Pretty Smart Girls Read online

  Ryan Rose

  Our bodies jolt together, and the taxi driver mutters an obscenity. Jade repositions herself on the seat. “Do you think the Michigan men will make it?”

  “I hope not,” Devi answers, glossing her lips in the reflection of the window as the cab lurches forward. Despite spending the last three hours getting ready for the Met reception in the luxury of our five-star hotel room, Devi is still applying.

  My phone pings. I swipe it open and read a text message from my stepdad. He’s responding to the text I sent to him and my mom letting them know we arrived safely.

  Good luck, Ryan. Win or lose, we’re proud of you!

  My stepdad is a saint. He picked up the pieces of our lives when my dad died, marrying my mom when all she had to offer him was a house in foreclosure, a sassy pre-teen daughter, and love. If we win the competition I’d be able to work for the Trotts for a year and save enough money to cover a good portion of my tuition. I’ve been accepted to all three of the law schools I applied to. I just need to figure out the financial part of it and I’d rather do that without having to take out loans or worse yet, have my mom and stepdad take out loans.

  Jade’s worrying interrupts my thoughts. “I wonder what will happen to the guys if they don’t show up for tonight’s reception,” she says.

  “They’ll look like fools while we stand on stage soaking up all the attention,” Devi says.

  Jade frowns. “And what are we going to do if they do make it? I mean…when they see us, are we going to apologize?”

  “Hell no, we are not going to apologize. They’re the ones who should apologize to us,” I say, my voice escalating to a degree of haughty indignation, almost convincing enough to make even me believe their offenses outweigh ours…at least by a feather.

  “What if they rat us out to the Trotts?”

  Devi shifts the compact mirror over her face, left, then right, then left again. “Don’t be such a worrywart, Jade. If by some miracle they do make it, they’ll be too proud to admit the dumb, easy girls from Michigan State pulled one over on them.”

  Our driver grinds the shifter into park and scurries around to open the door for us. In heel-clicking unison, we climb the carved stone stairs toward massive arches defining the entrance of the Met. A promenade of guests crosses through sparkling lights behind the glass doors. Our introduction to the audience tonight will mark the kickoff of the competition.

  The hum of the crowd washes over us as we step into the majestic great hall of the Met. “Wow,” Jade says. I follow her gaze as it pans up into an arched dome towering above us. “It’s hard to believe we’re the guests of honor for this.” The space beyond us holds two more domes, everything framed by sweeping arches. A balcony crests around the vast hall, the openings to which resemble giant palace keyholes carved out of the gray stone.

  “We’re a long way from the south side of Lansing, Michigan, that’s for sure,” Devi says.

  “You must be Team Ryan from Michigan State.” A greeter in a vested uniform ushers us to a linen-draped table where we are given platinum badges etched with the Trott Ventures logo and our names. I turn around and see Mrs. Trott heading our way. We’ve never met her, but we’ve done our homework and know who she is. Copper highlights shine against her shoulder-length brunette hair, complementing her green eyes and pale skin. She’s dressed in a cream silk suit with a diamond “T” brooch pinned to her lapel.

  “Congratulations, ladies, and welcome. We are honored to have you with us.” We introduce ourselves, and she compliments us on the materials we submitted with our final portfolio, recalling details from each of our essays.

  “Once the other team arrives, we’ll get the program started,” she says. “We’ll be calling all of you up on stage and making a brief introduction. You can get a head start on the other team by meeting as many people here tonight as you can. There may be many in the audience who can assist you while you are competing this week.” She lifts a finger in the air, and her freckles disappear into the crinkle around her nose. “Follow me, ladies. No time to waste.”

  She leads us through the crowd and whispers tidbits of valuable information after each introduction. We meet Mr. and Mrs. Grossbeck, owners of the largest real estate brokerage house in Manhattan, and then the founders of Reese and Wesley, the design and architectural firm responsible for 40 percent of all building renovations in Manhattan last year.

  We follow Mrs. Trott in a serpentine line, weaving between columns from one introduction to the next. The crowd has swelled around us, and the temperature in the room has risen along with the number of occupants, but still no sign of the Michigan men. Mrs. Trott excuses herself to check on the status of the program.

  I look down at my watch and it’s 7:55 p.m., almost a half hour past when presentations were supposed to begin.

  Devi heads off to find a bathroom while Jade and I make a half dozen more introductions. As the minutes tick on, it feels like an Olympic gymnast has mounted parallel bars in my stomach.

  Jade leans over and whispers to me through clenched teeth, “I can’t believe they’re not here yet. Do you think we should consider coming clean?”

  I look at her as if she’s about to swan dive off the Empire State Building. “Are you kidding me?”

  I’ll admit it’s getting harder to keep the guilt suppressed. I’m torn between being wickedly proud of myself for mastering their first epic fail in front of New York’s business elite and feeling as guilty as a hiccup in lecture hall. But I’m sure as hell not going to turn myself in. I remind her of Jett’s insulting attitude and the asinine assumptions of his friends. “They can stand to be taken down a notch.”

  Jade raises an eyebrow. We’ve been friends long enough to know the value of protecting each other’s backs despite a mistake—and I’m not willing to concede yet.

  I search for Devi, my guilt-free friend, who still hasn’t returned from the bathroom. She can loosen the laces on the corset of guilt tightening around my rib cage like no other.

  I catch sight of her glossy brown waves bouncing in the distance as she and her audience laugh over something she’s just said. The man standing next to her pats her shoulder. She’s befriended Mr. Trott. Excellent! We make our way over to their group, and Devi introduces us.

  Mr. Trott has the tall, sturdy frame of a former college athlete, lively green eyes adorned with silver rims, and a cropped head of salt-and-pepper hair. He shakes my hand and speaks to me as if he knows me, expressing to all of us how grateful Trott Ventures is to have the opportunity to work with the shining stars in the business school. The edges of the anxiety that’s built up in my stomach begin to melt away as we engage in casual conversation.

  A twenty-something man approaches our group. He’s a few inches shorter than Mr. Trott and thin enough that his suit, although richly made, appears slightly too big. His brown hair curls behind his ears as he gives me a confident smile and pulls at Mr. Trott’s sleeve to speak close to his ear. Mr. Trott salutes the information the man’s delivered with a solemn nod, then the man disappears.

  “Well, ladies, it appears your competition has arrived. I think we should get the program started so we can keep the evening on track.”

  Holy crap. They made it. They really made it! My pulse skips a beat, and I feel as if the gymnast on the parallel bars in my stomach is about to dismount.

  “I’ll call your team first. Join me on stage at my cue. I’ll introduce you, then I’ll call Team Jett.”

  A jagged tremor shoots through me at the sound of his name. Mr. Trott bids us good luck and heads off, leaving the three of us staring at one another. In preparation for our introduction, we move through the restless crowd toward the red-carpeted stage set up at the end of the great hall. We glance left, right, and behind, wading through the throng of people. Conscious of the fact we will be face-to-face with the Michigan guys at any moment, my nerves feel as tight as sunburned skin.

  Mr. Trott thumps the microphone once, and it shrieks a
tight echo into the air. “Elizabeth and I are thrilled to bring this event to New York and support this program for young ‘Treps. They are the future of business in America and beyond. While we recognize that the most important lessons in life are not learned in a boardroom, we hope this week will be meaningful and significant for our candidates.” He thanks the Associate of College Entrepreneurs for the opportunity to partner with them and acknowledges the co-sponsors of the event, including Michigan State, the University of Michigan, and half a dozen other colleges.

  “Without further ado, I’d like to introduce to you our 2014 ‘Treps teams. From Michigan State University…” A wash of nervous excitement ripples through my body as I hear our names called. We walk across the stage and stand to his left, facing the crowd. I take a deep breath as he reads a bio on each of our accomplishments, starting with Devi.

  “Fluent in four languages, finalist in the annual MSU Masters of Math challenge, captain of the state champion roller derby team, and graduating cum laude, Eli Broad College of Business 2014, Devin Dalton.” She waves to the crowd as if she’s Oprah, smiling and owning the stage.

  I’m next. I nod, smile, and hold clasped hands at my waist while Mr. Trott reads my accomplishments: president of the MSU Students for Global Human Rights Coalition, officer of the MSU Young Entrepreneur Association, captain of the nationally ranked MSU Equestrian Team, graduating magna cum laude with a double major, James Madison College in International Relations and the Eli Broad College of Business.

  He introduces Jade next. Usually she hates the spotlight, but in her academic accomplishments she’s confident. She steps forward and scans the crowd with a poised gaze. Mr. Trott acknowledges her as the upcoming valedictorian of our business school, graduating summa cum laude, and continues to read her long list of achievements. She is credited with having founded the first organization for students of immigrant parents at MSU and implementing an outreach program for children separated from their parents due to immigration issues.

  I stare at her standing under the stage lights and my mind zones into the memory of Jade standing on her front porch, tears streaming down her cheeks like shredded ribbons, her face illuminated by the spinning light on top of the cop car. We watched her tiny mom being led away by two uniformed men, while her dad stood behind the screen door, hollow-eyed and skeletal. In his drunken retaliation, her father called the police and reported his wife as an illegal alien, condemning Jade to a childhood without her mom.

  I feel a groan in the back of my throat—the same groan that always wants to erupt anytime I relive that day and the sound of Mrs. Song’s voice moaning Jade’s name. I let out a breath and refocus my attention on Mr. Trott. “Congratulations, ladies, and good luck,” he says. Jade brushes my arm as she steps back and we smile at each other. Devi’s right—we are a long way from the south side of Lansing, but our experiences have made us who we are today. If I had to pick two best friends to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with through the good, bad, and ugly moments of life, they’re it. Hands down.

  “Ladies, if you could remain standing on the stage while my brilliant and talented wife introduces your competition,” Mr. Trott requests. My stomach flips as Mrs. Trott walks across the stage, kisses her husband’s cheek, and moves behind the podium.

  Somewhere in the audience the Michigan men stand. I resist the urge to scan the crowd, raise my chin, and focus on controlling the pulse ticking against my neck. Mrs. Trott calls their names, “Jett Trebuchet, Ben Winslow, and Vaughn Jung.” Along with the rest of the crowd, we watch them climb the stairs and line up to the right of Mrs. Trott. Somehow they have managed to completely transform themselves. The wrinkled jeans and flannel shirts that carried the faint scent of stale alcohol have been replaced by button-up oxfords and dark sport coats.

  “Wow,” Devi says under her breath. “They must have changed on the plane.”

  A fleeting image of Jett maneuvering his six-foot-something frame in the plane’s bird bath-sized bathroom provides a flash of amusement.

  They are everything college seniors should be: handsome and fit with a self-assured manner, ready to rock the world. They stare confidently out at the audience, stepping forward one at a time as Mrs. Trott describes each of their accomplishments. She calls Jett’s name last. “Graduating summa cum laude from the prestigious Ross School of Business with a dual major from the College of Engineering, Master of Entrepreneurship, captain of the lacrosse team, president of the Phi Sigma fraternity, captain of the debate team, winner of the Outstanding Senior of the Year Award, University of Michigan Homecoming Court…” Blah, blah, blah. All right, already. We’re impressed.

  I look over at the Michigan men as Mrs. Trott announces that the winning ‘Treps team will be awarded a $100,000 signing bonus to be split between the team and twelve-month employment contracts to work with Trott Ventures in the Manhattan office. There’s no way any of those guys need this win the way our team does. I know I’m not supposed to judge a book by its cover or a person by the university they attend, but I can’t help think the only thing these guys would have to do to get a six-figure job is have Daddy make a call for them.

  By Jett’s own words in the limo, his father owns a business. I’m sure he already has some official VP title and a corner office waiting. For him this competition is about mounting another mental plaque of achievement on the crowded ledge cluttering his mind with arrogance. We have to win. We’re going to win. That’s all there is to it.

  I refocus my attention on Jett, and I realize he’s staring at me. A predatory smile seeps over his features. I flinch, feeling the remnants of his glare ticking against my temple. I have the urge to stick my tongue out at him, just to see if I could knock that scowl off his face—the urge but not the nerve. I ignore him and direct my attention to Mrs. Trott, who is beaming an expression filled with pride as she introduces her children.

  “Our son, Robert Trott III, and our daughter, Jillian Trott, will work with each of the teams in helping them meet their contest goals this week.” I recognize the handsome, twenty-something man that tugged at Mr. Trott’s arm earlier—his son.

  “Team Ryan and Team Jett, remember that before you stands the best of the best in the Manhattan business community, ready to assist, advise, mentor, and contribute to your efforts over the next seven days. Does anyone have any questions at this point?”

  A voice from the crowd speaks. “I would like to ask the candidates what aspect of the competition they are looking forward to most.” Mrs. Trott looks toward Team Ryan, and I step forward. Robert comes my way and hands me a traveling microphone. I smile at the crowd.

  “Team Ryan looks forward to the opportunity to showcase the skills we have learned at Michigan State University, while enjoying the mentorship of our gracious hosts, the Trott family, and their colleagues here in Manhattan.”

  I hand the microphone back to Robert who winks at me and whispers, “Nicely done.”

  He walks the microphone over to Jett, who has stepped forward and is staring at me for what seems like a prolonged amount of time. He turns toward the audience, his smile showstopping. His voice pours over them, as deep and smooth as dark chocolate. “We have a saying at the University of Michigan: ‘Those who stay will be champions.’ We realize we have some hard work ahead of us this week. The opportunity to be part of the Trott organization affords us the ability to bridge our college experience with the real world.”

  He’s better than a politician, and his presence fills the stage with energy. I look to the audience. They’ve quieted. He’s captured their complete attention…and mine. He turns and moves with long-legged, confident steps. I watch his backside rise and fall in a subtle pitch as he steps— My mind whirls. Seriously, Ryan. You are staring at his ass and you’re on stage! I straighten my posture and focus on the audience.

  “He oughta run for office,” Devi whispers. I shoot her a “Whose side are you on?” glare. She shrugs. “Just sayin’.”

  With every other mesmerizing
word, Jett steps closer to me. I press my toes into the floor, bracing myself against the flush of heat pulsing through my veins. He’s up to something.

  “In conclusion, I’d like to compliment the team from Michigan State.” He stops beside me and pauses a long beat. “We had the good fortune of meeting the beautiful and clever ladies from Michigan State earlier today. To their credit, they took the first opportunity to demonstrate a desire to compete based on talent, skill, and academic excellence.” He pauses a beat and smiles at me. “Ladies, I have every confidence you will live up to the reputation your school has so diligently earned. We look forward to playing the game with you this week.”

  I’d like to rip that microphone out of his hand and bop him over the head with it. As if he’s read my thoughts, he slides away, walking back to Mrs. Trott. The audience cheers for him, as if he’s a Kennedy at a democratic convention. Mrs. Trott smiles, and they exchange a few words before he takes his place beside Ben and Vaughn.

  “Please join me in giving Team Jett and Team Ryan a round of applause for their past, present, and future accomplishments. All right then,” she says to the audience. “Enjoy the food, music, and cocktails while we mix and mingle, and please join me back at the podium at nine o’clock for our concluding remarks.”

  We exit the stage, breathing sighs of relief, and melt into the crowd. Devi hails a waiter passing with a tray of champagne-filled glasses, then hands one to each of us.

  “So what’s the strategy?” she asks.

  “We’ll make more connections if we divide and conquer,” Jade suggests.

  “I’ll focus on the politicians in the room.” I know a little about covering politicians from the semester I spent working as an intern at the Capitol in Lansing.

  “I’ll work on the philanthropists and business owners,” Jade offers.

  Devi throws back a swig of champagne. “I’ll cover rich and single.” She winks at us and disappears into the crowd. Jade and I touch champagne glasses.

  “Watch out for the big bad Wolverines,” I say with a smile.