Calculated

by Nova McBee

  My eyes sting as the memory of Red’s love rushes over me. He’d care about each and every one of the people in those buildings. He’d help Chan. He’d stop the criminals. He wouldn’t think about revenge—but a way to act. He’d focus on destiny. His impact on one life—the life of an innocent girl who once believed she could do something that mattered.

  A light blinks on in a building across the street. Through the window, I watch a Chinese woman brush back the hair of a small girl. Afterwards, she leans down to hug her. My chest swells. It’s worth it, I think, those small moments in which love wins. It’s a small slice of hope, but I cling to it.

  I’m suddenly very self-aware, like Red is in the room. My plans of revenge shrink in significance as I count human life popping up on the streets. Pure gold does not fear the fire.

  These faces are more than numbers and statistics. They’ve got dreams and purposes and a billion ways to fulfill them. The city looks wondrous under the coming dawn. A childlike desire to go exploring rises in me. If I had come here with PSS for that month, with nothing harder than a few math problems to solve, would I have liked it?

  Because of Red, the answer is yes. He stripped off what Madame and King had tainted to reveal layers of depth and beauty. I won’t let them steal that from me.

  The city is awake now. Buses crammed with people zip through the streets. Metro exits flood with people, hands holding briefcases and canisters of tea. Students tromp across the square, shoulders slumped under heavy backpacks. Couples hold hands and kiss as they part ways for the next eight hours, which means…people will arrive soon.

  I sit and bend my head from side to side trying to work out a tight muscle in my neck. In each twist I debate where to start with Chan.

  Before eight o’clock Mr. Chan comes to the door. When he sees my face, he stops dead in his tracks.

  “Did you stay the night here?” he asks, glancing from my hair to my strung-out face.

  “Regrettably.” I hold my eyes shut for five long seconds, both easing the burning sensation and wondering where to begin.

  Chan picks up on my cues. He ushers me into his office and asks me to sit at the desk beside him.

  “I was right, wasn’t I?” he says. “My company is failing.”

  “If only that was the problem, then we’d be okay,” I say. “Brace yourself. It’s much worse than you think.”

  Chan rubs his forehead, like a headache is coming on strong. He buzzes the intercom on the phone. “Hong cha, very strong, please.” After he orders his black tea, he faces me. “Tell me everything.”

  I bite my lip. How do I find words to explain this?

  “Please don’t keep me waiting. How bad is it?” Chan asks nervously.

  I don’t want to tell him. I’m tired of fixing people’s problems. Tired of doing what others want. Tired of doing everything for everyone else while my own life drifts farther away. Chan stares at me, getting ever-redder in the face, cursing under his breath for finding such an oddball. But I’m stuck somewhere between dreams and reality, obedience and rebellion. Like a kid who knows what is right but doesn’t care anymore.

  “Well?” he says. “Did you find a solution?”

  It drives me crazy that Chan doesn’t even know what the problem is and all he wants to know is if I can fix it. Little does he know that I am probably the only one who can even identify it, let alone fix it.

  I’m about to rip into him when I have a thought. PSS believed in me. They thought I was the only one who could fix it.

  Only, that isn’t entirely true. I can’t fix this. Not alone.

  Red once said that even without Madame or PSS, I might have ended up here all the same. Why? I’d asked. We often end up where we’re needed, he’d say.

  Is this what he was talking about? No coincidence. Right? The thought strikes like a hammer on molten iron. All night I’d been scrutinizing the problem, how impossible it was to fix alone, how I’d have to give up my plans to focus on it. But what if I’m not alone?

  “Phoenix?”

  “Wait.” I snatch the pen on the desk, grab a notepad and scribble equations down madly.

  My mind reels with possibilities as numerous as the stars—which makes narrowing it down about as easy as bringing world peace. Numbers fire faster than neurons, finally a solution knits itself together. With Chan’s resources coupled with my gift, it could work.

  Chan mutters something, but I tune him out. I don’t even notice the secretary has brought Chan’s black tea until I see it steaming in front of him.

  I study the new formula. It’s daunting. Theoretically, there’s only a small chance of success because of who sits in front of me. Nine minutes of silence and calculating pass. When I look up, Mr. Chan has loosened his tie and taken off his blazer. Sweat beads on his forehead. He’s fuming. I’ve made him wait. Again.

  “You were right,” I say, shaking my head. I open the file on the desk. “There’s a lot at stake.” Chan is wide-eyed and lingering between panicked and annoyed. “The average eye can’t see it. But you, Chan, you’re the one who needed to see it.”

  Red said this moment would come. A chance to right my wrongs. To use my gift for good. Is this how I fulfill my vow to Red? A knot tightens in my stomach. What about stopping Madame? King? What about justice?

  “I can’t fix the problem, sir,” I say. Dread discolors him, and his eyes drop to the floor. “But you can.”

  “You haven’t told me what is wrong.”

  “I stumbled onto an economic phenomenon,” I say. “A cycle of sorts.”

  “Such as?”

  “Last century the world was knocked on its back for more than ten years by the very same economic pattern. It affected the world economy for 40 years following the crash. Since that time, our world has been riddled with smaller economic crashes, but we haven’t experienced anything as extreme. Until now.”

  He stares at me, a restrained fear in his eyes. “Do you mean the Great Depression of the 1930s in America?”

  “You got it,” I say. He nods, still silent. “If my predictions are right, another Economic Cycle of Failure will hit China before the year is up. It’ll be a massive depression, bigger than America’s. If China crashes, everyone else will too. But you can stop this. Prevent the same chaos from striking the world. You could stop widespread poverty. The dissolution of business and industry. Migration. Starvation. Desperation. Even war.”

  “War?” He laughs. “I should have guessed you were as crazy as Red. This is ridiculous. Like talking to a lunatic.”

  “What happened directly after the Great Depression?” I ask him seriously. He doesn’t answer, so I do. “World War II! This is the same pattern. Inflation. Debt. Only this time it will hit China first and the renminbi that leads the banking system of the world will plummet. People out of jobs. Homes. Widespread bankruptcy. A hundred years ago globalization was just beginning, but now there’s no disconnecting us. If China falls, we all fall.”

  Using my notes, I dive into more explanations of stock markets and China’s role in world economy. He still stares blankly at me.

  “Impossible,” he mutters, “the last crash was hard, people lost jobs, there was struggle, a bit of unrest, overall, nothing catastrophic happened. Certainly not war. Depressions come and go. Prosperity always returns.” He shakes his head in disbelief. His steadies himself, his left hand against the window.

  “The Great Depression blew the industrial world to bits—shanty towns popped up in prosperous areas, babies died on the side of the road, crime rose everywhere, families split apart, countries divided and dictators rose with authoritarian ideals—Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini!” I catch my breath. “If the crash from a hundred years ago can do that, what will it do today?”

  Mr. Chan rubs his temples. He may be the type who doesn’t like to even acknowledge that poverty exists, let alone an economic crash, which creates more poverty.

  “Look,” I say, trying to keep my head, “I don’t want it to be true either
, but after calculating 236 different scenarios, the results are the same, unless you change the course of the future.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Puzzle pieces. It’s not a coincidence that I’m in your office,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Because of you we discovered the upcoming crash just in time to act. You have a net worth of over 100 billion US dollars, which means you of all people can do something about this, and with my equations, it can succeed. You can make history, Mr. Chan.”

  I pause to let that revelation soak in. For almost two years I had no control over my life, yet I end up in Chan Huang Long’s office at just the right time to discover the coming crash, like I was always meant to be here, to help him. The odds of me going from Seattle to Madame to the Pratt to land in this office are greater than a monkey finding a needle in a billion haystacks.

  Suddenly, I understand. Destiny, or whatever I’ve been looking for, isn’t about history or the future. It’s about the choices I make right now.

  But I’m going to have to spell it out for Chan because he’s got a game face on—one I’m sure he uses at every big deal. Clearly, no one pulls the wool over Chan Huang Long’s eyes.

  For the next hour I explain the intricacies of how this phenomenon will affect the world financial system, everything from governments to banking to private enterprise.

  “See, Chan. Too much has been invested under false pretense. Governments have flooded their stock markets beyond recovery. Have your connections check it out.” I slide my research and numbers over to him. The math, he gets. It’s the outrageous prediction behind it that he’s still mulling over. “Don’t tell anyone how serious this is yet or about me.”

  Chan lets out a heavy sigh. “Assuming you’re right,” he says, sliding his hands along on his upper thighs, “what will it mean for my company?”

  Is he starting to believe me?

  “Your company is easily saved,” I answer. “We could even double your money, but you must act now.”

  “How long do we have?” he asks, confused.

  “Six weeks, eight at the most. The crash could last several years. I’ve created a way to hold back the flood—but you’ll have to initiate my plan in less than 6 weeks if you want it to work.”

  “Me initiate your plan? What do you mean me?” He sits up now, on the edge of his seat. “What exactly are you suggesting, Phoenix?”

  I drop the bomb on Chan. “Your money, sir. You will have to part with it.”

  Chan’s hand strikes the desk. The thump sends a pen flying to the ground. But I see it coming, so I don’t even flinch. He’s on the verge of either sweating to death or erupting from the gut up.

  “You are crazy,” he says, slapping both hands on the table. “You have only brought me bad luck since you arrived. Down 20 million. A broken nose. Now you propose I give all my money away? Never!”

  Chan pulls the blue pocket square from his jacket draped over his chair and dabs his nose, his face still crimson with irritation. “Let the banks—the World Bank—solve this!”

  “Banks won’t be able to help—not without you. Let me explain,” I say. “In the simplest of terms, I’ve created a bailout plan where we flood the monetary system with an exorbitant amount of cash—and I mean a lot of cash—for the first year of the crash. Theoretically, the disaster will be significantly less damaging. We can do it—if I work with you to make more money.”

  Chan’s face is hard, but since he is quiet, I continue. “Here’s how it will work. With one half of your money, we focus on sustaining currency, stock market, and banks. With the other half, we offer a super bond to major corporations and businesses to stay afloat.” Chan’s eyebrows stitch together in thought. “You’ll have to buy Asia Bank for central bank distribution, and then you’ll—”

  “No.” He stares at me long and hard. At first, I think I see a spark of compassion flash across his face, but it vanishes. “No.” He shakes his head, all business again. “I appreciate your spirit, but I need to protect my interests. We made a deal. Focus on rebuilding my company. If the crash ever comes, I’ll take the proper precautions.” He crosses his arms against his chest, like he has closed a deal, then looks up at me and gives me a long hard stare, eyes unblinking, decided. “Everything my company makes from your counsel will profit you at forty percent—until my numbers are up again. You can do what you want with your money, but I will do as I think best for mine.”

  “In theory, everything you invest will come back to you ten-fold.”

  “No.”

  My cheeks flush crimson as I stare back at him. For a moment I see King’s face. Greed looks the same on everyone, I think. I’m a fool. I really thought if Red picked Chan there’d be a good ending to the story, that some kind of destiny was wrapped up in this relationship. Red was wrong. Or I’m wrong. Either way, for Chan, it’s plain what he’s about—his interests. His money. His life. Singular. It takes everything in me to hold back from a total blow out.

  “You won’t do anything?” I ask again.

  “Other people’s businesses are not my responsibility.” He drops his gaze, focused on something he’s pulling out of his wallet. The picture of his wife?

  “Businesses?” I say. “I’m talking about people, families, children! You wouldn’t help them if you could?”

  He turns away, looking out the window as if our whole conversation is over. “Don’t expect me to be a saint like Red, giving up everything. Look where it got him!” His voice is just above a whisper, masking anger or sadness, I can’t tell. “I am not interested in saving the world,” he says.

  “You’re right. You’re not like Red at all,” I tell him. I walk over to where he’s standing because I won’t let him not look at me. “You can’t leave a legacy if you live only for yourself.”

  Chan is beyond angry. His hands tighten into fists, and his face comes inches from mine. “Did Red tell you what happened? Did he tell you why he was in that cell?”

  This silences me. Because I don’t know. I’m not even sure how they know each other.

  He moves towards the window, breathing slowly and deeply, trying to regain his composure. “I didn’t think so,” he spits out like venom. “Let’s get one thing clear. I do not need your counsel on how to live my life any more than I needed Red’s, nor do I need you to tell me how to spend my money. You do your part. I will do mine. We made a deal. This conversation is over.”

  “Fine,” I say, my eyes fixed on him.

  I think about walking out for good. Never coming back. Mr. Chan doesn’t own me. Even if I did make a deal, I’m free to leave. Right now, I need air, or I might suffocate.

  “Here. Your first step to doubling your billions,” I say as I slam down a piece of paper I prepared earlier. “Do this by the end of the week and your company will be on track. I’ll be waiting for my forty percent. Goodbye.”

  “Where are you going?” he says loudly. “You can’t walk out of here. There’s more work to do. We had a deal!”

  There’s a knock on the door. Kai comes in.

  “Do it yourself.” I slam the chair back under the desk.

  I remember the pawn in my pocket and dig it out. Chan is about to say something when I bring up my fist and unfold my fingers. The small chess piece, scratched and faded with time, sits in my palm.

  “For you. I assume you know where it came from.” I slam it on the table.

  Mr. Chan swallows hard as he stares at it. His face contorts, as if I had just handed him a funeral slip.

  “What’s going on here?” Kai asks. His father doesn’t answer.

  Kai’s blocking the door. I push against his shoulder to get him to move. “Ask your father.”

  18

  Present: Phoenix

  SHANGHAI TOWER, SHANGHAI, CHINA

  Outside, the dizziness spreads from my head to the rest of my body. Alternating waves of numbers and Chan’s words crash in my mind. The lack of sleep isn’t helping. My eyes burn, but I don’t want to go b
ack to Chan’s villa.

  A taxi pulls up to the curb just as Kai exits the building. He spots me and waves his hands. “Phoenix! Wait!” he yells, but I have already hopped inside the cab and the driver pulls out.

  “Do you want me to stop?” the driver asks as he sees Kai running on the sidewalk.

  “No.” I stare straight ahead as if I can’t hear or see him. “Take me to the nearest mall.”

  I pull out Chan’s envelope—Chairman Mao’s solemn face stares back at me from the red bills. I shove a few thousand into my pockets and secure the envelope inside my jacket liner.

  As we weave through the city streets, guilt plagues me as I think of Kai. Why would he come after me? Does he want to convince me his father is right? That I’m a lunatic for heralding the next financial crash? Whatever the reason, a part of me wants to believe that he ran out just for me. That someone cares. But it’s a silly thought. Exhaustion must be taking over.

  The driver compliments me on my Chinese and treats me to an unwanted lesson on our surroundings. Three minutes later, he brakes at a red light near Shanghai’s People’s Square and asks, “Do you want to go north to the most famous shopping street, Nanjing Lu? Or south to Huai Hai Street?” He lists three more places of interest. Seattle cab drivers were never this eager to please.

  My head aches. I can’t take his questions right now, so I tell him I’ll get out and walk but I give him a tip for being so helpful.

  I stop at the corner of the People’s Square, staring, calculating. The city roars around me. I can’t help the web of numbers spinning my past together. Within it, my mother’s birthdate, my father’s cell number, my best friend’s address. They’re all there, lurking.

  Instead of bee-lining it to the mall, I head for the illuminated fountains and find a seat. The square’s angles swallow me. It’s funny how public places can be one of the best places to hide.