4. Either Way, I’m In #2
“You want the emotional, overreacting girl who tied for fifth?”
“You want the first-generation, community college transfer who everyone thinks got in through affirmative action?”
I suck in a breath because the way Lucas said that, quickly and without thinking, demonstrates it’s been on his mind.
He points to his glasses. “My vision is shit, but my hearing’s quite good. I know my résumé doesn’t measure up to the other potential teammates.”
“Past medals aren’t going to help you win.
” And because that really doesn’t seem like enough, I allow myself to be completely truthful.
“I used to attend the type of private schools some of these guys went to. It wouldn’t be surprising if some of them have been tutored and coached to within an inch of their life.
The fact that you’re doing this well, completely on your own? Makes you more impressive.”
I’m hoping my words calm him, but instead, I can see Lucas doing the rapid-blink thing Aurora does when she thinks she’s getting emotional.
“Thank you,” he tells me finally, clearing his throat, looking at me with real Boy Scout earnestness.
“Given how well you’ve performed before today, you’ve earned some benefit of the doubt.
As I’m a perfect example, we’re all emotional sometimes.
But what’s more important to me is that your code is clean, your comments are good, and your solutions are simple. ”
As usual, it’s impossible to tell with this guy, so I ask, “Simple good or simple bad?”
“Not unnecessarily complicated. Elegant.”
Not the yes and no Lucas could have answered with, but whatever.
“You’ve been looking at my code?”
“Your GitHub repository is brilliant. You’re an insightful problem solver. Your online trials were great. First in-person competition held up, a small fencepost problem away from placing third in the second contest. All of which means today was the anomaly.”
It’s everything I hoped Arjun would notice, and I can’t help the small thrill at feeling .
. . seen. Though I rarely explain myself to anyone, the explanations now rush out of me.
“My roommate was loud-banging two nights ago, meaning little sleep. Then, yesterday . . . I had a family situation. Everything’s fine, but there was a short trip to the ER and various follow-up things. ”
“Trips to the ER are never particularly short.”
“I don’t want to make it sound worse than it was.
Everyone always says they had a family emergency, but it’s just so overused.
One of my sisters had a 104.5-degree fever.
” What I don’t say, because it doesn’t feel as concrete, is that my mother was melting down.
Or that Wren and Aurora were anxious and needed to be fed and reassured.
“It could have been worse,” I tell him, meaning: It has been worse in the past. “But I’ve been off campus for almost forty-eight hours, and I know it sounds like an excuse—”
“It sounds like life with family responsibilities. More importantly, it shows that even stressed and exhausted, you can perform well.”
And because I’m crazy and can’t stop myself from arguing, I remind Lucas, “My code was much slower today. I don’t want you to recruit me under false pretenses.”
He nods. “And you still placed fifth.”
“Tied for fifth,” I say, because I clearly don’t know when to shut up. Being on a team with Lucas means I’ll have a fighting chance.
“It’s within bounds.” He’s digging into his backpack and muttering something under his breath.
And though I know I ought to leave well enough alone, I find myself pushing, one last time. “You’re serious about this?”
Lucas nods again, handing me a small ziplock baggie. “Have you eaten?”
It shouldn’t affect me so, and yet, I’m starving. The congee was too hot, and I’ve had nothing beyond three hard candies I dug out of the bottom of my backpack. I spend so long just staring that Lucas misunderstands.
“It’s homemade granola. It might not look like much, but my mother’s actually a wonderful cook and—”
“It looks great.” Even though it looks .
. . odd? I take it from him and open it gingerly, reminding myself that starvers can’t be beggars, or something like that, before I stuff a handful into my mouth.
“It’s delicious,” I say, meaning it. There’s honey-flavored oatmeal, toasted coconut, pecans, walnuts, and I’m not even sure what else and I don’t care.
Even if I wasn’t ravenous, I’m pretty sure it would qualify as very good granola.
But given how long it’s been since I’ve had real food?
I’m convinced this is Michelin-quality trail mix. Ten out of ten stars.
There’s a small smile on Lucas’s face as he watches me gorge myself, but his voice is all business when he speaks again. “I’m assuming we can’t get the various-medal-winning Xinzhe, but I believe Brody would be a good third.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Lucas opens his mouth to reply, but I hold out my non-granola-sticky hand to stop him, almost losing my balance in the process. I’m that tired.
He catches me and I notice that his hands, though slim, are rough. Heavily calloused. I look down at his worn sneakers, surprisingly white despite the wear and tear, as if he throws them in the wash every now and then.
I take a deep breath to gather myself because we’ve gotten wildly off course. “Let me try that again—I don’t mean ‘what’ as in explain it to me like I’m a two-year-old. I’m exhausted and probably being more abrasively blunt than usual.”
“I like blunt.”
I shake my head. That’s what they all say. “You’re truly suggesting you, me, and Mr. Bro Dude as a serious ICPC team?”
“I know you’ve spoken well of Xinzhe, and I do like his math background, but I’m pretty sure he’s Team Arjun. Mike and Dmitry both have promise, but their strengths overlap too heavily with ours. So yeah, Brody.”
Other competitors are filing out, and by tacit agreement we shift to one side.
“But . . . Brody?”
“I’m sure you wanted Arjun. I did too, before meeting him and looking at his code.”
It’s my turn to nod because of course I’ve stalked Caltech’s highest ranked programmer. As the glucose begins to enter my bloodstream, I can feel my brain firing back up. “His code is showy in a way that’s painful to debug.”
“And be honest: Can you imagine being captive to his monologuing? Every day, leading up to regionals?”
They’re excellent points, weaknesses I considered and discarded because I was so focused on getting on Team A, I didn’t pause to seriously consider any alternatives.
“Only one team per university is allowed to make it past regionals. Given that, you’re seriously claiming that if bronze-worlds-winning Arjun asked you to be on his team, you’d turn him down?”
“No.” Lucas shoves both of his hands in his jeans pockets, which stretches his shirt down and lets me see how thin this man-boy is. His voice is gravelly as he admits, “I already told him no.”
His beard needs trimming, and somehow this is the detail my sluggish mind focuses on as I ask, “Arjun asked you just now?”
Lucas shakes his head again, his long brown hair, parts of which reach almost to his chin, briefly covering his eyes before he smooths it away. “He approached me last week.”
“That’s against the rules.”
I’m not surprised, just pissed.
These are the rules Caltech set. Ones we agreed to via Google Form acknowledgment, but still.
Lucas raises an eyebrow, as if I should know better.
And I should. I pick at the granola more slowly now that my body’s more settled.
“I didn’t like that he went against the rules,” Lucas admits sheepishly. “But even without that, you would have been my first choice. You’re strong in the languages I’m weak in, your math coverage is broader, and I like your code.”
Out of habit, I try to tug at the ponytail that isn’t there because it’s what I do when I’m thinking, and—
“You just cut your hair?”
Maybe I’m too disarmed by the left-field question, maybe I’m too tired to lie, or maybe I just want to tell someone the truth. “I sold it.”
Because my father wanted to punish me for talking back to him. So he “forgot” to send any money in July. And because some midnight-panic googling revealed that if your hair is long enough, if it’s untreated and thick enough, you can make close to a thousand dollars.
My waist-length hair, which had always been my greatest vanity.
It felt like a fitting punishment. A serendipitous, one-time fix even though I still find myself trying to twirl strands that are no longer there.
As if he’s reading my mind, Lucas admits, “I used to keep my hair longer too. After I chopped it off, I reached for it, like a phantom ponytail.” He waits another beat, and then, as if we’ve already agreed, as if we hadn’t veered into a completely different topic, he hands me his unlocked phone.
It’s from an unnamable generation and is scratched and dented despite the OtterBox.
“Put your number in. I’ll start with Xinzhe if you want.
But I’d love for you to at least check out Brody? ”
I’m impressed he’s still bothering to ask, because as the guy who just turned down Arjun, Lucas is clearly the one in control here.
“I can’t believe we’re really considering bro dude.”
“Look past the gym shorts. Check out the code he’s posted on GitHub.”
I don’t look right away because I’m too tired for that.
Instead, I fall asleep on the LA Metro and almost miss my stop before relieving my neighbor, making sure my mother’s still half asleep, giving the younger girls quick baths, admonishing Aurora not to stay up too late before I then take the world’s quickest, coldest shower, because we’ve run out of hot water.
Most likely? I used it all up bathing the younger girls.