16. Harvard Hermès Is Clearly Pissed
HARVARD HERMèS IS CLEARLY PISSED
BEFORE
It’s a hard-fought battle, and perhaps more importantly, the first competition where Lucas has exhibited actual weaknesses.
Even beyond the airplane freak-out, Lucas doesn’t adjust well to the three-hour time difference.
He doesn’t sleep well, tossing and turning so much that even Brody starts to complain.
More than that, Lucas seems genuinely intimidated by the wealthier Ivy Leaguers.
Brody is in his element. He recognizes several competitors from various elite summer camps they all attended, and beyond that, Brody Huntington-Branca has the unshakeable confidence that comes from having wealthy parents and a nearly bulletproof résumé.
He walks through the basically three-day job fair that leads up to the contest shaking hands, scanning QR codes, and barely glancing at the free swag from the companies who are the contest’s official sponsors (and who see the competition as a recruiting bonanza).
I’m also generally unfazed.
I’ve seen this world before. The private school I once attended had an almost 40 percent matriculation rate into the Ivies-Stanford-MIT-Caltech, meaning I know this crowd.
But beyond that, my sisters are too young to be left solely with my mother. Since there’s no point in networking for an internship I can’t take, I take the free T-shirts the companies are offering and move on with my life.
Lucas, on the other hand, is rattled.
The more he sees other people’s résumés, the more awkward he feels about his community college background.
And of course, the more anxious Lucas becomes, the clumsier he is.
He actually knocks over a pile of free socks one of the companies is giving away, and when some asshole sees the résumé Lucas has dropped, it quickly spreads that Lucas is a community college kid in an ocean of people who went straight from boarding schools or international awards to top-twenty colleges.
Affirmative action, one kid says.
Guess Caltech won’t be a contender this year, another remarks, not bothering to whisper.
And they have a girl.
Affirmative action squared, am I right?
I tell Lucas there are bullies everywhere, even in Nerdville.
Brody tells Lucas to shake it off.
But Lucas does not, in actuality, shake anything off. When we need him to be Teflon, he turns into Velcro. And having our best programmer commit trivial errors during the actual competition means Brody and I have to double-time our efforts.
It is absolutely the reason we earn a bronze instead of the gold.
Despite the additional hours of practice.
Harvard’s silver-placing team approaches us afterward. MIT’s gold group is with them, as is Hopkins, who tied us for bronze.
“Made in Taiwan,” one of the guys from MIT jokes. He’s clearly the Arjun of that team in that he keeps reminding everyone he felt rusty this year. Last year, he did so much better.
We get it, MIT-Arjun.
You’ve done this before.
“It’s tradition to invite all the medalists to talk strategy and hang out,” MIT-Arjun, who’s actually named Kiaan, tells us.
“We fly back early tomorrow.” Brody’s looking toward us, because he’ll take any excuse to party, but he’s sensitive to the fact that Lucas has been off his game, so he’ll defer to us.
Deciding it’s easier to make it up to Brody (offer to play Counter-Strike as penance) than unbreak whatever’s happening with Lucas, I shake my head. “Maybe next time.”
“You give the orders?” one of the Hopkins guys asks.
“She’s the mommy of the team,” someone else jokes.
It’s not funny, but they all laugh.
There are so few girls that when another girl asked to bring a tampon in (reasonable given it’s a five-hour competition where bathroom breaks are expected), they had to consult a judge.
Though they eventually allowed her to place it into an extra-large clear plastic bag reserved for approved snacks, the entire thing had become some weird, twisted walk of shame.
So… of course my gender’s an invitation for mommy jokes.
The Harvard guy in an Hermès scarf (because that’s necessary, at a collegiate competition) decides this is the time to push.
He looks Lucas up and down very deliberately, no doubt noting that Lucas is too thin, with a beard that’s scraggly, a watch that’s clearly more sentimental than functional, and boots that are visibly, unironically, unfashionably worn.
“Look, if you’re worried about paying, we can go to my frat. Plenty of ways to have a good time. No wallet needed.”
“I’m not worried about paying.” Lucas’s reply is too quick.
“I really think—”
Lucas turns toward me. “It could be fun.”
And I don’t want to contradict him or step on his already wounded pride, but I’m sure this is what they wanted.
For Lucas, community college was a level playing field, one full of people working part- or even full-time jobs.
No one paid particular attention to the blue-collar kid with calloused hands.
At Caltech, after a little initial ribbing, he quickly rose in the ranks to become Lucas Fucking Murray, the guy breaking the curves.
But we’re in Harvard frat territory now, multigenerational, Phillips Exeter, we-applied-to-preschool legacies. And to some of these guys and their five digits’ worth of branded merch? Lucas is the noticeably poor kid who had the audacity to not only compete but get close.
Harvard Hermès is clearly pissed.
“Come on.” Someone clasps Lucas on the shoulders. “We can use it as an opportunity to trade strategy.”
I doubt we’ll learn anything from these people, but I also don’t want to contradict Lucas.
“Sure.”
And that’s how we end up at a technically illegal Harvard frat house—technically, because Harvard disbanded and prohibited the official organization of fraternities over a century ago—meaning frats now enjoy a curious dual existence.
The national branch of Sigma Chi recognizes Harvard’s Sigma Chi chapter, but Harvard does not.
“Harvard’s all bark and no bite,” Hermès tells us after explaining, as if the fact that they’re flouting rules is something to be proud of. “They know having fraternities is a real plus, they’re just too pussy to go on the record.”
One of the not-Arjun MIT guys has the temerity to comment that MIT fraternities strive for inclusivity, and yeah . . . they’re not going to get along either.
Really, even though it’s his frat and his party, it’s unclear who actually likes Hermès.
The unofficial/official Harvard Sigma Chi building screams money: from the housekeeper (full-time, live-in, Hermès brags) who opens the door to the rooftop that overlooks the Back Bay.
The tour he leads us through is exhaustive and includes more Greek/frat history than anyone ought to know.
Brody gets bored a third of the way through and declares he’ll wait in the foyer, but Lucas grows more agitated the longer the mock history lesson goes on.
Most likely, he’s never been around opulence like this. Servants’ entrances that have been hidden into marble staircases, crystal and inlaid gold touches everywhere, excessively large chandeliers, tied together by a gaudy crown molding bow.
Eventually, Hermès leads us to the downstairs bar, which has a variety of games spread out: foosball, two pool tables, a poker table, and darts.
He offers everyone drinks in a way that makes it obvious he’s judging you by whether you ask for a whiskey neat or a Bud Light. When I ask for a Diet Coke, he sneers. “Why not just ask for a Shirley Temple?”
“I don’t take open or mixed drinks from strangers.” My smile is without teeth, my voice saccharine sweet. “Plus, I’m the designated driver.”
It’s Cambridge and we all came over on the T, but he opens a can of Diet Coke for me, making a production of getting a glass of ice to pour it over before hand-selecting a slice of lime to squeeze.
It’s all been done in front of me, but I set the glass down as soon as it’s handed to me.
No way I’m letting him push against the boundary I just set.
Instead, I listen as everyone around me rehashes the problems from today, discussing the fastest solves until—after almost everyone has had at least two drinks—Hermès clasps his hands together.
“Who’s ready to wager a little, get this party started?”
Lucas stiffens immediately, which is saying something considering he’s been tense all night.
Lucas has already earmarked the extra earnings for athletics fees the twins need.
He’s been eying a new laptop he thinks the twins can share.
Our family van has been making odd sputtering noises, and truthfully, neither of us can afford to lose any of the winnings.
Brody leans in to whisper, “I got you,” but neither Lucas nor I would ever willingly exploit Brody’s generosity.
“Not money,” Hermès claims after a pregnant pause.
Even though that’s clearly what he’s been suggesting.
“Though, seriously, you should have seen the look on your face. Louis, right?” He waits an artful second before someone corrects him.
“My bad. Lucas. Lighten up, Lucas.” He laughs, though only his teammates laugh with him, and even they sound forced.
“I was thinking something rarer.” He’s looking right at me as he says this. “Maybe a kiss from our girl?”
“I never kiss on first dates,” Brody jokes.
But Hermès moves on as though Brody hasn’t even spoken. “Lorelai Zhao, right?”
“Do I know you?”
“You will.”
If he wasn’t such a cliché, if I wasn’t the one trapped here, it’d be funny.
“I have no reason to wager that.”
“Even if I bet real money? You’re dating this one, right?” He claps a hand on Lucas’s shoulder. “I’d say five hundred dollars would go a long way for a guy like you.”
Lucas removes the hand and returns the gesture, his hand resting easily on the short man’s shoulder. “My girlfriend isn’t for sale.”
“Not for that price, at least.” It’s not the smartest thing I could have said, but I’d rather be dumb than silent, and I’m done being spoken for and over, as if I’m not even here.