Page 4 of Conspiracies and Chemistry

“No,” she said. “Andrew will get it. You’re likely to spit on it.”

My friend howled with laughter. “One hundred percent.”

“I’m leaving anyway,” I grumbled. “See you next weekend.”

“Okay,” he said, “be safe.”

I grunted and started tossing game pieces back in the box.

Tessa gathered the cards and slid them back into their carton. “It’s a good game,” she said. She lifted the helmet from her head and shook out her hair like a model in a shampoo ad. It glinted with a dozen shades of red, from rose gold to auburn. A few strands of silver glinted above her left temple.

I shook off the urge to touch the moonlight in her hair. “I don’t know. I don’t like the balance of strategy to chance.”

“You don’t?” she asked. “You started a business. Building a tabletop empire is a lot like that.”

“Our business was successful because of a solid strategy. We left nothing to chance.”

She lifted her chin. “I guess it doesn’t feel as risky when you’ve got family money to fall back on.”

And we were back to all the reasons I wasn’t good enough for her. I’d never thought my family’s money would be a liability, but Tessa Wright seemed to have strong opinions about men who’d started out halfway up the ladder, men who hadn’t built their fortunes from nothing. So, as usual, I went on the offensive.

“What would you know about not having an emergency fund?” I asked. I could tell by her clothes and the car she drove that she had money too.

She took a deep breath like she’d let me have it but then she clamped her mouth shut. “Nothing, I guess.”

“Thought so.” I drew myself up. “Goodnight, Tessa.” I shoved the lid on the box, tucked the game under my arm, and with a wave at Carly, sailed out her front door. I may have lost the game, but I’d won the more important battle against my ridiculous feelings.

2

Princess Di Faked It

From Barry Wright’s manifesto:

The one percent doesn’t have to follow the same rules as the ninety-nine percent. Like when Princess Diana got tired of living in the public spotlight, she faked her death. She and that boyfriend of hers now live in a fancy compound in Thailand.

TESSA

Ishifted my gaze from the upturned faces of the audience to the slide on the giant screen behind me. It displayed only the highest-level statistics for the potential donors:

One in seventy-five women will be diagnosed with ovarian cancer;

Seventh most common cancer;

Fifth highest cause of cancer death among women in the US.

I’d lovingly compiled rows and rows of data to back it up, but I’d also learned that few people cared about the data. They wanted it distilled into the purest, most digestible drop of truth.

“With more accessible testing and earlier diagnosis and treatment,” I said, “we could reduce the mortality rate by as much as thirty percent.” A woman wearing an expensive pink tweed suit in the front row leaned forward, her red velvet cake forgotten on the banquet table. Maybe my message was sinking in. Maybe her mother had cancer, too.

Time to bring it home. I flashed up the final slide, a stock photo of a mother cuddling her daughter. It represented both the history I wished I could rewrite for myself and a hopeful future for the living ovarian cancer patients.

“I hope you’ll join me in supporting this valuable research. Thank you.” As they applauded, I scanned the crowd. The audience was mostly women, some of them already reaching into their Prada bags, I hoped for their checkbooks and not their keys. Most of the younger women had their phones out. If they were making an online donation, I’d done my job.

But I couldn’t leave something this important to chance. I made eye contact with the pink tweed suit donor and stepped toward the stairs. I’d feel her out about adding a zero to her donation. Before I made it to the side of the stage, a white man in a gray suit caught my attention. He peeled himself off the back wall of the ballroom and sauntered toward me. My stomach clenched. I knew that lazy, overconfident walk.

Closing my eyes, I slowed my breaths. In. Out.Stay focused. Don’t lose control.

I hurried down the metal stairs. The last thing I wanted was to be caught sweltering in the spotlight while Harry Boseman mocked me.

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