Spoils (12 page)

It's nearly dark outside by the time I'm home, but there are lights glowing in the windows, making the house look alive. Smooth jazz pours from the built-in speakers in the foyer. My parents haven't played music through the housewide sound system in ages and I've long grown used to entering a house that's dark except for the flickering blue light of the big screen TV down the hall.

There's no dinner under way in the kitchen and my brother isn't parked in the recliner.

“Hello?” I call out.

“Hi!” my mom trills from their bedroom.

I enter a transformed suite. Their king-size bed has a new bright red comforter with a white coral design and a small mountain of pillows. The tracks on the carpet from a recent cleaning are still there and there's a fresh smell of lemon polish. It's the best their room has looked in months.

My mom pops out of her bathroom as I enter their room.

“Wow,” I say.

Her hair is glossy, in a short, stylish bob with soft, tasteful highlights. She's put on full makeup, but in new, softer shades, and she's wearing a beautiful periwinkle pantsuit that brings out her new tan.

She grins at my reaction.

“Mom, you look awesome.” I feel like a traitor mentally adding up how much all this improvement costs. Haircut and color, new makeup, new outfit, tanning and—if I'm not mistaken—new pearl earrings.

“We haven't been out in ages,” my mom says happily. “I can't believe how long it's been since I've updated my colors.”

“Where are you guys going?”

“It's a small event, heavy hors d'oeuvres, but you know, we've been so cooped up lately, we decided to have fun with it.”

“What's it for?”

“Angel investors informational meeting,” she says.

“Angel investors,” as I've found out over the years, is a lovely term for people with money who are willing to throw it at various start-ups, with the hopes that one of them will strike it big. We've lost millions that way. My mom mentions it casually, as if it's of no significance, as if this invitation isn't someone salivating over the rumor that they're going to be flush again.

They used to get invited to a lot of these events. They always enjoyed getting wined and dined, the fawning attention from eager businessmen. I didn't really notice when these invitations stopped coming, but it's definitely been a couple of years. Is this invitation a sign that news has leaked that my trust fund is maturing, or is this fund-raiser using an old list for potential investors?

“What does an entrepreneur want with you?”

My mother smiles and shrugs, as if to say,
Who cares, it's a party!
In the face of her great excitement, I suddenly realize that my parents haven't been invited to any kind of social gathering in over a year. Not one. My heart twists at the thought.

My father comes out of his bathroom, mopping his face to get rid of a few traces of shaving cream. His crisp white button-down shirt is half-unbuttoned and my mom tsks at him to hurry up. He pulls a suit jacket from the closet, the price tag still hanging from the sleeve.

“Dad?” I raise an eyebrow.

“They sent us an invitation weeks ago, but we just decided to go. The more I read about it, the more interesting it sounds.” It's the same excited, optimistic tone that has preceded so many bad investments. “Renewable energy. That's the future right there. And getting in on the ground level, that's where the big money is.”

In the past, I tuned him out when he got to this point. The lure of “big” money has proven false every time. But this time it's
my
money we're talking about, so I keep listening as my father launches into a recitation of the company's bullet points.

“Our country runs a tremendous trade deficit in oil every day. There's an environmental effect to burning oil. There's an economic factor. But what's the alternative? Solar and wind power are hard to store and transport.” It's great that he's fired up about environmentally responsible fuel alternatives, but this isn't new information. Anyone selling it as something groundbreaking is a complete con artist.

My mother picks out a tie for him and he struggles to tie it in front of their large full-length mirror. I'm at the edge of their bed, torn between affection and exasperation.

“So what's the solution?”

“I'm getting to it. The man who runs this company discovered algae that produce fuel. Can you imagine it? From garbage! It's fantastic! They can even grow in brackish water.” He starts gesturing with his hands and the tie tying falls apart. My mom steps in to finish the job. “He's sitting on the future of energy.”

“You don't think it sounds too good to be true?”

Some of what I feel leaches out in my tone. My mother gives me a warning look, but it takes a lot more than that to dampen my dad's enthusiasm once it sparks.

“I'm sure he's simplifying things in his prospectus. He knows his investors aren't scientists. But his overall premise isn't overstating the potential—in fact, he's selling it short. Honey, this man was a college professor and he left his job to make this happen. This isn't a scam.”

“Wait. He was a professor?” It's the second time today I've heard about a brilliant professor who left his job to try to make an idea come to life.

My dad, sensing a chink in my skeptical armor, grins.

“Sure was, a professor at Tech. His name is Isakson. Tovar Isakson.”

My skin prickles with sudden cold. It's the same person Gavin tried to study with at Tech. Maybe it's because I encountered an angel today, maybe it's because I know winning the lottery was a setup, but I'm suddenly convinced that it wasn't an accident Gavin was kicked out of school. It wasn't a prank gone wrong or a random hater. There had to be some unnatural influence at work. That's why Michael came. Because something malicious and bad interfered to get Gavin kicked out of Tech. Since we “owe,” karmically speaking, Michael tasked me to fix it. Getting Gavin back in contact with the one person he wanted to spend time with at Tech is a fantastic start at fixing a huge problem.

“Can I come with you?” I ask.

My parents exchange a wide-eyed look of surprise.

“Sure, sweetheart,” my dad says.

“Of course, sweetie,” my mom echoes. She eyes my shorts and T-shirt. “But we need to find you something to wear.”

I know what I have to do. Gavin's face on the beach this morning, Michael's voice exhorting me to fix it, Natasha's charismatic charmer—all swirl before me, and for the first time since Wednesday, I have the beginnings of a plan.

“And, um, can I invite a friend to come with me?”

My mom's eyes nearly pop out with delighted surprise.

“Yes.” I dryly answer her unasked question. “It's a boy.”

She squeals like a young girl. “You have a boyfriend?”

“Mom!” I flush bright red at the thought of her calling Gavin that.

She looks ready to burst with curiosity. It's with visible effort that she holds back her questions.

“You've heard of him,” I admit. This is going to be interesting. “Gavin Armand's back in town.”

“The kid who went to jail for hacking? That's who you're dating?”

“No, Dad,” I say. “It's not like that.” They both face me, waiting for an explanation. “First of all, we are friends, not dating. Second, I think that he is trying to be a better person.” And we're not even really friends, more like…allies. Michael must believe there's more to him than meets the eye, but somehow I don't see that working as a compelling argument. “Let me text him, okay? See if he can even make it.”

“He's an actual juvenile delinquent.” My dad sits on the bed, shaking his head, lost for words. “This is every parent's nightmare!”

“Peter,” my mom says. “Let her be.”

“We're in the same SHCC class,” I say, swallowing with difficulty. “This will be great for a project we're working on for the professor. You know, she mentioned in her lecture about the dangers of carbon in the oceans and how clean energy needs to be a huge priority—”

“You're in the same SHCC class?” my mom interrupts. “You didn't tell me that.”

She and my dad exchange the our-teenager-is-keeping-things-from-us look.

I probably should have told her before this, especially now that Gavin told me they paid for his defense. My mom always likes to know who is in class with me, who I spend time with. In fact, it is really unusual that she hasn't already grilled me on what SHCC is like.

“He told me you guys paid for his defense,” I say, moving the conversation along. “Why did you?”

“He was your friend,” my mom says, simply.

“We barely knew each other,” I protest. “He was in one of my classes, that's it.”

“He went to your school and I knew his mom from PTA. It broke my heart to see what she was going through.”

“That was a truly kind thing to do,” I say. “Gavin told me how much it meant to them, especially his mom.”

My parents exchange a soft look and a small smile, nicely distracted. I forget how incredible my parents are sometimes.

“One look at his poor mother, and Dad and I knew we had to do something. No one wants to see their child pay so dearly for a mistake he made in high school.”

Too bad no one was looking out for Natasha back then.

“But that doesn't mean it's okay to hang out with a convicted criminal,” my dad adds, heading to the bathroom.

Knowing what happened at Tech, I'm pretty sure Gavin wouldn't want to see his old professor again, so I don't mention Isakson will be there, only that it's a fund-raiser for a company he might be interested in, which is technically true. After Gavin texts back yes, my dad grumbles some more under his breath about character and a lack of trust, even as my mother elbows him sharply. As soon as she knows we're both joining them tonight, she gets in an absolute tizzy about what I should wear. Clothes aren't something I usually think too much about but her excitement is contagious. My stomach does a funny little flip at the thought of seeing Gavin tonight, helping him connect with his old professor. It feels right, the way events are falling into place.

My mom and I hurry to my room, only to stare disappointedly in my closet.

“Oh, Leni,” my mom says. “This looks like an orphan's closet. Don't you care about how you look at all?” Jeans, khakis, a couple of knee-length skirts and some out-of-date dresses hang crookedly on metal hangers. I wore one dress to my uncle's funeral. There's the dress I wore to Steeped's opening, but it looks like something a thirteen-year-old would wear, probably because I was thirteen the last time I wore it.

“I care,” I say, stung. “But how often do I need a cocktail dress? Never.”

My mother mutters something about whether we can make it to Nordstrom's and be back in time for the party. All of a sudden, her face lights up.

“Come on,” she says, and drags me down the hall.

We go to the closet in Natasha's old room and sure enough, there are dozens of dresses hanging there, long forgotten. Flipping through them with the crisp, professional motions of a veteran shopper, my mom selects three dresses. I make a face. Natasha and I have never worn the same size and besides, her taste in clothes is not what I like.

“Trust me,” my mom says. So I strip and step into a silky, beaded red shift. My mom zips up the back and I shimmy to get the dress in place. I can't remember the last time I wore anything but shorts or jeans and an old T-shirt. Natasha's room has a large full-length mirror in one corner. I walk over to it barefoot, toes gripping the beige carpet, and barely recognize myself in the reflection. Red is a bold color, not for blending in. Which of course appeals to Natasha but I'm shocked that it looks good on me. Natasha picked indigo for her room when the house was decorated, and against the dark inky-purple walls, the red dress glows like a jewel.

“I like it,” I say.

My mom eyes me critically, rising from her perch on the edge of the peacock-patterned satin quilt on the bed and examining the dress from different angles.

“It's not bad,” she says, rather noncommittally. “But let's try the other ones.”

Next is a long, tailored sleeveless dress in apple green. Again, it's nothing I would ever have picked out for myself but it looks amazing against my tan and brings out the green in my eyes.

“I like this one even better,” I say. And for the first time in a long time, I turn to her and ask, “What do you think?”

“Let's see how the last one looks on you,” my mom says. I finally understand why shopping can be so much fun. I'm actually excited to try it on. She unzips the dress and I step out. Wearing only underwear and a bra, I lean over and kiss her. She grins at me and then kisses me on the cheek.

The last dress she picked is pale lavender, the exact shade of the sky when the sun dips below the horizon. It's made from crushed velvet and stops an inch above my knees. My favorite part is a narrow sash embroidered with shells that ties under my breasts. The dress still has the price tag on it.

My mom zips up the back and ties the sash. I step in front of the mirror, surprised by the slender, lovely young woman staring back at me. My arms look golden and strong, my legs look long and lean. In this dress, I have breasts. In this dress, I am beautiful.

“This one,” I say.

My mom straightens the straps so that they cover my bra, eyes me critically and then smiles.

“We've got a winner,” she says. “Now let's do something with your hair.”

Despite the trendy address off Beach Boulevard, the fund-raiser is at a modest little Chinese restaurant, a place I must have passed dozens of times and never noticed; not the usual chic spot these things tend to take place in. There's a small, handwritten sign on the front door announcing the place is closed for a private party. My mom exchanges a mewl of disappointment with my dad before they gamely enter the room.

A small buffet holds several covered dishes warming over a flame. Two large platters of greasy egg rolls sit untouched. The tables and chairs from the restaurant have been optimistically pushed up against the walls to leave the middle clear for the mingling crowd but there are only a dozen people there, making the place look sad and abandoned. My parents and I are ridiculously overdressed. A few of the people in the room are in jeans; two wear shorts. People eye us, probably wondering when we're going to realize we're at the wrong event.

The muscles in my shoulders tense in embarrassment. Now I know why my parents were invited. The professor used an old who's-who list.

A short man with a tidy, close-trimmed beard and a jacket with leather patches on the elbows, incongruous in the Florida heat, hurries to us.

“Welcome,” he says. “I'm glad you could make it tonight. I'm Tovar Isakson, the CEO, director, founder, and jack-of-all-trades for AlgaeGo.”

I make a face at the company name. It sounds like some pharmaceutical answer to an obscure skin disease.

“Peter Kohn,” my dad says, unfazed and extending a hand. Looking at the two of them, my dad hale and buff in a crisp button-down shirt with a gleaming designer tie, shaking hands with the slim and shabby Isakson, you'd be hard-pressed to guess who was the CEO of a company with groundbreaking technology and who was the man about to lose his house to foreclosure. “This is my wife, Linda,” my dad continues. My mom's game face is back on and she shakes Isakson's hand with a warm smile. Another perfect example of poise and confidence. “And our beautiful daughter, Lenore.”

“Leni,” I correct.

The professor shakes my hand firmly before turning his attention to my parents. “Let me take you to the back. I'm about to start my presentation.”

My mom looks beseechingly at me, less than happy at the prospect of being lectured to, but I shake my head to let her know I'm staying by the door to wait for Gavin.

With so few people in the restaurant, it's easy to spot Gavin when he arrives. I can't stop that glad little leap of excitement at seeing him, my stomach in full butterfly mode. He's dressed up a bit for this too, wearing a pale-blue button-down and khaki slacks.

“Wow,” he says when he sees me in Natasha's dress.

I feel a blush coming on. “This old thing,” I say.

By now, the professor has darkened the room for his presentation and from the look of the screen over Gavin's shoulder, it includes PowerPoint slides. My poor mother.

“Looks like class is starting.”

Gavin turns to the back of the restaurant. I know the exact moment when he recognizes the man at the lectern. He freezes and then pales.

“I have to go,” he says.

“Gavin,” I say softly. “Stay.”

“You don't understand, I
can't
.”

“Come on,” I wheedle. “You're already here. Stay.”

“That's Professor Isakson,” he says, almost desperately, edging back toward the door. “That man hates me.” He suddenly turns those razor eyes on me. “You did this on purpose.”

“You should hear what he has to say,” I say, not denying it. “And maybe he'll listen to you too.”

He presses his lips in a tight white line.

“What have you got to lose?” I coax.

“My self-respect?” He's only half-joking.

“Please,” I scoff. “Like you ever had any.” I offer him my hand. He clasps it in the same instinctive motion. There's tension vibrating in his arm and I squeeze his hand.

“This is your revenge because I said you do drugs, isn't it?”

“Just listen to him, okay?”

“Why not.” He flashes his cocky grin. “No problem.”

I get the sense that he only agreed because he's not a britney and that he's putting his boots on.

We're the last ones to sit and, as soon as we do, Isakson starts.

Slide after slide—graphs, projections, equations—it's all there. The different algae strains, the possible food source, the fuel output, and the shining diamond of his plan: unlike ethanol, which needs prime farm land, these algae grow in brackish water that is otherwise unusable. The man has his ducks in a row.

When the professor finishes his presentation, the lights come back on and there's a smattering of applause. Unfortunately, from the slack, uninterested faces of the half dozen people making up his audience, it's clear that most of them are clueless. My mother, who fell asleep, wakes up with a start when the lights come on. My dad looks bored and distracted as he fiddles with his cell phone.

An anxious look crosses Isakson's face as he senses the mood of his crowd.

“Are there any questions?” he asks.

Awkward silence descends. No one makes eye contact with the professor. One of the employees of the restaurant pushes in a metal trolley to gather used plates and the wheels make an annoying little chirp with every rotation.
Chirp, chirp, chirp.
Isakson waits for questions. There were too many chairs set up for his talk, which only highlights how few people came.

“When will the algae be up and operational?” someone asks.

“Excellent question.” Isakson bobs his head nervously. “There are several promising strains that we will continue to test in the coming months. Once we isolate the best performer, we will begin negotiations for land.”

“So you're, what, more than a year away from any kind of product launch?”

“We hope to move sooner than that,” Isakson says vaguely, but everyone in the audience can hear the truth. He's nowhere close to being up and running.

He waits a beat.

“Any other questions?” he asks. The silence grows heavy and he turns to straighten a stack of handouts on the low table next to him. “I'd be happy to speak with any of you in private,” he adds.

There's a sporadic attempt at applause.

“Come on,” I say to Gavin. “Let's go talk to him.”

“Bad idea, Kohn.”

But I tug on his arm and he follows. People are still sitting, shaking off the stupefying effects of a thirty-minute PowerPoint presentation, and Gavin and I reach the professor before anyone else.

“Hi,” I say.

Isakson looks grateful for someone to talk to but disappointed that it's a couple of teenagers. His brown-and-red beard has a lot of gray, but there is something youthful about him. He isn't much taller than me and I am in the unusual position of feeling somewhat protective of an adult who is decades my senior.

“Leni Kohn,” I remind him. “My parents are Peter and Linda.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he says effusively, pumping my hand.

“This is my friend, Gavin Armand.”

The professor blinks at the mention of Gavin's name.

“Mr. Armand,” he says, frowning, eyeing Gavin up and down. “I didn't expect to see you again. I believe I made my thoughts clear a year ago.”

Gavin tenses next to me and his face goes white.

“Professor,” I begin, horrified.

A man with a huge gut and the squinty eyes of an avid fisherman comes up to the professor. “Interesting concept you've got there,” he says as he hitches up his pants in back. Isakson, with an ingratiating smile, turns to him.

“Excuse me, Professor,” I say, but the grown-ups are talking and he all but pats my head in dismissal, unwilling to waste time on a couple of non–financially contributing, and therefore useless, teenagers.

My parents are mingling with a couple they know and Gavin has this awful, cold look on his face. There isn't anything here for me to do.

I interrupt my parents' social chitchat. “We're heading out,” I announce. My mom eyes Gavin, seemingly absorbing every possible detail and clearly noting the frozen look on his face, but other than reaching out to shake hands with him and saying in a cool voice that it's been a while, she doesn't react.

“Gavin.” My dad looks him over with a gimlet eye, a flush rising in his face.

“Hello, sir,” Gavin says. He reaches out to shake hands and it is a long, insulting moment before my dad shakes his hand. “Thank you for letting me spend time with Leni.”

My dad doesn't answer.

“Don't stay out too late,” my mom says, her hand visibly tightening on my dad's arm like she's holding him back. “Keep your phone on in case we need to reach you.”

I kiss her cheek.

“Love you too.” She smiles. She kisses me back, then wipes at the lipstick stain on my cheek. “Be safe.”

I nod. Their automatic mistrust is the cost Gavin pays for choosing the wrong door. What will it cost me if I choose the wrong one?

Gavin and I slip out the door.

With an inky-black night above and dark churning water below, we lean on the railing at the pier and watch the tiny lights of fishing boats out in the Gulf. The pier's a good twenty feet above the water, low enough for the fishermen's lines to reach the water, high enough to catch a nice breeze and a great view. The wide expanse of water and the gulf air do little to clear the tension.

“It could have been worse,” I finally say.

Gavin exhales loudly. A soft, salty breeze blows our way.

“I'm so screwed.” His voice is grim in the dark. He tilts his head back, eyes closed, radiating defeat.

“Gavin—”

“I've been following his work. It could literally change the world.” He pushes off the railing, kicks the post and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Penicillin. Movable-type printing press. The steam engine. He could make one of those moments happen except he's clueless. You saw him.” In the weird orange light from the lamps, Gavin's eyes look like dark pits, his face like a skeleton.

“Yeah, but—”

“I can help him,” he says, his voice almost shaking with passion. “This is what I've been working on. Isakson is a brilliant scientist, but he's not a businessman. He doesn't get it. You saw him tonight!”

The fund-raiser we left that wasn't going to raise any funds flashes through my mind.

“He thinks he needs to have the perfect formula, the optimal combination of algae and fuel, and once he has that, he thinks he needs to buy land to set up the tanks.”

“That makes sense.”

“No.” Gavin shakes his head. “It's backward. People need to see something happening. They don't need perfect, they need progress. And it's ass-backward to buy the land. He needs to lease it. He needs to find cheap land that people aren't using—which should be a freaking piece of cake since he wants brackish water—and with little capital outlay, get some equipment and get started.

“After Hurricane Erica last year, tons of farmland in South Florida was flooded. Those fields are shot for the next three years. If he wanted, he could rent hundred of acres for peanuts. Why drop hundreds of thousands of dollars on a small piece of property when you don't even know that the company will be around in six months? And it won't be if he doesn't get moving.”

“Wow.” I think about it for a second. “That makes a lot more sense.”

His smile is a pale cousin of his typical confident grin.

“It's not that amazing. But he needs to do it. He just doesn't know it. He's so focused on the science that he's missed the boat on the business of running a company.”

We stare out at the water, the black wavelets lapping at the barnacle-encrusted pillars below us.

“How do you know all of this, anyway?”

“I met a lot of entrepreneurs at juvie.”

“Really?”

“A drug dealer is like any small-business owner. They got inventory, they got customers, they got cash-flow problems and competition. It's no different from any other business in that sense. It sparked my interest—not in drug dealing, I mean, in business. I took some business classes at Tech and afterward, I studied on my own. I thought it would be cool to start my own company. Once I learned about Isakson's company, I started poking around commercial-property sites. They're out there if you look for them.”

“So how come he remembers your name from Tech?” I ask hesitantly. “You weren't there very long.”

“I was the last one to check out this book that later turned up missing the pages necessary for a tough assignment,” he says flatly. “Someone accused me of doing it. Anonymously. Just try proving you don't have something in your possession.” He shrugs. “It's impossible. I lost my scholarship, I was kicked out of school. And yeah, Professor Isakson remembers my name,” he says dryly. “The assignment was for his class.”

“That doesn't even make sense. Like people couldn't just read it online? What is this, 1870?”

He laughs hollowly. “Isakson's old-school. He gave us this big lecture at the start of the semester about libraries and books and how our generation is losing touch with what it means to research. Part of his class was about library skills. He made sure we had to use old, rare books that weren't online. Half the stuff you couldn't even take out of Special Collections. No scanners. No Xerox machines. These books were historic. He wanted us to read this thing. It wasn't a published book really—it was the student notebook of Francis William Aston.”

I nod, fake-impressed by a name I don't recognize.

“Uh, he won the Nobel Prize for chemistry in the 1920s?”

“Oh, right. Cool.”

“It was kind of incredible, actually. To hold the notes that this guy wrote when he was a student, it was unbelievable. The librarian had a fit that an entire class of underclassmen was going to be handling it. I had to wear gloves. Which made it even shittier that someone cut out some pages. They changed their policy after that: no undergrads could access Special Collections without a TA.”