“It’s 1999. The old rules of investments just don’t apply to the digital landscape.”

  Sean, a cocky sophomore brimming with confidence, leaned back into his chair. The Thursday afternoon sunlight slanted through the gothic windows of the Social Sciences building, illuminating the dancing dust motes. My Economics discussion group sat in a semi circle in the room and the air was thick with debate and optimism.

  "You’re stating that the rules of valuation don't apply?" the professor asked, looking over his glasses.

  "The internet has eliminated friction," Sean continued, looking around the room. "That is a fundamental shift in physics, not just economics. When you can reach the entire planet instantly, 'profit' is secondary to velocity. The tech sector isn't losing money because they're bad at business; they're losing money on purpose to own the infrastructure of the next century. The internet represents infinite potential. Look at NASDAQ; it’s over three thousand and growing. If you’re not expanding your digital landscape, you’ll be left behind."

  I sat in my chair, legs crossed and unimpressed. I was the only girl in the room, and the only one not nodding in agreement with Sean’s assertion. I tapped my pencil against my notebook as I held my chin, thoughtfully.

  “Miss Peterson,” my professor prompted, “you look skeptical.”

  The dozen or so students turned at once, sardonically chuckling amongst themselves. I often found myself being the lone counterpoint in most of our class’s arguments on finance or the economy.

  “I wouldn’t say skeptical. But I can do the math,” I replied calmly.

  “Here we go again,” sighed Sean. “Peterson, engagement is value. And the internet represents value with nothing tying it down like property or infrastructure. There are no limits, only growth!”

  "If a company loses money on every unit it sells, it cannot make it up in volume," I retorted. "Eventually, the cheap capital dries up. Interest rates will tick up. When the liquidity event ends, these companies have to sell a product for more than it costs to make. If they can't, the valuation isn't 'future growth.' It's zero."

  The other students smirked at each other, or gave sighs of annoyance. It wasn’t the first time that the mere girl in the room was politely dismissed. They all had the makings of late 90s investment bros, and the only thing keeping them from aggressively denouncing the buzzkill was the fact she was cute and harmless. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as if I had any proof of my conceits. It was late 1999, and the economy was exploding in profit.

  “That’s a very traditional point of view, Miss Peterson,” the professor noted. “However, it looks as though we are out of time for today. Class will be meeting as usual next Tuesday before the break. Have a good weekend.”

  The class simultaneously began packing our things. Despite being constantly at odds with the other students, I appreciated the debate. It was nice actually engaging in coursework, and I found it satisfying being the contrarian, especially since I knew I would be vindicated. I tossed my notebooks into my shoulder bag, and exited into the stony hallway, debating whether I should grab a coffee or not before I headed to Hitchcock Hall for the afternoon. I heard a set of footprints falling in step with me from behind.

  “You really don’t trust anyone with money, do you, Peterson?” teased Sean, his precise ginger haircut contrasting his easy-going confidence.

  “I don’t trust most speculators with money,” I replied with a sidelong smile, “but I do trust human greed and arithmetic.”

  Sean laughed. “Fair enough. If we’re done discussing a supposed financial apocalypse,” he grinned wolfishly, “I hear there’s going to be a rockin’ show at Ida Noyes tonight. The band’s supposed to be pretty hot!”

  The come-on was as blunt as the way he smiled, but he knew full well who was performing tonight. “Oh, they totally are,” I demurred. “In fact, I’m heading over to meet the girls before we set up for tonight. Maybe I’ll see you there. Maybe.”

  Sean chuckled. “Maybe. Later, Peterson,” he finished as he turned a corner.

  I walked back to Hitchcock Hall to meet up with the band before dinner like I usually did. Since I didn't actually live in Hitchcock, I usually treated our drummer Deb’s room as our base of operations. When I walked in Nance, the lead singer and bassist, was already there, raiding Deb’s closet while Deb sat on her bed, staring at the ceiling with the patience of a saint.

  “I hate all of my clothes,” Nance announced, holding up one of Deb’s blouses. “I look like a lumberjack who gave up on life.”

  “You look fine,” Deb said, not moving. “It’ll be dark. No one is going to see your plaid.”

  “I’ll know, Deb. I’ll know.” Nance tossed the shirt and flopped onto the beanbag chair.

  I smiled, dropping my bag by the door. Nance was a Fine Arts major with dyed orange hair and zero volume control, while Deb was a Bio major who moved through life somehow being more analytical than I was. The University of Chicago housing algorithm had sorted the three of us into the same House based on "Musical Interest," and somehow, the chemistry worked. We were strictly a cover band: mostly Veruca Salt, The Breeders, or Hole, but it was great to play in front of people again, and even better that I didn’t have to sneak around to do it.

  We grabbed a quick dinner at the dining hall where we mostly listened to Nance complain about a guy in her Civ class while Deb tapped the table rhythmically to a song in her head. After finishing our half-cooked pastas we headed over to Ida Noyes where we saw our tech guy Reggie unloading Deb’s snare drum from his van.

  “How is it that Reggie always arrives way before we do?” Deb asked out loud.

  “Obviously,” smirked Nance, “Maya’s sleeping with him in exchange for hauling our stuff around all the time!”

  The truth wasn’t so scandalous. Since I didn't have a closet on campus to stash an amp or a guitar case, let alone a full drum kit, I had quietly hired him part time to transport our gear and store everything when we weren’t playing. Not only did I pay exceptionally well for a few hours of work, but he got a free invite to whichever party we were playing at and carte blanche to DJ after our set. The girls were blissfully unaware that I was bankrolling our girl band and saving them labor. We settled into the performance space and had ample time to warm up before guests began filtering in. When the energy felt right, we readied our instruments.

  "Ready?" I asked, plugging into my amp.

  "Always," Deb said, sitting behind the kit, twirling her sticks.

  Nance stepped up to the crowd. “Good evening, UChicago! We’re The Belle Curves!”

  There were maybe fifty people crammed into the room when we launched into our set. It wasn't a stadium show; it was just three girls making noise in a common room. The chords beat through the mediocre acoustics in the room, but by the time we finished the room applauded with the enthusiastic energy of students in desperate need of a study break. I handed my guitar back to Reggie, grabbed a soda, and leaned against the back wall.

  This was the part I was still figuring out.

  I watched the guys in the room. In high school, I had avoided boys strictly out of ethics; having Matthew’s adult memories floating in my adolescent head meant keeping a rigid distance. College was a different story since we were adults, legally speaking. The ethical barrier was gone, but I realized I was at a deficiency when it came to skill. With so little practice dealing with boys in high school, not to mention the fallout with Jake, my confidence in flirting was shaky at best. I quickly discovered that initiating was no issue. All a cute girl had to do was stand in a room long enough and eventually someone would strike up a conversation with her.

  The issue I had was what to do with them once they started talking to me. I was decidedly not looking to date, and what’s more I wanted to stop creeps or clingers before they even walked up to me. I developed what I called an “unattainable aura” fueled by a polished look, shrewd indifference, and polite aloofness. The rabble kept their distance, and it was only the confident ones that dared approach me. That, or the simple ones who were too handsome or sweet to know they should be intimidated.

  "You guys were loud," said a voice to my right.

  I turned. Sean was standing there, holding a plastic cup. He looked comfortable, unbothered by the noise or the crowd.

  "Good," he clarified, leaning against the pillar next to me. "But loud. You play that thing like you're angry at it."

  "It's cathartic," I said, managing a small smile.

  "I bet." He took a sip of his drink. "You're different when you have a guitar. Less serious."

  "Gee, thanks, Sean."

  He laughed, and for a second, I let myself relax. He was charming and easy to talk to, and he didn’t seem to notice my awkwardness. Maybe it didn’t matter; he was chatting up the girl on the guitar, after all, and I could spout the Magna Carta and it would sound fascinating to him. We chatted for a while, moving from topic to topic easily. Eventually, the crowd started to thin out.

  "I think I’m gonna head out," I said.

  "Already?" He looked surprised. "I was thinking of grabbing food at the Div after this."

  "Early meeting for me," I disclosed. "Rain-check?"

  "Yeah. Rain-check." He smiled, not pushing it. "Until next time, Peterson."

  I slipped out the side door into the chilly night air. It felt good to leave on my own terms, not because I was running away, but simply because I was done. Outside, the wind on 59th Street was biting. The black Lincoln Town Car was idling at the curb, blending into the shadows. I slid into the back seat, the silence of the luxury interior cutting off the noise of the campus instantly.

  The following morning, the city was gray, but in the private conference suite on the 40th floor of the Northern Trust building the coffee was hot and the air was expensive. I sat at the head of the mahogany table, toying with my mug. Despite being the youngest person in the room, I reminded myself I was no mere clerk or intern; I was the Principal.

  Karen was at my right, notepad ready and already scribbling. Thorne sat opposite her, looking tired but refined as usual. Next to him was Spaulding, the domain broker, and Peter Vance, my attorney. At the far end sat Nick O'Toole, my intelligence consultant who was looking uncomfortable in a suit that was too tight across the shoulders.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "Spaulding," I said. "Let’s hear it."

  "Wires cleared this morning," the broker said, sliding a sheet across the table. "Twenty-eight units closed. Tech buyers are paying asking price without blinking. Final net to Butterfly Capital, after commission, is one hundred and thirteen million."

  "Combined with previous holdings," Thorne said, his voice tight, "that puts your total liquidity at one hundred and thirty-five million dollars." He looked up at me. "Ms. Peterson, you are holding more cash than some sovereign nations. In a market that is up forty percent. Keeping this in money markets is...it's practically negligence."

  "It's safety," I said, sipping my tea. "I'm not chasing the melt-up, Thorne. Keep the bond ladder."

  "But the NASDAQ is higher than it’s ever been–"

  "This is what I promised Northern Trust when I began banking with them," I cut in. "Discipline. Restraint. I want 'boring.' Utilities. Consumer staples. Have you executed the buy orders I sent over?"

  Thorne sighed, checking his notes. "Berkshire Hathaway is…certainly boring. But Marvel Enterprises? A toe-hold position?"

  "Fifty thousand shares."

  "It's a comic book company one step out of bankruptcy," Thorne argued. "It's zombie paper, Ms. Peterson."

  "It's IP arbitrage. Just get me on the register."

  Thorne rubbed his temples but nodded. I turned to O'Toole.

  "The Sun-Times," I requested.

  O'Toole didn't open his folder. He just tapped it. "It's hot. Our inspectors drilled three cores at 3:00 AM. Deep saturation of ink, heavy metals, and industrial solvents. If anyone tries to dig a foundation there, the EPA will shut them down for years."

  "Perfect," I said. "File it deep. I’ll need it later."

  "Copy that."

  "One more thing," I said. "I need a probe into the Democratic Party infrastructure. Specifically in Florida."

  O'Toole paused. It was a bizarre request: random, political, and specific. But if he felt uncomfortable, he revealed nothing. He simply nodded. "I'll put eyes on it."

  "Thank you." I stood up. "Thorne, O'Toole, Spaulding—thank you. Room, please."

  They filed out quickly, leaving me alone with Vance and Karen. The heavy door clicked shut.

  "Mr. Vance?"

  "We're in the queue," Vance said, lowering his voice. "The motion to seal the 1991 birth certificate amendment is filed in Anoka County. We secured the waiver of publication, so no newspaper ads."

  "And the records?"

  "My associate located the physical microfiche in the district archives," Vance said. "He stated an opportunity with Y2K. The state is digitizing everything in the coming new year. We have a window to ensure the 'Matthew' file simply is unavailable for when it is scanned. The only files left to enter will be from middle school and onward."

  "So it's done?"

  "Pending the judge's signature...yes. By January, the paper trail will be gone. Only Maya Elizabeth Peterson will legally exist."

  I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Thank you, Peter."

  As he left, Karen slid a sleek black folder across the table. "One last piece of business. Plane ticket to Minnesota. Wednesday afternoon departure. It's all arranged."

  I smiled. "Thanks, Karen. Have a good weekend.”

  "Of course, Ms. Peterson."

  She walked out, leaving me alone in the silence of the boardroom. I looked out at the Chicago skyline. I’m sure most of my instructions seemed random, but perhaps keeping employees guessing was one way to assert control.

  One thing was for sure: I was getting better at this.

  ***

  It was the following Wednesday, and my driver was loading my suitcase in the truck of the car. I stood in my pea green coat and dark skirt with stockings, readying myself for the flight to Minnesota. From my previous experiences flying first class I knew how smooth my transit would be, and even appreciated that I wouldn’t even have to carry my own suitcase. It was also nice that in 1999 there was no TSA and the only thing you needed to do to board an airplane was walk through a metal detector.

  I got in the backseat and pulled out the Wall Street Journal I planned to read for the flight. I thumbed through a few sections as we cruised down Lake Shore drive, and I noticed that the lake was on our left. We were heading in the wrong direction.

  “Robert, I thought we were flying out from O’Hare? Are we going to Midway instead?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  I shrugged, and continued reading my paper. I had no memories of flying out from Midway Airport; I suppose it would be the first time either myself or Matthew ever went there. It was a short drive to Midway, but Robert drove past the signs leading to the departures gate and instead he pulled around, approaching a gate on the opposite end of the field. It slid open, allowing the car into a lot next to the tarmac where it pulled up to a small white jet. The pilot was standing next to the swing stairs.

  As Robert parked and ran around to open my door for me, I opened the ledger Karen had given me for the flight; the fine print read ‘Charter // N-Number 472LC // Signature FBO’ which I had dismissed as gibberish when I looked at it last week. Apparently, Karen had chartered a private jet to bring me home to Minnesota. Is this my life now? I thought to myself as I walked to the jet, Elias trailing me with my bag. I tried my best to look casual.

  The cabin wasn’t large; I had to duck while moving inside while the pilot showed me where the mini-fridge and the bathroom were. It wasn’t spacious, but for only one eighteen year-old girl there was plenty of space. Once I was onboard, the pilot and co-pilot scrambled for a few last minute checks before pulling up the stairs and initiating take off. We were in the air in minutes; the plane apparently climbed very fast and I was pressed into my seat, still in wonder as to how I ended up flying private.

  We landed less than an hour later, though not where I thought we would. I had called my parents to expect me at the Minneapolis International, but where I landed was a sparse airfield that I vaguely remembered being a few miles away from my parent’s house. The pilot carried my suitcase to a small building labeled General Aviation, leading to a small lounge with a cigarette machine, an old TV, and a bored receptionist. I asked her if I could use her phone, and quickly dialed the house, praying that Mom and Dad hadn’t left yet.

  “Hello?” my brother Tim answered.

  “Tim! It’s Maya. Are Mom and Dad home?”

  “No, they left to pick you up like a half hour ago.”

  “Crap. I’m at the wrong airport. You know that airfield out east? I just landed there.”

  “How did you end up there?”

  I sighed. “It’s a long story. Is anybody there that can pick me up? I’m kind of stranded here.”

  “I guess I could,” Tim answered. I had forgotten that he had just turned sixteen. “I’ll be there on the next commercial break.”

  After about twenty minutes of watching the weather channel, the only station that worked, I saw a red 1996 Ford Probe pull up to the door. Tim piled out, his football jersey under his winter coat, and spotted me alone in the lounge. “Ride’s here,” he mumbled as he gestured to the car before walking back outside, leaving me to haul my suitcase by myself. I climbed into the passenger seat, his car coughing like a sick horse, and we made our way home.

  “How’s tenth grade?” I asked, making conversation and ignoring the oily smell of the car.

  “It’s good,” he said idly. “Every one of my teachers wanted to know if I was your brother, and my math teacher Mr. Thompson always asks about you. Even my football coach seems to remember you.”

  I wasn’t really expecting that. Matthew never made waves in high school, and despite him being the older brother it was Tim who was the Golden Child in that timeline. Tim was a star athlete and popular, whereas Matthew wasn’t. I had an odd sense of satisfaction that in this timeline I was the Golden Child.

  “I guess you’re living under my shadow, eh?”

  Tim shrugged. “Whatever. It’s not like we’re competing. You were the brain; I’m the athlete. It works.”

  It occurred to me that the brotherly rivalry that Matthew and Tim had didn’t exist outside of my head. I suppose I wasn’t a rival because I was just an older sister. I doubted Tim even had that many memories of Matthew anymore; he was young when I was shunted back in time, and eight years of growing up with an older sister named Maya rewrote his perspective. Plus, he was now the only boy in the family which meant he was going to get special treatment regardless. A valedictorian couldn’t hold a candle to the star linebacker.

  “It’s going to suck for Janie,” I quipped. “She’s going to be stuck with a brainy older sister and an older brother athlete to live up to when she’s in high school.”

  Tim laughed, and minutes later we pulled into our driveway. Tim dashed back into the house leaving me to haul my suitcase through the snow once again, and he was casually back to watching TV as I stripped off my boots and coat. My room downstairs felt a lot emptier; unlike most college students I was able to bring most of my possessions with me, so my room was fairly sparse. My private phone line was still in place, and after phoning Karen to see if she could page my parents at the airport, I crashed on my bed until they got home. They were a bit annoyed they made a trip to the airport for nothing, but happy to see their daughter for the holidays.

  My parents hosted Thanksgiving this year, with the Brown side of my family in near full attendance. Everyone asked me about Chicago and college, and I even got a few compliments about the dress I bought for the occasion. I was quiet about how much it cost though, let alone my standard of living in the city. I noted that throughout the day Mom would always give me funny looks when I discussed Chicago, but it wasn’t until everyone went home in the evening and I was helping her in the kitchen that she finally spoke up.

  “Maya,” Mom started as she scooped potatoes into a Tupperware container, “is everything really okay in Chicago?”

  “Of course, Mom. School’s really good, and everything is –”

  “Maya,” her voice dropped an octave. “I have had months to think about your situation in Chicago. About your apartment, about these designer clothes you’re wearing, about how we haven’t gotten a single notification about your tuition. Nothing adds up.”

  I froze, picking at a bit of turkey stuck on a plate. “You know Dad said something about an internship…”

  “I am not your father. He sees what he wants to see. What kind of internship gives an eighteen year-old an apartment with a doorman? Where is the money coming from?” She turned to face me, and her voice trembled into a whisper. “Is it… is it that man? Mr. Thorne?”

  “What?”

  “I can only think of one way a girl your age comes into this kind of lifestyle, Maya. Is he… keeping you?”

  “Oh my god, Mom! No!” The nausea hit me instantly. “It’s not like that at all!”

  Mom exhaled. “Then explain it to me. Because I am very concerned.”

  We moved to the kitchen table, and I knew I was cooked. I’d been skirting the issue of my wealth from the family for too long, but I had to be honest with her. Well, mostly. I explained how Dad signed off on the custodial brokerage account, the aggressive stock trading in high school, and the transfer to the adult portfolio in Chicago. I left out the time travel, but I gave her the financials.

  My voice trembled less the more I confessed. “The fact is, Mom, I’m rich. I’ve made enough from trading to buy that apartment. Cash. I paid my tuition in full. It’s nothing illegal, and it’s nothing explicit. I just picked very good stocks years ago.”

  Mom was silent for a long time. She stared at the wooden tabletop, tracing a pattern with her fingernail.

  “You’ve been a millionaire for years?” she asked quietly.

  “On paper. I just kept reinvesting it. I only kept a fraction of it to spend in high school. I've only started serious using any of my money since Chicago. And even then I'm not living extravagantly.”

  “Your father can’t keep a secret to save his life. Did he know?”

  “He knew I was trading on my own, but he didn’t know the scale. Eventually I started helping him with his portfolio, which is why it’s been doing so well this whole time. I didn’t want to tell anyone, especially in the family. Can you imagine if Uncle Trevor found out? If Grandpa Peterson found out? Thanksgiving would turn into a loan application seminar. I just…I wanted a normal life.”

  Mom covered her face with her hands. She sat there for a full minute, processing the fact that her daughter was likely richer than the entire extended family combined.

  “Honestly,” she murmured through her hands, “I thought it was drugs. Or a sugar daddy. I’ve been sick over it.”

  “Thorne is just my wealth manager, Mom. He does what I tell him.”

  She lowered her hands and looked at me. The fear was gone, replaced by a profound relief. I wasn't in danger. I wasn't compromised. But then, as she looked at my face, the relief settled into a quiet, heavy inadequacy. She looked around her kitchen; at the peeling veneer, the coupons adhered to the fridge. It was as if she was comparing us in her head.

  “We can’t tell your father,” she said suddenly.

  “I know.”

  “He’d be proud, of course. But he’d tell everyone at work. And then he’d tell his brothers. And then…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “You’re right. If people knew you had that kind of money, we wouldn’t hear the end of it.”

  She looked up at me, and I saw the fear finally evaporate from her eyes. I wasn't in danger. I wasn't being exploited. I was safe. But then, a different look settled over her face. It wasn't pride, exactly. It was a quiet, heavy melancholy. Mom reached over and gave me a fast hug.

  “I suppose you don’t need anything for Christmas this year.”

  I buried my head into her shoulder. “I just want to see my family on Christmas morning like I always do.”