The Calculus of Vengeance
1296 Words
Clara went through everything except her acceptance letter until Tuesday, buried between credit card statements and takeout menus. Clara stared at the logo as she touched her fingers on the letters-embossed as if they might just disintegrate under her very touch. Somehow, they had bought her personal statement, raw and vengeful as it was. Or did she?
Tuition: $76,000; that's for undergraduates a year.
She taped the letter on her bathroom mirror--along with her waitressing schedule: six shifts at the diner per week, then the catering jobs on weekends. Calculated the sums on a napkin: $15/hour × 35 hours x 52 weeks = $27,300. Not near enough.
"A determined little thing, aren't you?"
Clara looked up from her calculus homework to find an elderly woman studying her from across the library table. She was a tailored, charcoal suit wearing woman, with sharp bobbed silver hair and possessed features just as sharp.
"Excuse me?"
The woman waved a hand towards Clara's books- *Financial Accounting for Dummies*, *Introduction to Microeconomics*, and a dog-eared copy of *The Intelligent Investor*. "Mostly first-years hit the party scene; not many I see with high-lighters and financial statements at 7 AM."
Clara closed her notebook, thinking. "I'm not a freshman. I'm prepping."
"For what?"
"Revenge," Clara said, then immediately felt a sting of regret for her honesty.
The woman laughed, a surprisingly warm sound. "I'm Professor Diana Chen. Economics department." She slid a business card across the table. "Office hours are Tuesday and Thursday. Bring that *Intelligent Investor* with you. It's got some... outdated perspectives."
---
All that changed about Clara's life three months later: it settled into a rhythm as precise as a metronome. Up at 5 AM for more study before her 8 AM class. Waitressing from 11 AM to 7 PM, evenings in MBA classes until 10 PM, back to her apartment to do homework, often falling asleep at her tiny kitchen table.
The rest of her half-class cohort: all younger, all carrying corporate sponsorship or family money, looking at her with a mixture of wonder and scorn. She had two suits in total which she would wear to class, one navy, the other black; both were thrift-store items, altered carefully.
"Clara please walk us through your DCF analysis." Professor Chen had asked during valuation class.
Clara stood, smoothing down her jacket. The case study was on a tech company whose revenue was declining, but their intellectual property was still valuable, and she had stayed up till 3 a.m. dissecting it.
"The market is undervaluing NextGen Software because they're fixated on quarterly earnings," she began. "But their patent portfolio in AI-driven logistics is worth at least three times their current market cap. An activist investor could-"
"Interesting perspective," Todd Mercer, the guy born with a silver spoon in his mouth and whose dad was the owner of some private equity firm, butted in. "But you're assuming that the patents are actually viable. My father's company looked at NextGen last year. Their IP is mostly smoke and mirrors."
She could feel heat right up to her earlobes. "The patent applications are public record. If you'd bothered to check, you'd see-"
"Ms. Voss," Professor Chen cut in, "please continue with your analysis."
At that point, even Todd was halfway impressed. After class, Professor Chen handed Clara a note.
"Wall Street Journal business reporter doing a profile on Stern students who have 'overcome adversity.' I gave her your name."
Clara stared at the contact information. "Why me?"
"Because revenge is a terrible motivator unless you have the skills to back it up," Professor Chen said quietly. "And you're the only student I've seen this year that has the motivation and the raw talent."
---
Six weeks later, the article read: FROM WAITRESS TO WALL STREET: CLARA VOSS'S UNLIKELY JOURNEY. It had her in its best suit, all dressed up by a friend from cosmetology school, standing there expressive and professional outside the business building of NYU. She looked nothing like a "mysterious muse" from the tabloids.
Three days after publication, her phone rang during her shift at the diner.
"This is Clara Voss, speaking."
"Ms. Voss, this is Alexandra Reeves from Reeves Capital Management. We saw your profile in the Journal. Are you looking for summer employment now?"
Clara nearly dropped the coffee pot. It was a boutique investment firm handling only eight-figure portfolios.
"Well, yes, I-."
"The pay is $25 per hour and performance bonuses on top of that. We're hiring research analysts. Can you make it here for an interview tomorrow at 10?"
Clara looked down at her grease-stained uniform. "Sure. I can."
---
Marcus Blackwood scrolled through his well-cultured LinkedIn feed and paused on a familiar, pretty face. Clara's professional headshot, cool and confident, looked down at him as he clicked through her caption: *Proud to announce my summer analyst position at Reeves Capital!*
He clicked through to her profile. *Master of Business Administration Candidate, NYU Stern. GPA: 3.9.*
"Reeves Capital," he muttered. "Small fish."
His assistant poked her head into his office. "Your 2 o'clock is here, Mr. Blackwood."
"Tell them to wait five minutes." He picked up his phone and dialed a number from memory.
"Todd? It's Marcus. Listen, there's a girl from your business school- Clara Voss. Keep an eye on her for me, will you? She used to be... someone I knew."
"Clara? The waitress? She's brilliant, actually. Just destroyed me in valuation class last week."
Marcus's jaw tightened. "Did she mention me?"
"Only in the context of the case study on tech companies. She has some interesting theories about Blackwood Tech's recent acquisition."
A faint light from the window revealed the noon hour. Perhaps, somewhere else this time of the year, joy existed.
"What theories?"
"Something about your R&D spending being a tax shield rather than actual innovation. She backed it up with some pretty convincing data."
Marcus hung up, a strange hollowness settling in his stomach. Outside his window, rain began to fall on the Manhattan skyline. He thought of that day on the ferry, of Clara's face as he'd walked away.
"Minor annoyance." He would tell himself, "Nothing more."
But that night, for the first time in months, he did catch himself googling her name. The article had made the rounds on several business blogs-She was A Waitress to Wall Street, The MBA Student Taking on Tech Giants, and Clara Voss: the Next Warren Buffet?.
He slammed his laptop shut.
---
Clara stood on the roof of her building, the whole city stretched before her like a circuit board. Six months have passed since the day she took that ferry ride six months ago: six months of caffeine and determination, living on eighteen-hour days.
She held in her palm a business card that read: *Alexandra Reeves, Managing Partner, Reeves Capital Management.*
"Summer internship turned into a permanent position," Alexandra had told her that afternoon. "We want you full-time after graduation. Starting salary: $150,000."
Clara had accepted without a second thought, then dashed to the rooftop to process all that was happening. Her plan was moving even faster than she had dared to hope.
Her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: *Congratulations on the job. Didn't know you had it in you. -M*
Clara stared at the message, and suddenly her victory felt a little bit tarnished by something else. She typed and deleted a number of responses before settling on: *You don't know a lot of things about me. But you will.*
She hit Send, then watched as her message delivered; small victory but felt like the first move in a long, complex game in which she was finally playing to win.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled. The storm was coming.
This time around, however, Clara would be ready.
- Writer
