Chapter Twenty-Three
I enter a gleaming lobby with sweeping ceilings. There’s a receptionist who asks to see ID—I flash my Alpha Fellows lanyard—and then cross-references a list of guests. “Edvin Nilsen?” she asks. I nod. “First elevator on the left.”
I pass through a glass turnstile that silently slides open and shut. The elevator doesn’t have buttons, which I’ve never seen before. It’s kind of freaky, like I’m no longer in control of my own destination.
I get deposited at floor nine, where a rosy-cheeked East Asian woman greets me. “You must be Charise? I’m Janelle. We emailed.” I shake her hand. Even her manicure feels expensive.
Janelle offers coffee, but I decline. I’m too anxious for caffeine.
She leads me through the Nexus office. It’s Saturday, so it’s mostly empty, although there are several frazzled-looking employees typing away at desks.
There are colorful beanbags scattered everywhere, a foosball table in the corner.
Whiteboards covered in pseudocode. The view overlooking Boston Harbor is incredible, and I wish I could linger at the window for longer.
We enter a conference room with floor-to-ceiling glass walls, and there’s Edvin Nilsen.
Not even ten feet in front of me. He’s dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and he looks less handsome than his Forbes cover.
His age is starting to catch up to him: he has a receding hairline, and his jowls are pronounced.
But there’s still something magnetic about his aura.
He looks up from his phone. “Oh, hi there. Char?”
Janelle settles into the corner to jot down notes.
“Thank you so much for taking the time to meet,” I manage.
“Of course. When I was your age, I cold-emailed Bill Gates. This was back when email was still new. And to my surprise, he actually replied! His guidance was so helpful in getting me started. That’s why I started Alpha Fellows.
If I can do that for other young people, that’s something no amount of money can buy. ”
“I really appreciate this.” I’m still in disbelief.
He interlaces his fingers. “So what can I do for you?”
Right. His time is precious. I should get to it. “I’m in Alpha Fellows this summer, and we’re—” I catch myself. “I’m having difficulty ideating. It’s my first hackathon. It would be great to get tips.”
“Fair warning, I’m not on the judging panel, so if you’re looking for a cheat code, talking to me isn’t going to get you anywhere,” he says. “But I’ve been running this camp for a long time. Seen lots of winners. I’m happy to give advice.”
I basically info dump our best ideas.
“All of these are garbage,” he says.
“Oh.” I blink, taken aback by his blunt response. No, this is good. Refreshing. He’s not sugarcoating it. This is what we need. “Why?”
“Do you know why teenagers rarely build anything fantastic?”
“Because… they can’t code?” I venture.
“That’s part of it, and that’s something our camp tries to address with the first checkpoint.
But there are plenty of kids who can code.
The barrier to entry is low. Lots of free online resources.
” He shakes his head. “But most kids with the time and educational background to learn how to code don’t have any real problems to solve with those skills.
They can’t think of anything interesting.
At Alpha Fellows, we see a lot of homework planners.
Study buddies. Apps where you can compliment your friends anonymously. Boring.”
“Um, okay.” I’d appreciate a compliment every now and then, but I guess the idea doesn’t sound too promising. The internet was basically invented to anonymously insult others.
He jabs a finger at me. “I remember your application. Oregon, right?”
God, I hope he doesn’t start using that nickname too. “Yeah…”
“Your application was… eh. Nothing special. No offense. Perfect grades and test scores, sure, but everybody has that. That script you wrote to catch the test bank thief took some cleverness, but it didn’t have any impact outside of your no-name school.
The admissions committee was torn. People didn’t see the point in accepting you when we were already rejecting USAMO qualifiers and ISEF finalists. ”
I don’t ask what those words even mean. Probably other competitions I’ve never heard of. “Uh.”
“But I wanted you,” he says, like he’s a savior swooping in to deliver clean drinking water to an impoverished village. “You reminded me of myself. From bumfuck nowhere. Surrounded by losers.”
My spine stiffens. I don’t like the way he’s talking about my background, even though he’s not entirely wrong.
“When I was a teenager, I was homeless for a while,” he says. “But I figured out how to survive. Got into college. Dropped out to catch the dot-com bubble. Made money.” From Edvin’s Wikipedia page, I already knew this origin story, but it hits different hearing him say it out loud.
“Most of the students we admit, they’re babies. They don’t have any grit. They don’t need any. I wanted you because you seemed resilient. Strong.”
I drink in the compliment. It’s embarrassing how good it feels that Edvin Nilsen thinks well of me. “Thanks.”
“So do me a favor. Prove that I was right to take a bet on you instead of Kevin Chen or whoever from Fremont who’s been winning math contests since they were in diapers.” He crosses his arms. “What’s something unique about you? Something you could solve?”
I think. What’s special about Charise Tang? I’m a girl in a camp full of guys. “Maybe I could work on something related to reproductive health? Like a menstrual cycle tracker?”
“It’s not a bad idea, but there are already plenty of those out there,” he says.
From her corner, Janelle adds, “Also, the government can use that data to prosecute women for illegal abortions.”
“Oh.” That’s messed up. I hate that.
“Keep thinking,” he says.
I recall what Lola told me in the car. I’m worried about what’s going to happen to her once I’m gone. Her mother doesn’t have a large support system. Neither does mine.
Back in Portland, my mom used WeChat to find new friends, join local groups. Everyone typed in Chinese characters. But once we moved, she couldn’t do that anymore because there were no Chinese people around.
“Maybe an app for helping immigrants connect with each other?” I try. It sounds so trite. “It’s so difficult to move to a new country, especially if you don’t know people like you.”
For the first time since I walked in, Edvin seems intrigued. “Say more.”
So I tell him about how, before I was born, my mother lived in some dingy one-bed apartment with another roommate. She slept in the living room. It took her months to realize she was paying double rent, and that was only because one of her school friends knew the tenant who Mom had replaced.
Edvin shakes his head. “Scamming a pregnant woman? Disgusting.”
That’s an obvious example of scum-of-the-earth behavior, but I’m thinking of all the little moments too.
Like once, when my mom and I spoke Mandarin, a stranger asked why we even came here if we weren’t going to speak English.
Or when she started going by Quinn instead of her birth name.
When she stopped calling Michael out for wearing shoes inside the house.
When she stopped cooking the dishes of her childhood. All the tiny sadnesses.
Being an immigrant in a new country means falling asleep under foreign stars that will never align themselves into the constellations you once knew.
Later that afternoon, when I tell Khoi about the meeting with Edvin Nilsen, he’s annoyed.
“Why didn’t you invite me? If the roles were reversed, I would’ve brought you along.”
“It’s not the same.” Khoi already has the clout. People already respect him. He doesn’t need to build this connection the way I do.
“How is it not the same?”
I don’t know how to explain it. “Sorry? I didn’t know you were dying to see Edvin Nilsen in the flesh. He’s less handsome up-close.”
“I’m not dying to see him! It’s about the principle. We’re teammates. We shouldn’t hide things like this from each other.” He shakes his head. “Be careful. He didn’t get rich by being benevolent. Guys like Edvin always want something.”
“What are you suggesting? That he’s only interested in me because he wants something gross?
” That’s so insulting. Besides, he’s married.
Third wife, Australian actress who’s been in a string of Netflix rom-coms, I think.
Or maybe he got divorced last year? Maybe I’m getting him confused with Elon Musk.
Anyway, he clearly wasn’t interested in me in some pervy, old guy way. His assistant Janelle was in the room the entire time.
“No, that’s not what I’m saying.” He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Forget it. Did you get anything useful out of the meeting, at least?”
Great, we’re moving on. “We ideated. I was thinking an app for immigrants to connect with each other, exchange info for putting down roots in America. Edvin likes it a lot.”
“I don’t know, Char,” he says. “I don’t want to implement Edvin’s ideas.”
Of course we’re back to this topic. Why’s Khoi being such a hater?
“It wasn’t his idea. It was mine.” But Edvin was one who came through with the questions that inspired the concept, and his encouragement gave me the confidence to actually pursue it further.
Otherwise I would’ve assumed it was too niche or too social justice-y.
“Do you even know what Nexus does?”
His question is condescending, but I try to answer in good faith anyway. “Something about data analytics?” I’ve looked it up, but they’re very secretive. Yet the vibes at their office were so playful and open. They can’t be, like, sacrificing kittens.
“They have defense contracts,” Khoi says. “I’ve heard…” But he trails off.
That doesn’t seem bad. “If you’re so against Edvin, why are you even at a camp that he started?”
“It feels different when he’s not as involved. He’s barely here. And I wanted to meet other kids like me,” he says. “Kids who like to code.”
“Edvin Nilsen can’t be that evil if he’s running a program like this for free, right? He probably poured tons of money into this.”
“There are lots of other corporate sponsors for Alpha Fellows. Like, Haru’s dad with Watanabe Technologies.
” He chews on his pen. “But forget all that. Your idea is good. My dad’s family came as refugees when he was a kid, and they struggled to find community.
My mom was an adoptee, and she also felt out of place in her lily-white family. ”
That makes Khoi a second-generation immigrant. Like me. “What was it like for you, growing up here?”
“In elementary school, I was the only Asian kid in my grade,” he says. “Other people would always try to guess ‘where I came from,’ like it was a game they could win. And then they’d always get it wrong. Nobody ever thinks Vietnam.”
“Or when they pull the outer corners of their eyes,” I say.
“Right! Why do they do that? Nobody actually looks like that.”
The first time I knew I was different was maybe first grade.
One of the girls in my class decided that Charise was too hard to pronounce, so she start calling me Ching Chong instead.
Soon, everyone had started doing it. To six-year-old me, this was incredibly bizarre—Ching Chong sounded nothing like Charise, and besides, I went by Char.
In a meeting with both my mother and me, my teacher had to explain that the kids were being racist.
“Ignore them,” Mom said after the meeting. “Americans, they’re soft. When I was in school, kids used their fists. Bullying with words? That’s so cowardly.”
Did Mom think my bullies should start throwing hands? That was kind of disturbing.
I decided to shut up and swallow my anger. And never talk to anyone about this ever again. Until right now. It feels like I’ve been navigating around a sinkhole in my living room for so long that I forgot why I was even taking the detour.