Returning to the Gothic campus of the University of Chicago was a breath of fresh air, literally and figuratively. The quiet greens of the commons was a welcome relief from the high-octane energy of the West Wing offices where I was interning only a week ago. Of course, the peaceful atmosphere of the school wasn’t just a contrast to Washington; I was living in a September of 2001 where there was no 9/11.

  It wasn’t the culture of fear that Matthew had experienced in his timeline. There had been no airport security as I flew back to Chicago, no constant stream of war-mongering news stories on TV, and no endless American flag displays at every house. I had lived in this space for over a decade, and the world not knowing the fate it avoided made me, for lack of a better term, proud.

  It meant that I would be the only one in the world who carried the scars of 9/11.

  It was something I was more than happy to carry with me going forward.

  Near the end of my stint as intern/secret analyst, Klain had approached me about a more permanent and official role at the White House. It was a tentative proposal, but we both knew it wasn’t for me. Klain knew about my wealth and the unlikelihood that I would be content in a stressful administration job. As for myself, I had done what I set out to do. A summer of fetching coffee in the humidity of Washington was worth it, if only to save the world. But it was saved, even if no one knew it.

  Eventually, word had gotten out among my fellow Political Science majors that I had had a White House internship over the summer. Early in the term, I was sitting in the Reynolds Club eating a late lunch and paging through a copy of New X-Men #116 at a corner table. A tall guy approached my table, and out of the corner of my eye I vaguely recognized his shaggy, boy band-esque haircut.

  “Excuse me,” he said, standing across from me. “Are you Maya Peterson?”

  “That’s me,” I replied.

  He extended a hand. “I’m Drew Foster, president of the UChicago Democrats Club. I think,” he eyed me curiously, “maybe we’ve met?”

  A noisy memory flashed in my head, to a gig that the Belle Curves performed at last spring. Another recollection flashed to after the show, when I hooked up with the guy currently introducing himself to me.

  I blushed a little. “We’ve met.”

  Drew became a bit awkward. “Er, did you and I…?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. We did.”

  He scratched the back of his neck. “Is sitting down out of the question?”

  “No hearts were broken. Take a seat, but only because it was a fun night. And you’re cute.”

  He smiled embarrassedly, and sat across from me. “Are you …reading a comic book?”

  I looked down at my reading material. “It’s sort of research. It’s been…a long time since I’ve read one of these, but I have a business project I’m working on.” I set the comic aside. “What can I do for you?”

  “Right. I wanted to extend an invitation to the Democrats Club. I heard through the grapevine that you were interning in DC this past summer.”

  Unlike many of my other escapades in rewriting history, my internship wasn’t a secret. Well, except for my analyst side role, but an internship was entirely age-appropriate to publicly acknowledge, and I was only too happy to whip out my White House badge. I couldn’t take credit for preventing the greatest terrorist attack in history, but I could brag a little about my summer.

  “Wow,” he said, as he examined the plastic ID. “Which department did you work in?”

  “The Office of the Chief of Staff.”

  He raised his eyebrow skeptically. “Bullshit.”

  I smiled again. “No, really. I worked under Ron Klain himself. Here; I took a selfie with him.” I reached into my bag to pull out my Canon digital camera.

  He tilted his head. “What’s a selfie? Are you talking about, like, a self-portrait?”

  I blinked. I hated when my future slang creeped out.

  I fiddled with the knobs on the camera. “It’s…sort of…where you extend your hand out and aim the camera at yourself to take a picture…ah, here it is.”

  I passed the camera to him, which displayed on its tiny, blurry screen a picture I had taken with Klain. He invited me over to dinner at his Washington residence with his wife before I left DC, and once Drew saw me standing next to Klain in his gray sweater in his kitchen, his eyes boggled.

  “So…you know Ron Klain. Okay. Did you…meet President Gore as well?”

  “They don’t allow cameras in the West Wing, but I’ve…met him a few times.”

  Drew got tense as he handed the camera back to me. I could hear the wheels in his head turning. “Maya, I’d like you to really consider joining the UChicago Democrats. I was going to say we’d be a good asset for you, but now I’m thinking you’d be good for us. It would be amazing to have an actual insider in our group.”

  I grinned. He was definitely cute. “It’s definitely something I would consider.”

  He leaned in closer. “Have you enrolled in any classes with Dr. Sunstein this term? You could flash this badge at any of the professors in the political science department and get a seat on the student advisory board. Or your choice of mentor at the Harris School of Policy!”

  “Oh. Well, I was already able to use the credentials to register for a class at the Law School. I got permission to sit in on Constitutional Law III as an elective.”

  He tilted his head again. “Who teaches that?”

  ***

  The following Monday, I found myself at the Laird Bell Law Quad. It was grittier than the undergrad commons, with more suits and more caffeine. I slipped into the back of the lecture hall, and not for the first time did I feel out of place. I could sense the law students examining me, wondering why a mere tourist like me was in their class. On the hour, the professor entered and set down his materials to begin.

  He introduced himself to the class as Barack Obama.

  Drew had been astounded that of all of the opportunities and mentors that my status brought me, I had chosen Professor Obama’s high level, but relatively peripheral lecture. According to Drew, Obama was an engaging professor, but a second rate politician; he was still reeling from his primary defeat last year for Congress. The lecture hall was full however, as a testament to his charisma and the fascinating topic of the 14th Amendment and civil liberties.

  I watched him intently as he lectured at the front of the room. He was leaner than I remembered from Matthew’s memories, lacking that presidential polish he developed in the other timeline, but the voice was there. Deliberate pauses, the clear intelligence, even the way he leaned against the podium; it was distinctly him. I noted that his suit was slightly ruffled, and I couldn’t help but feel robber’s remorse.

  My actions had deliberately knocked him aside from his place in history. The fallout of 9/11 was the catalyst for his meteoric rise in politics, and as of now the path the world was on did not involve attacks on civil liberties and unwinnable wars on terrorism. Obviously one man’s career being diverted was a small price to pay, but a part of me felt wrong that I had perhaps doomed Obama to a life of lecture halls and state congressional seats. Perhaps I was too confident about being able to skew history, but I felt something had to be done.

  After the lecture, which I noted was highly energized with a strong Socratic element to the teaching style, I milled about afterwards while Professor Obama was swarmed by law students with sycophantic questions. He was cordial, and gradually the crowd thinned. I eventually took the opportunity to approach him.

  “Professor Obama?” I asked as confidently as I could. “My name is Maya Peterson.”

  He smiled politely. “I recognize the name. It’s not common for students who aren’t in the Law School to be enrolled in my course. Even less so for undergraduates. But I was told you have some interesting credentials?”

  I nodded. “Yes, sir. I worked in the Chief of Staff’s office this summer, under Ron Klain.”

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  He pursed his lips. “That’s quite an accomplishment. What can I do for you, Ms. Peterson?”

  I extended a business card. “Sir, I’m not approaching you as a student. I’m approaching you as a principal of a firm who is very interested in the work you’re doing. We…see a lot of potential in you as a candidate in the future, and truly feel that you have something to offer. Full disclosure: it’s the primary reason I enrolled in your class.”

  Obama accepted my card, a confused and mildly incredulous look on his face. “I appreciate that. Butterfly Capital? I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the firm. Or why a student in my 14th Amendment lecture is suddenly speaking to me like a venture capitalist.”

  "We’re a private family office, Professor. We keep a low profile because we prefer to move before the market catches on. Right now, the market thinks you’re a local politician licking his wounds. I think you’re a generational orator who just needs the right opportunity and the runway to use it."

  “That’s a very expensive-sounding compliment, Ms. Peterson.”

  “I can promise more than just compliments, Professor. If you should need funds for a future campaign – say, a senatorial run in 2004 – don’t hesitate to contact us. We have resources and data available, should you choose to pursue it. Which I sincerely hope you do.”

  I hefted my bag, as Obama stared at the card-stock in his hand, and back at me without a word.

  “I’ll see you in class on Wednesday, professor.”

  ***

  As the autumn term continued, the weight of 9/11 no longer took up space in my mind and the optimism of the 90s seemed to feel real for me once again. It was only a matter of time before I refocused my attention on my stock positions, to which my wealth manager Thorne was all too happy to hear. The news was abuzz about the collapse of Enron and the resulting scandal; I was happy to note that the Gore Administration has steered clear of that briar patch, and the Green Agenda moved forward unabated.

  I had profited handsomely from my Enron short, which I had filed even before I was stationed in the White House, and I cashed in at almost fifty million. Thorne was impressed that despite a busy schedule in the West Wing for an entire summer I had still managed a short expertly. I decided it was time to reenter my old tech positions; after all, with no looming war the economy managed to recover more swiftly than in Matthew’s timeline. I needed to get back in while prices were still low.

  I began with a twenty-five million buy-in for Apple; weeks before a new device known as the iPod was released. Customers were skeptical of the unadorned white rectangle and its high price, but when an early batch of devices were mailed to investors prior to wide release, I knew exactly what I was holding in my hands: the future of music, for better or worse.

  Next, using some of Thorne’s connections, we quietly approached a venture capital firm that was desperate for cash and negotiated a private deal to buy their secondary shares in PayPal. I had to pinch my nose when I decided to pay a little over sixteen million, giving me around a three percent stake in the company. I had nothing but historical contempt for the leadership at PayPal, and as it was I had enough to stay under the radar and not deal with their board shenanigans. At least for now.

  In addition, I made sure to reinvest thirty million in Microsoft that month as well; I knew that Windows XP was arriving shortly which would dominate computers for a decade. By November, I had pumped ten million back into Amazon and twenty into Nvidia. Experts were sounding death knells for online commerce, and while Amazon had managed to survive where others failed, the Everything Store was an inevitability. I just got in at the ground floor.

  Finally, in a move that was an anathema to Thorne, I threw down fifteen million into Marvel Entertainment. It was one of the few positions that I had held since the late nineties; the company had been bleeding cash for years since they pulled themselves out of bankruptcy, and I had standing orders to purchase handfuls of shares whenever the price dipped. With the latest buy-in, I calculated that Butterfly Capital owned at least twelve percent of the company. I had never attended a shareholders meeting; I’m sure the board was confused as to why one of the more long-term position holders suddenly became the second largest and never made appearances.

  If there was one thing I inherited from Matthew, it was his encyclopedic knowledge of Marvel and its properties. I had never picked up a comic book in school; I was far too busy with cheerleading and stock trading to read Spider-Man. I had memories of doing so, and a soft spot for them, but even more importantly I knew how profitable they would eventually become. They also meant a lot to Matthew, so I felt I owed it to him.

  Marvel had been less of a comic publisher in the last few years, and more of a licensing machine, selling rights to characters for any piece of merchandise that was willing to pay. An executive named Ike Perlmutter was the primary instigator of this philosophy, a penny-counter who was more interested in selling toys than stories. His financial discipline had tentatively pulled Marvel out of bankruptcy, and he would soon be making a play to be named Vice Chairman of the Marvel Board at a board meeting at the end of November.

  All of UChicago was completing finals for the Fall Quarter and preparing for Thanksgiving Break, and on top of that I was making arrangements to fly to Manhattan to have a preliminary meeting with Perlmutter which Thorne arranged. Having access to private charter jets meant it was a simple matter of flying to New York for a day before heading back home to Minnesota, while not missing any lectures.

  My stop in Manhattan was scheduled to be brief. Perlmutter was eager to meet the face behind the LLC that had been quietly purchasing a healthy percentage of the company, yet eerily silent for years as far as operational board procedures went. Usually, my proxy went with the majority decision, but if Perlmutter wanted to ensure control of the board he needed to secure my percentage.

  My driver took me to the meeting place: an innocuous diner on Third Avenue called Sarge’s Delicatessen that smelled of linoleum tiles and stale coffee. My dark Sterlingwear peacoat contrasted strikingly with the weathered red booths that lined the walls. While I didn’t know what Perlmutter looked like, a quick scan of the restaurant established one booth with a lone occupant; a middle-aged man who looked more like a mid-level accountant than a man of wealth. I approached his table with my leather messenger bag under my arm.

  “Mr. Perlmutter?” I asked. “My name is Maya Peterson. I’m the principal of Butterfly Capital. I believe we have a meeting today.”

  He looked up from his coffee, squinting at me in his rumpled suit. He truly didn’t look like the multi-billionaire he would become in a few years. No gold, no Rolex, just a dark haircut and no humor.

  He appraised me carefully. “You’re younger than I expected.”

  I took my seat in the booth across from him. “Most people do.”

  He disregarded me almost immediately, instead flagging down the waitress. “I’m sure you’re not the type to come to a place like this. I don’t have a fondness for luncheons, and you’ll understand that I’d rather not meet at the office.”

  “On the contrary, Mr. Perlmutter. I’m rather fond of diners. And I’m only here briefly, as I have other business elsewhere this week.” Namely, helping my grandmother stuff a turkey, but he didn’t need to know that.

  “Of course,” he curtly replied. “So Miss Peterson, who are you exactly?”

  I smoothly reached into my bag, pulling out my Schedule 13D paper work and placing it on the table. “Mr. Perlmutter, I’m the one who had been quietly purchasing shares of your company since buying portions of the debt in 1997. My twelve percent makes me one of the largest shareholders at Marvel – after you, of course.”

  The waitress set down a cup and poured a steaming amount of coffee before taking my order. Rye toast with butter and honey; I wouldn’t be staying long.

  “So, it wasn’t a hedge fund who has been quietly buying up my company after all; it was a high school girl. Fan of comics, I assume?”

  “Not exactly, Mr. Perlmutter. In all honesty, I haven’t read many comic books in my life.”

  It was true – since waking up as Maya I had never picked up the comics that Matthew had read in his teens. Partly because I remembered all of them and had no reason to reread them, and partly because, well, I was a girl this time around.

  Perlmutter frowned at me. “So what’s the interest?”

  “I suppose it's a sense of nostalgia. I was…once close to someone who loved comic books, and he passed on his love of super heroes to me. Though to be frank,” I said as I leaned forward, “I’m more interested in their monetary potential. Girls may be easy to market dolls and merchandise to, but boys are rather picky about where they drop cash and interest on. But every boy loves Spider-Man.”

  Perlmutter nodded absently, stirring his coffee in thought. He seemed less annoyed by me now, and more curious in a calculating way.

  “More than anything, Mr. Perlmutter, I’m interested in brand equity. Boys want to buy toys, and they’ll be clamoring to buy toys when the next Spider-Man movie releases next year. Or the next X-Men movie, or the next Hulk. And what you want, Mr. Perlmutter, is to be Vice Chairman at the end of the month.”

  He flinched ever so slightly, as if I was threatening him. “And I suppose you would prefer to take control of the company that I rebuilt from bankruptcy? It was quite a buy-in you orchestrated recently, but the board doesn’t know you.”

  “I’m not interested in leadership at Marvel. You are correct; you pulled this company out from the ashes of insolvency. I’m offering you my support; I will compel my votes to be fully in your favor and support your push for Vice Chairman. That should easily guarantee your position.”

  He eyed me even more warily now. “Nobody leverages twelve percent for free. What do you want? A seat? A dividend?”

  “I don’t come to Manhattan often, Mr. Perlmutter.” Ever, actually. This was my first time in New York City, but that didn’t need to be mentioned. “I have no interest in board membership. What I want is a title: Creative Director. I don’t even want a salary.”

  “You want…a title?”

  “I want first approval on film script treatments. Sony, Fox, I don't care who’s licensing them. And I want a big-picture editorial veto on the comic story arcs. Once a month, your office ships the proofs and general treatments to me in Chicago. I review them, I send back my notes if I have any, and my veto stands."

  “You want to play editor? You want to tell the creatives what to do? You know how much those people cost? They’re a headache.”

  "That’s exactly why you need me," I said, keeping my expression unreadable. "I’m not a ‘creative.' I’m a shareholder. I’m here to make sure they don't devalue the asset. You worry about the toy margins and the distribution costs. Maybe I’ll edit nothing. But if I do, it is to protect the IP and my investment. But I want it in writing, solidified by a contract that runs as long as my firm holds its position. In exchange, you’ll get my proxy for the Vice Chairmanship on the 30th and for however long you see fit."

  Ike looked at the Schedule 13D on the table, then back at me. He saw a girl who was offering him total corporate control in exchange for occasionally "reading papers.” He sighed. “If you cost me a licensing deal with some veto, we’re going to have a problem.”

  “If I use my veto, it's because the deal would cost more in the long run. We’re both not in the business of losing money. It’s oversight over the creatives, nothing more.”

  “You’re a cheap date, Peterson,” Perlmutter muttered. ”I’ll have the lawyers draft the language. If the 30th goes well. "