“Whoa!” shouted Tim as he opened his present. “Are these…Air Jordans!?”

  I smiled at him from the couch. “They sure are. I think they’re the right size, but if they’re not, let me know and I can get a better size sent.”

  Tim shoved them on his feet in an instant. “They’re perfect, sis! Dang, thank you!”

  It was Christmas, a little more than a month since Tim’s Prep Bowl loss, and he was doing a lot better. He was always better than I was at picking himself back up after a failure. In the weeks since, Tim brushed himself off and refused to wallow. He was still a star athlete at school, and he was already preparing for baseball season in a few months. He was never one to let a failure hold him down.

  “Okay, Janie,” said Dad with his camera. “Go ahead and open your present.”

  My sister held the small box, and carefully unwrapped it. Inside was a small white box, which she gingerly opened.

  “Oh my god, it’s a charm bracelet! And it’s silver! Thanks, Maya!” she said as she stood up to hug me.

  Mom, who was sitting next to me, quietly looked at the box’s logo. “Is that… from Tiffany’s?”

  I swallowed nervously. “Yeah, it’s Tiffany’s. And it is real silver.”

  Mom looked a little tense. “It’s not too expen…I mean, it’s very nice Maya.”

  During Thanksgiving, I had finally let my father know that not only was I wealthy, I had been wealthy since high school. I had given Dad the details, about my stock trades and accounts, and it was surreal that I was worth nearly half a billion dollars and running a small yet robust firm. All of this, on top of a college schedule. For Mom, it was a relief that she didn’t have to hide it on my behalf any more.

  I had returned to Chicago for my Fall finals, while Dad digested my reveal. Just like Mom, he had kept silent about it, even to Tim and Janie. When I explained the security risk that loose lips exposed, that solidified it more than anything. With the stress of hiding my situation from Dad, I didn’t have to tip toe around hiding the resources at my disposal. When I arrived at the private terminal yesterday, a driver met me on the tarmac and drove me straight to the house. I think in an odd way Dad was disappointed he didn’t get to pick me up at the arrivals terminal like he usually did.

  While Tim and Janie were distracted as they fawned over their latest gifts, I pulled out an envelope from my robe. “Mom, Dad, this is for both of you.”

  Dad lowered his camera, while Mom quizzically took the envelope from me. She hesitantly opened it, and balked.

  “Maya, are these tickets to Hawaii!?”

  “First Class. And the resort on Maui is included with it. There’s no set departure on them; just call the number printed on the tickets and they’ll arrange the dates for whenever you want.”

  “Maya, this is…too much…” whispered Mom.

  I put my hand over hers. “Mom, it’s really not. It’s the least I could do for being such a hassle.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” she said as she hugged me. “You’ve never been a hassle. Just too good at keeping secrets!”

  I hugged her back, sniffling a little, as Dad examined the tickets wide-eyed. “Well, I’ve always wanted to see the ocean!” he joked anxiously. He cleared his throat. “Alright, who wants some pancakes?”

  Tim and Janie dashed off to their respective rooms with their loot, while Dad started whistling “Mele Kalikimaka" in the kitchen. Mom and I leaned back against the couch.

  “So, how long are you back home for?” asked Mom as she gently set the envelope on the coffee table like it was made of glass.

  I guiltily took a deep breath. “I’m flying out tomorrow. Finals were rough this quarter, so I have some business to catch up with. I’m on-boarding a Telecom Acquisition Director, and I managed to purchase some warehouses for a song. We’re acquiring some distressed assets – fiber optics, rack servers, core routers – from collapsed data carriers for pennies and…I lost you, didn’t I?”

  Mom shook a little, clearly not following me at all. “I’m sorry, dear. I’m not much of a computer person. But I’m sorry that you can’t stay a bit longer.”

  “I know. I just have a lot to do back home, and –” I felt a buzz in my robe pocket. Smart phones were still a few years away, but I had recently purchased the next best thing in 2001: a BlackBerry. While it wasn’t a phone, it felt great to be able to receive text messages after spending so many years trapped in the digital desert of the 90s.

  “Sorry Mom, do you mind if I check this?” I asked, pulling out my little black device.

  “Sure, hun,” Mom said as she quietly stood up. I didn’t look up as she joined Dad in the kitchen, and read the message that my lawyer Vance sent me. Vance was Jewish, so Christmas was just another Tuesday for him. He forwarded one of the status notes from one of the firms he monitored on my behalf:

  Subject: Legal Update. D. Trump summoned to appear tomorrow morning. Courts trying to clear docket before end of year. Marks fourth summon for December.

  I grinned wickedly. The dozens of lawsuits I had quietly funded, through four different firms in three different states, was beginning to trickle down in my favorite hobby: making Donald Trump’s life a litigious hell by funding his plaintiffs. I could only estimate how much these cases were costing him in fees so far, but it was only the beginning for him.

  “Happy Boxing Day, Donald,” I said under my breath.

  I smirked into the BlackBerry as I put it away. I glanced over at Mom and Dad in the kitchen, who seemed to be having a terse chat. This trip to Minnesota had already hit differently; I didn’t feel like a college kid coming home for the holidays, I felt like an adult stopping by for a visit. I loved my family and I loved Minnesota, but it wasn’t home anymore. I knew what it was like to cross that boundary into adulthood from Matthew’s memories, but this time around it felt even more profound.

  As the smell of fried bacon filled the air, I was a bit ashamed that I had outgrown this little house.

  ***

  Once I got back to Chicago, my hectic schedule settled into my new normal almost immediately. I was able to clear out my backlog of Butterfly Capital business before the UChicago winter quarter started in early January, just in time for the Belle Curves to start up rehearsals after being in hibernation through finals and Christmas break. It also marked my acceptance into the Economic Club, the first organization Thorne was fast tracking me into.

  At Thorne’s urging, I had been attending luncheons and other functions the Club organized for the past few months, primarily as his guest. Along with executive etiquette training I had been undertaking for the last year, Thorne has slowly been introducing me into the greater social circles that, in his words, someone of my standing needed to navigate. With Thorne and Northern Trust’s endorsement, at the start of 2002 I was inducted as an Associate Member and was invited to a Young Leaders welcoming reception at the Palmer House.

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  I had prepared for the reception meticulously; a black Donna Karan sheath dress tailored for me, as well as a matching diamond jewelry set in platinum. Nothing ostentatious; only someone who looked carefully would notice. I had even procured a stylist for my makeup and hair for an at-home appointment. This was all done under Thorne’s supervision, and when I joined him in the heavy, ornate lobby of Palmer House he nodded approvingly.

  “You look lovely this evening, Ms. Peterson,” he complimented under the dark wood and gold accents of the premier hotel. “Shall we?”

  He offered his arm, and we stepped into the elevator. He carefully adjusted the sleeves of his dark suit, and the flower on his lapel. A thought occurred to me as the elevator slowly rose to the floor to the ballroom level.

  “Mr. Thorne,” I inquired, “have the liquidators been cooperating? I want to prioritize long-haul fiber, the G.652 and G.655 standard.”

  “It’s been arranged, Ms. Peterson,” he replied as he brushed his graying temples.

  “If the director is having trouble with –”

  “Ms. Peterson,” Thorne cut in firmly, but respectfully, “the pieces are moving. You’ve delegated very well, and you should let them do their job. It’s time, as the principal, to do your job. You’re not managing assets tonight; you are the asset.”

  I took a deep breath. “Of course. Thank you, Mr. Thorne.”

  The doors opened, with Thorne leading us through the opulent hallway into one of the smaller banquet rooms, though only small in comparison to Palmer House itself. The room was long and high-ceilinged, with paneled dark wood and cream walls with chandeliers glowing with a controlled and intimate light. The thick carpeting and framed mirrors suggested insulation; of private conversations of weight and influence.

  The patrons were all dressed formally; tailored suits and understated dresses with servers in white moving between them. Nearly everyone was holding wine glasses as they mingled, less out of thirst and more for something to do with their hands as they conversed. The room skewed young; junior partners, analysts, family-money heirs, as well as a mix of older men chatting with them as one would with rising talent.

  Of course, young was relative. One glance informed me that I was by far the youngest of the Young Leaders. I could already sense heads turning in my direction as Thorne escorted me through the crowd. Many of the older guests had met with me before, and very cordially greeted me. I demurely responded, as Thorne initiated other introductions. The other Associate Members, some at least a decade older than me, were meeting me for the first time, and my youth and appearance was clearly making them calculate.

  “So, Ms. Peterson, which school did you attend?” one of the Associates asked me.

  “University of Chicago, the Economics program.”

  “Ah,” he replied, through his champagne. “Which year?”

  “I’m in my third year,” was my response, as I sipped from my club soda. It was the only beverage they were legally allowed to serve me.

  The group around me glanced at each other, and a few listening murmured amongst themselves.

  One of the women, a newly promoted junior partner at her law firm, inquired further as she appraised my necklace. “Are you interning for Mr. Thorne at Northern Trust?”

  “No, he’s my Wealth Manager.”

  The murmuring turned into poorly hid gasps, and I saw Thorne wryly smile.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Peterson, we should say hello to Mr. Mansueto,” he whispered as he shifted me away from the stunned group.

  The rest of the evening was just like that; a coordinated ballet where every conversation was moderated and calculated. I played my part well, moving from guest to guest with the practiced poise and the careful projection I had been cultivating. By the time Thorne and I made our departures, that familiar tightness of performance filled every inch of my body. It was no secret life that I was harboring, more like the weight of the life I had chosen.

  However heavy it was, it was feeling more like my own.

  ***

  The weeks that followed blended together in a different dichotomy. The days were filled with lectures, discussions, and assignments which slowly ramped up in difficulty, while the nights begged for a release of the pressure. The Belle Curves were back in force, and on a Saturday in late January we were playing at a frat party somewhere on Woodlawn Avenue. Nance was screaming into the mic as Deb hammered out a rhythm on her kit and I shredded out the closing for the last song in our set.

  The room was thick with sound and bodies, with the crowd jumping in time with us and the final chords. Cheers lit up the air as we took our bows, and the three of us gave a three-way high five. Behind us, our stage tech Reggie was already setting up his DJ equipment to continue the sweaty, energized mood in the room as Nance and I unstrapped our respective guitars.

  “Good show, ladies,” yelled Nance over the din of the crowd. “As usual!”

  “I saw Harry in the crowd, Maya,” said Deb as she put away her drumsticks. “I thought you two broke up.’’

  I grinned. “We never actually dated! It was just that one night; it was good enough that I figured, ‘why not a second night?’”

  “You’re incorrigible, Maya,” teased Nance. ‘Don’t have too much fun tonight!”

  “Is that even possible?” I remarked.

  I passed off my Fender to Reggie, taking a moment to wipe the sweat from my forehead and to adjust my black spaghetti strap top. I was thirsty in more ways than one, and I stepped around the makeshift stage through the crowd to where Harry was standing, grinning at me. He was tall and dark-haired; a nice guy if a little simple, but hot as hell. Without a word I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled myself up to his lips.

  “Awesome show, Maya!” he said after our kiss. “You wanna…get out of here?”

  I smirked up at him. “I think I’d like to get a couple of beers in me, before you do.”

  “You got it,” he laughed after one last kiss, and he pushed through the crowd to where the coolers were. I took a moment to rotate my shoulder, wondering if I would actually make it to beer number two before I left with Harry.

  “Maya! Fucking awesome show!” Shouted a voice to my right.

  I turned to yet another familiar face. This particular one belonged to a muscular rugby player named Alex, who I hadn’t seen since October. But when I had, I had seen every inch of him up close. We immediately embraced.

  “Long time no see, Mr. Rugby! Thanks for coming to see the show!”

  He squeezed me once more before releasing. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Hey, let me introduce you,” he said, gesturing to an auburn-haired girl next to him. “This is my girlfriend, Sophie. Sophie, this is the girl I was telling you about!”

  “You play amazing!” shouted Sophie as came in for a friendly hug of her own. “And oh my god, I love your hair!” Without asking, she reached up and slid her fingers through it. I let her.

  “What are you drinking tonight, Maya?” asked Alex.

  It was then that Harry stepped up behind me, holding a pair of bottles. “This guy,” I answered as I took one of the beers and snaked my other hand around his waist. “Alex, Sophie, this is Harry.”

  Sophie squealed. “Harry! I haven’t seen you since summer!”

  Alex raised his eyebrow. “You know each other?”

  “We had a thing back in June,” Harry explained. “Name’s Harry, nice to meet ya.” He and Alex clinked their beers together.

  I stroked Harry’s back. “I guess we all know each other,” I laughed. The others echoed me and we started chatting.

  The four of us hit it off really well, and eventually found a couch in the corner while we listened to the music and talked about nothing in particular. Sophie and I swapped gossip with each other as the boys bantered about sports or something. At a certain point, I ended up on Harry’s lap, and after another beer, I somehow ended up on Alex’s. When we stumbled out of the common room through a haze of buzz and beer, I wasn’t sure whose room we ended up in, but the bed that Sophie and I tumbled into was rather large and inviting.

  The thump of the party downstairs was reduced to a distant, steady pulse. One of the boys closed the door behind us, and hands wandered over me in the dark. Whose hands they belonged to I didn’t know, nor did I know whose lips were pressed against mine. Shirts and shoes, as well as whatever else we were wearing, were abandoned as we collapsed in a tangled, breathless heap.

  I ended up in the middle of it all, with the heat and movement and sweat of the others pressed against me. My breath joined everyone else’s in a gush of energy and warmth. The air was thick and alive, our bodies sliding and shifting until the friction silenced my brain. Laughter and moans blurred together, skin against skin, the bed rocking beneath us as the world narrowed to heat and the dizzy sweetness of ecstasy.

  I drifted into it and forgot myself.