It was another gray, dreary day in Chicago the following Tuesday, and the mood inside of the Economics recitation room matched the gloom outside. As I entered the room, I could see the guys huddled into small groups, whispering and muttering amongst themselves with looks of disbelief in their tired eyes. It had been a rough few days in the markets, and while I was certain no one had a portfolio that approached the size of mine, I heard rumors that a few students dipped into their student loans to play the markets for the last few months, and I am sure they were the most haggard.

  Even the professor looked worn; he was thumbing through the business section of the Sun-Times as we settled in. I noticed Sean’s chair was empty. I hadn’t spoken with him in almost a week, and his usual golden-retriever confidence was notably missing from the room. The professor stood, his bow tie slightly crooked and looking a little older than he had last week.

  “Let’s get started,” the professor said. “Who would like to start the discussion on what we are all clearly thinking about this morning?”

  A lanky junior raised his hand and pushed up his glasses. "We are seeing a classic reversion. When asset prices decouple from earnings, a correction is inevitable. The market is trying to find equilibrium."

  One of the more boisterous students cleared his throat. "It's not a correction," he muttered, adjusting his collar. "The floor fell out. The valuation models broke."

  "The models didn't break," the other student replied sharply. "Psychology broke. Irrational exuberance turned into irrational panic."

  The class broke into quiet, anxious arguments amongst themselves. Everyone seemed to have their own theory for what went wrong this weekend. The professor let them go for a few minutes, and when their arguments devolved into complaints and self-pitying about their own butchered finances, he raised his hand to calm the room.

  “Ms. Peterson, you’re quiet. As usual. What is your post-mortem?”

  The sound of my name seemed to suck the air out of the room. For months I had been the contrarian and the doomsayer. It was obvious I was not just the only girl in the room, but also the only pessimist. I was used to the guys rolling their eyes and smirking when it was my turn to speak, but today all eyes were fixed on me. I sighed, and set my pen down.

  "It wasn't irrational panic," I said, keeping my voice low and even. "It was just arithmetic."

  The class had heard me maintain this position since fall, and it had not changed. What did change was that they didn’t scoff.

  "For example, last month Cisco Systems was trading at nearly two hundred times earnings," I continued. "For that valuation to hold, they would have to own the entire GDP of the United States by 2010. That is fundamentally unrealistic. This has happened in the past: 1929. 1987.” I caught myself before I said 2008. “It’s the same tune, just a different song.”

  The class was silent. Their eyes were wide, with a tinge of guilt or fear. Some looked down at their hands, but no one countered.

  "So when does it bounce?" one of the students finally asked. It wasn't a challenge; it was a plea. "Everyone is saying buy the dip. It has to correct back up, right? By the summer? The fall?"

  I hesitated. I idly placed my knuckle to my lips, as I watched droplets of rain slink down the window panes. I knew what would happen, and I worried about overstepping myself. My silence only made them lean in closer to hear what I had to say.

  I decided to not give them false hope.

  “It won’t bounce. Not for a long time. Years.”

  I didn’t know it was possible for a dead silence to get even quieter.

  Eventually one of the students tentatively croaked, “So what should we do?”

  “Divest now,” I said. “Japan had a crisis like this in 1989 and they still haven’t recovered. If you stay in, hoping for a rebound, you’ll only lose more. You may have lost a quarter today; by the end of the year, you’ll have lost three-quarters. Take what you have left, and buy boring. Utilities. Commodities. Lick your wounds, and build back slowly. It’s not a good option; it’s the only option.”

  For a second, nobody moved. Then, I heard the scratch of a pen. Then another. I glanced up through my lashes and saw a few writing furiously in their notebooks. I even saw my professor lost in thought, considering what I was saying.

  I definitely wasn’t the pessimist any more; I was the pragmatist.

  After the lecture, I tried to phone Sean, but there was no answer. I decided to skip the library this afternoon and check in on Sean in his dorm at Shoreland Hall. I rode the old elevator to the eleventh floor as I usually did, and knocked gently on his door. I heard shuffling from inside, and he slowly opened the door. He was a little unshaven, and his t-shirt was rumpled. His room was messier than usual with dishes scattered around the room.

  “Hey, Peterson,” Sean said curtly as he opened the door wider to let me in.

  I set my bag down at the foot of his bed. “I saw you weren’t in class today, and you didn’t answer your phone.”

  “Didn’t feel like going out. It’s been a shitty weekend,” he muttered, collapsing on the edge of his bed.

  I sat next to him, hugging his arm. “How are you holding up?”

  Sean merely stared at the floor. “I lost a huge chunk of my savings. Was going to use it for fall tuition. Then I got a call yesterday from my summer work study; apparently there’s going to be a hiring freeze at the brokerage, and my stipend was cancelled.”

  I stroked his forearm, “I’m sorry, Sean.”

  “Talked to my parents. Said I should go back to Aurora for the summer instead of staying on campus.” His voice cracked as he bore a hole in the floor with his eyes.

  I didn’t know what to do. I reached down and put my hand on his leg and slipped the other around his back. He moaned ever so slightly as reached up to kiss the side of his neck. He was bigger than I was, but I gently coaxed him to lay back on his pillow which he did with his eyes closed the whole time. His face didn’t respond as I lay on top of him, but his body responded as I slid down his body and lowered his pajama bottoms.

  Sex was different than it usually was this afternoon. Usually it was frantic, a desperate need to relieve stress or to lose myself in the moment. I was more grounded today, more present. I took it slower, and found that it was nice in its own way. Sean didn’t say much, but I tried to make him feel as good as possible. He seemed to respond robotically.

  Afterwards, the room was quiet. The sun was dipping through his blinds and casting shadows across the room as I lay curled up against him. I didn’t make any movements towards my clothes, instead tracing circles on his stomach with my finger. I wasn’t much for post-sex banter, so I merely lay with his body pressed against mine.

  “You don’t have to stay,” Sean whispered eventually.

  “It’s fine,” I whispered. “I can stay for a bit longer.”

  “You usually can’t wait to run out of here by now.”

  I raised up, the air in the room suddenly cold against my breasts. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He pulled his arm from out under me. “You just wait for me to pass out, and then you run off to wherever it is you go. Are you just staying here longer because you feel sorry for me?”

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “I came here because I was concerned.”

  He barked out a laugh. “You came to give me a pity fuck. Or maybe rub it in that you were right about everything.”

  I scoffed, a tuft of my hair falling to my face before I brushed it back. “So back in March, when I would come to you late at night upset because of school and stress, was that a pity fuck?”

  “That’s different.”

  “Why?” I demanded, crossing my arm over my chest. “Because I’m just a little girl who needs comforting when I'm the one struggling? It makes you feel big? It makes you feel strong to fuck me while I fall apart inside?”

  “Maybe,” he muttered. “It’s not like you’ll be seen with me outside this room. Not like you’d ever consent to a dinner. You’re only available if I’m at rock bottom.”

  “This is ridiculous,” I scoffed, swinging my legs over the side of the bed as I pulled on my panties. “I never lied to you, Sean. I told you what I wanted, and you were just fine playing the role of comforter as long as you got laid. But now that it’s flipped, I’m being charitable?”

  He turned his head away from me. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  We didn’t say anything as I threw the rest of my clothes on. “I came over here because I thought we were friends,” I said as I pulled on my coat. “Not because I pitied you.”

  “Maya, wait –”

  I grabbed my bag and walked to the door. “I’ll see you in class,” I muttered as I closed the door softly behind me.

  After my usual visit to the girl’s bathroom to make sure I didn’t have bed-head, I walked to the elevator and pushed the call button. I waited for a wave of sadness or guilt to hit me, but it didn’t come. It wasn’t a breakup, it was just the end of an arrangement. But there wasn’t much I could do.

  I rode the elevator down one floor when it dinged open, and a guy stepped in. He was tall with dark hair wearing a Radiohead t-shirt underneath his winter coat. He glanced at me, his eyes flashing with recognition.

  “Hey,” he said as the doors shut. “You’re that guitarist? Uh…The Belle Curves, right?

  I turned to face him, noticing his solid jawline with a smile to match. “Lead guitar,” I corrected smoothly.

  "I saw you guys at the Alpha Delt party last week," he said, leaning back against the rail. "You guys killed it. I'm Justin."

  He held out a hand. I took it. His grip was warm and inviting.

  “Maya,” I replied, letting my eyes linger for a second longer than usual.

  “You heading out anywhere in particular, Maya?”

  “Nowhere specific,” I said with a slight smile forming on my lips. “But I’m open to suggestions.”

  ***

  April and May passed in a blur of rainy days and heavy logistics.

  Classes continued their relentless pace with term papers and readings, which I tackled one by one in the open stacks of Regenstein Library. My mind was often three states away as I reviewed notes with my classmates, and I often stepped out for contact calls with my lawyer Vance with instructions and requests for retainers outside of Illinois or preliminary phone meetings with event promoters.

  Now that my war chest was bursting, I was mobilizing. The crash had given me liquidity, and now I was converting that cash into action. I authorized the first in a series of aggressive donations, moving capital into various non-profit organizations and advocacy groups. I wasn't filing lawsuits or making moves yet; I was just making sure the machinery was oiled and ready for my plans later that summer. I enjoyed seeing how quickly people got back to you when you mention you have cash.

  At some point in the middle of classes and summer preparations, I turned nineteen.

  I wasn’t expecting anything grandiose, but my birthday landed on a Friday and I couldn’t avoid a night out if I wanted to. Catherine joined Deb and Nance, as well as a few other Hitchcock House girls I was friendly with, and we hit The Metro, a concert hall on the north side of the city. I didn’t know the indie band that was tearing up the stage, and I was disappointed that the bouncer took one look at our IDs and marked us with X’s on our hands, meaning we were forced to dance to the music sober. Still it was nice to have a break from the stresses in my life, which were only going to get worse in the next few months.

  It was the end of May, and Catherine was over at my apartment for the evening. Finals were looming, and this would be the last night that we could procrastinate before studying started in earnest. We were parked on my white sofa in the living room with a pizza between us, as Catherine was griping at the TV.

  “This is the weirdest show ever,” she complained through a mouth full of pizza. “They have to vote each other off the island every week? What is this show, anyway?”

  “It’s called ‘Survivor’ and it’s the dumbest show ever.” I paused for a moment to correct myself. “I mean it looks like the dumbest show ever. Do we have to watch this?”

  “Oh, might as well,” said Catherine. “I wonder who will be the last to be voted off?”

  “That creepy naked guy wins it.” I coughed. “I mean, probably will.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  I sighed. “It’s how the world works.”

  Catherine rolled her eyes, used to my usual cynicism, and returned to the show. At that moment, my Nokia buzzed next to me. It wasn’t my landline, so I had a shrewd idea of who was calling.

  “Yes, Mr. Thorne?”

  “Sorry to disturb you this late, Ms. Peterson,” Thorne’s voice was crisp and deferential. “We have the final contracts for the venue deposits in Gainesville and Tallahassee. The promoters are pushing for the wire to be authorized tonight to hold the dates against the college football schedule.”

  I sat up straighter, shifting to business mode.

  “Do the contracts include the rider regarding the gate protocols?” I asked, my voice dropping an octave, losing all traces of the girl who just discussed a naked weirdo on an island.

  “They do. O’Toole reviewed them. Strict entry requirements, as requested.”

  “Then authorize the wire,” I said. “And tell the promoters I don't care if it slows down the lines. If they compromise on the entry data, the funding stops. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal clear. I’ll send the confirmation number in the morning. Goodnight, Ms. Peterson.”

  “Goodnight, Mr. Thorne.”

  I snapped the Nokia shut and set it on the coffee table. When I looked up, Catherine had stopped eating. She was staring at me, a slice of pepperoni halfway to her mouth, her eyes wide.

  “What?” I asked, picking up my soda.

  “Who was that?”

  “My wealth manager.”

  She shook her head slightly. “You sounded like a general ordering an airstrike. ‘If they compromise the data, the funding stops.’ Maya, seriously, what do you actually do?”

  “I manage my assets, Cat. You know that.”

  “No, I know you have money. I’ve seen the apartment.” She gestured around the room. “But that? That was scary. Cool, but scary.”

  She sighed, dropping the pizza crust back into the box. The light mood of the TV show had popped. She slumped back against the white cushions, looking suddenly exhausted.

  “God,” she muttered. “I wish I could just order someone to fix my life like that.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I got the email today,” she said, staring at the ceiling. “No work-study this summer in the city. Cancelled. I’m going to be folding sweaters out at the Woodfield Mall while I stay with my parents.

  “Seems like there’s a lot of that going on,” I sympathized. “You know, you don’t have to go home and work retail.”

  She rubbed her temples. “I have to. I’m not rich like you, Maya.”

  “Why not work for me?”

  Catherine turned to look at me, confusion knitting her brow. “Doing what? Tuning your guitar?”

  “I’m going back to Minnesota once finals are over,” I said, “and I have other projects later in the summer that will have me be out of the city. My apartment is going to be empty, but it needs to be managed. The staff, the bills, the maintenance, all that.”

  “You want me to house-sit?”

  “You can be my executive assistant,” I corrected. “Karen is so busy with my LLC that she doesn’t have time for my domestic stuff. Plus, you can stay here for the whole summer rent-free. And I’ll pay triple what you could make at a mall.”

  “Maya, I can’t take your charity.”

  “It’s not charity,” I said firmly. “It’s a job. And it’s not easy. You’ll be trained by Karen. She is terrifyingly efficient, and she will expect you to be the same. You’ll handle vendors, filter my mail, and keep my life from falling apart while I’m gone. Honestly, you’d be doing me a massive favor. I can’t hire a stranger to live in my house. I need someone I trust.”

  Catherine looked around the apartment. The hardwood floors, the commanding view of Lake Michigan, the sheer scale of the life I lived. Then she looked back at me. She didn't see pity in my eyes; she saw an opportunity.

  “Karen will train me?”

  “It will look great on a resume,” I promised. “ 'Estate Management for a Private Family Office.' That opens way more doors than folding shirts at the Gap.”

  A slow smile spread across her face. “And rent-free?”

  “Cat, how many times have you stayed over in the guest room? You practically live here already; let’s officially make it your room!”

  She laughed, the tension finally breaking. She picked up her soda can and clinked it against mine.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m in, Ms. Peterson.”

  “Deal,” I said, turning back to the TV. “Now let’s watch this show ruin pop culture forever.”