hollering at her, chasing her away so the other girl, the scared one, would have her bike when she left the building. He was still making up his mind, trying to remember what the first girl looked like, what she would say when she saw her bike was still there, that he’d protected it. Maybe she’d give him a reward. Maybe she’d invite him home so he could shower while she cooked him dinner. He smacked his lips at the thought. Struggled to his feet. But the girl was gone. No bike. No nobody. He sat back down, wondering if he’d dreamed the whole thing.
He lost time every once in a while. Woke up on a bench he’d never seen before. Said hello to people who vanished in the next instant.
Sometimes he wished things were different. Sometimes he wondered what life was like for everyone else, people who had a house and a car and a wife to cook you a big, juicy steak whenever you felt like eating one. He used to be one of those people.
He tried not to think about it.
Chapter Eighteen
I spend the rest of my morning online, looking up Professor Parks and his slick new company, EarthFuel. As I click back and forth between AlgaeGo and EarthFuel, it’s obvious which one I’d invest in if I didn’t know the whole story. EarthFuel’s website is professional and sharp, with a simple, easy-to-understand mission statement and ambitious goals. AlgaeGo has several broken links, scientific gibberish, and a plain, almost childish home page. Isakson is totally screwed.
In the afternoon, I bike to SHCC for marine chemistry. Skipping high school is one thing. Skipping marine chemistry is another.
Plus, I need to see Gavin.
Gavin’s already in his usual seat in the back, hunched over his laptop. He only looks up when our professor begins her lecture; then our eyes meet and he nods hello. Even when I turn to face the professor, I can’t stop a little smile. As the professor lectures, I sneak glances at him, but he’s engrossed by whatever’s on his screen. Then again, the few times he’s called on, he answers brilliantly like always. The retro-T-shirt girl who was sweet to me on the beach-cleanup trip keeps rolling her eyes when Gavin talks. Maybe it’s only my imagination, but she seems to be glaring at me too, though I can’t imagine why.
After class, I linger in the hall until Gavin comes loping out. My heart gives a little leap when I see his tall, dark form. He grins when he sees me, his face lightening and looking younger. I wonder how much of what I’m feeling shows on my face.
“I have news,” I say, practically bouncing.
“Yeah?” he asks, his voice husky. Retro-shirt girl, today wearing vintage Sprite, glares at me again. I want to tell her not to be jealous, that things aren’t as simple as they look, but when I turn to say hi to her, she looks away, a sullen tilt to her head.
“Not here.” I tug on Gavin’s arm. “Let’s go.”
We head to the bike rack to grab my bike and then head to Old Farmer’s Creamery, the best ice cream in the Bay. I sneak a glance at him. I believe in you, I remind myself. But I’m still scared. To cover that, I start talking.
“I was sure you’d be busted for not paying attention,” I say. We’ve been outside less than five minutes and my skin’s already beading with perspiration under the brutal sun. There’s going to be a huge, wet circle where my backpack presses against me. “It’s obvious you aren’t taking notes. The professor’s getting ticked.”
“I multitask well,” he says. He’s sweating too. A drop of sweat forms on his temple. It rolls down the side of his face and down his neck and disappears under his thin gray shirt. The sleeves are tight around his biceps. Did he start lifting weights in juvie? Was that part of putting your boots on?
“Um…” I try to remember what we were talking about. “Why are you on your computer so much, anyway?”
“I’m still looking into the various property options in South Florida. There’s been a lot coming on the market lately. I have an agent sending me sites to look at. Besides, I already took this class, I don’t need to hear it again.”
“Wait, what?” I say, confused. “If you already took it, why are you taking it again?”
His step falters for a second. He slides a sideways glance at me and gives me a little smile, like he’s not sure if I’m going to be pissed or not.
“What?” My hackles rise.
“I knew you were taking it,” he finally says, reluctantly. “So I signed up too.”
It takes a moment for me to work through what he’s saying. No one would have told him that I was taking a class at SHCC. The only way he’d know is by looking in the college’s registry.
“You hacked into the SHCC database!? Oh my God, Gavin, haven’t you learned anything?” I feel so many things at once, it’s easiest to focus on the practicalities. “What if they find out? You’ll get arrested.” I leave the again part hanging in the air.
“They’re not going to find out. I didn’t touch anything. I just searched for your name,” he says, oh so reasonably. Seeing my wide-eyed look, he explains, “I knew your teachers would push you toward classes here. You were brilliant at fifteen, Kohn. At seventeen, there wouldn’t be anything left in high school they could teach you.”
I gape for a second at the offhand compliment.
“When I saw you were enrolled for marine chemistry, I signed up. It was the only way I could think of that you’d see me.”
“Idiot,” I mumble under my breath, though I’m not sure if I mean him or me. “I thought it was coincidence that we bumped into each other.” Actually, I thought it was divine intervention but I don’t say that. “I can’t believe you tracked me down like some kind of stalker, that’s so creepy! Why would you do that? We barely knew each other in high school.” We’re in the middle of the sidewalk. Other pedestrians give us a wide berth.
“I just…I wanted to see you again,” he says, his shoulder
s hunched defensively.
“You barely knew me, Gavin.”
“Crap.” He rakes a hand through his hair in frustration. “What I’m trying to say, badly, is that I wanted to know you. I mean, I always knew who you were, everybody knew about the brainy girl whose family won the lottery. Then your parents paid for my defense team—which, believe me, was not cheap. And when I got back to Florida, there were rumors that you guys were broke.” I flush with hot embarrassment. So everyone already knows. “Leni, I don’t mean it like that, I just thought maybe there was something I could help with. Not money, obviously, I’m as broke as ever, but”—he shrugs helplessly—“I wanted to get to know you a bit.”
“How did you fix it so we’d have lab together?” I ask.
“I made sure to be a huge jerk at the start of the class so no one would sign next to my name.”
“It does comes naturally to you.”
“I didn’t mean it in a creepy way,” he says. “I just thought maybe we could be friends.”
The sidewalk pulses with heat and matches the waves of emotions pulsing through me. I turn my head away and stare down blankly at the pavement. Does this change anything? I think in a panic. Did I misread things?
“Please, Leni. I only wanted to repay on the biggest favor of my life.”
I know all about the burden of debts. I can’t begrudge him the attempt to clear his. We’re as intricately bound as a Celtic knot.
“Fine,” I say, tightening my grip on the handlebars. “But don’t ever creep around behind my back again, okay?”
“Okay,” he says. “I promise. Friends?”
“Yeah,” I say. “We are friends.”
“Ice cream?” Gavin asks, lightening the mood.
“Make it a double.”
Entering the small, wood-paneled ice cream shop, I shudder with pleasure. Even before our ice cream is scooped and tasted, my composure returns with the drop in my body temperature. Maybe it isn’t a surprise that heat is the devil’s domain. The cold, creamy ice cream feels like heaven after the hot, muggy air outside.