Page 5 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

“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.