Chapter 4: The Cost of Going Fifty-Fifty

Three days before the SAT, school let us go home to study on our own.

Most kids holed up in libraries or coffee shops. Me? I hit the streets, soaking in the freedom.

With my superpower, I didn’t need to study at all—I just strolled around town, living it up. Best SAT prep ever.

I wandered through the park, grabbed a slice of pizza, even played chess with an old guy outside the library. He beat me, but I didn’t mind.

Whenever I saw someone interesting, I’d use my power to experience their skills.

It was like sampling life’s buffet—one skill at a time.

[Ding! You and Carl Batista are now fifty-fifty!]

Suddenly, I felt like a street racing god. I almost wanted to launch a rental scooter into a two-gear drift.

I gripped the handlebars, itching to test my new reflexes. Maybe next time.

Guy was a legend behind the wheel.

I tipped Carl an extra five bucks, just for the thrill.

[Ding! You and Tony Russo are now fifty-fifty!]

A flood of culinary knowledge hit me, so I headed to the market to cook myself a Thanksgiving feast. Why not treat myself?

I picked out fresh herbs, marinated a turkey breast, and whipped up mashed potatoes that would make Grandma proud.

"Whoa!"

A scooter drifted around the corner and crashed right in front of me.

The delivery guy in blue winced in pain. I hurried over, helped him up, and pulled him out from under the scooter.

He looked grateful, but embarrassed. I dusted him off and checked his ankle.

He thanked me, then tried to get back on, but his ankle gave out and he almost fell again.

"Bro, I’m really sorry. I think I sprained my ankle. Can you deliver this order for me?"

He pointed at the nearby office building, looking helpless. Guess I’m a delivery guy now.

I shrugged. "Sure, man. I got you."

Fine, I’ll do a good deed for the day.

I took the food and his phone, and strolled toward the building.

The bag smelled amazing—some kind of spicy fried chicken. My stomach rumbled, but I stayed strong.

Just inside, the security guard stopped me.

"Sorry, no food deliveries allowed inside."

He was polite but firm. I gave him a sheepish grin and nodded.

I shrugged and called the customer.

"Hello, this is ‘Starving Yet?’ delivery. Could you come downstairs to pick up your order?"

Yikes. Someone’s hangry.

A grumpy male voice snapped back:

"What took you so long? I’m starving here! Get up here now!"

He sounded like he’d missed breakfast and lunch. I rolled my eyes, trying to stay calm.

I paused, then replied, "I can’t—the guard won’t let me in. I’ll leave it at the front desk."

"If you leave it at the desk, I’ll file a complaint! The guard’s not my problem, that’s your job! Useless!"

Damn.

Even though I wasn’t a real delivery guy, that still pissed me off.

I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to tell him off. But some people just have no chill.

"Screw you, man! Eat sand for all I care!"

I handed the food to the guard, hung up, and walked off.

The guard gave me a sympathetic look. I just shrugged, muttering under my breath.

I’d barely made it a few steps when a roar came from behind:

"Hey, delivery guy! Get back here!"

I turned to see a fat guy huffing and puffing as he ran out.

He looked about five-foot-three and weighed about the same—in pounds.

He was sweating bullets, face red as a tomato. I braced myself for round two.

Okay, that’s new.

The guy was built like a horizontal propane tank.

I tried not to laugh, but it wasn’t easy.

"My office is on the second floor. Would it kill you to bring it up? With your skills, you’ll never be more than a delivery guy!"

He started cursing, making even the guard frown.

I wasn’t having it. I shot back:

"Look at you, a walking slab of bacon with legs. You get winded just coming down one flight—sorry, didn’t mean to insult dogs."

"If you’re this wiped out from the stairs, you might drop dead on the way back up. Want me to call a forklift?"

"Next time, just jump down to pick up your food. With all that fat, you’ll have a built-in cushion."

His face turned purple. "Do you know who my dad is? This whole building belongs to my family!"

Of course. The rich kid card.

Oh, a rich kid?

Figures. Every city’s got one.

I activated my power to check him out.

[Ding! You and Carter Mayfield are now fifty-fifty!]

So his last name really is Mayfield? That name’s… something else. Money practically oozes from that name.

I pictured a country club, tennis whites, and a dad named "Chip." Couldn’t help it.

Genius naming, really.

My phone buzzed. I checked it and froze.

[Venmo transfer: $18 million.]

I wiped the sweat from my forehead.

Dodged a bullet.

Thank goodness—he was showing off his net worth, so the fifty-fifty split only applied to that.

I nearly fainted. For a second, I wondered if I should quit school and buy an island.

If it had split our weights, I’d have to start my life over.

No way I’m carrying that much.

I quickly canceled the power and coaxed him:

"You said your family owns this building? How much of it do you actually own?"

He puffed up with pride. "Forty-seven percent!"

I activated my power again.

[Ding! You and Carter Mayfield are now fifty-fifty!]

Here goes nothing.

I braced myself for whatever came next. In my world, you never know what a fifty-fifty split might bring.

And for the first time, I wondered what 'equal' might cost me.