The Butterfly Manifesto

“It’s 1999. The old rules of investment just don’t apply to the digital landscape.”

Sean, a cocky sophomore brimming with confidence, leaned back into his chair. The Thursday afternoon sunlight slanted through the gothic windows of the Social Sciences building, illuminating the dancing dust motes. My Economics discussion group sat in a semicircle in the room, and the air was thick with debate and optimism.

"You’re stating that the rules of valuation don't apply?" the professor asked, looking over his glasses.

"The internet has eliminated friction," Sean continued, looking around the room. "That is a fundamental shift in physics, not just economics. When you can reach the entire planet instantly, 'profit' is secondary to velocity. The tech sector isn't losing money because they're bad at business; they're losing money on purpose to own the infrastructure of the next century. The internet represents infinite potential. Look at NASDAQ; it’s over three thousand and growing. If you’re not expanding your digital landscape, you’ll be left behind."

I sat in my chair, legs crossed and unimpressed. I was the only girl in the room, and the only one not nodding in agreement with Sean’s assertion. I tapped my pencil against my notebook as I held my chin thoughtfully.

“Miss Brown,” my professor prompted, “you look skeptical.”

The dozen or so students turned at once, sardonically chuckling among themselves. I often found myself being the lone counterpoint in most of our class’s arguments on finance or the economy.

“I wouldn’t say skeptical. But I can do the math,” I replied calmly.

“Here we go again,” sighed Sean. “Brown, engagement is value. And the internet represents value with nothing tying it down like property or infrastructure. There are no limits, only growth!”

"If a company loses money on every unit it sells, it cannot make it up in volume," I retorted. "Eventually, the cheap capital dries up. Interest rates will tick up. When the liquidity event ends, these companies have to sell a product for more than it costs to make. If they can't, the valuation isn't 'future growth.' It's zero."

The other students smirked at each other, or gave sighs of annoyance. It wasn’t the first time that the lone girl in the room was politely dismissed. They all had the makings of late-’90s investment bros, and the only thing keeping them from aggressively denouncing the buzzkill was the fact that she was harmless and easy on the eyes. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as if I had any proof of my conceits. It was late 1999, and the economy was exploding in profit.

“That’s a very traditional point of view, Miss Brown,” the professor noted. “However, it looks as though we are out of time for today. Class will be meeting as usual next Tuesday before the break. Have a good weekend.”

The class simultaneously began packing our things. Despite being constantly at odds with the other students, I appreciated the debate. It was nice actually engaging in coursework, and I found it satisfying being the contrarian, especially since I knew I would be vindicated. I tossed my notebooks into my shoulder bag, and spotted my chrome Nokia screen glowing, indicating a missed call. I palmed the expensive device so that it wouldn't draw attention and exited into the stony hallway.

Finding a secluded alcove, I read the number to myself and was disappointed it wasn’t Catherine’s. It had been almost a month since that dinner at Antonio's, and while I had made several attempts to call and beg her to talk to me, she never responded. I hoped it was because we were both simply so busy, but I was afraid that my secrets had finally caught up with me. I missed my best friend.

Stuffing the phone back into my bag, I debated whether I should grab a coffee or not before heading to Hitchcock Hall for the afternoon. I heard a set of footprints falling in step with me from behind.

“You really don’t trust anyone with money, do you, Brown?” teased Sean, his precise ginger haircut contrasting his easygoing confidence.

“I don’t trust most speculators with money,” I replied with a sidelong smile, “but I do trust human greed and arithmetic.”

Sean laughed. “Fair enough. If we’re done discussing a supposed financial apocalypse,” he grinned wolfishly, “I hear there’s going to be a rockin’ show at Ida Noyes tonight. The lead guitarist’s supposed to be pretty hot!”

The come-on was as blunt as the way he smiled. “Oh, she totally is,” I demurred. “In fact, I’m heading over to meet the girls before we set up for tonight. Maybe I’ll see you there. Maybe.”

Sean chuckled. “Maybe. Later, Brown,” he finished as he turned a corner.

I walked back to Hitchcock Hall to meet up with the band before dinner like I usually did. Since I didn't actually live in Hitchcock, I usually treated our drummer Deb’s room as our base of operations. When I walked in, Nance, the lead singer and bassist, was already there, raiding Deb’s closet while Deb sat on her bed, staring into space and tapping her bed frame with a pair of pencils.

“I hate all of my clothes,” Nance announced, holding up one of Deb’s blouses. “I look like a lumberjack who gave up on life.”

“You look fine,” Deb said, twirling her pencils. “It’ll be dark. No one is going to see your plaid.”

“I’ll know, Deb. I’ll know.” Nance tossed the shirt and flopped onto the beanbag chair.

I smiled, dropping my bag by the door. Nance was a fine arts major with dyed orange hair and zero volume control, while Deb was a bio major who moved through life somehow being more analytical than I was. The University of Chicago housing algorithm had sorted the three of us into the same House based on "Musical Interest," and magically, an all-girl rock band formed. We strictly did covers: mostly Veruca Salt, The Breeders, or Hole, but it was great to play in front of people again, and even better that I didn’t have to sneak around to do it.

We called ourselves The Belle Curves. All three of us were statistics nerds.

We grabbed a quick dinner at the dining hall where we mostly listened to Nance complain about a guy in her Civ class while Deb tapped the table rhythmically to a song in her head. After finishing our half-cooked pastas we headed over to Ida Noyes where we met our tech guy Reggie unloading Deb’s snare drum from his van.

“How is it that Reggie always arrives way before we do?” Deb asked out loud.

“Obviously,” smirked Nance, “Maya’s sleeping with him in exchange for hauling our stuff around all the time!”

The truth wasn’t so scandalous. Since I didn't have a closet on campus to stash an amp or a guitar case, let alone a full drum kit, I had Linda quietly hire him part-time to transport our gear and store everything when we weren’t playing. Not only did I pay exceptionally well for a few hours of work, but after our sets he DJed whichever party we were playing at. The girls were blissfully unaware that I was bankrolling our girl band and saving them labor.

We found the performance space and had ample time to warm up before guests began filtering in. When the energy felt right, we readied our instruments.

"Ready?" I asked, plugging into my amp.

"Always," Deb said, sitting behind the kit, twirling her sticks.

Nance stepped up to the crowd. “Good evening, UChicago! We’re The Belle Curves!”