Wednesday, October 9, 2002. 10:15 AM.
Van Nuys High School was no longer a hazard zone for Jake Harper; it was a perfectly optimized marketplace.
In the span of two weeks, Jake had discovered that high school was essentially a micro-economy waiting for a central bank.
His most lucrative physical asset was currently operating out of a windowless room in the basement: the Electronics and AV Club.
The room smelled of melting solder and ozone. To the rest of the school, it was a dumping ground for nerdy, socially inept people.
To Jake, it was a high-margin refurbishing facility.
Jake walked in, unzipped his backpack, and tipped it over onto a lab table.
Out spilled three broken Sony Discmans, a shattered Game Boy Advance, and two Motorola flip phones that had been dropped in swimming pools.
"Fresh inventory, gentlemen," Jake announced cheerfully.
The club members, a collection of pale, highly intelligent outcasts, descended on the pile. Jake had established a flawless supply chain: he bought broken electronics for pennies, brought them here for the club to repair, and then resold the refurbished tech at a massive markup.
At the far end of the workbench, Malcolm was meticulously replacing the laser lens on a PlayStation 2.
He looked like he hadn't slept in three days, his shoulders hunched in a permanent state of defensive agitation.
Jake walked over and set a crisp twenty-dollar bill next to the soldering iron. "Excellent work on those pagers, Malcolm. The quarterback bought both of them before second period."
Malcolm looked up, squinting through the fumes. "Thanks."
"You're gripping the tweezers too tight, Malcolm," Jake said softly, leaning his chin on his hands. "You're treating the motherboard like it's an enemy. Don't look at the whole board, just look at the diode."
Malcolm blinked, his hands freezing. He took a deep, shaky breath, relaxed his grip, and smoothly clicked the tiny lens into place. He let out a long exhale. "Right. Obviously. Thanks." He eyed Jake sideways. "How do you know so much? You're, like, nine."
"Nine and a half," Jake corrected. "And it's pretty easy once you understand the basics."
"Harper."
A sharp, authoritative voice cut through the hum of the soldering irons.
Mr. Harrison, the AP Physics teacher and the faculty sponsor for the club, stepped out of his adjoining office. He was a stern man who wore cheap suits and a permanent expression of professional disappointment.
Harrison marched over to the workbench, eyeing the pile of cash and the refurbished pagers. "I've been watching this little operation of yours for three days, Harper. You are running an unauthorized, for-profit commercial enterprise using school resources. It's against district policy. I'm shutting this club down, confiscating the equipment, and calling the Vice Principal."
The club members froze. Malcolm looked like he was about to pass out.
Jake didn't flinch or drop his polite smile. He simply hopped up onto a stool, dangling his sneakers, and let his eyes wander over the teacher. He took in the slight rumple of Harrison's suit jacket, the cheap cologne he wore, and the faint, lingering scent of a floral perfume that definitely didn't belong to his wife, the terrifying AP Chemistry teacher.
"You could do that, Mr. Harrison," Jake mused aloud, looking at the ceiling. "You could absolutely call the Vice Principal. But... before we do that, I was wondering if we could talk about the Honda Civic."
Harrison stopped reaching for the pagers. "Excuse me?"
"The Honda Civic that Ms. Gable drives," Jake continued, his tone light and conversational, channeling a sharp, observant stillness. "The new substitute for European History? Very reliable car."
Harrison froze. "W-What are you talking about?"
"I was doing a probability model on traffic patterns near the Motel 6 off the I-405 on Tuesday afternoon," Jake said softly. "Statistically, the odds of your Buick LeSabre being parked right next to her Civic for three hours during the school day are incredibly low. Unless, of course, you were having an impromptu, off-campus curriculum meeting."
Harrison's face drained of all color and started to sweat. He looked like he was going to be sick.
"I have a Polaroid camera, Mr. Harrison," Jake whispered, leaning forward slightly. "It's a bit bulky, but the image quality is surprisingly robust. I'd hate for your wife to find a photo of that meeting tucked inside her AP Chemistry grade book. She seems like a woman who reacts poorly to bad data."
Jake's wide eyes gave a terrifyingly calm empathy. "I don't want to cause trouble. I just need a place for my associates to work. You want to keep your marriage and your pension intact. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement."
Harrison swallowed heavily. His hands were shaking.
"I actually need to leave campus for a meeting right now," Jake said, sounding genuinely helpful. "If you could just sign a pre-approved, open-ended early dismissal pass for today, the Polaroid stays in a very secure lockbox. And the club stays open."
Without a word, Harrison reached into his jacket, pulled out a pad of pink administrative passes, signed the top one, and pushed it across the table.
"Thank you, Mr. Harrison," Jake beamed, sliding the pass into his pocket. "Have a wonderful afternoon. And really... you should try a different cologne. Ms. Gable's perfume is very distinct, and the two scents clash terribly on your lapels."
Jake strolled out of the room, leaving a stunned teacher in his wake and the rest of the students with no idea what had just happened.
Just Jake talking briefly with Mr. Harrison, and leaving.
1:30 PM.
The Century City office of Richard Vance, Senior Vice President at Merrill Lynch, was an intimidating shrine to 1990s Wall Street excess. It was all dark mahogany, leather chairs, and framed photos of Richard shaking hands with local politicians.
Alan sat stiffly in a leather chair, sweating straight through his sensible gray suit.
Judith sat next to him, her posture rigid.
Evelyn sat on the leather sofa, looking profoundly bored.
And Jake was wandering the room.
Richard, a man in a pinstripe suit whose hair was gelled into a helmet of pure confidence, was currently ignoring the nine-year-old inspecting his bookshelves. Richard was leaning over his desk, flashing bright, capped teeth at Alan.
"Mr. Harper, as the Managing Director of the LLC, you have to understand the macroeconomic climate," Richard said, tapping a Montblanc pen on a glossy brochure. "The S&P is testing 776. It's a bloodbath out there. Putting three point two million dollars into equities right now is financial suicide. What you need is our proprietary Merrill Lynch Mid-Cap Value Fund. It's safe, it's—"
"You have a terrible slice, don't you?"
The room went silent. Richard blinked, his professional smile faltering as he turned his head.
Jake was standing by the corner of the office, casually rolling a customized Titleist golf ball between his small hands. He looked up, his eyes bright and innocently observant.
"I'm sorry?" Richard said.
"Your golf game," Jake smiled, walking slowly toward the desk.
He didn't sound malicious; he sounded genuinely curious.
"You keep a weighted training club behind the door, and the wear pattern on the grip implies you're desperately overcompensating with your right hand to fix a slice. Which means you're stressed. You're gripping too tight."
Jake set the golf ball down on the edge of Richard's immaculate mahogany desk.
"You're also pushing a Mid-Cap Value Fund with a massive front-end load fee," Jake continued, his tone light and conversational. "Why? The fund's historical yield is barely beating inflation. But... it is the end of the third quarter. I'm guessing Merrill Lynch is running a sales contest, and whoever pushes the most in-house funds gets a very healthy bonus."
Jake tilted his head, his eyes flicking to the glossy photo of a sailboat on Richard's credenza. "Slip fees in Marina del Rey just went up, didn't they? Anyway, we don't pay you three percent in management fees to offer us your outdated macro-analysis, but for access to your prime brokerage so I can secure an SBLOC in December. Execute the trade, or I will move the LLC's capital to Goldman Sachs by three o'clock."
Richard's mouth opened, but no sound came out. The blood drained from his face, leaving his tan looking slightly orange.
Alan stared at his son in absolute horror. Evelyn covered a laugh with a perfectly manicured hand.
"He's a very intuitive child," Evelyn said. "Now, Richard, let's stop pretending you're giving us advice and start taking our orders. Jake, darling? Tell the man what you want."
"The total account balance is three point two million," Jake said, his voice dropping into a smooth, commanding register that did not belong to a child. "Today is the bottom of the bear market. By the closing bell, we are fully deployed. Here is the allocation."
He tapped his small finger on Richard's desk with every point.
"Thirty percent into Microsoft. Ten percent into Johnson & Johnson. That is our anchor. That is the stable collateral you will present to your underwriting department in ten weeks."
Richard scrambled to find a pen, his previous arrogance entirely shattered. "Yes. Microsoft. J&J. And the rest?"
"The remaining one point nine two million is split perfectly down the middle," Jake said, leaning in. "Fifty percent into Apple. Fifty percent into Amazon."
Richard looked up, genuinely shocked. "Jake... Apple is struggling, and Amazon is just... books. They're highly volatile."
"They are perfectly undervalued," Jake corrected him softly. "By December, the market will experience a Santa Claus rally. My mathematical model projects the LLC's portfolio will appreciate to roughly four point one million dollars by Christmas — give or take a few hundred thousand."
Jake looked at his father, who was vibrating with a mix of terror and greed.
"At that exact moment," Jake continued, looking back at Richard, "you will approve a Securities-Backed Line of Credit at a fifty percent loan-to-value ratio. That gives my parents two million dollars in liquid, non-taxable cash to spend on cars, renovations, and whatever else they want, while our capital remains in the market, multiplying."
Jake smiled again, the charming, disarming mask slipping right back into place. He patted the edge of the desk. "Execute the trade before the bell, Richard. And seriously... loosen your grip on the club. You're trying too hard."
Richard swallowed heavily, his eyes darting to Evelyn, who nodded once. "I'll... I'll have the confirmation tickets printed in ten minutes."
As Richard hurried out of his own office to scream at a junior broker, Judith leaned back in her chair, a slow, predatory grin spreading across her face.
"Two million dollars in cash by December," Judith whispered, her eyes shining. "Alan... I want a pool."
Alan slowly nodded, completely overwhelmed by the reality of his new life. "We can get a pool. We can get a pool guy. I... I might even get the premium cable package."
...
Thanks to everybody donating their power stones if by tomorrow we reach 300 power stones I'll drop an extra chapter.