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After twenty minutes of review that I barely listen to, Mr. Philips flips on the small speaker on his desk and syncs it to his phone so he can play some big band music to set the mood. It hardly transforms the rich mahogany walls of his room into a speakeasy, but I appreciate the aesthetic. This one project, which Mr. Philips hosts every year, has the power to literally pull a failing mark up to an A. On the flip side, someone sitting with a comfortable A, like say one Brooklyn Bennett, could find themselves flirting with a C if they don’t play their cards right. And cheating somehow never occurs. On our first day of class, each of us sign honor pledges to not give answers or tips to underclassmen, at the risk of expulsion. It’s a scare tactic because seriously, how is he going to know if I school someone a few years behind me on what stocks to buy and sell during the Black Tuesday project? It seems to work, though, because I’ve never seen the code broken. And I have absolutely no desire to help out some fifth year. They can earn their own damn stripes.
I can’t let Brooklyn flail, though. Not when she knows the answers but is simply too afraid to take the risks.
For the next thirty minutes, Mr. Philips turns our classroom into a makeshift stock exchange, doling out play money for us all to spend on stocks. The purchases span the rainbow, some people deciding to ride DuPont until the last minute, others looking to the growth in vehicle manufacturing during the twenties.
Every time I went up to make a purchase, Brooky followed. She never bought exactly what I did, but the categories were always close. I made sure to make eye contact with her when I sold my highs, and sometimes she held on an extra day to ensure our numbers weren’t exact matches. And as easily predicted, the entire class sold before our fictional October 28, 1929. But when nobody did any shopping on October 29th, I made a few strategic purchases. Brooklyn made some, too, and while her moves earned her a knowing smirk and nod in praise from Mr. Philips, mine were received with a skeptical brow and a request to stay in after class.
“I will have everyone’s totals by Monday, but I think it’s safe to say you can all breathe easily,” he announces as most of us file out of class. I linger, and because he can’t kick me out today, he tosses in one little jab to make sure I know where I stand before everyone’s gone. “Except you, Mr. Hass. You should not breathe easily.”
I roll my eyes, which hesoappreciates, and shoot a smile and wink to Brooklyn as she stops at the door. She nods out toward the hall, indicating that she’ll wait for me, and I decide that Mr. Philips can fail me and I’ll still walk out of here happy.
“I’d like you to show me your search history on your phone, Mr. Hass,” he says, laying my phone down on his desk and ushering me over with the curl of a finger.
I approach slowly, giving myself time to mentally recall what I’ve Googled over the last few days. There are some embarrassing pages for sure, like the one about ‘how to avoid foot funguses’ followed by the queries of ‘what does foot fungus smell like?’ Of course, from there I fell down the rabbit hole of various fungus forms, which brought me into jock itch, then a series of memes about jock straps, and finally one semi-questionable photo of Thor buying jock-itch cream. I’m still willing to bet that was real and not photoshopped, but Theo says I’m full of it.
My conscious clear, I open my settings and display my history for his review. I can tell he’s disappointed, albeit disgusted, when his mouth sneers, and he pushes my phone back to me.
“Go on and take it. I don’t want to have to see you at the end of my day,” he says.
I laugh off his insult, pocketing my phone.
“Gee, thanks, sir.” I turn to leave, assuming I’m dismissed, but before I leave the classroom, he clears his throat and throws out one last, “Mr. Hass.”
I turn and lift my chin slightly.
“You know what you did today, don’t you?”
He looks like he’s going to be sick. Mr. Philips is so proud of this little experiment he created a decade ago. It’s grown over the years, and for the last five, he has given an award to the person who would have the most wealth today based on their stock trading in October of 1929. It’s a shiny bronze cup, not plastic, but legit metal, engraved and all. And he hands it to the recipient during the graduation ceremony held in front of parents and alumni. This year, that person is going to be me.
My smile spreads, which only makes the green tint in his cheeks grow sourer.
“I sure do, sir. Looking forward to it.”
I leave his room and find Brooklyn waiting in an empty hallway, leaning against a wall and chewing at her nails.
“Relax, he doesn’t know I helped you,” I say.
“I wasn’t worried,” she answers, her words so practiced and oversold I can’t help but laugh.
“What?” Her brow pulls in extra tight. I press my finger in the dent between her eyebrows and wiggle. She looks up with mildly crossed eyes.
“Yes, you were worried. And you are a terrible liar. But adorable.” I drag my fingertip down the bridge of her nose then tap the tip as her lips purse, trying to hold back a smile.
I swing an arm around her and pull her in so I can kiss the top of her head then move toward the door.
“So, are you going to tell me what he talked to you about? Or just let me pretend I’m not still worried?” She grins up at me with wide eyes and clenched teeth, a lot of sarcasm nuanced in her expression as she passes through the door I hold open.
“It’s hard to explain, but Mr. Philips and I have played a very long game of chess, and today, I kind of called checkmate.” Simply mentally replaying the look on his face makes me giddy.
Brooklyn studies me for a few seconds as we walk then jars to a stop.
“You didn’t?”
I smirk and nod.
“I did,” I say.
“How? I mean, you said you read all those books when you were younger, which is still exceptionally nerdy by the way,” she teases.
