Page 54 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

“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.”