The Butterfly Manifesto

The roads were snowy, but not icy, on a Tuesday afternoon in December. Last week I had gotten a call from Mr. Henderson at the brokerage, which I found odd because it was usually me who called him. He wanted to schedule a face-to-face meeting, which would be a first for us since I had given instructions for years over the phone with my father parroting permission, always unaware of just how much money was being moved. It was the only way, as a minor, that I could make my trades. But when Mr. Henderson set up the meeting, I could hear the urgency in his voice, as if this wouldn’t be one of our regular discussions about my account.

He wanted to meet during the day, but I had to remind him that I still had class. We arranged to meet after school on a day with no club meetings, and immediately after the last bell rang I got in my car to drive into Minneapolis. Since this would officially be the first time I would be conducting business in person, I stopped home first to change into a more professional outfit: a conservative white blouse and gray skirt, dark stockings, and a smart long jacket that complemented it well. It was my first attempt at a professional look, but I think I did all right.

I recognized the mid-sized office building in the north part of the city from when I initially opened my account years ago. The reception area was crowded with worn furniture, and the older receptionist was the only person there, typing hurriedly at her keyboard.

“Good afternoon,” I greeted. “My name is Maya Brown, and I’m here to see Bill Henderson.”

“Hello, dear. Are you his daughter?”

“Ah, no. I have an appointment to meet with him today.”

She tapped away at her computer. “His office is in room 315. You can take the elevator behind me; do you think you can find it?”

I nodded. “I can manage. Thank you.”

I boarded the elevator, consciously keeping my chin forward and my stride confident. I walked past several cubicles where brokers were in the middle of calls or typing at their keyboards, with tickers scrolling across the wall. They ignored me as I ducked around, trying to find Mr. Henderson’s office. It was one of the larger rooms on the floor, and I knocked on his door since there was no assistant to announce me.

A voice beckoned me inside. I opened the door and saw him for the first time. He was an older man, somewhere in his late forties, on the shorter side with what hair he had left turning gray. He wore a blue shirt with a black and yellow striped tie, and his round stomach bumped his desk as he stood to greet me.

“Miss Brown, we finally meet in person!” he laughed, though it was more polite than warm.

“It’s good to meet you, Mr. Henderson,” I replied as I shook his hand as firmly as I could manage.

“Come on in, and please,” he said, gesturing behind me, “shut the door.”

I complied, and I took a seat opposite him. He sat back down in his chair as if he had pockets full of lead. He rubbed his chin nervously, as if he had been planning what to say for days. “Miss Brown, I just want to personally say that as I’ve worked with you for these past few years, I have been highly impressed. The Iomega flip, the Apple acquisition, I’ve never seen such precise positioning from anyone, let alone someone still in high school.”

“Well, my dad has helped me out a lot,” I said, trying to sound modest, “and I don’t think I would be able to do it without him.”

Mr. Henderson regarded me with a knowing look that lasted several moments. “Yes, I’m sure your father has given you some great advice. And I’m sure you’ll note the irregularity of not having him present today with what we need to discuss.”

He leaned back into his chair. “Miss Brown, over the years I have witnessed the sheer genius of your plays, and I admit I was intrigued. I still am. So many contrarian plays, and each one more profitable than the last. It was…fascinating to watch, and I took a personal interest since you continually proved how talented you are. You’re a prodigy, Miss Brown.”

“Er, thank you, Mr. Henderson,” I murmured, twisting my lips in embarrassment. “Although, I’m not sure why you called me in here today.”

Mr. Henderson leaned forward, resting one elbow on his desk and his chin in his hand. “Unfortunately, we have a serious issue. A few weeks ago, your account passed the five-million-dollar mark. Simply put, you have…by far…the largest account in our firm. This has become a regulatory liability for us; the majority of your portfolio is tied up in a single position: Apple, which a year ago was failing and has now increased its value five times over. And rising.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

Mr. Henderson sighed. “Yes and no. Yes, your account has been absurdly profitable, but that’s the issue—a custodial brokerage account owned by a minor was never supposed to break a million, let alone five! If Apple were to tank and lose, say, fifty percent of its value, there would be serious legal ramifications. Our firm simply doesn’t have the ability to meet the operational risk threshold. Our compliance officers have been asking questions, and while I've held them off for the moment since the positions are still growing, we really need to take action.”

I nodded quietly. I knew that something like this was bound to happen; it was insane that I had gotten to this level of wealth so quickly, and I hadn’t even turned eighteen yet! I was always meticulous about filing the correct forms and having a clear paper trail, but this explosive growth was absurd and near impossible to keep quiet. My saving grace was that I lived the life of a normal teenage girl in suburban Minnesota, not the lavish life of a millionaire.

“So what are our options, Mr. Henderson?”

“The easiest course of action at this point would be to liquidate. We cash it in now, the capital is moved out of a volatile stock like Apple, removing the risk.”

I shook my head. “No, Apple is still growing, and growing strong. I have plans for another move in the next few months, and I need to retain my positions until I’m ready.”

“You have another move in mind?” Mr. Henderson sputtered, before immediately catching himself. “No, no, I don’t want to know. I have to remind you, Miss Brown, that while legally I will comply with any trades you order, I still have to remind you about the risk factor. If we don’t liquidate soon, we would not be able to—”

“I said no, Mr. Henderson.” I was surprised at how cool my tone was.

Mr. Henderson sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Of course, I understand. And as long as the positions are holding it’s fine. But long term, this is untenable, Miss Brown. If Apple slips even a small amount...I don't want to think about it. The other option is moving your account to a firm that can handle your level of wealth. If we can’t mitigate the risk, we have to find you a firm that is able to accommodate you.”

“Oh, of course,” I replied brightly. “In fact, I think that’s exactly the direction we need to go in.”

Mr. Henderson’s eyes appraised me. “You’ve thought about this already?”

I nodded. “In fact, I’ve been planning on going to school in Chicago after I graduate in May. I’m already starting to receive acceptance letters, and I think moving my account to a major institution on my eighteenth birthday is something I would like to get started. Immediately.”

The relief washed over his face as I explained my intentions. “I, well, yes, Miss Brown, I think an external transfer is very warranted. We can get started on this right away. We would be able to generate a lot of interest in your account—I’m sure several firms could accommodate you—and yes, I think this is the most prudent action to fit your needs.”

We mapped out the plan: Mr. Henderson would shop around my account to firms in Chicago, and sort out the paperwork for the transfer by May of next year, at which point my custodial brokerage account would shift to a traditional investment account when I turned eighteen. The liability would transfer to the new firm, and assuming Apple continued to do well (which I knew would happen, but he was far less confident about) it should be a smooth transfer. We shook hands as I left, and as I drove north on the highways back home I realized that I had just negotiated my first multimillion-dollar deal.

***

The holidays went without a hitch. Technically, it would be the last Christmas of my youth, but considering that this was my second round of being a youth I shouldn’t be too nostalgic. I did manage to get some killer gifts for the family—my brother Tim was on the freshman football squad, so I got him a Vikings starter jacket. I got Mom a nice sweater and Dad a new fishing pole.

During Christmas break, Mr. Henderson regularly phoned me, and apparently he was shopping around my account hard. It seemed that every few days another bank expressed their interest, and each time they were larger than before. He was carefully monitoring the Apple price; if it dipped, a frantic phone call would follow, but of course it would always bounce back and climb even higher. It was over six million by the time school started again in January and was going strong.

I was helping out with the Snow Daze celebration on top of cheering for varsity basketball. I abstained from being on Snow Daze royalty, since I slyly figured it would be nice to give someone else the chance to be queen of something. I was instrumental in organizing and decorating for the dance, and it was after one particularly long day of blowing up balloons and hanging up streamers that I got home to another urgent message from Mr. Henderson. I was tempted to put it off, as I was feeling too much pressure from him calling so frequently and was just trying to enjoy my senior year. However, I was too responsible for my own good.

“Good evening, Mr. Henderson,” I spoke into the phone to his home number. “I got your message. Is this about the liquid capital I’m preparing to put into play?”

“Uh, no,” Mr. Henderson said with a tinge of confusion, “This is about your account. I talked today with a representative from a bank known as Northern Trust in Chicago. Have you heard of them?”

“Of course. They’re a financial services bank in Chicago that specializes in wealth management.” Matthew had actually worked for them as a technical clerk in his timeline, though he was a low rung on the corporate ladder. I knew Northern Trust well. In fact, it was my number one choice for banks to work with in Chicago.

“Well, then I don’t need to tell you that it’s a big deal that they expressed interest in transferring your account. I know we’ve been shopping around, but this is it—they are the top firm in Chicago. I think we should get the ball rolling.”

I nodded. “I agree. Let’s get the paperwork started.”

Mr. Henderson sighed audibly into the receiver. “Thank god. I actually already confirmed with them—I’ll handle everything, and we’ll work out the details over the next few months.”

“It sounds good, Mr. Henderson. Also, I will have some orders that I will want to put in soon. There’s a company I am watching closely, and I want to make a play soon. Perhaps in the next month or so.”

There was a full pause on his end. “I certainly hope it’s nothing…risky, Miss Brown.”

“Not at all. We’ve done this before, right?”

“Please,” he nearly panted into the phone, “nothing too crazy. Northern Trust is expecting an account worth over six million, which would place you in their high-net-worth category. They’re not the kind of firm that appreciates…the kind of speculative plays you’ve made.”

“Have I ever steered us wrong?”

He sighed once again. “Give me the details as soon as possible. But nothing risky!”

I smiled. “No risk at all. Good night, Mr. Henderson.”

I hung up the phone, pleased about the news about Northern Trust. It was a stable firm, and in Matthew’s timeline they were famous for being steadfast and not up for wild speculation. They would weather the upcoming dot-com crash with few ill effects, and later eschewed sketchy practices like bitcoin and other cryptocurrencies that Matthew always hated. He never would have imagined being a client at their bank, let alone a high-value client.

He never imagined being a seventeen-year-old girl, either.

I pulled out the Butterfly Manifesto, and sitting cross-legged on my bed I turned to the page about a little company called Priceline.com. It was a textbook example of the dot-com bubble frenzy that existed in the late nineties; an online firm that was severely overvalued when they had their IPO simply because they were internet-based. It was going to be my last major flip before I settled down with my perceived wild and contrarian bets. I was actively monitoring it for months, and I knew that the IPO was scheduled for March, so I still had time to prepare.

It was difficult balancing my school schedule and social life with the demands of organizing my account for the next two months. Mr. Henderson was in constant contact with every small detail, and I had to take his calls or else he might let my father in on what was happening. As it was, Dad was simply happy that the investments I had chosen for him were giving him a healthy return for himself. I was still receiving acceptance letters from various schools, even schools outside of Chicago, but there was still no word from the University of Chicago. While I was confident, it still made me anxious.

I had made the arrangements to flip Priceline on Tuesday, March 30th. Weeks before, Mr. Henderson had been able to use some connections and get the initial sixteen-dollar offering price, which was far lower than the initial public price. He had mostly let one of his associates handle it, as he was in Chicago to negotiate with Northern Trust over the details of the account handover. As for myself, I called in sick that day from school so that I could watch the trade live. The orders had been underwritten by Mr. Henderson before he left for Chicago, and although his associate was shocked by the amount, the order was entered before the markets opened.

I noticed trading for Priceline didn’t begin right away as I quietly sipped tea in our TV room with the associate on the other end of the phone. I was a little nervous, but I had double and triple-checked the setup for weeks, and I knew what was going to happen. When trading began, I saw the price: eighty-one dollars.

“Execute the sell,” I ordered into the receiver.

For the next few minutes, there was a flurry of activity on the TV, and over the phone I could hear the associate barking orders at others as the entire position was sold off. It took less than ten minutes; my tea wasn’t even cold. I had allocated my liquid cash, plus a portion of my Apple stock, to put 3.7 million dollars into Priceline. In a short span, the position sold for over five times its worth.

My buy-in was transformed into eighteen million dollars—a profit of fifteen million, practically instantly.

“Send the report to my email, please,” I gasped into the receiver before hanging up. I had known what was going to happen for months, but it was surreal to see it go through in real time, and so flawlessly. I sort of wandered through the house in a daze for the next hour or so, grasping my mug in both hands even though there was no liquid left. Eventually I collapsed on my bed and merely stared at the ceiling in a wordless trance before I passed out from sheer adrenaline.

I was awakened hours later by my ringing telephone. I shook myself awake, and answered.

“Brown residence.”

“Maya, this is Bill Henderson,” he said frantically. “I just received a phone call from my firm; what just happened?!”

“The Priceline flip went through, like we planned. I don’t have the exact numbers, but—”

“Twenty-one million. Your account…went from a little over six and a half million to almost four times that in a single morning!”

“Well, yes…”

“Maya,” he breathed into the phone, “I went into this meeting expecting to transfer a robust custodial account of six million. I stepped out of the room to take the call, only to learn that it is now over twenty!? I…I…I am at a loss for words.”

“Did I do something illegal? I did it all by the book…”

“It’s not illegal, Maya, but ill-advised. I have to go back into the meeting and tell them that their prospective six-million-dollar client is now a twenty-plus client with an immediate tax problem.”

My stomach sank. “Taxes. Right.”

“Yes, taxes!” He sighed once again, seeming to catch his breath. “I’m going to go back in there and explain that there was suddenly a liquidity event. I hope that it will make you less of a prospective client, and more of a necessary acquisition. Even Northern Trust can't ignore a profit of that magnitude, no matter what its circumstances. I…will contact you later. Everything is fine, Miss Brown, but we have to initiate this transfer immediately.”

“I understand. Thank you, Mr. Henderson.”

“And one last thing,” he whispered. “Genius. Pure genius. I’ll be in touch.”

I hung up the phone and plopped down on the edge of my bed. I suppose I had been too flippant; I knew what would happen with Priceline today, as it was a significant trade in Wall Street history, but I forgot that to the rest of the world it would be looked at as a reckless gamble. I could only assume that it would make me a more appealing candidate, despite Mr. Henderson’s apprehension. A seventeen-year-old girl performing a flip of that magnitude? Northern Trust couldn't just ignore that sort of thing.

I was suddenly ravenously hungry, so I went upstairs to the kitchen to find a snack. I fixed a quick plate of cheese, crackers, and salami to bring with me to my room, and on the way down I saw the mail truck in front of our house. It was a habit of mine to grab the mail before anyone else in our house, if only to intercept certain letters that would alert my parents to my secret wealth, so I slipped on my boots to empty the mailbox.

I flipped through the mail as I trudged back to the house through the snow. An advertisement, the water bill, an insurance form…and a letter marked University of Chicago. I gasped when I saw the seal on the letter, and ran back to the house as quickly as I could. I kicked off my boots and rushed to the couch with the letter in hand. I took a deep breath and slowly opened the letter. Carefully unfolding it, I read the first few sentences.

Dear Miss Brown,

It is our distinct pleasure to inform you that your candidacy has been successful! The faculty of the University of Chicago's Committee on Admissions has offered you a place in the entering Class of 2003, recognizing your commitment to scholarly excellence and critical inquiry. Enclosed are acceptance forms…

I didn’t make it much farther than that before I started screaming. I’m not sure if I could handle making fifteen million dollars and getting accepted to my top choice for college in one morning, but I would have to find a way. After a few frantic phone calls to my parents, of course.