"You familiar with TempChat?" He said finally, after a few moments of indecisive silence. Indecisive on his part. I sat without fidgeting, outwardly relaxed. Inwardly I was alert and ready for an attack.
"I've heard of it, but I don't use it, I said. Tempchat was a popular social media platform for mobile devices that allowed users to exchange private messages that deleted themselves after they were read. The temporal nature of the social media platform allowed for a lot of activity that wouldn't take place on a public site. I'd heard of everything from guys and girls exchanging nude selfies to drug deals and prostitution taking place on the service.
"What if I told you that TempChat was going public in a few months?" Billings was overly animated. The pulse in his neck was bouncing against his skin and there was a slight flush creeping up his neck. I tried to guess the source of his excitement.
"And you have the opportunity to buy in before the public offering?"
Billings grinned and pointed his finger at me. "Exactly. You are so goddamned smart, Jackson. That's why we make a good team."
I had exert conscious effort in order to suppress my surprise at Billings’ declaration that we were a team. He was my professor—my advisor—and I was the student. That wasn't much of a team dynamic. Billings was unconcerned by my silence. Leaning farther over the desk, so far that his body was practically horizontal to the wooden surface, Billings crowed, "Do you know how much an individual stock share will be after the IPO?"
I hazarded a guess but undervalued it, knowing that this would provide Billings the opportunity to spout off his knowledge of the market. "The last valuation of TempChat was in the billions when Facebook tried to buy it, so close to two-hundred dollars or so?"
Billings sat back hard, the chair's metal pieces clinking against each other, and he flung his hand at me. "That's a gross undervaluation. Twitter stock started at twenty-six dollars and then ended at forty-four on the closing day. Facebook. Heck, when UPS went public, everyone from the mailroom to the boardroom made millions."
Millions. A kernel of envy rose inside of me. The problem with being poor wasn’t that you couldn't work hard and make money but that these types of ventures were out of reach for you. A person who could buy a few thousand shares pre-public offering could stand to make a killing, but the only people that got offered that opportunity were investment bankers, venture capitalists, and people who had a lot of money already.
I could take my savings, sell my franchise, and offer up all my winnings, and Grace and I would be set for life if I had this opportunity. I'd be able to buy a house on the North Shore that'd make her uncle's house look like a shack. I'd be able to walk into any store or restaurant and people would know instantly that I was someone of worth just by the cut of my clothes and the leather of my shoes.
I'd never be the poor kid from the west side of town whose mother was dead and whose father drank his food stamps. My stomach cramped as that kernel of envy grew, wrapping its green vines around my innards and squeezing.
Billings leaned back in his chair, oblivious to the dark beanstalk that he'd planted inside me. No, that was unfair. He hadn't planted it. The dark bean of envy and want had been planted when I was born. All my life I've been battling it. His words were just feeding it.
"Millions, Mr. Jackson," he murmured, almost to himself. He rolled his head toward the window so that I couldn’t see his eyes. "Most of the time, opportunities to buy in at this level, to help fund the capital of the public offering, aren't offered to peons like us, Jackson. They are for the people who already fly private jets and who are building rocket ships for fun."
"Most of the time,” Billings had said. What was he hinting at? "Most of the time, sir?"
My response was apparently what Billings had been waiting for. He turned around, facing me full on. His eyes were glittering and the flush had spread across his entire face. "Yes, Mr. Jackson. Most of the time. What if I told you that I had an opportunity to buy some shares of pre-IPO stock?"
"That's tremendous," I said evenly, despite the green vines of envy threatening to choke my blood supply.
"You need money to buy in, and unfortunately I don't have all the funds that I need." Billings tapped his hands on his desk in restless agitation. I waited for him to continue. "I've had a little run of bad luck with my finances. I won't bore you with it, but suffice it to say I don't really have the ready cash to buy in at the level I'm required to, and banks don't lend money for investment purposes like this."
Clarity rushed in like a cool breeze, chasing away the envy and bringing in a good dose of trepidation. What Billings’ finances had to do with me, I wasn't sure, but I knew it couldn't be good.
"You're fighting on New Year's, right?"
"Yes, I'm winning on New Year's," I responded a bit cockily, but I felt the ground underneath me was shifting and needed to exert myself a bit.
"I looked up the odds on your fight. You're the favorite." Billings looked me up and down like I was some kind of merchandise he was evaluating.
Immediately, I knew what he was suggesting. He wanted to bet against me and have me throw the fight. Standing up, I grabbed my pack. "Congratulations on getting the opportunity to buy into TempChat. That's pretty awesome. Take a look at my work. I think you'll be pleased at the thoroughness of the feasibility study. The shop I purchased is making a decent profit, and I hope to open at least two more in the next six months, one down here by Central." I shouldered the pack and stood by the chair, ready for my dismissal. I wasn't throwing any goddamned fight so that this yahoo could make millions. Maybe I was ruining my grade here, but fuck me. If he thought I was some stooge, he had another thing coming.
"What if I told you that I'd offer you a percentage of those shares?"
"Sir?" Against my will, I stayed and listened to Billings’ offer.
"You help me get my money for the buy in, and I'll let you have ten percent. The money you make from that will make your little shop look like pocket change." He gestured rudely toward the independent project that I'd spent hours on.
"I don't think I can help you," I said. I wanted to make money, but I wasn't going to sell my soul for it. I did not throw fights, ever. I wasn't even sure I could throw one. Once I got inside the Octagon, every instinct inside of me roared to dominate, and my body didn't quit until it sensed submission. I turned on my heel and walked toward the door. When my hand was on the doorknob, Professor Billings' voice stopped me.
"Your GI Bill requires you to have a passing grade, correct?"
"Yes," I responded warily.
"In fact, I read that you had to pay back money if you failed?" Billings' voice was full of disdain now, his true feelings for my scholarship status showing through. Central College was filled mostly with rich kids. Kids like Grace whose family came from money already. The ones who were invited to participate in capital projects for start-ups that netted them even more millions.
"That's right." I bit my cheek to prevent myself from turning and yelling at Billings.
If I could crumple metal, the door knob would be in pieces. As it was, I'd probably have the imprint of the ball in my palm for days.
“This company may be bought before it goes public. Once it does, the stock prices will shoot through the roof. You’ll earn millions. Be a shame you didn't pass this class then. It might even affect your scholarship status."
"I can't see how I wouldn't pass, I shot back. “The independent project required me to determine what would be the most viable franchise in the city. I chose a high-margin, low-personnel business in a high-traffic area. The profits from that space per square foot are higher than every franchise in a ten-mile radius."
I tasted blood in my mouth, and I took a minute to lick the wound and swallow the blood. "It's already making money, and it has been since I bought it." Then, almost recklessly, I charged ahead. "I can't imagine not receiving a passing grade for this project, and if I did, I'd have to consult with the dean about the fairness of my grade.”
>
Dr. Billings laughed at me, one part nervous, one part mocking. “I know you aren’t averse to getting your hands dirty…literally. All your previous fighting wasn’t on the up and up. Don’t think I don’t know how you funded the purchase of your little project.”
“I’m not interested,” I told him flatly, but in truth my heart was pounding hard.
I heard the scrape of a chair as Billings stood. I turned to face him. His face wasn't just flushed now, it was red. "You are a goddamned redneck charity case. Your kind doesn't belong here, and the dean would agree with me. We take on shit-ass war mongers like you to allow the administration to preen about its devotion to veterans, but the truth is that not one of us can stand you and your kind."
It was one thing to insult me and entirely another to insult the Corps and the men I served with, the men who died for this fuckstick. "You're lucky that me and my kind are willing to die so that you can gamble away your cash and still have an opportunity to make money in a stock market that is supported by the sweat and blood of my brothers," I seethed.
Billings wisely stood behind his desk. The physical barrier wouldn't be too difficult for me to cross, but it served as a reminder that I couldn't strike this person, although every nerve in my body wanted to. I held my clenched fists against my side rigidly in hopes that my self-control would hold and I wouldn't spring across the room and end him.
"You think about this, Noah Jackson," Billings spat at me. "I'm offering you an opportunity of a lifetime. Throw one little fight, and you'll be a millionaire. It'll be your only opportunity to sit with your little Central College friends and feel like you belong. Otherwise, you’ll always be the dirty kid from the wrong side of the tracks looking up at everyone else. It’s not like you haven’t been willing to do illegal things for money before.”
I didn’t give Billings the satisfaction of a response. Instead, I turned and left without another word. But his parting insults pounded in my head. I had fought illegally for money to buy the franchise. He was just verbalizing everything I had ever thought before. I wasn’t good enough for Grace, and I wouldn’t be good enough until my bank account stood up to her uncle’s.
TWO
Grace
"HOW ABOUT THIS JACKET?" LANA Sullivan, my cousin, held up a double-breasted, heavy wool coat with a designer label. We were shopping for Christmas presents, and I was looking for the perfect gift for Noah. His winter coat was the one he’d bought when he was in the Marines, and I wanted to give him a nice wool one that was better suited to his desire to be a mogul. But Noah was very sensitive about my relative wealth compared to his own, so I had to be careful to buy something that was of good quality but that wasn't so expensive it would reinforce our economic differences. I wanted my first Christmas with Noah to be wonderful, not fraught with tension.
“Too expensive.” I turned back to the sale rack and rifled through the sparse offerings.
“Everything in this section is expensive.” Lana waved a hand around us.
I winced. “Well, I’m trying to find something on the sale rack.”
“How will Noah know whether you paid full price or got it on sale?”
Good point. “Because I’m a terrible liar?”
“To the rest of us, but Noah doesn’t always read you very well.” She shrugged lightly. “Besides, why do you have to tell him?”
“True.” I wandered back over to her. “The jacket is nice.”
“Cut the tags off,” Lana advised, pulling the jacket off the hanger and taking it to the sales counter. “He’ll never know. Besides, what is he going to do? Google the price?”
“I know you think this is silly, but Noah has some crazy idea about the lifestyle he thinks I want to live. I think he’s driving himself into an early grave trying to deliver it.” I paid for the jacket. The sales lady handed me a ticket so that I could pick up the gift from the gift wrap counter later.
“This is more of Noah’s problem than yours,” Lana countered.
“Possibly.” I shrugged. “But why exacerbate his already-vulnerable feelings on this? I wouldn’t like it if Noah kept poking at my wounds.”
“This is something Noah is going to have to get over, or you guys are going to have a rough time.”
“Is this your professional advice?” Lana was a psychology student and liked to dispense pop diagnoses and cures. A lot of the time, she was scarily on point. Other times, I found her advice irritating. Likely because she made too much sense. Sometimes I just wanted her to nod and offer soft sympathetic sounds rather than declaring that Noah and I were on the brink of another break up.
“Just an observation.” Lana stopped at a rack of ties. “Besides, I think that if you were more assertive then maybe Noah wouldn’t feel as uneasy.”
I bristled at Lana’s criticism. “How exactly am I supposed to be more assertive? Should I cram my trust down his throat, sell his business out from under him? Demand that he either drop one or all of his extracurricular activities in order to spend time with little old me?”
“No, I’m saying if he gets all worked up about the gift, just tell him straight out that he needs to accept you just like you accept him.” Having finished her lecture, Lana moved on. “What’s next on our list?”
“Your mom and mine. Then Josh.” Objectively, Lana was probably right, darn her, but I didn’t want to risk my relationship with Noah over something trivial as the cost of a coat.
“Dad said not to buy either of our moms a gift. He is sending them to Uzès for a month next spring.”
I made a face. “I hope he gives that gift to them before we get there. Nothing like making Noah feel bad by announcing that as a Christmas gift your dad is sending our moms to a month-long spa retreat in the south of France.”
“That gift doesn’t say that we are too good for Noah. It says that our family is so fucked up he should run far away.”
We headed toward the sporting goods department. My brother Josh never shopped, relying on Lana and me to load him up at Christmas and his birthday. We’d buy him a new wardrobe by the time we were done here, which made my gifts to Noah seem paltry by comparison.
“Even if that is true,” I pointed out, “neither is a good portrayal. I want to keep him, not drive him away with ostentatious displays of wealth or craziness.”
“Too late. The Sullivans are full of both.”
“True.”
AFTER WE’D HAULED EVERYTHING UP to our apartment, I took stock of my gifts for Noah. I’d wanted to buy him another watch, but since he had one that had so many dials and buttons, I was afraid that I would buy one that was missing some vital feature, like being able to declare one’s body mass from five feet away. Instead I’d bought him a leather-bound copy of the Odyssey by Homer to replace the paperback I’d sent him when he was deployed along with the winter coat, a scarf, and a pair of gloves. I hoped it wasn’t too much.
Lavishing gifts on Noah wasn’t my way of saying I had deeper pockets than him but rather that I loved him. Every time I was out, I kept finding things I thought he would enjoy. I loved seeing him wear a shirt I’d bought him, and it gave me a thrill to know that the pen that he loved was one that I’d discovered during a shopping jaunt with Lana a few weekends ago. But the cost of those things, if he knew, would probably drive him batty.
Noah had this driving ambition to be wealthy, probably because of how he grew up. Sometimes, after we’d made love, Noah would open up about his past and admit that there were times he didn’t always have enough to eat and that it was a good thing that they’d lived in Texas where they didn’t need heat in the winter most of the time.
He tried to pass these conditions off a joke, but silently I ached for him. I loved him so much, and I’d rather live in a small shanty in West Texas so long as every night I went to bed wrapped in his arms and woke up to his gorgeous face next mine. How much money we had was meaningless to me. I just didn’t know how to get Noah to believe this.
I hid all the presents in the clos
et and pulled out my comparative literature studies notes. My Comp Lit final was tomorrow, and after it was over, Noah, Lana, and I would undertake the seven-hour trip home for the holidays. Lana had finished her finals today, and Noah would be showing up here at the apartment I shared with Lana after handing in his independent study portfolio.
That project was a sure A. Noah had to conduct a feasibility study as to what franchise would have the best potential in the metro area. Given that Noah had bought a franchise and was making a profit, there was no way he wouldn't keep his perfect GPA.
"Pork okay for dinner?" I asked Lana after I had stashed the gifts. "I've been reading up on what foods would provide Noah the best nutrition for his upcoming fight."
"And pork is it?"
"White meat, lean and full of protein, I explained. "Won't affect him at weigh in."
Lana shrugged. "As long as I'm not cooking, I don't care. You could be making alligator."
"Tastes like chicken." I grinned and set to work firing up the stove. I'd prepped some vegetables earlier for steaming. "Should we have a starch?" I asked Lana.
"Isn't that fattening?"
"Good point. Maybe quinoa then."
Lana made a face but didn't protest.
Forty-five minutes later, the food was done and ready for Noah, but he hadn't appeared. I checked my phone, but there weren't any texts from him. I debated calling his friend, Bo, but didn't want to look like a Stage Five clinger who couldn’t be away from her boyfriend for more than a few hours without freaking out. Truth was, though, I liked to be with Noah all the time, so I guess that did make me a clingy girlfriend. I tried to suppress those feelings when Noah was around.
"I'm eating while food is still hot," Lana declared. I nodded nervously. It didn't matter to me that Lana was eating. It mattered that Noah wasn't here.
"Maybe he's just shooting the shit with Professor Billings," I said, checking my phone again.
"If Noah was a girl, I'd say Professor Billings was trying his lame moves on him," Lana mocked.
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