Page 11 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

“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.”