Page 63 of Betting on the Brainiac

“It’s not.”

That’s all he says.

“Kaitlyn and I were trained from the time we were tiny that the clothing Jeneze manufactures is not for us to wear; that’s forotherpeople, people with budgets who need an easy way to keep up with trends. Armstrongs buy from the boutiques and salons in first-look invitation-only appointments and pay at least twenty times as much for the couture version of the knockoffs that our factories churn out. But selling cheap knockoffs is how we could take the company jet to Bergdorf Goodman so I could buy a $700 Eres bikini.”

For the first time, Oliver shows some shock. “A $700 bikini? I’ve paid that for a suit and even that seemed like way too much.”

“I only wore it twice before I lost it on a trip to Hawaii with the governor’s kids.” I lean forward, challenging him. “Gross, isn’t it? The privilege. The entitlement.”

“You’ve grown out of it. Cut yourself a break.”

“How about the part where my dad’s unethical business practices paid for our hypocritical lifestyle?”

He rubs his hand over his jaw. “It’s not great, but . . .”

“But what? Knockoffs are legal? Simply supplying the demand?”

“It’s not how I’d do business, but yeah.”

“But Oliver,” I say with fake earnestness, “it was actually a moral good we were doing. Those factories provided so many jobs that thousands of women were able to bring home a wage to their families for the first time ever. The ready-made garment industry revolutionized the Bangladesh economy. So much opportunity. My dad told us all about how the company was changing lives.”

Oliver senses a trap. “But . . .”

I sit back hard against the booth. “But I had to question his version of events when a Jeneze factory collapsed and killed over two hundred employees, almost all of them women. Another four hundred suffered injuries so severe that it caused permanent disability.”

Oliver’s jaw hardens.

“That’s not even the worst part. The company couldn’t control the flow of information, and the collapse made headlines all over the world because almost a third of the victims were kids. Girls as young as ten, kept out of school to work.”

“I don’t even know what to say. That’s awful.”

“But do you feel sick yet, Oliver? Because you’re about to.” Remembering has transported the weight of those horrifying hours and days into my body in the present, my fingers digginginto the edges of the bench, my jaw tight and my eyes dry like when I run a fever.

I press my hands to my cheeks. I don’t know if my face is hot or my hands are cold, but the contrast is stark. I slide out of the booth.

“I’m sorry, Oliver. This is why I’ve never told the story. I knew I would lose it.”

“Hey, hey, no,” he says, sliding out too. “Come here, Madi. Don’t apologize.”

Every bit of me feels stiff with anger, but I don’t resist when he pulls me to him, settling me against his chest. Between Sami’s party yesterday and the shoulder to cry on today, his body is beginning to feel familiar, like mine has always known the size and shape of his.

He just holds me, not trying to pat me or make any soothing noises, but the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear calms me after a couple of minutes. As the tension ebbs out of me, his hold relaxes to match.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“I already knew your dad was in the wrong for yelling at you, but now I wish I would have punched him.”

I’m so surprised I don’t say anything for a second, and then I laugh at the idea of calm Oliver in his hoodie and glasses punching anyone. “If you want to hit him where it hurts, you have to defy him. Straight-up revolt.”

“That sounds satisfying. Is that what you’ve been doing these last few years?”

“It sounds petty, but it’s all I’ve got for the next four years.”

“This goes back to the trust fund?”

“Bingo.” I survey the club. “Look, if I’m going to tell you the last part without winding up again, I need to move.”

---