Page 68 of Betting on the Brainiac

He’s got me there. “Then what are you?”

He presses his lips together and stares at the ceiling, for five seconds, then ten. “I’m a beaver spiderbee.”

“Excuse me now?”

“I picked spiders and bees because they’re hard workers and good at building, but I wanted something that doesn’t bite or sting, so I added a beaver.”

“Beaver spiderbees aren’t a thing.”

He shrugs. “You’re looking at one. I’m a genius.”

“You’re something else, all right.”

“What else is on this husband list?”

“It’s not bad enough already?” I shrug. “That’s the gist of it.”

“So either marry someone who fits every single check mark now or you have to wait until you’re thirty to get your inheritance?”

“Yeah. Pushes the clock back in a way that looks like it’s benefitting me on paper. But at least making me wait means more time to plot. I have a long list of charities to donate to on their behalf that they will hate. Candidates from fringe parties. Controversial art I’ll donate for loan in their name.” I smile, thinking of all the delightful ways I’ve come up with to make my dad pay.

Oliver does not smile. He doesn’t look disapproving or anything. More . . . confused.

“You don’t think that’s perfectly perfect?”

“Those things all sound personal,” he says. “You’ve mostly talked about how you hate his business practices. I was expecting something about that.”

I give a brittle laugh. “You think I’m shallow enough to blow it all on petty revenge? You really don’t think I would try to put some good back into the world?”

He reaches beneath his glasses to rub his eyes. “It sounds incredibly crappy when you put it like that. I had a morning that made me think about what even a tenth of your inheritance would do to change lives. Of course I don’t think you would fail to consider that.”

The sudden lines bracketing his eyes and mouth do look like regret.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t imagine trying to grow up with your parents.”

Some of the starch goes out of my spine. “I could tell you about my restitution plan to pay back factory workers for wage theft and lost earnings potential. Am I boring you yet?”

“You couldn’t if you tried,” he says. “Tell me the plan.”

“I’ve done a lot of research, and here’s what kills me: if Jeneze charged twenty cents more per garment, every factory worker could get a living wage. That’s it. Twenty cents. But my dad wouldn’t and won’t consider it.”

He cracks his knuckles, letting me know he still has punching goals.

“I’ve gone through all the court filings. It took me almost eighteen months, but I was able to piece together the data I needed. I figured out how much additional pay Jeneze would owe the employees at that factory at a fair rate from the time it opened to the time it collapsed, plus the lost earnings potential for those permanently disabled and for the families of those who were killed. And it turns out, I can cover it.” I sigh. “In four more years, anyway. I turned it in as my senior capstone project at UT, then won the economics department Distinguished Scholar Award for it.”

“Madison?”

“Yes, Oliver?”

“Every time I think you can’t impress me more, you do.”

Oliver’s gaze is steady and full of admiration. I can’t meet it; I feel too exposed. My roommates know I’m not as shallow as I pretend to be, but they don’t know all this.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell him. “I still have plenty of princess tendencies.”

“Is this where you try to trick me into believing you’re high maintenance again?”

“Oh, make no mistake, I am. Salon every six weeks for my hair, mani/pedis every two weeks, luxury car, and extravagances I can’t break myself of. Like the stupid-expensive bed Ruby istrying to win from me. Unicorn hair and fairies, I’m telling you. It’s a magic bed. A high maintenance bed.”

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