Chapter Fourteen
On Monday morning, after a subway ride featuring a dude who is determined to sit next to me despite the many other empty seats available, I’m back on campus with my rescued suitcase.
There’s no time for breakfast, so after dropping my luggage off in my room, I head straight to Stata, where most camp activities will take place.
The building looks like the architectural version of an existential crisis, with metallic panels that jut out at impossible angles.
The first class of the day is Software Studio, taught by this computer science professor named Dr. Kaminski. Before camp, I stalked him online. He writes these op-eds railing against AI. He thinks it’s going to get too advanced and enslave all humans or something.
When I walk into class, half the seats are filled. Lucas and Stella are near the back and she waves at me, but I pretend not to see. I can’t bring myself to join them, not after what they said about Khoi. Not after I didn’t defend him.
Soooo I guess I won’t be teaming up with Stella. Back to square zero.
Obi has an empty desk next to him. When I sit down, he’s deep in it with someone else.
They’re chatting about transformers, and it takes me a few secs to figure out that this is some machine-learning thing, not the sci-fi movie franchise.
I want to jump in with an interesting contribution, but I don’t know anything about the topic.
Khoi is nowhere to be found. Probably skipping class, since it is optional. And even though some part of me is disappointed he’s not here, I’m also kind of relieved because I feel weird about what went down on the yacht.
As Dr. Kaminski paces, his wire-rimmed glasses catch the fluorescent overhead light. “Who here writes test suites before implementing their code?”
A few hands shoot up. Obi’s arm is practically kissing the ceiling.
“Tsk, only five people? God, AI coding software is really destroying your brains.” A few nervous laughs that quickly peter out when it becomes obvious he’s not kidding.
As the professor launches into a TED Talk about test-driven development, I try to focus. But my mind drifts. Who actually tests their code before writing it? Makes zero sense. Like writing an essay outline after you’ve finished the paper…
“Listen up!” He claps his hands. “Laptops out. You have twenty minutes to build a React countdown website. Users should be able to input a deadline. You can use the internet, but no AI assistance. That’s for lazy bums.”
My stomach folds over. Twenty minutes? I’ve never coded that fast in my life. And it’s not like I’ve done this kind of thing before. Back home, our school website is basically a digital poster. It doesn’t take any user input.
The rest of the classroom fades away as I furiously comb through React docs like they might explain the meaning of life. Sure, I could make this countdown in Python, but JavaScript? My brain’s throwing an error.
A hand slams down on my desk. I jump.
Dr. Kaminski’s face looms. “I said close your laptops.”
“Sorry,” I squeak.
At the end of class, our autograded scores get posted, and I bite back a groan. At the bottom in angry red is my name: CHARISE TANG: 0 TESTS PASSED. I’m the only one who didn’t pass anything. Obi is near the top. So is Jenni-with-an-i.
A few snickers float my way. I don’t want to care—c’mon, it’s so immature to laugh at someone for failing a test—but my neck still heats up.
“Diversity admit,” somebody coughs.
Unfortunately the other classes don’t go much better.
In Computer Systems, we have to read this paper on how IP addresses work, and while I’m struggling through the first page, I overhear people complaining about how “baby” the material is.
In Data Structures and Algorithms, I can’t solve a single graph theory problem before time’s up—meanwhile, Obi breezes through the entire set in thirty minutes and spends the rest of class playing Imposter Syndrome.
At least he gets murdered every round, judging from the groans he periodically emits.
Thank God lunch isn’t graded, because I’d get an F in that, too. I sit with Obi and Diego, and they spend the entire hour arguing about whether P equals NP. When I try asking what P and NP stand for, they ignore me.
After class, most of the cohort peels off for a camp-organized tour of the Freedom Trail around Boston.
I should probably go. I’ve never even been on the East Coast, and it’s a cool opportunity to see more of the city and the history behind it.
Hear some fun tidbits like Here is the harbor where Paul Revere took a piss!
But I feel emptied out, like someone reached inside of me with a long silver spoon and scooped away my guts. All I want to do is crawl into bed and cry.
Sullenly, I walk back to Simmons. My room is empty. For once I’m grateful for Aisha’s commitment to being anywhere but here.
I want to talk to someone. Someone who won’t make me feel shitty for everything I don’t know, which disqualifies almost everyone within a five-mile radius of MIT.
Maybe I could FaceTime Lola? I check her location on Find My Friends; she’s at the diner where she waitresses.
Probably shouldn’t bother her while she’s scrounging for tips from tourists.
So for some reason, I call my mother. Aside from a quick “still have all my vital organs” update, I haven’t spoken to her since I got here, even though she’s called and texted multiple times.
When I first landed in Boston, part of me thought I would never speak to her again.
Which is also what I thought when I was five and she wouldn’t let me go to kindergarten with my stuff in a shopping cart, like the homeless guy outside her restaurant. But I’m not five anymore.
Still, it’s been several days, and though the anger remains, it doesn’t have such a jagged edge to it. I can think around it.
She picks up on the second ring.
“Baobei?” Mom says. “It’s so good to finally hear from you. How are you?”
The naked relief makes me wince. Like. It is so, so obvious that she cares about me. Which means that I have to reconcile this version of her with the version who stood by and did nothing as her husband raged. It was easier to think of her as cartoonishly evil when we weren’t speaking.
“I’m…” I wanted to speak to someone about my sadness, but now that she’s actually here, the words die on my lips. I don’t want her to worry. I want her to think that I made it out, that I’m okay.
But I feel so behind. It isn’t even like I’m running some race and the other competitors kicked off long before the bang of the starter pistol reached my ears. It’s like I showed up expecting to compete on foot only to discover everyone else driving Formula One cars.
Somehow it feels frivolous to say all this when she’s in Chinook Shore, trapped in a hopeless marriage.
It’s scary how easy it is to get caught up in the pressures of Alpha Fellows and forget about what my life used to be like. It’s like I’ve already lost the password to an old email account.
Why did I even call her? It’s not like she’ll understand any of the details.
At most she’ll tell me to work hard, keep my chin up, keep my eyes on my own paper, or some other aphorism.
Maybe she’ll say to zhuajin, which translates literally into “grab tight” but means to “save time,” as if time is a bolt of silk that I could cling to for dear life.
“I’m okay,” I say. “Things are pretty busy; I should go. But I wanted to let you know that I’m doing fine.”
The distance between us feels like this tangible thing.
After we hang up, I start on homework. There’s a paper on DNS to read by tomorrow for Computer Systems, and I prop the printout on my lap. But my mind keeps wandering.
What will life be like if I don’t win?
Will Michael even let me back into the house? He told me to never return. The bruises he left on my arm haven’t faded yet.
Maybe Lola’s mom would let me crash in Lola’s old room so I can finish out senior year. I could work part-time at the Lucky Panda. Mrs. Lombardi probably has some pamphlet on colleges that might give me a full ride based on my stats…
I don’t realize I’m crying until tears splash onto the paper.
Ever since I stumbled upon College Confidential years ago, I always knew things were different outside of Chinook Shore, but it’s hard to actually be here.
Surrounded by kids like Aisha and Khoi and Stella.
If they don’t win this competition it’ll be a disappointment, a loss of a shiny gold star for their college apps, but let’s be real.
They’ll survive. If I don’t win, I don’t know where I’ll go in September.
There’s a knock.
“Yeah?” I call, swiping at my eyes.
“Char?” It’s Khoi.
I swing my legs off my bed and open the door.
“I was looking for Aisha?”
“Haven’t seen her all day.” She wasn’t in class, either. She’s evaporated. “Have you tried texting her?”
“She doesn’t—” Khoi pauses. “Uh, it’s fine. Why aren’t you at the tour with everyone else?”
I shrug. I don’t want to explain how awful I feel. “Why aren’t you?”
“My family is from Boston, so I’ve walked the Freedom Trail before.” He peers at my face, which is still sticky with drying tears. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, fine.” It’s my default answer.
“Are you sure?”
I’m about to brush off his question, but then I pause. What’s so bad about confiding in Khoi? He’s been nothing but super nice. I’m the one who failed to defend him when other kids were talking shit. He deserves some honesty.
He’ll judge you for your struggles, a small, nasty voice whispers. Look at how accomplished he is. In comparison, you’ve done jack shit. You really want to give him more reason to look down on you?
But Khoi seems too wholesome. He isn’t like the other students here. He’s in another stratosphere, so maybe he doesn’t need to resort to the same petty insecurities that fuel the toxicity and competitiveness of my classmates.
And I really, really need a friend right now.
“Let’s get boba first,” I say. “Don’t I still owe you for that race you won?”