I woke up the following morning feeling coarse sheets beneath me and a random assortment of smells that identified it immediately as a college dorm room. The next thing I noticed was that I was naked under these unfamiliar blankets. I had always played it responsibly; making sure to phone my driver to bring me home in the middle of the night if I stuck around for a tryst, but this was the first time I had slept over anywhere. I vaguely remembered phoning him and saying I was remaining in the building over the din of an impromptu party.

  There was a wall to my left, but to my right I saw my sleeping companion – or rather companions. A blonde girl was on her side facing toward me and a dark haired guy was hanging off the edge of the bed on his stomach. A quick peek confirmed they were as naked as I was.

  Wow, this is definitely a first, I thought to myself. It was a pretty fun night, for sure.

  The tenseness of the evening and the profound relief of the night was still in my head. Election night had been rather boring; Gore was declared the winner, and no recounts were required. And it was all due to me. No one would know, or at least very few, that this slightly hungover and misbehaving college girl was responsible for the results.

  While the idea of re-writing history was grand and all, my immediate concern was how to extract myself from this bed. It was only Wednesday and I had no idea what I was going to do today. A funny thing; having no plan. I had spent the last seven months with a meticulous set of initiatives to win this election, and now I didn’t even know how to get out of bed. I very quietly shifted my leg, but I misjudged as my foot slapped squarely on the girl’s shin. She grunted a little, and opened her eyes.

  “Ugh. Morning,” she croaked.

  “Morning,” I replied, unconsciously covering myself with the sheets.

  The girl yawned quietly. “That was a crazy night. Who won, again?”

  I chuckled. “Gore.”

  “Oh yeah,” she giggled. “Kind of a boring election though.”

  “Trust me, boring elections are the best kind.”

  “Well, last night definitely wasn’t,” she grinned. “Or what I remember, anyway.”

  I grinned back. “I suppose so. Listen, I should probably get out of here. I don’t want to disturb you and…your boyfriend?”

  The girl glanced behind her. “Him? Oh, I don’t even know who he is. Besides,” she purred, her hand caressing my stomach, “what’s the rush?”

  I paused, a wry smile curving my lips. I turned my body to face her, and decided to enjoy the communal warmth for a bit longer.

  A little under an hour after I woke up – and about fifteen minutes after our third companion woke up – I was hurrying across campus in the chilly, misty air of the UChicago campus. Somehow I had managed to not be late for my Microeconomics class this morning, and I prayed that no one would notice my rumpled clothes from the night before or my tousled hair. Despite the cold, I was elated. I could finally stop worrying about lawyers and voters, and be proud that I righted a wrong. That I changed history!

  A stocky lacrosse player opened the large wooden door to the Social Sciences Building, and I followed the crowd of students to the lecture hall. Of course, I had none of my folders or books with me; an out of character move on my part, but so was being hungover in the middle of the week. I found an empty seat near the back where I hoped I could avoid the professor’s gaze, and fortunately Dr. Hales had a tendency to lecture the entire class without calling on students.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I’m sure we’re all excited about the election season finishing, but let’s move on. Elections, of course, are only the application of theory. We, however, are concerned with the theory itself. Today, we will be discussing scarcity."

  That was it. A brief, banal dismissal of the election before moving on to other things. No uncertainty of a recount, no political opinions making hackles rise. A simple, non-descript victor, and new business. I rested my head in my hand and let my mind wander.

  For over nine years I had been reliving history. Watching television shows and pretending they were new, sitting through classes of subjects I had passed ages ago, even lazily working stock positions that I knew would land insane profits. Very few things in my new life were truly new, but now the world was new. I had no script to go through life now; I was just as uncertain of the future as anyone else was.

  Well, sort of. But those future certainties were long off, so for the moment I could finally breathe.

  Over the next month or so, I was happier than I had been in a long time.

  School continued at its relentless, yet manageable pace. Butterfly Capital began expanding, as now I required a team of accountants, brokers, and investigators to manage its affairs. The Belle Curves were as popular as ever, and for once the gigs weren’t stress relief; they were just fun. That went double for my hookups – I wasn’t the only person on campus who was looking for flings and no commitments, and I had a selection of guys to choose from, as well as the blonde girl from election night on a couple of occasions. The only break I had from casual sex was Thanksgiving Break, which was blissfully free of any grumblings of politics.

  I was young, rich, beautiful, and more than anything free.

  In the middle of December, I was at home in my office paging through some documents when I received a call on my business line. I usually expected one of my brokers to phone me at home, and was surprised to hear the voice of Karen, my executive assistant. Normally, she was unflappable, but today she sounded rather tense.

  “Ms. Peterson, I’m afraid that I’ve just received a call for the Principal of Butterfly Capital.”

  “That’s odd; I don’t think that’s ever happened. Did they say who they were?”

  “It was a Mr. Klain, from the White House Transition Team.”

  I froze.

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  “What did he want?” I finally managed to make out.

  “He wants a meeting. Tomorrow, four in the afternoon. I’ve scheduled it already; I don’t have to tell you, Ms. Peterson, but this isn’t a meeting you decline.”

  ***

  The next afternoon I arrived at the lounge at the Four Seasons hotel. I wore a white cashmere turtleneck and gray pencil skirt under my black coat, which matched the dark wood of the interior of the hotel. My footsteps rang against the marble floors as I tried my best to look casual. I certainly looked like I belonged in a place like the Four Seasons, even if I felt like I was walking into the brambles. I gave my name to the host, who walked me near the back of the mostly empty establishment to a secluded table which seated a lone man paging through some files. He was in his late thirties, with a thick black haircut. He looked up, rising to his feet as soon as he saw me.

  “Ah, Miss Peterson,” he greeted as he shook my hand firmly. “My name is Ron Klain, and I’m with the Gore transition team.”

  I knew him well. In Matthew’s timeline, he was put in charge of the Gore/Bush recount. In both of our timelines, he had been Gore’s Chief of Staff during his vice presidency.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Klain.”

  “Please, take a seat. Oh, sir?” he said, speaking to a passing waiter, “Coffee for both of us, if you would.”

  I raised my hand. “Actually, a black tea for me.”

  The waiter nodded, and scurried away. Klain sat across from me, a curious and analytical look on his face, as if deciding what he should say next. I met his gaze and offered nothing.

  “Allow me a moment to explain what I do. I wasn’t with the Gore election team – I sat that one out I’m afraid – but I was tapped as the Senior Advisor for Transition Planning, but just between me and you, I believe my role will be expanded come January.”

  “Congratulations.”

  Klain nodded. “Thank you. As part of my duties on the transition team, I was tasked to do an audit of the campaign strategy; a sort of review of what we did right and what we did wrong. Admittedly, the Gore Campaign had not focused much energy on Florida; they expected it to be tight, and assumed demographics were on our side as they had been for Clinton in 1992 and 1996.”

  “It seems like that’s what happened in 2000. Congratulations again.”

  Klain gave me a smile that didn't reach his eyes. “It would seem that way. But it was a curious thing; it seemed that starting in April of this year there was suddenly an influx of political donations across the state. Over half a million every month until November, especially in certain districts. Anonymous, of course. But very regular.”

  I swallowed slightly, but steeled myself. Klain continued.

  “Then in July, there was suddenly a well-funded lawsuit presented to the state of Florida regarding felon voting lists, and a resultant scandal. And precisely as it resulted in a scandal, yet another lawsuit from the NAACP was filed, for discrimination at the polling places. We didn’t expect a grassroots organization like them to have the funds for an action of that size, but there it was. And it struck hard.”

  “It’s a good thing that happened. It looked as if thousands of people were going to be disenfranchised.”

  “And you would be correct,” Klain added. “It was a blind spot the DNC didn’t see; it’s obvious now that Governor Bush would try to leverage his state to help his brother, but no one saw it coming. Almost no one, it seems.”

  I offered nothing. The waiter returned, with two cups and pots on the tray, as he set them on the table between us. I stayed calm, merely watching him pour out the contents into our cups. Klain appeared to do the same. When he was out of earshot, Klain leaned forward.

  “There were other anomalies. Instructional ads for using ballots in Palm Beach. Increased registration turn out for young voters. Funding just seemed to come out of thin air. Once I had access to White House resources, I was able to dig a little bit deeper. A name appeared; Butterfly Capital. No one had heard of it, but they had deep pockets, and always filled in their tax forms on time. Which is where I found your name.”

  I said nothing, instead taking a sip of tea.

  “We searched around the tax record more,” Klain said, scooping sugar into his cup, “and saw filed forms for one ‘Maya Peterson’ of Minnesota. Nothing out of the ordinary, except she was claiming profits of thousands, later millions, and not even out of high school." He tapped his spoon against the rim of the cup. "And she was Valedictorian too, apparently.”

  He took a sip of coffee. “The amount of money is…astonishing. Especially for a college sophomore. Yet there is nothing out of place; no indications of illicit funds, every line crossed and dotted. Obviously all of this isn’t proof in itself, but the timing, the opportunity, the connections, they point to you, Ms. Peterson. The only question I have is why.”

  I took another calm sip of tea, regarding it for a moment in my hand, before setting it down before me. I drew a breath, choosing my words carefully.

  “I’ve always analyzed patterns, Mr. Klain. In high school and even today. It’s how I utilized the market and wildly succeeded; I saw points of exploitation, and I profited from them.”

  “An impressive amount of profit, I’d say. Even for an Economics major.”

  “Dual major. Economics and Political Science,” I corrected. “When I analyzed the Gore campaign, I saw the same thing. Borderline illegal points that were going to be exploited by the Bush campaign and their allies. Florida was the place no one was looking, but I knew it would be key. I saw a high-probability point of error, and I corrected it, using my resources at hand.”

  Klain leaned back thoughtfully. The tension in his face was replaced by a sense of fascination. “I suspected a foreign plot,” he mused. “Something massive, illegal dark money. Instead, I find a patriotic nineteen-year-old college student worth millions." He paused. “You're an investor, Ms. Peterson. Always looking for a return. What is it you want?"

  I brought my cup to my lips. “Nothing.”

  Klain blinked in shock. “I find that hard to believe. Special considerations for your LLC? An ambassadorship? A photo op with the president?”

  “Mr. Klain,” I said, setting down my cup and meeting his gaze. “I would have paid ten times as much to prevent an injustice like Florida from happening.”

  Klain said nothing in return. He simply stared, appraising me once again. Finally, he reached into the briefcase at his side, pulling out a clean, sealed folder.

  “I believe you. God help me, I actually believe you,” he said, holding the folder in his hands. “I’m only in Chicago briefly for other business; I unfortunately had very little time to sate my curiosity in this little side trip. However, I can definitively say that President-elect Gore will be very interested in meeting the person who handed him Florida.”

  He held out the folder to me. “This is an invitation to the inauguration in January. It’s the least we could do for you. You'll be treated as a Tier One Donor. You get the best seats, and an invitation to the Inaugural Ball itself. The details are inside."

  I turned the folder in my hands, my fingers grazing the official Presidential Seal.

  Klain finished his coffee, and stood to leave. “It was a genuine pleasure meeting you, Ms. Peterson. I will be in touch.”

  After he left, I sat at the table for a few more minutes. I was surprised that my hand wasn’t shaking as I finished my tea. Finally, I pulled out my Nokia and phoned Karen right away.

  “Yes, Ms. Peterson?” she answered right away.

  “I’d like to set up a meeting with the team. Within the hour.”

  “Of course, Ms. Peterson. What is it in regards to?”

  “I need to buy a gown.”