107 P.M.—The Button Manor #3
Fola was quickly followed by Octavius, who ambled in in a state that Romeo was almost certain was an intoxicated one.
Romeo rarely saw or spoke with his brother, outside of their bimonthly texts (which usually involved Romeo sending Octavius a funny meme and Octavius reacting with a mismatched emoji of some kind), but on the rare occasions Romeo did see him, he’d always have an absentminded air and a mask of positivity brought on by a drink or three.
Octavius’s drunken state was confirmed by the absurd grin on his face and the displeased look on Fola’s as he took his seat next to her.
As expected, last to enter was their father.
He was a domineering figure. Despite being shorter than Bilal (which everyone was) he always felt taller, still, than any of the three brothers.
His gray hair, which had thankfully grown back since the fire-eating incident, was slicked back, somehow making his already very severe appearance even more severe.
Mr. Button’s presence inspired an immediate, revered hush before the loudest applause yet broke out.
But, despite the clapping, a strange tension still swept the conference room as Mr. Button strode in.
He gave the sea of journalists an abrupt wave and a tight smile as he made his way to his seat at the center of the table.
“The man of the hour,” Evie said, seemingly to herself, but Romeo nodded anyway, glancing down at her again and noticing a slight scowl on the ballerina’s face.
Before Romeo could give it a second thought, a very tall woman with a cropped platinum-blond bob, dressed handsomely in a pin-striped suit, went to a podium at the front of the room.
Romeo recognized her as the head of his father’s publicity team.
Her name was something like Claude or Chloe or Cleo.
Claude/Chloe/Cleo addressed the room with a dazzling veneered smile.
“Hello, everyone. Thank you for your patience. My name is Claire, and I will be facilitating the questions for today’s very exclusive press conference.
This is, as you know, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for unguarded access to this prominent family on this wonderful ten-year anniversary of the Prodigy Ball, celebrating the triumph that is the Button Method and the brilliant minds that believe in it.
You are all privileged to be here,” Claire said, with a grin that felt sinister.
“We only have time for one question per journalist, as you know, so please keep your question brief. I’ll be calling on you all individually to keep a concise system in place. ”
“I take it you’re sitting this one out?” Evie whispered, pulling Romeo’s attention away.
“What?” Romeo whispered back.
“The press conference. You’re not up there,” she said, stating the obvious.
Of course I’m not up there, Romeo thought. He couldn’t tell if Evie really didn’t know why he wasn’t or was just playing naive to spare his feelings. He looked at her closely. She seemed to be genuinely asking.
“Yeah, I guess I’m not,” Romeo whispered back. He wasn’t sure how else he was meant to respond.
Why am I not up there? Because, unlike my siblings, I am not a prodigy. In fact I am the furthest you could get from genius.
“I’d sit it out too. I hate cameras,” Evie replied.
“Don’t they film your ballet performances?” he asked, trying to shift gears.
“Yeah, but I guess that’s different.”
“Different how?”
“Well, when you’re dancing onstage, you’re just part of a bigger picture.
Most of the time, no one is there for just you specifically.
They’re there for the performance itself, the set design, all the characters, and the pieces that go into making the whole thing.
I don’t matter … I guess that’s the difference. ”
I don’t matter. Her words echoed inside. He looked back to the front, where Claire was now gesturing away at the row of his brilliant brothers and sisters.
“That makes sense,” Romeo said quietly.
“What about you, what makes you not take part in this all?” she asked with so much sincerity, he almost found it funny.
Was it possible that Evie really did not know the truth that everyone else in this room and probably on planet Earth seemed to know?
The truth that, as far as most people were concerned, there were only four Button Heirs in this family. Four genius offspring. And not a single one of them was Romeo.
The truth that if the Button family were a sturdy jacket, Romeo would be the invisible button sewn into the seams. The one always on standby for the unlikely scenario that one of the main, reliably fastened buttons fell off.
“I also hate cameras,” he said, speaking in more half-truths. “I’m terrible in front of them. Like really bad. Catastrophically bad.”
“I’m sure you’re far greater than you believe, Romeo,” Evie said, and then smiled at him with such genuine warmth he was unsure how to react. So he said nothing at all and returned his focus to the press conference ahead.
The first question was for his father.
“Why this date every year? November twenty-third—does it hold some kind of significance to you and your family?” the journalist asked, offering the tamest of questions.
“Fibonacci,” Mr. Button answered simply with a slight sneer, as if it were obvious.
“The mathematician?” the journalist asked.
“Yes indeed. The genius mind that brought us the Fibonacci sequence, the brilliant mind I should say …,” Mr. Button began, going into his usual lengthy spiel that Romeo had grown used to hearing over the years.
His dad was obsessed with all the greats in history, not just kid geniuses.
He was a fan of everyone from Fibonacci to Einstein, Mozart to Britney Spears (his father was strangely fond of Britney Spears).
They’d been made to study them all in excessive detail.
But with Fibonacci it was different. He and his siblings were convinced that his father had a thing for the dead Italian genius.
They all knew to never bring up Fibonacci to their father if they didn’t want an hour-long lecture on his brilliance, something the journalist clearly wasn’t aware of. As a result, it took his father a million years to get to the point, but eventually he did.
“I digress … Your question was about the date. Why November twenty-third? Well, the first set of numbers in the Fibonacci sequence starts with one, one, two, three—which gives us Fibonacci Day. And what better day to host the Prodigy Ball that strives to celebrate genius than his day? Though this is technically a two-day affair, with the annual post-ball brunch here in my home tomorrow.”
The brunch none of my siblings and I are forced to attend, Romeo thought with relief.
The next question, to no surprise, was again for their father.
“Could you take us back to the beginning?” an eager journalist asked.
A willow of a man with an inquisitive stare.
“You write in detail about what you originally called your ‘Saving Humanity Project.’ The adoption of your brilliant children. The project that, soon after, became known as your world-renowned Button Method. Is there anything you’ve reflected on over the years? Any regrets or triumphs?”
His father’s plastic smile faltered ever so slightly, something the journalist probably wouldn’t pick up on, but Romeo did. He was used to the nuances of his father’s ever-shifting face.
“Hmm, what an interesting question,” his father began, which was another dead giveaway that the question had not entirely pleased him.
Then again, what could follow Fibonacci?
“Yes, I would say the whole thing was a triumph and that because of me, humanity is most definitely saved. I took these children from God only knows what miserable life they might’ve faced elsewhere, and I made them accomplished.
My only regret is not expanding the project further.
A larger data pool would have not only yielded more results, but would ultimately have saved a lot more kids from their terrible fates.
Perhaps when I invent time travel next, I’ll go back and fix my mistakes,” he said.
Everyone seemed to laugh except Romeo, who felt a dull ache form in the center of his chest.
One by one, other journalists followed with their own questions for the Buttons, from the professional to the personal, the expected and the unexpected.
“Fola, you graduated with your bachelor of science degree at the impressive age of twelve years and three months. Then you of course completed your PhD in quantum mathematics just at the start of last year at sixteen years old. You are the very picture of what being prodigious is,” one journalist began.
“Yes,” Fola replied in a simple neutral tone, unperturbed by the flattery. Fola knew she was brilliant; it was one of her defining characteristics. As such, she never thanked anyone for acknowledging what was obvious from even the satellites orbiting Earth.
“You’ve done so much already. I was wondering, what’s next for you?” the journalist continued, sweating under Fola’s unflinching gaze.
“Well, I can’t say much at the moment … but I can tell you that I am considering a number of avenues and will announce my decision when I’m ready. Right now though, my main concern is to try and enjoy this short break from academia by focusing on some leisurely competition,” Fola replied.
“And by leisurely competition, I assure you my daughter means that she intends on defending her hard-earned Grandmaster world title in chess,” their father interrupted with his practiced charm and plastic smile.