by Tammar Stein
By the look on their faces when they start talking to Natasha, it isn’t going to go well.
“You’re the owner, huh? How’s business been lately?”
The questions take on a hostile tone. It seems the fire spread unusually fast. Unnaturally fast. The fire investigator suspects an accelerant. The sprinklers never engaged, which is highly suspicious. Natasha was the only one in the store.
I didn’t even stop to think about how the fire started or why it spread so fast.
“They think I did it,” Natasha says to me when the officer steps away. “They think I torched my own shop for the insurance money.”
“Did you?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
“No! I would never do that. I was almost killed! If you hadn’t come back, I don’t think I would have made it out of there alive.”
She’s right. She was in the bathroom, oblivious to the danger. Plus, she wanted to put out the flames. Those aren’t the actions of an arsonist.
“Who would burn your shop down?”
She presses her lips together, unable or unwilling to say.
John Parker’s malicious face comes to mind. There was more wrong with him than simple greediness.
“Do you think…,” I say hesitantly, looking over my shoulder. “Do you think someone was, um”—it’s awkward to say this—“paying back a favor that they owed?”
She knows what I mean exactly.
“I don’t know, Leni,” she says tiredly. “But they did a crack job if that’s what it was. I was the only one in the store, the only one with something to gain—the owner of a failing store. It doesn’t look good. It’s called insurance fraud, and people go to jail for it.”
She doesn’t sound scared. She sounds resigned.
“You’re innocent,” I protest. “You didn’t set your store on fire.”
“Leni,” she says, “I haven’t been innocent since I was seventeen.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
I wake up Friday morning and I am eighteen.
The police let Natasha go without booking her, warning her not to leave town until the fire marshal finished his investigation. She told my parents about the fire, but not that she’s the police’s prime suspect at the moment.
I didn’t get home until nearly midnight. Neither one of my parents could stop touching us, as if to continually double-check that we did, in fact, survive the fire unscathed. It was something the firefighters were suspicious about, actually. How could we have gotten out so quickly without prior knowledge of the fire?
I come downstairs and find that my mom left me a birthday note on the kitchen island. My parents left early this morning to help Natasha go through the store to figure out if anything is salvageable.
Happy birthday, sweetheart. We love you so much! PS Don’t worry about your party. I’ll email everyone to come to the house instead. And check the foyer!
My mom doodled a little sketch of a butterfly and a blossom in each corner. Roots and wings, what she and my dad always said they wished to give us. I fold the note and slip it in my pocket, something to keep for later when they aren’t speaking to me. The fire from last night has only strengthened my resolve, though it’ll make it that much harder on my parents. Now none of us will have anything left from the win.
I pad out to the foyer in bare feet and stop at the sight of a gorgeous, gleaming new bicycle parked in the middle of the marble entryway. There’s a giant bow stuck between the handlebars. It’s a beach cruiser, pale blue with white trim, with thick tires that can ride on sand. It’s not a fast bike, but there’s a basket in the front, a little silver bell, and a wide, cream-colored seat that looks comfortable enough to lounge on and watch TV.
It’s my perfect bike.
I sigh.
I return to the kitchen with a heavy heart. My mom must have gone to the store yesterday, because there’s fresh milk in the fridge and cereal in the pantry. I fix a bowl and force myself to eat. My heart is beating too fast, my palms are clammy. I’m nauseated with nerves. Every kind of worst-case scenario flies through my mind. The best I can come up with is that it’ll be over by this evening. There’s that to look forward to.
For the second time in a week, and the second time in my high school career, I skip school.
The attorney who manages my trust fund opens her office at nine. I’m at the darkened glass doors by eight-thirty with nothing to do but wait. An ambulance wails. Cars on their morning commute rumble down the street. Life, passing me by. There’s a part of me expecting something to happen. Some unnatural disaster, the devil, running interception. A part of me hopes for it. I’m ready for a fight. I’m itching for one. A mugger, perhaps. A sudden hailstorm that knocks down the power grid. Bring it on.
But there’s nothing.
I keep my weight on the balls of my feet, my arms loose and ready by my side, my eyes alert and scanning my surroundings—everything my ex–Special Forces survival instructor taught me, back during my parents’ fear-of-kidnapping stage. An elderly man, walking toward his regular coffee shop, looks startled at the just-try-it-buddy glare I give his friendly nod.
The air grows hot and humid. Other than a couple of mosquitoes, nothing bothers me. A great blue heron walks by, its stilt-like legs giving it a cautious gait, like someone picking their way across the floor after a glass shatters. It’s almost as tall as I am, with slate-blue feathers, bright yellow eyes, and a ridiculous-looking thin black plume that dangles behind it like a bad fashion choice. Palm fronds rattle in the gentle breeze. Several white ibis peck with their long curved bills in the lawn of the small bungalow across the street, snapping up bugs. Spanish moss hangs limply from the live oak in the parking lot. Brown lizards skitter, dashing like streakers on a dare across a crowded street.
Finally, a shiny black sedan pulls up and the lawyer, a dusky-skinned Indian woman, steps out, juggling a briefcase, a travel coffee mug, various folders and a purse. She walks around the car and up the path and smiles at me as she unlocks the front doors.
“Good morning,” she says with a cheerful smile. “I wondered if I would see you today. Happy birthday.”
“Thanks,” I say. “You’re the first to wish me that.”
“Then I’m honored,” she says. She holds the door open for me and I step into the cool, dark office. She flicks on the lights and offers me coffee or tea, which I refuse, too anxious for any delays. Sensing my impatience, she heads past the empty reception area and into her office, motioning for me to follow.
“Now, then,” she says, settling behind her neat and tidy desk. “I imagine you have some big plans. How can I help you?”
“I have an account to close out.” The blood roars in my ears.
She’s clearly disappointed, but maybe not really surprised. I listen to a dull speech about the advantages of saving money, the amazing benefits of IRAs and the power of annuities. Wise advice that amounts to: please don’t blow all your money.
I let her finish and then hand her a slip of paper with Isakson’s account information. I give her my instructions and then add one more task.
“Do you know a good tax attorney?” I ask.
She smiles faintly and nods. “I know the person you need to speak with.”
If I had a million dollars sitting in a trust fund, thinks Lavanya Sarin, I simply would not disperse it all on my birthday, certainly not my eighteenth birthday.
Lavanya watches the girl leave the office, mount her bicycle and ride away. She wonders what sort of parents let a young child control so much money. Why did they not advise her about the precariousness of the future? Why did they not tell her that when you are young, you cannot comprehend the needs of your future self, the capriciousness of future events? Certainly, she should be allowed to spend some of it, certainly. But all? In one morning?
She shakes her head in bafflement and sips the sweet, spicy chai in her travel mug. She has lived in this country since she was eighteen, but her parents’ strong, wise influence has helped her see
past the desire for instant gratification that colors the younger generation of Americans. Hard work, sacrifice, dedication, family loyalty. These are the values that make a happy life.
She thinks about her twins, almost six, and as studious and anxious to please as she was so many years ago. They will grow to be proper adults. Respectful, hardworking and wise. She is fond of Lenore Kohn and thought her a clever girl, but there’s no denying her actions today are puzzling in the extreme. She thinks of her parents back in India and how much she misses them. They visit every year and she has visited twice with the twins, but nothing compares with the joy of having parents living nearby. They considered applying for a green card and emigrating, but they would not qualify for Medicare and are not eligible for Social Security. They simply could not afford to live in America and therefore, their family is split apart by thousands of miles and nine time zones. How sad that so many Americans do not appreciate their great fortune to be born and raised in this land of possibilities.
Though there are no clients in the office and no meetings scheduled until after lunch, there is much for Lavanya to do. She forces her brain to cease its melancholy musings and turn to the matters at hand. There is almost nothing a neat and orderly mind cannot achieve.
It’s nearly ten when I arrive at Professor Isakson’s office. The money is already wired to the start-up’s account. It’s done. There’s nothing left for me to do except watch how it all comes together. Or falls apart.
The professor lets me in.
“Did he come?” I ask.
Isakson shakes his head. He looks like he wants to say something, but then changes his mind.
“It’s early yet. Give him time.”
I follow him into the extra office. There’s a pot of brewed coffee.
“You’ll have a cup?” he asks in an awkward, well-meaning way. My second offer of the morning.
“I’d love one,” I say gratefully. “Thanks.”
“You are my great benefactor. The least I can do is offer you a cup of coffee.”
So he checked his account balance. I feel a sudden rush. I gave this man a million dollars! The fact that he knows somehow has made it all real.
“You never really believed me, did you?” I can’t help gloating a little.
“You’ll forgive me, I hope,” he says. “I don’t often find myself living in a fairy tale.” He hands me a cup of steaming black coffee. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Both,” I say. It could be a long day. This might be the best moment in it. I should celebrate.
I feel light and clean, a little giddy. This must be what the frog prince felt like when he finally became a human again. The curse has been lifted, and I too feel like a human again. I can’t stop smiling. We clink mugs and I propose a toast.
“To the future of your company and making the world a better place.”
“To AlgaeGo,” he seconds, and we drink to seal the toast.
“About that name,” I say as we sit down to wait for Gavin. “I’ve been thinking…”
We discuss the merits of various names. He insists it’s too late for a new name since there’s already valuable name recognition, while I maintain that there’s always room for improvement.
Time passes. The banter peters out. I send up a little prayer that Gavin is okay and that he’ll be here soon. Isakson rises frequently from his seat to search the sidewalks visible from his third-story window, glancing at his computer and, clearly, wishing he could do something about all the work that needs to be done.
“It could be a long day,” I say. “Feel free to work on whatever you need.”
To show him that I mean it, I tuck my legs under me and check my phone, which keeps chiming with incoming happy birthday texts. I skim each one but none are from Gavin. Deleting the latest text, I catch Isakson looking at me, shaking his head.
“I…,” he begins, then shakes his head again. “I have been a professor for a long time and I have met many students. Some were brilliant. Most were plodding, unoriginal thinkers who were self-involved and self-centered. It’s natural, you understand. I’m not judging,” he says, catching my raised eyebrow. “It’s human nature.” He touches his beard, almost petting his own chin, an unconscious gesture that I’ve noticed he makes when he’s searching for words. “But this—I have never even heard of someone your age doing this. This is the work of an old person, ready to leave the world, wanting to leave a legacy.” Given his awkward ways, I forgot how brilliant the professor’s mind is, or how subtly it can work. “I don’t understand how you can do this.”
“I’ve always been mature for my age,” I joke. He doesn’t smile as he studies me with his hooded eyes, waiting for a better answer.
“Your reasons are your own,” he says. “You certainly have earned the right to be private, but I have learned a little about your family situation and the news this morning of the fire at your sister’s shop.…” He spreads his arms in helpless confusion. “In light of that, I find that I don’t understand your actions at all.”
My shoulders tense at the mention. I really wish he hadn’t done his homework. The silence stretches uncomfortably for a while until I can’t bear it.
“It wasn’t our money,” I finally blurt out. “It wasn’t our money in the first place. I needed to give it away. Give it to someone who can really use it and spend it in a way that might help fix some of what’s broken.”
“You mean because you won the lottery, you didn’t earn the money?”
“Something like that.”
“There are more worthy organizations,” he points out. “I am not running a charity. And I might be out of business by next month.”
“Notice you’re saying this after the money’s in your account,” I tease.
He smiles but doesn’t leap to defend himself.
I squirm in my seat, wondering how to explain this in a way that someone as brilliant and subtle as the professor will be satisfied. “Your situation gave me a chance to buy two priceless opportunities simultaneously. No one gets ‘accidentally’ accused of cheating. It was a deliberate, malicious effort to sabotage the course of Gavin’s life. I have a chance to undo that and help out your potentially world-changing company at the same time.” I hope…Though I don’t say that part out loud. “Am I making a mistake?” I muse out loud for his benefit. “I hope not. But it was the only thing I could think of.”
This doesn’t make sense to the professor.
“I’m not going to ask for a refund,” I say to his unvoiced concern. “No matter what happens today. If Gavin comes or not. If he turns in crap or gold, the money is yours and I hope that you’ll spend it better than the rest of my family did. And if I’ve leveled the playing field against that awful Professor Parks, well, that’s something too.”
He processes everything, reading between the lines, behind them, before finally nodding in politeness, if not true understanding.
But I told him the truth—no matter what happens, I don’t regret giving Isakson the money. It’s also true, though, that there’s a big difference between prolonging the death knell of his company and shooting it off in the right direction to create renewable energy while putting Gavin back on track.
As the day progresses, my shoulders tighten in knots, the headache growing between my eyebrows pulsing like a beacon. As I stretch my legs, the blood rushes in painful prickles.
Maybe the devil didn’t need to mess with me at the attorney’s office. Maybe there was an easier target out there, a target he’s already nailed. Like Gavin crossing a busy street, tired and distracted. Or maybe the fact that I’m leaving my parents destitute makes things perfectly fine with him. Maybe he’s laughing so hard right now, he’s pissing in those sexy jeans Natasha liked so much.
We call in a lunch order, from a nearby deli that delivers.
“My treat,” he says. “I insist.”
Since I’m now officially broke, I let him. Though I’m hungry, the sandwich is tasteless and the grilled portobello mushr
oom feels like rubber in my mouth. I push it aside after only a few bites.
That morning coffee really was the highlight of my day.
At four in the afternoon, I begin to fear that Gavin isn’t coming. Maybe there was traffic on I-75. Maybe the sites didn’t work out. Or the landowner didn’t want to negotiate.
I’m as tired as if I’ve been working in the hot sun all day, drained, wrung dry, yet twitchy. Too much coffee, too much sitting. My cell phone is full of texts and missed calls. Several are from Natasha but until I have something to report, I’m not answering her calls.
My bottom is numb from sitting so long, my legs achy, and my morale very low. Even after six hours of waiting, I haven’t fully lost faith that he will show, but the doubts are getting more insistent.
Depression sets in. Isakson will look at Gavin’s proposal no matter when he turns it in (if he turns it in) but I also know that Isakson’s heart, while kind, works in partnership with his mind—which is cynical and judgmental. By placing Gavin under such a tight deadline, I set him up for failure. Isakson is going to deem him a slacker, unable to turn in an assignment on time.
I walk over to the window and look out at the dismal little street the building faces. There’s a homeless man sleeping in a stripe of shadow against the building.
Traffic on the road thickens, the start of rush hour. A small section of the I-275 overpass is visible from the office, and while traffic is moving, it’s slower now than it was a couple of hours ago. I lean my forearm against the hot windowpane and rest my forehead on my arm.
A flock of roseate spoonbills, ridiculously pink, flying in V‑formation, pass by the building, almost at eye level with me on the third floor. I watch them flit by, and smile despite my terrible disappointment. Their spoon-shaped bills, combined with their pink feathers, always remind me of characters from a Dr. Seuss book. They fly above the street, heading to some swampy pond.
That’s when I see him, a small figure jogging down the sidewalk. He’s two blocks away, but there’s no way I’d ever mistake that tall, loping form.
