Page 13 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

My mother’s mouth tightens and she looks up finally, her eyes dark-rimmed and baggy in a way that’s almost painful to see. The younger girls don’t remember it, but our mother was once quite the beauty. During their happier times, she and my father would be photographed at functions, and I always marveled at how well put together she was, how gracefully she presented herself. Now her voice is scratchy, her eyes half drooping as she reminds me, “We wouldn’t need your help if your father was still around.”

“He wasn’t consistently around even before.” It’s my old defense, but not a particularly good one. Before I pissed him off, we lived in a lovely house, and Aurora and I even attended private schools. It’s because of my big, unthinking mouth, because of the temper I failed to rein in, that we’re in this situation.

“You were and still remain his favorite, meaning your behavior has the greatest influence.”

“I have apologized.” And apologized, and apologized. I swallow past the small constriction in my throat. “And he is sending money again. Usually.”

“He’d send more if you behaved better.”

We’ve had this argument so many times there’s simply nothing left to say. My entire childhood, I watched my mother bow to my father, watched the way he demeaned and berated her inability to produce a son. And while it’s true that I’ve always been his favorite, that was always a double-edged sword. He liked my attitude and my fire, but when I finally, finally stood up to him?

We lost everything.

“I am trying,” I say finally, but my mother’s attention is already back on her phone screen.

I close her door quietly and head back to the couch, opening my laptop because I need something to distract myself with.

I start by taking a deeper look at Xinzhe, and (now that I tell myself there’s a choice) I realize that despite Xinzhe’s previous awards and documented practice streaks, he’s clearly plateaued. He’s doing enough problems to maintain his online rating but hasn’t shown actual improvement in . . . a while.

Next, I use Brody’s Discord to look up his GitHub, and damn if Lucas isn’t right about Mr. Bro Dude. Though Brody’s clearly not a computer science major, the guy has experience creating visualizations, knows far more languages than the average programmer, and his repository is full of independent projects that range from downloading/analyzing YouTube comments (good luck trying to get through parent Alphabet/Google’s restrictions, but props for trying) to simulating the motion of fabric through Verlet integration.

This is a guy who explores things because they’re fun. He’s the kind of wild card who adds breadth and creativity that would perfectly balance more traditional programmers like me and Lucas. It’s almost four in the morning, but I text Lucas: I looked up Brody and Xinzhe. I wouldn’t say no to Xinzhe, but you’re right about Brody.

I take a deep breath before texting the next part: Either way, I’m in.

I don’t expect a reply, but a few seconds later Lucas gives me a thumbs-up.

We’ll still most likely be labeled as Team B. It’s not where I wanted to be, but it’s leaps and bounds better than the alternative. We’ll have a little less than two months to figure out how to beat not only Caltech’s bronze-winning Arjun, but also UCLA, USC, and maybe even UC Santa Barbara or UC Irvine. Harvey Mudd, small as they are, is also sometimes a contender.

We’ll need to be in the top four to advance to nationals, where the real money begins.

But Lucas is scary good. Brody is clearly an outlier in terms of creativity, and me? I might not have their brainpower or finesse, but I’m the master of brute force and persistence.

I look at the clock. It’s a quarter past four and I’m wide awake, meaning it’s time to get to work.

5

AS I UGLY CRY

PRESENT

Ispend ten of the remaining fifteen minutes before Lucas’s speech locked in the only single-occupancy restroom on the sixth floor. It’s far away from Abe, in the opposite direction of where the speech will be, and I know from experience almost no one comes here; despite how clean and new the building is, the Wi-Fi has always been spotty on the higher floors, meaning students and staff tend to work elsewhere. There’s no one to hear me as I ugly-cry into wads of toilet paper and text Gwendy and Daisy. All three of us had been roommates throughout grad school and even though Daisy moved out close to year ago now, leaving just me and Gwendy, they’ll forever be my platonic soulmates, my Grad or Die girls: Can u 2 talk?

I get two immediate FaceTime requests.

“What’s wrong?” It’s Daisy’s voice, but it’s her dog (literally named The Dog) who appears on my screen, long tongue lolling out and trying to lick at the screen.

Gwendy’s gloved and pipetting something, but as soon as she looks at the screen and sees my tear-streaked face, she tells me, “I can be there in seven minutes. I can push off leaving for my conference too, if that makes a difference.”

She’s slated to defend in a few months and should be done with all her wet lab work, but Gwendy being Gwendy, I’m sure she’s doing additional work to finagle one last paper.

“No,” I sniffle. “There was a last-minute change and Lucas is now today’s guest speaker. I’ll have to⁠—”

“The Lucas?”

“Sagittarius A*?”

Unlike Abe, they don’t mean it in the Forbes-list way. They both know he’s my Katy Perry one-that-got-away. Mostly because that was the song I was looping while trying to explain the entire sordid past to them.