Page 15 of Mostly My Boss
Harvard
Julia
“So, really? Bitcoin?”
We were at lunch a few days later, discussing the revelation disclosed at our first coffee klatch. Apparently everyone knew who Ethan Moss was. Everyone except me. At least, Nicki had known his name and had chastised me for not knowing who he was.
What? Are you, like, from outer space or something?
Or something, I’d thought. The folks in the town where I grew up didn’t spend a lot of time talking about Bitcoin.
He looked up from the California roll that he was eating with chopsticks, just to bethatguy, and smiled.
I’d settled on soup and a Caesar salad, and wondered how I’d go back to PB&Js when I was home for break.
“I told you I had my own money.”
“You said you worked,” I reminded him.
“No, I said I earned it,” he corrected me. “Which I did. It was just incredibly easy, which was not at all my fault. Super genius,” he said, tapping his temple with this finger. “Remember?”
Super genius who needed my notes. It made me slightly suspicious. “Funny that you mention it. You were pretty spaced out today in class. What idea were you dreaming up?”
He shrugged and popped a round piece of sushi covered in wasabi into his mouth. (Yes, I now knew what wasabi was after a rude introduction Ethan thought was hysterically funny.)
“They’re not all brilliant,” he said after a moment. “Being a visionary takes time. You can’t just snap your fingers.”
“Hmm,” I said and went back to my soup.
“You don’t believe me?”
“I don’t believe you were thinking about some grand, new, get-rich scheme, no. You didn’t look focused. You were totally distracted.”
He tossed the chopsticks on his plate and took the paper napkin from his lap to wipe his face. It wasn’t lost on me how he ate. That his manners were impeccable while I sat slouched over my soup.
I made an effort to sit up.
“Sometimes I get distracted. It’s not a big thing. It doesn’t have to be. At least, that’s what I’ve tried to tell my father.”
“Your father?” I prompted. Because it seemed like we were doing this. The whole friend thing. Which meant he had to tell me his stories and I would not tell him mine. Because, really, what was the point? My stories were mostly all sad.
“He’s a physician. A pediatrician in Manhattan. Very exclusive. I just…I just don’t want to be a patient anymore.”
“What does that mean?”
“No more Adderall.”
“Adderall. That’s the drug baseball players all try to get prescriptions for so they can hit better.”
I knew that from my brothers. Sports had been essentially the only topic of conversation growing up in the Whitford household. Professional, college. Football, baseball, all of it. So if I knew something newsworthy, it was most likely that what I knew was within the context of sports.
He shrugged. “I guess. It’s supposed to help with ADHD. I’ve been on it and other medications since I was twelve…and I’m tired of it. I thought coming here could be a new start. I could just be…me. So what if sometimes I get distracted? What’s the big deal as long as I compensate for it? That’s what you’re for.”
It was suddenly a little harder to swallow my soup. I thought we were moving deeper into the friend zone, but it was probably a good reminder that our initial arrangement was business. He was using me to compensate for his condition.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
