For part of the day, maybe he didn’t answer because he was on the plane. But as the shadows grew long on the thick gold carpet of my suite and the sky turned pink, I realized he’d shut me out. The one thing that scared him the most when it came to me—his most jealous fear—was that I’d run away with Angus. And whether my intentions had been good or not, I had to acknowledge that I’d done exactly that.
I texted John throughout the day.
He’s just family.
It’s nothing more.
He had nowhere to go.
I didn’t want you to get in any deeper, but I should have told you he was back.
I left a voice message only one time, my last try. “It’s me. I love you.”
It had taken about one minute to decide to move my money out of Donna’s hands. She’d tried to call me, but I refused to communicate directly. Instead I faxed her forms, and the money was wired into my new Wells Fargo accounts. I didn’t know what potential damage she’d done to any of my finances. I was scared even to trust someone new to help me look into it.
I didn’t leave the room. I slept. Something resembling sleep. Sleep felt like the last safe place for me. If I hibernated long enough, I could will myself into a different existence. At one point, I imagined that if I slept long enough, when I woke up, this would all be a dream: the Puris, John, California, and the cove. What an amazing dream, a wild fantasy world set right in the real one. I’d wake up shaken but refreshed, ready to go off to college like a regular eighteen-year-old girl who ate dinner every night with her family.
Instead, I was a creature of unusual origins. And alone. I knew when I opened my eyes and lifted myself from the sweat-stained white sheets, my life would have to take a different direction.
When I had walked out of my father’s office the night of Relocation, leaving my sister and everything I knew, I’d had faith. Something deep inside me told me this was my future. Now that seemed like a childish dream.
I pressed my face hard into the pillow. I could join Angus’s family. Angus had said if I wanted to find them I should travel south and check into the Hotel Bel-Air. But their situation sounded frightening. Instead, I would roam the country and keep traveling to see more. I wanted to unravel my finances and see what good I could do with it. Maybe I could check in on John from afar, at least for a time.
As for my abilities, I’d thought I could tame them but they just continued to evolve. An unanswered question I would deal with alone. I couldn’t stop, and I no longer wanted to.
I lifted the hair off my neck and recrossed my legs, the black spiked heel of my ankle boot swinging impatiently. It was my third day holding court in a corner of the lobby.
Without a clear plan, I’d lingered at the Rosewood. When the crushing loneliness had finally driven me from my hotel suite, I’d eavesdropped on the conversations taking place all around me. I tested how many I could keep track of at one time. My number was up to five. When I’d heard a start-up pitch, an idea struck me. I was bored and decided I wanted to play too.
First, I’d chatted up a pair of dejected men, boys really, not much older than myself. They’d had a few too many in the bar, and I got them talking about their idea, which had been freshly rejected by a venture capital firm across the street. To boost their confidence I’d planned on giving them seed money regardless, but their idea for a cellular agriculture technique was somewhat interesting. They were thrilled when I scrawled my illegible signature on checks issued from a company account that was part of my trust.
Almost instantly, I had conjured a fully formed alter ego. It reminded me of the old days with the Lost Kids—messing with people, having fun. But now I was smarter and a lot more decent. I was intuitive enough to sense good intentions, and I loved nothing more than denying greed. Condescension and arrogance were also nonstarters.
Petra Lipovski, my alter ego, was the agent for a philanthropist who wanted to give away her fortune. Petra wore jeans, someone’s forgotten Pretenders T-shirt from the cove, and large Chanel sunglasses indoors. In my mind it was like a badass soundtrack accompanied her wherever she walked. Meeting requests came via assistants who would find me personally, and meetings took place from a specific armchair next to a southern-facing window. From the outset, arrangements were made to have each meeting catered by the hotel. As anticipated, enough money was spent that the staff never asked a single question. With hair dyed bottle-black again, sunglasses covering half of my face, and a vague Eastern European accent adopted for the occasion, I didn’t worry about being recognized.
“Ms. Lipovski?”
A petite woman in a rumpled, out-of-fashion business suit approached. She quickly shook my hand. “I’m Kim Tran. Thank you for your consideration and agreeing to meet with me.”
Kim was so nervous, I almost wanted to save her from selling her idea.
From the number of varied fingerprints on the glossy cover of the prospectus she handed me, I saw this idea had made the rounds. But I was impressed she’d gotten the meetings, and she launched into a surprisingly dynamic pitch. She had a fascinating idea for a solar-powered moped but required enormous capital investment. I was willing to take the risk, and I gave her more than she was asking for. When I told her the number, she lost her composure and hugged me. It was the only company where I took less ownership than was offered because I liked Kim so much.
Minutes after Kim left, two men in their forties appeared for their ten o’clock meeting brokered by an assistant who’d approached me the day before.
I didn’t stand but leaned forward to shake their hands. One of them sat in the armchair across from me. The other briefly looked up from his phone to shake my hand and then went right back to his screen. He remained standing.
I waited.
Eventually, he looked up. “Where’s your boss?” Just like that.
Clearly, the assistant hadn’t properly explained the situation. “I’m the boss.”
“We’re on a schedule.” He looked at his younger associate and made the move with his head that they needed to leave.
“Ms. Lipovski?” A woman in cream slacks and a pink short-sleeved sweater stopped in her tracks. “Mina Patel. I wanted to introduce myself.”
I stood to shake her hand, and she continued on her way after handing me her card. The name Mina Patel clearly meant something because the asshole put his phone away.
“So—” began the man.
“Our meeting is canceled due to you being a classic douchebag,” I said in the accent I was coming to love. “Go tell that to your boss.” From behind my sunglasses, I squinted my eyes and fried the battery of his phone.
“I understand,” he said and backed away, scared without knowing why.
Life was easy when you no longer cared what might happen to you.
The man wasn’t the first to show disrespect. People who trusted that I was a decision-maker typically had ended up with a lot of money. The two ideas I’d heard about clean water took home the largest share.
See, Elizabeth? I’m not like my father.
The fact that Mina Patel had heard of me meant word was spreading and my time here was over. I was disappointed the fun and games would have to end and I was without a distraction. But it was time to face what was next.
I was conscious of today’s date—Thursday, August 15th—and had decided not to entertain old dreams. I would let my scheduled college interview pass. When I returned to my room, I lay on my bed with my shoes on.
Don’t do it, Julia. Don’t look. It’s time to move on.
But I felt around on the side table and grabbed for my phone, preparing myself to know that once again John hadn’t called. I shot upright in bed after seeing I finally had a text.
Call me if you go to the interview on Thursday. Until then, I don’t want to talk.
Late AUGUST
JOHN
In the e
arly rounds at Kalamazoo I had gone next level on some people. The first few days we were broken up, it was like I wanted to kill every opponent. They’ll get over it one of these days. I don’t know if I lost a single point to a few of these guys.
I had decided that we would never speak again. It was a crushing decision…
AUGUST
Chapter Twenty-Four
A mile of palm trees lined the corridor into the university in a dramatic statement.
No wonder John loved this place, I thought. I kept seeing California through his eyes—the oxford-blue sky and the perfect, temperate weather with its cool mornings and evenings.
As I approached the front entrance to the school, it was like entering the Emerald City. I walked past the Rodin sculpture I’d seen in the online video tour, the burghers so black and shiny and beginning to bake in the sun. Two tourists took photos of themselves in front of the sculpture.
The office for my interview was close to Memorial Chapel at the end of Palm Drive. I also recognized its gold-leaf tile, now glittering in the sunshine, from the video I’d watched.
The campus already felt busy, but I suspected it was a summer school–type busy. I liked the atmosphere as I walked under the arches and over bronze tiles marked with the year of every graduating class. I entered the building, approached the front desk, and ignored how cold my hands felt.
“Hello, I’m—”
If I ever said my name, she didn’t hear it. The student—presumably that’s what she was—stood up as if I were a very important guest even though we were roughly the same age. She wore jeans and a T-shirt, and I felt overly formal in the thin, long black sundress I’d picked out for the interview.
“Hello! Yes, we’re ready for you. They want to start in Dr. Yu’s office.”
She showed me through the small reception area and into a much larger office. It was empty.
“You can wait in here. Let me know if you need anything.”
She softly clicked the door shut behind me. I remained standing and walked over to the sunny windows behind the desk. Students swiftly passed by on their bikes. For the first time I really tried to picture myself at Stanford. It seemed impossible. I felt a hundred years old compared to the incoming freshmen.
I looked at my watch.
The door opened and a petite woman wearing wide-legged trousers and a light-blue blazer walked in.
“Hi, I’m Michelle Yu, Dean of Admissions.” With her knowing look, I could tell she had heard all about me.
“I’m Julia Jaynes. Thank you for seeing me.”
“Thank you for coming in person. I know it was a very odd request this late in the process. But my colleague, whom we want you to meet, wasn’t available earlier in the summer.”
If it was odd, I hadn’t known it. I’d declined their offer of transportation and lodging, preferring of course to have control over my own arrangements. I’d simply been glad not to receive an immediate rejection.
“We wanted to talk to you a bit about your potential admission here, and it’s obviously more complicated, given awareness of you on a national level.” To her credit, she was all business and didn’t dance around the fact that a manhunt for my father was world news.
Nervously, I smoothed my hands on the skirt of my dress, and I experienced my first glimmer of wanting to make a good impression. I glanced back out the window, and for a second I saw myself as one of the students I’d been watching.
“We wanted to talk to you about accommodations. It’s sensitive so we needed to do it in person.”
Suddenly wanting to convince them I was worth the trouble, in one rush I said, “I’m perfectly willing to change my name. I know you’ve had high-profile students here, and I read that they blended in. If I were accepted, I may need a small bit of security detail, but I also know you’ve had Secret Service here in the past.”
Professor Yu smiled at my string of words, losing a little of her formality as if I’d reminded her I was just a kid sitting across from her.
“Did anyone offer you water?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“Let me get you one. Dr. Gottlieb is running behind.” She smiled. “Make yourself comfortable.” She gestured to the cluster of armchairs on the left side of the airy room and left the office.
More waiting. I plopped down into a velvet armchair, the jagged sadness over John stabbing my stomach again.
Automatically, I glanced down at the low, wood coffee table. Lying on top was one piece of paper that read “Letter of Intent” with my name on it. I half-smiled. So they wanted me.
Next to it was a folder. I leaned forward in the chair and moved it with one finger to see if I could read the label. The tab said, “Elizabeth Blackcomb.”
I didn’t hesitate. I’d had no idea she’d attended Stanford. I opened the folder, scanning the typewritten cover page of Elizabeth’s Stanford application from 1991. Elizabeth’s senior portrait from Sidwell Friends School was attached with a paper clip, showing me what she had looked like at my age. Her eyes were laughing and knowing at the same time. Her face looked so fresh, her cheeks fuller and pink.
I glanced up at the door, speed-reading through the application before anyone came back to the room. Quickly, I got an impression of a young Elizabeth. She had been an off-the-charts student—perfect grades, perfect scores, valedictorian—a popular girl who wrote a witty and scathing personal essay about being the only child of a four-star general and a psychiatrist. There was ballet. Community service. Leadership positions. Her letters of support from teachers all boringly echoed what her grades told me. Only one teacher’s recommendation was a little more oblique and not altogether an endorsement:
It goes without saying Elizabeth Blackcomb is an excellent student. When her plate is full, she is happy. When it’s not, she grows frustrated, pushing boundaries, seeking more challenges, often testing her peers, parents, and teachers. Her learning style is atypical. In my years of teaching, I’ve never seen someone so gifted in a way that strains what we believe to be possible. Elizabeth falls into the prodigy category.
Behind the application was a transcript of Elizabeth’s grades from her first year at Stanford. Perfect. But then there was a record of complaints inserted into her file. One was a written request from Elizabeth’s freshman roommate. The letter formally asked for a transfer to another dorm, citing intimidation. One letter came from a classics professor who wanted to bring to attention some unusual behavior from Elizabeth that the professor felt was putting other students on edge. Then there was a formal reprimand over a gambling pool run by Elizabeth.
After her freshman year, her transcript stopped recording grades, and every additional semester through her senior year was labeled “Institute for Progressive Learning.” The records ended there.
Goosebumps raised on my arms. I closed the file the second before the door opened. Dr. Yu opened the door wider, and a tiny, older woman dressed in a linen pantsuit entered the room. I knew I’d never met her before, but she seemed familiar. She was far more wrinkled than the older people in my family, but she looked incredibly similar. Like she was one of them.
I half-stood and then had to sit again, in sheer disbelief at who I might be seeing. If I was right, I was looking at another Puri who existed outside of my family.
“Julia, this is Dr. Gottlieb.”
“Hi Julia,” she said, gazing at me. “I’m Miriam. I’m so glad you’re here. You are not the easiest person to get in touch with.”
I was surprised I could still use my voice. “You tried to get in touch with me?”
“Through letters and email, yes. I run the Institute for Progressive Learning here at Stanford, and I was the one pestering you to apply.” Her eyes were warm. She looked truly pleased to meet me.
“Oh, I thought that went to everyone—that it was another opportunity available.” I scooted as far
back into my chair as I could, my heart pounding against the walls of my chest.
Dr. Gottlieb laughed. “No, it is definitely not offered to everyone. When your father was in the news and I saw your image, I connected you to Elizabeth.” She gestured to the folder on the table. “I know a bit about your family history. Would you like to come walk with me and tour the Institute?”
I saw the security guard at the door and hesitated. Neither woman explained his presence.
Dr. Yu simply said, “I’ll leave you two alone for a moment.” The door closed behind her.
I didn’t like being manipulated. And the security guard was scaring me. Part of me wanted to leave when Dr. Gottlieb took my hand. A warmth traveled through my veins up my arm. I knew it was intentional. It was something I’d only ever felt from Novak’s touch until now.
“I could tell you were cold.” She looked at my face, wanting to see me comprehend. The hair rose on the back of my neck.
“I’ll have you back here in fifteen minutes, I promise you, but you’re free to leave at any time.”
I somehow knew this was the moment when I would find what Angus had been looking for. I’d stumbled on it, or maybe I’d been led to it.
We left the building. The security guard trailed us down the covered walkways.
“This way.” Dr. Gottlieb scanned a key card and entered a building a short distance from the dean’s office.
I hesitated a second before following. Dr. Gottlieb smiled, but I couldn’t tell if it was with understanding or mirth at my skittishness. The security guard took up a post outside the building.
Immediately there was another door, and she used a code, the technology that controlled access a contrast to the classic architecture. She saw me watching every keystroke.
We walked down a long hall and stopped for Dr. Gottlieb to do an eye scan.
Select Few Page 20