2. What You Think Your Sleep Schedule IsIsn’t
WHAT YOU THINK YOUR SLEEP SCHEDULE IS OR ISN’T
BEFORE
The first month of competitions were online and theoretically anonymous. Still, even though this is the first time the top eighteen have been gathered in person, it’s clear there are preexisting cliques.
I sit with the newbies and outsiders: the only other girl, a guy dressed for the gym, a pale nerd archetype glued to his manga, and an oddly lanky man who’s folding origami as if it’s an arts and crafts camp.
I clear my throat. “Are they going to release the current rankings?”
“Naw, it’s more Hunger Games this way.” It’s the large man-boy wearing an oversized tank and basketball shorts who answers. On his name tag, he’s written Brody, he/him/bro/dude.
Which tracks.
“The official logic is that it might bias us against one another and not let us see who we might otherwise click with.” This from Eleanor, who reaches over to shake my hand while pointing to her name tag.
I nod. I’d suspected one and read the other, but I had wanted to hear everyone talk.
“Three-minute warning.”
The projector at the front of the classroom flips on (because apparently, Caltech still has projectors), displaying our real names next to our online handles.
We all have Codeforces accounts because the Russian website remains the premier practice site.
Caltech’s official stance is that our Codeforces rank will not impact team selection, but knowing one another’s usernames will give us a chance to investigate and stalk before deciding who we’d like to team up with.
“Two minutes. Remember, rankings will be updated live, just as they’re displayed at SoCal regionals, nationals, and then worlds. That said, don’t let yourself get distracted. Worry about your own code, and happy debugging.”
People around me start putting on AirPods, and I dig out my own knockoffs.
The website for the Caltech contest refreshes with a one-minute countdown.
Everyone here wants this for their résumés, the prestige, the guaranteed internships.
Me?
I need this.
Winning nationals would mean $15,000, cash. Worlds would be another $15,000 and a nearly guaranteed internship at one of the big fintech companies.
Even split with two teammates, that would be $10,000.
Five months of rent, even if my father forgets to send the checks. Enough left over to pay for after-school activities for Aurora. Music lessons for Wren. New clothes for Harper. Maybe even a tiny bit of redemption for getting my younger sisters and mother into this position.
I cut off my useless train of thoughts.
There’s no time for spiraling. I lean forward as my Linkin Park loop starts and the tryout problems load.
“Damn.”
“Seriously? WTF.”
These are the most repeated responses when the competition ends.
Some of it’s directed at me, surprise that the lowly freshman ranked third, because even though I was a top-five high school programmer, everything resets in college. Caltech has international medalists from India, Russia, and China, meaning no one expected me to do this well.
Still, what’s truly shocked everyone (myself included) is that the guy in first is also an unknown.
“Who are you guys?” It’s Arjun Gupta who voices the question on everyone’s minds.
A short, slightly chubby Indian man with curly brown hair, Arjun has spread his name out over two name tag stickers: You know my name.
You don’t need my pronouns. Bronze @ Worlds Bitches.
As the only Caltech student who’s both eligible and a returning champ, he’d expected to dominate, not be sandwiched between two unknowns.
I point to my name tag. “Lorelai Zhao.” And because I want to make sure everyone understands, that none of them leave thinking I’m some diversity admit who got in because I’m a girl who codes, I remind them, “I’m the freshman.”
Because yes, I know I’m the only first-year within the top eighteen. And while there are certainly more seasoned competitors here, I’m hoping to convince Arjun I have enough potential to be on his Team A.
Arjun narrows his eyes, clearly unimpressed.
“You want an award?” Arjun mimics a slow-clap, stopping to high-five another bro whose name tag I can’t see.
“That’s the goal.” My voice is steady as I maintain eye contact. If I can survive my father’s chaotically sporadic cross-examinations? I can handle two techbro wannabes and their milquetoast attempts at intimidation.
“She used Python to solve one of the problems.” Arjun isn’t even talking to me anymore. Because Python runs slower, contest programmers are often snobbish about its usage.
“Python’s got a couple technical areas where it’s stronger out of the box. Dictionary insertion order is one example.”
“Right,” Arjun says, his disdain a palpable thing; he clearly hasn’t heard and does not care to hear my logic on this, even though my solve was faster than his.
Still, do I feel a small surge of satisfaction when he breaks eye contact first?
Yes—yes, I do.
Trying to get on Team A was always going to be an uphill battle, and there’s no way any of them will take me seriously if I act like some shy, wilting flower.
“So I’m third, but who’s Lemming1024?”
A couple desks over, the tall, rail-thin man with shaggy, unkempt dark-brown hair that goes a little past his chin, Keanu Reeves–style, raises his hand.
His beard is scruffy and he’s wearing a plain T-shirt, old jeans that are clearly not faded-on-purpose, and an old-school analog watch with a wide and very faded leather band. “Lucas Murray. I just transferred.”
“The one from community college?”
“How old is he?”
Lucas glances over, and it’s unclear whether he’s annoyed or bored; his bearded face is too Bland Mask to tell. “I’m twenty. And yes, I graduated from Pasadena City College.”
“Damn,” someone says, because community college transfers are rare, and the idea that anyone could transfer into a top-ten college and still somehow be better?
Unusual doesn’t begin to cover it.
I don’t react, but I’m also thinking, Damn, because competence is always attractive.
But also, Double damn, because he’s additional competition I hadn’t factored in during my summer of studying, stalking potential competition, working extra hours at the Pizza Palace, and, again, this time with feeling . . . more studying.
Christopher Zhang calls us to order. As an outgoing senior who was on last year’s bronze-winning team with Arjun, Christopher, never Chris, he/him, has already attended worlds twice, meaning he’s officially disqualified and thus our de facto student mentor.
“All right, folks. Next in-person contest will be in four days, which, you’ll remember from the email reminder, will be a morning competition.”
He puts both hands up when there are audible groans from around the room.
“Yes, yes, we understand some of you label yourselves as morning people, others are night owls, and oh wow, it’s like totes never fair.
” He bobs his head back and forth, no doubt to show off the blond streaks juxtaposing with his black hair and still-thick accent.
“Trust me when I say ICPC does not give a fuck what you think your sleep schedule is. Therefore, in the interest of fairness, neither do we. We specifically want to see how everyone who still wants to compete does in the early morning. So, Saturday morning. Contest starts at six fifteen.”
Christopher claps his hands together and, without asking for questions, declares, “Since there are no questions, go home. Get drunk. Turn in a pset on time. And for fuck’s sake don’t bother me with questions when answers are readily available on Discord.”
As I pack my laptop, I’m not surprised to see that almost everyone, including Arjun, is headed toward Lucas, asking what he’s been studying, whether he’s been hiding his prowess behind alt accounts, and what programming languages he’s most competent in.
Eleanor’s the only one who approaches me to exchange phone numbers.
I glance down at her phone. “You really want to be labeled the girl team?”
Eleanor’s answer is short. “We’d need a third girl for that.”
I huff out a reluctant laugh before taking her phone. One contact is better than none.
Lucas is the only one who notices me leave, his eyes on me even as he answers questions from four different people at once. I’ve barely left the building when he catches up.
“Do you want to exchange contact information?”
I narrow my eyes because of course, yes, I’d love to practice with the guy who just ranked first, but also—
“Aren’t you angling for Arjun’s team?”
Lucas tilts his head to study me, putting out a hand that doesn’t quite touch me.
His long fingers are a suggestion that perhaps we should move to the side and continue talking even as the rest of the crowd filters out behind.
He crowds me a little as he’s jostled from behind, and I get a whiff of Old Spice, soap, and I swear . . . sawdust?
I move to the side and wait for him to continue.
“Not necessarily.” He pauses, and I can feel my annoyance growing.
I’ve known people like Lucas, who take their time to formulate every little thought; I rarely have enough patience to maintain such friendships.
Though, really, who am I kidding? Friendship, in general, is not a luxury I make time for these days.
Finally, after the tectonic plates have realigned in the time it’s taken for Lucas to construct a full sentence, he asks, “Is that what you’d like?”
“Of course. Arjun’s the shoo-in. And I think he’s already decided Xinzhe will be his second.
” Lucas nods, and because no words are forthcoming, I explain just in case Lucas is this new to the competitive scene.
“Xinzhe’s the medalist from China who almost made the cut last year?
Either way, if they’re already matched, there’s only one spot left on Team A. ”
I look impatiently at my phone; I have overdue library books to finish and return, because apparently there’s a one-hundred-book limit at Caltech, some ramen to boil, a string of not-an-emergency-but-she-thinks-they’re-emergency messages from my mother to reply to, as well as a problem set to turn in.
I’ve just about forgotten Lucas is there when he murmurs, “Then maybe we need to start putting together an even stronger Team B.”
“Why me?”
“Besides the fact you’ve performed consistently well? You taught me something today—you used the fact that in Python, dicts naturally iterate by insertion order. I hadn’t thought of it, and it was a better, cleaner solve.”
My eyebrows rise of their own volition. At least someone was listening.
Lucas hands me the little origami lucky star he was folding before the competition began. It’s made from the neon-green algorithmic cheat sheet we were given for the contest and is surprisingly sturdy.
“Good luck Saturday,” Lucas tells me, fidgeting a little now that he no longer has papers to fold. His lips curl up just a little, and I detect the slightest hint of a blush as he stammers out, “Given what I’ve already seen? I’m prepared to be impressed.”