Calculated

by Nova McBee

  He’s not what I expect from Mr. Chan’s son. I’m tempted to distrust him even though I have learned that pigeonholing somebody can be deadly.

  There’s no trace of his father in the curves of his face. Most of his features must come from his mother, yet I feel as if I have seen him somewhere before. His dark eyes are big and round and soft. His strong jaw line complements his broad shoulders. Black hair falls into his eyes, messy. Numbers zip up and down his face pinpointing all of the imperfect symmetry and flaws, and yet his face is mesmerizing, and the way he stands there staring at me, so at ease with himself, makes me think he knows it.

  “I should go.” I head for the door.

  “No, I’ll go,” he says, following me. “After I wash my hands and grab my things in the cottage, I’m gone. Won’t come again unless called. Promise.”

  “It’s fine. Uh, thanks for fixing the pool,” I ramble, trying to smooth things over. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know I’d come tonight. But I do want him gone.

  He turns out the lights and leads me through the garden and back through the small cottage’s sliding glass door.

  Inside, he turns to me. “What’s your name?”

  “My name is—is—” His stare lingers on me. It’s distracting because his face…I’ve seen him, or the symmetry of his face before. Either way, I should respond, not stare. “Phoenix.”

  He walks closer, too close, stretching out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Phoenix,” he says in a low hum. “If you’re new to the city, I can show you around or something…”

  His hand, big and warm wraps around my small, cold one, igniting a small shock. The memory of him without his shirt returns.

  I blush, quickly taking my hand away. “I’ve lived here for a while, but thanks.”

  Inside, he sets his tools on the counter and washes his hands at the sink. He’s so familiar with the surroundings that are now supposed to be mine, it makes me uncomfortable, like I’m invading his space. Doesn’t matter. I’ll be out of here as quickly as I can anyway. Soon I’ll find a place of my own.

  “Groceries are already stocked,” he says, drying his hands and motioning with his head towards the fridge. “I lived in America for a year during high school. Even though you speak Mandarin like a local, you still must like bread, milk, cheese, and butter – just like every other foreigner I know. There are also eggs and fruit.”

  As he lists the foods, my mind jumps to the Pratt. I’d fall asleep dreaming about bread and cheese and milk. Younger Chinese have started to eat these things, but they’re not common outside of big cities and certainly not a household item in the Pratt. It took months to adjust to soy milk, and steamed mantou, and rice porridge.

  When I realized how utterly impossible it was to be free, relinquishing the desire for the food I grew up on was one of the hardest things I’d had to do. Now here they are, a few feet away, but to take them so easily seems dangerous. Would Phoenix eat them?

  “I prefer Chinese cuisine,” I tell him dismissively.

  His face mirrors mine and frowns slightly. He’s put off by my haughty tone. “Fine,” he says. “We can do more shopping tomorrow.”

  Ugh. I’ve been ungrateful. Rule number one: The Chinese always give “face” to another person, no matter what gift is presented to them. It could be dog food and you’d tell them it’s your favorite.

  “On the other hand,” I say as an attempt to flip the situation, “it’s been one year and ninety-seven days since I’ve eaten any of those things, except eggs.”

  “Wow.” He stops to look at me as if I told a joke. “That’s precise.”

  Too precise. Not sure how that slipped out. “What I mean is,” I say, swallowing back embarrassment, “that I look forward to eating them. Thank you.” My voice sounds rehearsed, but the corner of Kai’s lip curves upwards anyway. I’ve managed to salvage the situation.

  He doesn’t continue talking about food and I’m glad. He doesn’t need to know any more than his father has already told him. And I certainly don’t need to make friends. I don’t want any ties to this place. I want to forget it entirely when I leave.

  As he walks toward the door, I calculate his route—the length of space from the sink to the door and the angle he must turn if he goes around the table. Two routes he could take. If my prediction is right, he’ll intentionally choose the way closest to me. If I do not move back at least one inch, our bodies will collide at the hips. The thought of him touching me again makes me squirm.

  I step back, changing the variable in the room. He scoots past me without contact. I follow to let him out, reopening the three locks.

  Before he steps out onto the small three-step porch, I stop him, curious to know if my predictions were right. “Who should I thank for the flowers in my room?”

  The smile on his lips gives me my answer. “I heard somewhere that most girls, no matter how old, like flowers,” he replies mischievously.

  “Most,” I reply because he’s flirting and it’s the right answer. “Thanks.”

  A flutter of warmth, like sunshine, shoots through me. It’s a strange feeling, that warmth. It’s connected to hot summer nights and a few distant memories of boys who used to smile at me. I instantly shut it down. That feeling wasn’t always bad, but I don’t like it. It’s just another thing to figure out in my new life—that is, if I ever learn to trust someone again.

  Our conversation appears to be over until Kai surprises me. “But you’re not like most girls, are you?”

  Twice, my cheeks have turned red without permission. The grin hanging on Kai’s face tells me he’s happy to have succeeded in making me blush. Again.

  “What makes you say that?” I ask, pretending I’m not flattered and simultaneously alarmed.

  “My father doesn’t hire just anyone.”

  “I guess we’ll find out.” My hand drops down to my wrist, where I fiddle with my ragged hair band, not sure what to say. “Nice to meet you, Kai.”

  “Goodnight, Phoenix.”

  I close the door, head back to the master bedroom and collapse on the bed. The scent of lilies intertwines with thoughts of my mother and Red.

  An ache starts in my heart and moves to my arms, but there’s nothing to fill the void.

  As sleep arrests me, I fight desperately to believe that I’m free now, but I know better. Freedom isn’t just a physical thing.

  Eventually I fall asleep and just like that, I’m on Madame’s boat, Secrets, again. Another nightmare. The water turns crimson, the same color as Madame’s lipstick, then she appears with a thousand ghosts.

  I jolt awake in the middle of the night, sweating, panting, wondering where I am. I pull my knees up to my chest and soothe myself with a soft whisper. You’re ok. You’re at Chan Huang Long’s. She doesn’t know you’re alive.

  What’s wrong with me? I promised Red I’d start fresh. Reclaim my gift to help people. To make the wrongs right. To end this.

  But how can I ever live or love or trust knowing she’s out there? Her face, her voice, what she does—is doing—will always haunt me. Another pair of dark eyes—warm, kind, and questioning my resolve, haunt me too. What will you do about it?

  Stop her.

  A new life is not possible in a world where Madame roams free.

  7

  Past: Josephine

  PIER 51, SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  It’s no wonder Seattle is nicknamed the Emerald City—especially in June. Miles of green hills and blue water surrounded all my favorite spots: The Space Needle, Gas Works Park and Seattle’s Piers, where we were headed. Usually the piers are full of commercial and private boats and tourists eating fish and chips and drinking cappuccinos, but not today. The piers feel empty. There is hardly a seagull scavenging on the boardwalk.

  Dad pulls over at the curb where Mrs. Zhang and Prodigy Stealth Solutions commercial boat will take me to a private airport up in Everett. A young, dark-haired man stands waiting with a sign that reads, “Josephine Rivers.”

&n
bsp; “Here we are,” Dad says, getting out of the car to get my luggage from the trunk.

  “Ms. Rivers? Mrs. Zhang is waiting for you.” The poor boy looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. His face is pale and dark circles line his eyes. I want to ask if he got in a train wreck last night, but I don’t know him well enough to joke like that. He probably just stayed out too late.

  I nod. “Yep, that’s me.”

  My family stands close around me. “I’ll miss you,” Lily says, squeezing my arm.

  “I’ll be back before you know it, Lilypad.” I kiss her forehead.

  “Call us when you arrive, sweetie.” Dad hugs me goodbye again for the sixth time this morning. Lily joins in.

  Mara peers down at me. For the first time in over a year, she embraces me. When she pulls back something flickers in her eyes that I don’t recognize.

  “Goodbye, Jo. Have fun.”

  “Thanks. Goodbye, Mara.” I turn to the boy, who takes my luggage so I can adjust my backpack.

  “Follow me.”

  We head down Pier 51. I’m familiar with this area. My dad’s boat is docked here. Numbers bounce off the piers with conflicting equations.

  Up ahead, when we should have gone left to the commercial harbor, the PSS representative takes a right. Equations—with negative outcomes—flutter in my gut like a bout of nausea.

  Without thinking, my mind analyzes the boy. I calculate his shaking hands. His uneven stride. His alertness. The charts in my mind mirror that of a polygraph test—a man under distress, though I can’t determine why. Maybe he’s feeling sick?

  We walk through rows of boats. The water shimmers with rainbow tints of gasoline. Gray clouds swirl in the sky. A ferry whistles in the distance.

  “Excuse me,” I ask. “Where are we going?”

  “Almost there.”

  He doesn’t look me in the eye. He has peered over his shoulder seven times in the last two minutes, checked his watch twice and glanced at my new backpack repeatedly.

  “PSS wanted you to have the nicest boat there was,” he adds.

  More negative numbers. Predictions. He’s lying. I should stop, run back the way we came. But I don’t understand why I have these feelings.

  The sick feeling deepens in my stomach as we walk out onto the harbor’s docks towards the yachts.

  We stop beside a fifty-foot schooner. Secrets is painted in red on the starboard. I log the boat’s dimensions—numbers that forever will be tattooed in my brain—but I can’t account for the negative numbers. I feel like an architect in front a building, breaking down the designs. Instead of seeing how it was built, I see how to tear it down. I am suddenly dizzy. Why is this happening?

  We step onto the beautifully furnished boat. The door locks behind me. The boy takes my luggage, backpack, and jacket, with my cell phone in the pocket.

  “Ah, here she is, Ms. M herself.” Then the boy leaves.

  A woman, who is not Mrs. Zhang, walks into the room followed by several tall men. The temperature of my blood drops a few degrees. Up close, she looks about the same age my mom would have been, early forties. She is just as stunning as the first time I saw her. Dark red hair, matching lipstick, pale face, and eyes as gray as winter.

  “Josephine Rivers,” she says. “We meet at last.”

  Secrets, the schooner, departs immediately heading north into the Puget Sound. The red-haired woman pulls out the chair across from her and motions for me to sit. Her hair ripples down her shoulders like flowing water. I wonder if it is real or not.

  My inner calculator estimates the cost of the gold she is wearing—necklace, earrings, rings—gold shoes even—a minimum of 45,000 dollars. She is petite, slender, one inch shorter than I am. Her face is unnaturally white, her expression powerful, like she has the ability to cast a spell if I stare long enough into her icy eyes.

  “Um. Where’s Mrs. Zhang?” I ask.

  “Working. Please sit,” she says with a strange accent. The table is laid with platters of luxurious meats, cheeses, and fruit, on eight plates with exactly eight pieces of food on each. “Eat, please.”

  The spike in numbers happens so fast I barely recognize it. I began multiplying and dividing almost too quickly to comprehend, like my calculations have been shot with adrenaline, like the day my mom died. I am dizzy with predictions, possibilities. I tap my leg, like a nervous tick.

  “Thanks,” I say, and a lump rises in my throat. Dad. I reach for my phone, but it is in my jacket, which the boy has taken. Now he is gone too.

  That terrible feeling in my gut is back. I fold and unfold my napkin and notice the pounding in my chest. Breathe Jo. Nothing is wrong.

  “My name is Maxima, or Ms. M,” the woman says, her voice calm and sweet. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a very long time.”

  A very long time. Why didn’t people at least make an effort to be precise? For example, she saw me three years, twenty-one days ago at the Stanley Interview and yesterday in the stadium. How long had it really been?

  “You were at my graduation,” I say, watching for a reaction. I stall, trying to read her mannerisms but the woman sits as still as a dead fish. She doesn’t outwardly process her thoughts through movement, like most people—a nervous tick, a twitch of an eye. I can’t read her as I can others. “I hadn’t realized you worked for Prodigy Stealth Solutions.”

  “Ah, yes. PSS has always been an interest of mine. I keep up on the progress of all the prodigies.” She grinned. “But your interview at Stanley impressed me the most. You’re not like the others. When I saw your uncanny ability to calculate, I knew we were destined to work together. Thanks to your sister, that’s possible.”

  “My sister?” I ask. “Don’t you mean PSS?”

  “We’ll get to PSS later. For now, let’s talk about your father.” Her tone was warm, friendly—like this wasn’t the creepiest conversation I’d ever had. “He hasn’t told you, has he?”

  I shake my head, confused. “Told me what?” Then it hit me. The reason he fired me. He’d promised to tell me when I returned from China—is this connected?

  The woman picks up a newspaper and hands it to me. “He’s under investigation. Being audited by the IRS and his board.” Ms. M looked at her fingernails. “Take a look.”

  The article was dated a week before graduation. Jeffery Joseph Rivers, CEO of iVision linked to insider trading.

  “Insider trading. That’s preposterous. He’s never done anything illegal in his life.”

  “The Securities Exchange Commission disagrees,” says Ms. M. “How else do you explain his track record? He could lose everything. Even go to prison.”

  I sink deeper into my chair. This is all my fault. I had showed my father where to invest. I understood how it would appear as “insider information” since we’d invested a lot very quickly and never made a losing investment. Even as I advised him, I never knew for sure if it would work or not. They were just theories, predictions in my head, a game. I wanted to see if I could win. I never dreamed it would get him in trouble.

  “He can’t go to prison for something he hasn’t done.” I was vaguely aware that this conversation shouldn’t be happening with some lady I didn’t even know. I should have been talking with my dad. “Why isn’t he defending himself?”

  She leaned in. “He’s either guilty or he’s protecting someone.”

  “I can’t go to China yet. I need to help my dad,” I say. “I need to go back.”

  “I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

  “But I can prove his innocence.” My mouth is dry.

  “Oh?” Her finger taps against her lip. “Please explain.”

  “I, uh—” My father had made me promise never to tell anyone this information, but I had to help him. I couldn’t let him go to prison. “It’s not my dad. It’s me. I know which investments will succeed. They’re patterns, predictions. I calculate them.”

  “Each one?” Her eyes narrowed.

  “Yes.” My voice cracked. “Can we help my
dad now?”

  She sighed. “I already have.” She spoke in another language to a six-foot blond man and stood up. Three more men entered the room.

  Numbers attack me like arrows, but I can’t dodge them fast enough to understand what’s going on.

  “You’re not PSS, are you?” I ask, dread like a stone in my stomach.

  “PSS is expecting you tomorrow,” Ms. M says coldly. “Unfortunately, you won’t show up.”

  “Who are you? Why are you doing this?” I ask.

  She snaps her fingers and the boy comes around the corner flipping through my passport.

  “You’ll soon find out.”

  I dart to the door of the boat. We are still close to shore. I can jump if I have to. Just as I reach the edge, the tall blond guy steps toward me with something in his hand. A calculation forms right before mist is sprayed in my face. It smells funny, like oranges and bleach. Red circles form around my peripheral view, then yellow. I feel it. I have 3 seconds.

  3. The numbers fade as colors take over, but not before I understand one thing.

  2. I can’t calculate myself out of this.

  1. This was an—

  Black.

  A noise startles me and I’m shaken from a deep sleep. My eyes open to gray walls. The woman, Maxima, with red hair is there, standing over me. I blink, eyes stinging. I sit up slowly. My hair is draped over my chest. That’s when I notice it isn’t brown anymore. It’s red. Just like hers.

  “Good morning, Octavia,” she says in a sickly-sweet voice, confusing me. “Welcome to China. Let’s begin, shall we?”

  8

  Present: Phoenix

  FRENCH CONCESSION, SHANGHAI, CHINA

  Bright light streams in through the window at Chan’s cottage, waking me with warmth on my face. My hand rises to touch the sun on my cheek. When I was a child, my mother would open my curtains each morning. “Lean into the sun,” she’d say. “It wants a kiss good morning.”