Page 62 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

The future, or at least my future, with the surgery and my sisters, my father and his company, is murky at best. Tangled and complicated and as always, burdensome.

“Nothing to be gained from rehashing the past.” My voice is shockingly steady.

“You don’t dwell on hypotheticals, right?”

I lick my lips because he’s right: I don’t let myself wallow, not usually. But I’ve slipped these past few years, under the weight of it all. And I’m sick of it, truly. Sick of myself.

My voice is just a shade overbright when I ask, “What if we just agree to move forward?”

Lucas crosses his too-large forearms, clearly waiting for me to continue. I gesture between us, Lucas in his somehow unwrinkled finery, me in my fleece pajamas. “We’ve both clearly changed, and I get that there’s a lot of messy history between us, but all that really matters, at least over the next eight days, is Brody.”

I hold my breath while Lucas composes his reply. “And what does a truce mean to you?”

“No more paying for things as some weird thank-you. No more questions, digging into things that can’t be changed. We just . . . focus on supporting Brody.” I try to make my voice light. “It’s what any good parents would do in a divorce, right? Show up for the kid.”

There’s the briefest of pauses before Lucas nods. “Sure.”

My head jerks back as I open my eyes wide and my glasses slide down a little. I definitely hadn’t expected him to give in so readily, to let go of the puzzle.

“I’ve already waited almost six years. What are another eight days?”

18

YOU’RE TERRITORIAL

BEFORE

Even if winning bronze at nationals wasn’t what we wanted, even if it gives last year’s bronze-at-worlds Arjun additional ammunition to complain about what the teams should have been, we’re still celebrities for a day or so. Caltech’s news announcement about our third-place finish is the university equivalent of the principal saying a few words during the beginning of a lunchtime assembly. It’s a likely-ChatGPT-authored few paragraphs that’s currently featured on the college’s website and is populating the spam inboxes of alumni, but what truly matters is that I’m now able to leverage it into meetings with professors.

Bronze-at-worlds Arjun was right, even though I didn’t want to admit it: As a freshman in remedial/accelerated calculus, I was bottom quartile of the incoming class. Though I’d emailed professors about potential undergraduate research fellowships, no one had bothered replying.

As one-third of a well-ranked bronze-winning national programming team and because (thanks to my father) I know how to ride a moment, I line up meetings with several potential advisors.

I want to do well at worlds, of course.

But even if Lucas, Brody, and I win at next year’s regionals, nationals, and worlds, longer term, I’ll need research and peer-reviewed papers, other awards and accolades to keep my father’s attention—and thus his bank account—on me and my sisters.

When I forward Caltech’s news announcement to my father, he’s so pleased he actually calls.

“I told you Caltech was the correct school for you.”

I nod, a tight smile on my face even though it’s not actually true. I needed to stay close to my mother, and my father actually said he’d be willing to pay tuition at Caltech, Columbia, or Duke. No mention of the state schools (where, thanks to my parents’ still-married, still-filing-taxes-jointly status, I didn’t qualify for financial aid).

So I went to Caltech.

“And you’re contributing to your team?”

“Yes.”

“Four people?”

“Three: one junior, one sophomore, and me.”

“Fine.” My father’s face is already turned from me, the WeChat signal glitchy. “First would have been better, but you’ve earned a bonus.”

He hangs up before I can reply, a good thing, as it allows me to save sharing about any potential research fellowship for another call, to earn another bonus.

Two days later, his assistant texts me that he’s FedEx’ed a red envelope of cash.