“I know,” Ryan said softly, trying to maintain a smile, looking up at J.R.’s face in the mirror from his back seat booster. Even though he was the one trapped in an orphanage, soon to be losing the closest thing he had to family, he sympathized with J.R. This was obviously hard on him too.
“No, Ryan,” J.R. said with an exaggeratedly upbeat tone. “You’re getting out soon — this week. You’re gonna be going to a great family.”
Ryan didn’t know how to respond. He hadn’t met or even heard of any potential parents. “Don’t kids get to meet their foster parents first?” he asked nervously.
“Ryan, this isn’t a foster family. You’re being adopted! By a great couple. They want a kid to raise. To teach. To love. They want you, Ryan.”
“Well what if I don’t want them?” Ryan asked frantically. “Don’t I get to meet them? Isn’t there like a trial period or something?” The orphanage was bad, but at least it was a known entity. And it was temporary by design.
“Look, I know life isn’t always fair for kids, and it sometimes feels like all of the important decisions are being made for you, but these parents have been chosen specifically for you — over hundreds of other couples.”
“I thought you said they wanted me,” Ryan fired back. “What do you mean they were chosen? Who chose them?”
“It’s complicated. But I promise, you’re gonna have everything you’ll ever need growing up. And I’ll still be a big part of your life. Trust me.”
Ryan did trust him, but he couldn’t wrap his mind around all of this. He was excited about the prospect of getting out of the orphanage, but he was terrified to meet his new guardians (he couldn’t possibly refer to them as parents,) heartbroken by the news he wouldn’t be able to see J.R. nearly as often, and utterly baffled by the entire process. Other kids in the orphanage (mostly younger kids, since they were the ones most adoptive parents wanted) had met prospective parents well before they were taken home. They weren’t puppies! And why were there “hundreds of other couples” vying for his guardianship? He had nothing. It didn’t make any sense.
J.R. pulled into the drive at Ryan’s school. “I love you, buddy,” he said.
Ryan was too confused to respond. He gave an effortful half-smile as he unbuckled himself, grabbed his oversized backpack and climbed out of the backseat.
J.R. pulled slowly away, shaking his head in disgust. He knew he had blown it and left a lot out, but there was no right way to do this — in the history of mankind, what was about to happen to Ryan had never happened before, and time was up.
James Prescott brushed past a pack of rabid financial news reporters without so much as a nod. Today was worthy of nothing less than national network coverage and a select group of news channels with international reach.
He strode into his office and shut the door. His second cup of coffee, piping hot, was waiting for him, along with his vice president Aaron Bradford.
Prescott had met Bradford in his final year at Northwestern. Over the years Bradford had developed into the ultimate number two man. He was 3 years behind Prescott in school, 3 inches shorter and 10 pounds heavier. He had all the work ethic and determination, but he wasn’t an idea man, which was not to say he wasn’t expert in honing and perfecting other people’s ideas.
He wasn’t unattractive, but he certainly wasn’t striking. His hair was starting to thin on top and recede up front; his nose had never been broken but it looked like it had, deviating slightly to the left; and his effortful smile was as warm as permafrost.
Avillage never intentionally put him in front of a camera unless he was behind Prescott. Most of his work was done behind the scenes, often dancing on the line of ethically acceptable and not infrequently crossing well over it. Even Prescott didn’t want the details of exactly what he did. “This isn’t seventh grade algebra,” Prescott would say. “Get the right answer. No partial credit for showing your work.”
Bradford idolized Prescott, but he wasn’t a yes man. He cherished his number two role in the company and was very well compensated for it.
“As you know, RTJ’s set to open at 3,” Bradford said. “I’ve heard some analysts going as high as 9 before the close.”
“Sounds a bit high to me,” Prescott said disinterestedly, sifting through some intra-office mail. “But I’m not worried about this one; he’s a slam dunk. Have you got the next two nailed down? We’re gonna have to keep our momentum up. I want JQJ second.”
“Yeah, about that. Something’s come up,” Bradford said wringing his hands. “Turns out there may be a biological father in Newark. He’s apparently gotten himself a lawyer and is pretty close to getting paternity testing.”
Prescott’s secretary cracked the door. “They’re ready for you in makeup.”
“Can you make it happen?” Prescott asked.
“Of course,” Bradford said. “I just don’t know if he’ll be ready next month. We’d obviously have to disclose any loose ends. There are a couple other candidates we could…”
“Try,” Prescott said firmly as he walked out the door.
Ryan watched J.R.’s car disappear down the street and then took off in a full sprint with no idea as to where he was going. Tears streamed across his cheeks and trickled behind his ears as he ran. It was the first time he had cried since his parents’ funeral.
Finally running out of breath, he slowed to a walk in front of a Wal-Mart, one of the few stores already open for the morning. It would be a good place to get his thoughts together. And as long as he kept within reasonable distance of a similarly-complected adult, he probably wouldn’t draw much suspicion — certainly less than wandering alone on the sidewalk in a semi-urban neighborhood.
As he loped behind a mom who was too busy trying to corral her petulant toddler to notice she was being tailed, an escalating fear of the unknown gripped his heart and began to squeeze. What he needed was an advocate — someone who loved him — to hold him and make him believe that everything was going to turn out ok. A grown-up unquestionably on his side who could make sense of this avalanche of life-changing information he’d just been hit with. He needed his parents.
But he knew no matter how hard he wished, no matter how hard he prayed, they were never coming back. Ever. Finality was yet another concept he had picked up earlier than most of his peers. And it was excruciating.
The toddler he was tailing finally had a full scale meltdown, prompting her mother to speed off toward the checkout, leaving Ryan all alone in front of the electronics department, where dozens TVs of every size, all set to maximum brightness, all tuned to the same channel, beckoned him to stay. He meandered over to the largest screen, nearly as tall as he was, and happened to catch the introduction for the CEO of Avillage, Inc.
He could hear the old man’s voice from McDonalds echoing in his head, “It’s history.”
Nearly 500 miles away, James Prescott nodded to a group of media members and a handful of traders who had gathered on the floor below his podium.
“Welcome to the opening of the Avillage Exchange,” he declared with a slow presidential cadence, eliciting uproarious applause. A large digital clock counting down behind him had just passed the two-minute mark. Prescott had no plans to say anything substantive or address any controversy; there was no reason to at this point.
“Welcome to the dawn of a new type of investing,” he said. “One that will benefit not only the investor, but also our country, our society, and our children. Today is a proud day for me, my supportive wife and my three beautiful kids; a proud day for the amazing employees at Avillage; a proud day for the American people, whose indomitable spirit has never settled for ‘good enough.’