The I.P.O. (12 page)

“And it’s on?”

“Yes.”  His shoulders slumped. 
The same routine every time.

“And it’s charged?”

“Yes!”

Finally satisfied, Sara rocked up onto her tiptoes and gave him a kiss on the top of his head, which she could still just reach.  “Bye.  Have a good time.”

Ryan enjoyed significantly more independence than the average twelve-year-old.  Having just completed his sophomore year, he was at least three years younger than anyone else in his class, and with the free-form curriculum at his school, he was actually taking most of his classes with even older kids.

There were certainly disadvantages to being the youngest kid in his grade, but the biggest advantage, from his perspective, was having friends who could drive.  His parents didn’t share his point of view, but, conceding that he had virtually no opportunity to make friends his own age, they had reluctantly granted him permission to ride along with a select group of boys whose families they knew well on the condition that he keep his phone on him at all times.

His parents were then able not only to track his location continually with the GPS function on his phone, but also to call at random times, just to make sure he was ok.  It really was more out of worry than lack of trust, and Ryan knew it.  But he still resented it.

To become eligible for the privilege of spending the night at his friend Jasper’s house, he’d woken up that morning at six and started his day by running four miles in just under 30 minutes.  He then came home for a shower and breakfast, practiced Japanese for an hour with his tutor in Kyoto on Skype, moved on to piano for another hour, and then spent the remainder of the morning re-evaluating his small but growing stock portfolio in the online trading account his dad had set him up with a few months earlier.  After lunch, he’d powered through what was supposed to be two hours of homework in twenty minutes, thus completing his school-, parent- and Avillage-directed activities and leaving himself free to spend the balance of the weekend as he pleased.

He opened the passenger door of his friend’s Prius and hopped in.  The plan for the day, as he’d described it to his parents, was that he’d be going over to Jasper’s house to work on a school project, maybe see a movie if they finished early, and then spend the night there.  But his actual plans were very different.

“Hey, Jasper.  Thanks for picking me up.  And thanks for agreeing to do this.  I owe you big time.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Jasper snapped as if he resented the comment, but he couldn’t help but follow it up with, “So, did you start that project for Mr. Gilliam’s class?”

“It’s done,” Ryan said, patting his backpack.

Jasper laughed involuntarily, shaking his head with an incredulous smile.  “How in the world did you finish that so fast?”

“It wasn’t that hard.  I’ll show you tonight,” Ryan said matter-of-factly.  “Can I see your phone?”

Jasper handed it over.  Ryan popped the backs off of both his phone and Jasper's, switched out the SIM cards, and then gave his phone to Jasper.

“You can answer this if it rings.  It’ll work just like your phone, but
please
stay at your house.  My parents can track the location of my
device
– not my SIM card.  If they’re looking, and my phone’s not at your house, I’m screwed.”

“So, what if your parents call
your
phone?” Jasper asked, not following him at all.  He and Ryan were friends, but intellectual equals they were not.  “And what the hell is a SIM card?”

“It’s a subscriber identity module... card.  Kind of redundant.  Anyway, it’s what makes this mass-produced phone yours.  It pretty much ties your phone number and personal account info to your device. 

“And now I’ve got my SIM card in your phone, so if my parents call my phone, I would just answer your phone, which I'll have with me,” Ryan said, opening the door as Jasper rolled to a stop at the street corner adjacent to the easternmost Cleveland RTA station.  “Look, I doubt my parents are watching me that closely, but if you don’t mind, just stop through the nearest fast-food joint to here on your way home, so it looks like we had a reason for going this way.”

“Dude, you’re paranoid,” Jasper needled with a grin.

“Come on.  I’m just trying to cover all my bases.  I’m up against a one strike and you’re out policy,”  Ryan said nervously.  “Now hurry up, so it doesn’t look like we stopped for an inordinately long time.  I’ll see you right back here at eight.”

Ryan slammed the door shut, as Jasper over-acted a suspicious glance to both rearview mirrors, sunk down in his seat, pulled the bill of his cap down and sped away.  Ryan shook his head and allowed himself a quick chuckle as he sidled down the hill to the station.

Just before
Dinosaurs and Aliens
had been taken offline for good, Ryan and Dillon had planned this day for their meeting. 

Dillon had already made plans to come to Cleveland for an app-development workshop being held at The Renaissance Hotel, which was adjacent to the downtown basketball arena, where the other big event in town happened to be going on – the AAU basketball game.  It would be no big deal for him to sneak over for at least an hour or two.  Ryan faced a bigger challenge making it downtown, but he was confident he could pull it off, and they both liked the idea of a crowded arena as the meeting place.

But there was another, stronger motivation for choosing an over-hyped high school basketball game as their rendezvous point.  If they were going to stand any chance of chiseling away at the overwhelming positive public perception of Avillage, Ryan and Dillon knew their cause would need a face – someone relevant and recognizable, with mass public appeal.  J’Quarius Jones was really the only choice.  But at this point they had no idea if he’d be a willing participant.  And it wouldn’t be easy to get to him.  After he left for Russia, it would probably be impossible.

So far their improbable plan was running right on schedule.  Ryan boarded the downtown-bound train right at 3:00, taking the seat directly behind the driver with his head resting against the window facing the inside track, his backpack occupying the seat next to him, and his heart racing 120 beats a minute.

~~~

Aaron Bradford gazed up at the arrivals board hanging above baggage carousel five at Cleveland-Hopkins International airport, then impatiently looked back down at his watch for a twentieth time in as many minutes. 
Their flight landed thirty minutes ago, and they’d already cleared customs in New York!
 
The game started in half an hour.  Where were they?

Finally at 3:30, three expressionless businessmen with eerily similar steel blue eyes, close-cropped brown hair and square jaws marched off the elevator in unison.

Bradford tried to produce a cordial smile that fell even flatter than usual.  It was not returned.  And no apologies or explanations were offered for their mysteriously late arrival, but the overpowering stench of cigarette smoke on the men suggested their tardiness could have been prevented. 

They strode over as a unit to claim their CSKA Moscow-embroidered suitcases, which were the only parcels left on the now dormant conveyer belt, and then stared in synchrony at Bradford, as if they’d been the ones waiting all along.

With crimson cheeks darkening toward violet, Bradford struggled to maintain his smile.  The fact that he would be screwing them to the tune of 23 million dollars with damaged goods was the only thing that kept him from absolutely losing it. 

Bradford waved the Russians outside where his driver, having been parked in a loading zone for half an hour, was locked in a heated argument with a homeland security officer.  Unless someone was pointing a gun or a taser at him with real intent, he wasn’t about to take a chance on not being at the curb when Bradford walked out. 

Noticing his boss’s arrival, he left the low-level officer screaming into thin air and scurried over to the Russians to collect their bags and help them into the back of the limousine.

“
Please
tell me you have the tickets...” Bradford sneered with one leg in the car, glaring at his driver.  The color ran out of the poor driver’s face as he struggled to find words, while Bradford’s sneer slowly morphed into a grin.  He held the tickets up and fanned them out to show that he had all four.  Although he did take some degree of pleasure in pulling one over on his driver, what really delighted him was the power he wielded over his pathetic minion’s emotions. 

“I do have the parking pass, boss,” his driver stuttered, taking a deep breath to collect himself as he shut the car door.

“Gentlemen,” Bradford started, leaning in toward his guests who sat stoically in the rear-facing seats closest to the driver in the passenger cabin of the limo.  “It’s a pleasure to have you here in the States.  Welcome to Cleveland.  You are in for an absolute treat tonight.  Have you seen J’Quarius play before?”

“No,” answered one of the triumvirate emotionlessly.  “Not in person.”

“He is something to behold.  YouTube doesn’t do him justice,” Bradford continued.  “He’s a
solid
6’10” – maybe not even done growing, but he plays a small forward.  Now, I know he’s only considering a one-year contract right now, but keep in mind, you guys aren’t encumbered by a salary cap like teams in the NBA are, so if things go well next year... who knows beyond that?  I’m sure you’ll want to make a strong first impression with your offer.”

“Our offer is firm,” another of the stone-faced Russian retorted, unimpressed by Bradford’s sales pitch.  “Tell us what happened at his last game.”

“Sorry?”  Bradford asked, feigning ignorance and not about to volunteer anything.

“We heard he was taken to the hospital.”

“Oh that? That was nothing.  A little dehydration.  Maybe a touch too much Stolichnaya the night before?  Eh?” Bradford said with a hopeful grin but getting nothing from his guests.  “No.  Of course he doesn’t drink any alcohol.” 
When was this ride going to be over?

“When were you going to mention this to us?” one of the Russians asked, studying his facial expressions like a KGB interrogator.

“I’m not sure I was, to be honest with you.  He’s starting today’s game.  It really isn’t an issue,” Bradford said casually.

“It is an issue!” the Russian in the middle snapped, for the first time demonstrating some form of emotion.

“Gentlemen, let’s just relax,” Bradford said, leaning back in his seat, fully aware that his telling them to relax would have the exact opposite effect.  The outburst actually put him more at ease.  Emotion loosened inhibitions.

“We haven’t signed anything...” one of the Muscovites started angrily.

“Neither have we, gentlemen,” Bradford interrupted smoothly but decisively, sensing the opportunity to seize the upper hand.  “Neither.  Have.  We.  I can see you appreciate directness.  So I'll do my best to accommodate you.  You are my guests here, and I plan to take good care of you, but don’t forget, I’m not asking you for any favors.  You aren’t helping me out by signing J’Quarius Jones.  The demand for this kind of talent
far
outweighs the supply – especially in Europe.  It’s 250 bucks a ticket to get into tonight’s game!  A high school game!”

The Russians silently conceded the point, the obstinance fading from their faces as the anger still smoldered underneath.

“Scouts from the top teams in Turkey, Greece, and Spain will all be in the gym tonight.  Now, to this point, your offer has been the best, but those other teams weren’t too far off.  And some are a little closer to home for him geographically. 

“A bidding war would be one way to go I suppose, but I’d like to get this signed and done,” Bradford concluded.  “How about you?”

“You will allow us to watch the game first?” the man in the middle asked with his first attempt at a smile.

“Of course,” Bradford answered, mirroring the Russian’s disingenuous expression, as the limo pulled up to the arena.

CHAPTER 8

“Alright guys, bring it in.  Let’s go!” Coach Wright barked at his players, as they slowly congregated in a rough circle around him in the middle of the locker room.

“This is the last time we’re going to play together as a team,” the coach said.  “Let’s finish the season the way we’ve played all year – as winners!  And
as a team!
” 

“TEAM!” the boys shouted in unison, their emotions running higher than usual for their final game.

An abrupt silence followed as they all dropped to one knee and bowed their heads in anticipation of the coach’s pre-game prayer.

“Lord,” he started, “we ask that you would allow these young men to honor you by playing to the best of their abilities – abilities with which you have so richly blessed them.  Let us play this game with grace... and ferocity.  Let us stay true to our principles... even as we attempt to destroy our opponent.  Keep us humble ... even as we crush our opponents’ pride.  Let these young men soar... even as you keep them grounded in the knowledge of who they really play for:  God.  Family.  Community.  Team.

“Please watch over us and the team we’re about to compete against.  And finally Lord, we ask that you watch over our brother J’Quarius with extra care tonight and keep him safe throughout the game.  We give all the glory to you.  Amen.

“OK, guys.  This is it.  One more game to perfection.  ‘Team’ on three,” the coach said, as the boys rose to a stand.  “One, two, three...”

“TEAM!”

As the circle dispersed, a few of the boys bounced up and down on the balls of their feet, loosening up their legs.  Others rolled their necks side to side, simultaneously shaking nervous energy out through their dangling arms, as they inched toward the door of the locker room.  The second best player on the team breathed in long deep breaths and then blew out slowly through pursed lips, his eyes closed, meditating to the rhythm of the music blasting from his headphones.  J’Quarius hadn’t moved from his spot in the middle of the locker room and was back on one knee with his head bowed.

Assistant Coach Hansford Washington gently laid his hand on his son’s shoulder.  “You ok?”

“I don’t know,” J’Quarius answered.

“What’s going on?  Is something hurting you?” Hansford asked empathetically.

“No.  Nothing hurts.  I just still don’t feel right.”  He paused for several seconds with his head down before looking back up at his dad.  “I guess I’m scared.”

“Do you want to sit this one out?” Hansford asked, expecting a quick and emphatic “no,” but getting only silence in return, as his son hung his head back down.  “Look,” he said softly.  “J’Quarius, look at me.  If you don’t want to play, you don’t have to.”

“Alright guys, let’s go!” The head coach said, throwing the locker room’s double doors open, allowing the din of the arena to flood in from the tunnel.

“I’ll see how it goes in the shootaround,” J’Quarius said.  He couldn’t resist the urge to give his dad a hug before he hardened up his expression and joined his team at the threshold to the tunnel, ultimately unwilling to let his dad, his coaches or his team down.

A blast of black and red confetti at the mouth of the visitor’s tunnel announced the arrival of the Chicago AAU team, as they confidently jogged through to an explosive reception from the crowd.  J’Quarius didn’t play road games.  No matter where he played, he was the one everyone had paid to see.

In one corner of the arena, a group of four Russian tourists decked out in CSKA Moscow regalia danced in front of a TV camera, frantically waving a homemade poster that read, “The Dawning of the Age of J’Quarius.”  In the club level a fan wore an Ohio State Buckeye jersey with the name J Jones printed on the back, holding a sign that pleaded, “It’s not too late.”

At midcourt a pair of ESPN broadcasters debated where J’Quarius’s high school career would rank historically now that it was coming to a close.  The press boxes were packed with local, national and international media, while executives from all the major shoe companies cheered as enthusiastically and conspicuously as they could from their various courtside locales.

Unfazed by this type of reception, J’Quarius jaunted over to the ball cart, picked up a ball, took a hop-step back and drained a three-pointer.  Ten paces behind him, over on the sideline, his dad whispered in the head coach’s ear to try to play J’Quarius as sparingly as possible.

~~~

Outside the arena, Ryan was milling around without a ticket amongst a few hundred late arrivers, a handful of increasingly desperate scalpers and a few media members, vigilantly keeping his eyes peeled for anyone either he or his parents might know.  He’d already had a near miss, passing within a few yards of Skylar McGhee, one of his classmates who would have relished the opportunity to rat him out.  But he was pretty sure he hadn’t been seen.

Just before the game was scheduled to tip, he spotted what he’d been looking for – a local sportscaster setting up a live shoot just outside the main entrance of the arena.  He casually slid Jasper’s phone out of his pocket, activated the camera, and positioned himself as close as he could to the news crew without distracting them. 

Placing the phone on top of a railing to keep it as still as possible, he zoomed in as far as he could toward the reporter’s chest where a press pass flipped randomly in the breeze and snapped as many shots as the frustratingly slow shutter speed would allow while the reporter was facing his cameraman.

At the conclusion of his 25-second puff piece, the reporter called it a wrap, and Ryan retreated to the sidewalk to begin analyzing the dozen or so shots he’d been able to get off, hoping at least one would be adequate.

“Hey, kid,” the sportscaster called out, his ego inflated by Ryan’s taking pictures of the broadcast, thinking this would be a wonderful opportunity to use his celebrity to make some kid’s day.

Ryan was immersed in reviewing the pictures he’d taken, his expression meeting each one with a disapproving grimace. 
Too far away!
  Even though the reporter had been standing still, the press pass was constantly flapping in the wind.

“Hey, kid,” the reporter repeated from close range, startling Ryan, who looked up with a guilty half-smile.  “I saw you taking pictures over there.  How would you like for my real-life TV cameraman to take a picture of the two of us on your phone for your scrapbook?”

Scrapbook?
  Ryan could almost feel his eyes rolling into the back of his head, but he quickly recognized this as an opportunity.  “Would I!” he gushed, handing over his phone.

Ryan forced a smile for the photo, leaning in toward the sportscaster, as the cameraman melodramatically “nailed the shot.”

“Have you ever thought about being on the news when you grow up?” the reporter asked.

“That would be a dream come true.  I’m down here covering this event for my school paper,” he said without batting an eye.  “Hey, do you think I could get a shot of your press pass, so I can show everybody at school what a real one looks like?”

“Sure,” the reporter said, bloated with pride, handing over his credential.  “Now, you stay in school and work hard, and you just might end up on TV one day too.”

Ryan centered the press pass in the frame of the phone’s display and finally got the perfect shot.  “Thanks,” he beamed, this time with genuine glee.

“Any time,” the self-important local TV man answered, as he headed back to the van.

Ryan walked back toward the arena and sat down with his back against the wall to try to figure out how to upload the picture.  Within five minutes he'd done it, leaving himself about twenty minutes to kill before he was scheduled to meet Dillon.

Back in Ryan’s bedroom, his digital frame awakened from sleep mode to display its newest picture just as Sara walked in to put away some clean laundry.  She studied the picture quizzically – the local Fox station’s field reporter’s press pass for a basketball game, which would have been starting right around that time at the pro basketball arena.  Ryan would have called her if he’d changed plans.  This didn’t make sense.

She walked over to the closest home phone and dialed Ryan’s number.

Surprised by her call, Ryan jumped up and sprinted as far as he could from the sounds of the crowds and city streets, and answered the phone on the third ring, trying not to sound out of breath.

“Hey Ryan, I was just in your room putting some clothes away when a picture of a press pass from downtown Cleveland popped up on the screen.  Where are you?”

“I’m over at Jasper’s!” Ryan said, leaving the “where else would I be?” implied.  He could live with not always volunteering the truth at all times, but it killed him to flat-out lie.  “We’re working on our project.”

“Well what is this picture?  And why is it on your frame?  You only put like 5 pictures a year on that frame,” Sara said suspiciously.

“You know that guy Skylar McGhee from my class?” Ryan responded without pause.  “He’s been bragging to everyone all week that he was going downtown to some high school basketball game today – like anyone really cares.  It’s a high school game!  And now he texts out a picture to everyone in the class that he’s got press access.  It’s a high school basketball game!  Jasper and I thought it was hilarious, so anyway, I uploaded it.  It’s not like I’m going to
keep
it on there.” Skylar was definitely at the game, so at least superficially, his story would hold water.

“Hmm.  Ok,” Sara responded slowly.  Ryan was good, but she had a degree – and experience – in child psychology.  And even though he had never given her a reason not to trust him, this didn’t feel right.  She decided to keep him on the phone as she ran downstairs to her smartphone to track his location.  “So what do you guys have planned for the rest of the night?”

“Not much,” Ryan said, now sensing something was amiss himself.  His mom frequently called to check in, but never to chit-chat.  He placed Jasper's phone flat on the sidewalk and hunched over it, so he could continue talking while he enabled  its map feature.  “We might go see a movie if we finish our project early," he said as he keyed his name into the search box.

Sara dashed into the living room and scanned all the flat surfaces before squeezing her eyes shut, trying to remember where in the world she left her phone, as she kept up the small talk.  “That sounds like fun.  What are you guys thinking of seeing?”

Ryan was almost certain she was just trying to keep him on the phone at this point.  Desperately willing the map to load, he cursed the solitary bar of service he was getting as tiny sweat droplets began to bead on his forehead.  “Uh, I don’t know,” he said, “Jasper was talking about seeing some movie I’ve never heard of.  It’s at some small art house theater.  He said it was NC-17, whatever that means."

“Hmm, well don’t be out too late,” Sara responded, completely oblivious to what he’d just said, bolting over to the smartphone she’d finally spotted on the island in the kitchen.  The map was still up, and it put Ryan’s location on the street just outside Jasper’s house.  “So you’re over at Jaspers working on your project?” she asked pointedly and abruptly, now clearly attuned to the conversation.

Ryan’s map was still loading.  “Were you even listening to me?” Ryan stalled.  “I said we were going to an art house theater to watch an NC-17 movie, and you told me not to stay out too late?” 
Load!

“Oh, yeah.  I knew you were joking,” Sara answered tersely.  “Now what did you say you guys are up to?”

“Well,” Ryan drawled having no idea what the location of his phone was, trying to come up with a safe answer based on his best guess, but just at that moment the map mercifully zoomed in on his phone’s location – on the street outside Jasper’s house. 
Idiot!  He was supposed to keep the phone on him!
He’d probably left the phone in his car, parked outside his house.  “Right now we’re outside working on some sidewalk art,” he said with the first thing that popped into his mind.  “Have you ever seen that before?  With the chalk?  You can make it look 3D if you’re good at it.  It’s actually pretty cool.”

“What does that have to do with your project?” Sara demanded.

“Well... Nothing” Ryan stammered, feigning trepidation about coming clean with what they were really up to.  “We were most of the way done, and we just decided to take a quick break.  We were just about to go back in.  Sorry.” He figured even a small confession could potentially pass as the source of whatever had raised his mom’s suspicion in the first place.

“Ryan, that’s fine,” Sara said reassuringly, now convinced by both the content and the tone of his story.  “You don’t have to be working the whole time you’re over there.  But you do need to tell me what you’re up to, ok?  You need to earn the freedom your dad and I have given you.”

“I know,” Ryan said ashamedly.

“Alright, now enjoy that NC-17 movie,” Sara said.  “And don’t forget your fake I.D.”

“I won’t,” Ryan laughed, hoping he’d just dodged a bullet.

~~~

Half a block away, at the Renaissance Cleveland convention center, Dillon Higley was making plans to split up with his adoptive father who had accompanied him to the app-development conference.  Dillon had manned his booth for most of the morning and early afternoon, so he was now free to explore the other exhibits.