I shake my head. But Tina doesn’t go away. She holds me. When I start crying, she strokes my hair. She tells me I’m okay.
“I’m not okay. I’m a ridiculous idiot.”
“Don’t talk about yourself that way.” She says it gently. “You’re ridiculously smart, and if you feel like this, there’s a good reason for it.”
I stumble off to bed half an hour later, where I cocoon myself in blankets. I lie in the dark, looking up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what Tina told me. After the shock, after the tears, I’m grateful for the dark of night and the weight of blankets. These are simple physical sensations. Uncomplicated. Impossible to misinterpret.
I try on sentences for size.
The thing about getting struck by lightning on the mountaintop is that your unthinking animal brain learns the wrong lesson. Never go above treeline.
There’s a reason I don’t want to test how much people care about me. There’s a reason I’m pushing Jay away, why I’m waffling between jobs that leave me feeling fundamentally dissatisfied. I’m not all in on myself.
Maybe I deserve to be. I turn this thought over. It scares me, but I don’t let go. Maybe this isn’t luck. Maybe good things don’t have to end.
It’s easier to express that thought when I put a maybe in front, but as I turn over the maybes in my head, I discover something else.
I don’t need the maybe.
I actually do deserve to be happy. I deserve to have people love me. I haven’t fought this hard, and come this far, to settle for a tentative maybe. I deserve to be ecstatic. I deserve to have people care for me. I don’t want to accept any less.
Most of the time I think of worst case scenarios—the catastrophes that could come. Right now, I swallow my fear, and I let myself daydream the best case instead.
I don’t want to drown in a job I don’t love just in case it turns into another better one. I don’t want to keep swallowing things that bother me while anxiety builds up in my stomach.
As for Jay… He’s right. Expectations are hope. I don’t know how to hope like this. I’m afraid to let myself believe that I deserve to have someone love me enough to change all his plans because he knew I’d be scared. But maybe, maybe… No, no maybe. I do deserve it.
I pull my laptop onto the bed. I look at my spreadsheet of jobs. I tried to reduce all of my worries and doubts and misgivings to numbers. I tried to put a price on how much I wanted to stay here so I could compare it to living in New York.
The truth is, I only have a spreadsheet because I’m not excited about any of my options. I’m letting numbers flip a coin for me. If I really, really wanted any of these, I would have already said yes.
Slowly, I select every line. My careful comparison of health care plans and salaries highlights in blue.
I hit delete, and every line disappears. My future is nothing but blank cells. It’s scary, but for the first time, I feel a tickle of excitement about what’s to come.
Just after midnight, I shed my blankets, get out of bed, and stub my toe on a chair while looking for my phone on its charger.
I had meant to send a text to someone else. But there’s a message from Jay waiting for me.
I was wrong, the message reads. Really wrong to expect this of you now. I keep waiting for you to tell me I’m enough, but tonight I had it backward. You were the one who needed to hear it tonight. You’re enough. You are. And that isn’t going to change.
I shut my eyes. Let myself feel my own feelings—everything from the fluttering fear that says, this will end to that deep still place inside me that whispers, maybe he’s right.
I read his message again, and I tell myself—firmly, because deep down, I’m still wavering—that I deserve someone who cares for me this much.
I think of my blank spreadsheet. I look at the blank space beneath this message. I don’t know how to respond. But maybe it’s okay to not know everything right away.
Thanks, I reply. I needed to hear that.
He’s asleep, as he should be. He doesn’t answer. And I have something else to do. I thumb through my contacts in the faint light from its screen. The one I’m looking for—Angela Choi—isn’t far down. I send her a message.
Do you have any time tomorrow?
She should be asleep, but…no, this is Anj. Sure. What do you need?
I think about all the things I want. That I deserve.
Then I write. I want to talk.
After much deliberation, I realize I have one last email to send. For the last few months, I’ve ignored my anxiety. Told myself I’d work it out. That I was better, and that if only I was strong enough, I wouldn’t need any more help.
But I don’t need to fight anxiety with nothing but willpower and sleepless nights. I have better things to do with my willpower. So I write to my old psychiatrist.
I’m graduating from college right now, and things are changing really fast. I’d like to make an appointment to talk about renewing my prescription until things normalize.
Thanks,
Maria.
* * *
Anj’s apartment is all too familiar. It’s not the same place we lived together, but it feels almost the same. That almost is because her cereal bowls are stacked in the sink, like she’s an actual adult.
The living room is still half aquariums.
“Hey,” says Anj. “What’s up?”
I rearrange a stack of prototype batteries to make room for me on the couch and sit. “I don’t want to dress up as a shark.”
She raises an eyebrow. “O…kay. And you came here at eight in the morning to tell me that?”
I take a deep breath. “Thing is, Anj? I kind of hate Lisa.”
Her eyes widen. She glances back at the aquariums, a worried look on her face. “Oh my god,” she whispers. “You know sharks can hear in the frequency of human voices, right?”
I shake my head. “I don’t really hate Lisa. I hate the way she makes me feel.”
Anj shakes her head in puzzlement.
“Our landlord said he was going to kick us out because of Lisa,” I say. “I have issues with getting kicked out of places I live. I like stability and I hate surprises. Lisa gave me nightmares.”
Anj blinks. She looks at Lisa. She looks back at me. “Oh,” she says slowly. “Oh. I knew something wasn’t right, but… Why didn’t you tell me? I could have made my dad keep her.”
I swallow. “I thought you might choose Lisa over me. And…if you were going to do that, I didn’t want to know.”
“Oh.” She looks utterly dazed. I’ve never seen her so confused. I was never jealous of her money, or her startups—but I am jealous of the fact that she takes being loved for granted. “Oh.” She’s privileged, not stupid. She figures it out.
She shoves aside a stack of tech manuals and hugs me. “Oh, no,” Anj says. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ever made you feel that way. I get stuck in my own head.”
“I know.” I hug her back. “I really—honestly—don’t hold anything against you.”
“I would have moved her,” Anj says. “I love you and Lisa in totally different ways. But I love you just as much as Lisa.”
I can’t help myself. I start laughing.
“What?”
“No. It’s nothing.” I hug her back. And this time, it is.
“What else do you have going on today?”
I think of that blank spreadsheet. “Visiting my grandmother,” I say. “Visiting a friend of yours.”
“And?”
“And talking to a boy.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Okay. Well. Have fun.”
* * *
The Bay Area’s odd microclimates are such that the dark clouds and drizzle hovering over Berkeley have dissolved into brilliant blue skies and sunshine by the time I arrive in Palo Alto in the car I’ve borrowed from Blake.
Stanford University is almost exactly the opposite of Cal in every possible way. It’s a private school, where Berkeley is public. There are h
uge expanses of green grass and not nearly as many students. Where Cal is a mishmash of opposing architecture, Stanford was built on a plan. Every building looks like it’s part of a branded franchise of red roofs and sandstone arches.
I consult a map on my phone and make my way into a building. It’s not hard to find the right door.
Professor Dan van Tijn yells at me to come in when I knock, so I do. He’s grown out his beard since I last saw him in December. He shakes my hand, and asks me to sit down.
I hope that my hand isn’t sweaty. I smile and try to look like I’m a reasonably intelligent human being.
“What can I do for you?”
I took Anj’s name in vain in my introductory email. Reminded him that we met before. I was utterly shameless. And now I’m scared.
“You’re on—” I cough, because my throat is suddenly dry. “You’re on the admissions committee for the graduate program in Management and Engineering Science.”
“Yes.” He looks away.
“How flexible is the program on their admission deadlines?”
He frowns and glances at his laptop. I suspect he’s checking his email.
“Um. Well. It would depend. We don’t like making exceptions, but…” He frowns at his screen, types something in response, then drags his gaze back to me. “It’s not the kind of thing I would do as a favor to a friend. Anj should know better.” This comes out more firmly. “Exceptions would require exceptional circumstances. And an exceptional applicant.”
I don’t let myself choke. Not when I’m about to articulate something I’ve barely let myself think.
“I want to do worldwide risk assessment for companies attempting to adapt to changing circumstances.” My dream, the thing I really want, feels massive spoken out loud. “Before anyone really lets me do that, I’m going to need a credential of some kind.”
He doesn’t notice. He’s openly reading his messages. I can tell that his mind has drifted off to other spheres. “I’d be happy to advise you on your application next year.”
“And we can wait a year, if necessary, for me to send out a full panel of applications everywhere.” My heart is beating hard now. “I absolutely need more formal training.”
“Okay.” He’s bored. He’s not paying attention.
“But you asked me if I wanted to write a paper on cybersecurity risks with you last September. And I was…kind of hoping the offer was still open.”
He blinks. He turns to me, no longer distracted by his computer screen. He frowns. “I did?”
“I write a blog under the pseudonym MCL.”
He is the fifth person I’ve told. I’m not sure why I’ve kept it back. Part of it was wanting to keep my anonymity. Part of it was being afraid, back when I started, that my brother would make fun of my science. Maybe all of it is being afraid to take credit.
My heart beats wildly.
“It’s my initials,” I say. “Maria Camilla Lopez.”
He stares at me. “Holy crap,” he says slowly. “Holy crap! You are not like I imagined.” He stands up and shakes my hand again, this time more vigorously. “I’m really excited to meet you.”
I give him a half smile. “Hi?”
We stare at each other for a moment; him in bemusement, me, with my heart pounding. “So,” I say. “Grad school?”
“Holy crap,” he says again. “Yes. But—you’re—”
“An undergrad.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say.” He looks upward.
I know what he was going to say. He said it when we crossed paths at the Cyclone party months ago. He thought I was a man.
“Well,” he says. “I’m an idiot. Clearly. But since I have you here, look, I have a question about how you ran this network simulation.”
Instead of talking about grad school, we talk about cybersecurity, and the model of the internet I built, and whether it’s applicable to targeted malware delivery. He only remembers why I came half an hour later.
We hash out details and a plan. He makes me sign up to take the GRE from the computer in his office. When I leave, he’s on the phone with admissions.
Before I head up to see my grandmother, I check my messages.
Tina has sent me good luck wishes; Jay texted a brief message saying that he hopes I’m feeling better, and that he’ll be here in town for another thirty-six hours if I want to see him.
My friends sent me notes from the classes I missed this morning.
There’s a text from Gabe, too. He took an early flight back, and has apparently just arrived in town. Hey, I told Jay about Nana. I know he’s kind of a shitty boyfriend, so I hope he didn’t ignore it.
I consider this perfidy. He’s fine, I write tersely. It was fine. It was more than fine.
Gabe must still be jet-lagged, because he writes back almost immediately.
Okay, but don’t be so defensive. He told me months before he started dating you that he was really into someone else. I’m trying not to be all aggro big brother about this, but I just don’t want you to get hurt.
I exhale and pinch the bridge of my nose. Look, little brother. First things first: You’re seriously telling me this the day after Nana lands in the hospital? Your timing sucks.
He doesn’t respond.
Second, has it ever occurred to you that he was talking about me?
His response is not long in coming: Wut?
I look out the window. The clouds are still gathered over Berkeley, but they’ve dissipated somewhat. They’re less gray now.
It’s a long story. But I’ve known Jay online for years. I grin as I type. And actually we get along really well. We just had to figure it out.
I ignore his requests for more information. I’ll tell him later.
I send one last text after that, this time to Jay. Hey. I played hooky on classes all day. Heading over to visit Nana now. Will you have time around seven tonight?
Yes, Jay writes back almost instantly.
Okay. Want me to meet you at home or at your office?
For you? They should just be words, pixels on a screen. They shouldn’t convey warmth, acceptance, or belonging. Yet somehow they do. For you, I’m at home.
27
MARIA
I knock on Jay’s door.
I should be nervous; I was nothing but nerves last night and for less reason. Somehow, though, after today, I feel steady.
He opens the door. For a moment, we look at each other. He doesn’t step forward. He doesn’t reach out. He just looks at me, as if wondering what will happen next.
I step into him, hugging him as hard as I can. His arms wrap around me, strong, squeezing me until I can feel the air squeak from my lungs.
“You okay?” His voice is low.
“I’m doing…better. A lot better.”
“Your grandmother?”
“Complaining up a storm. They’re going to discharge her tomorrow, assuming everything is still on track.”
“That’s fantastic.” He looks at me.
I pull away from him long enough to brandish the paper bag I have with me. “I brought you presents.”
“Oooh.” He looks at me. There’s a hint of wariness still in his eyes. Just a tiny tightness around his mouth, the whisper of a wrinkle on his forehead.
I reach in and pull out the first package. “This is for your flight.”
He takes the rectangle from me. He turns it around, frowning at it. He bends it.
“It’s a book,” he guesses.
“Oh my god. You’re one of those. You have to guess everything.”
He flashes me a smile. “I am totally one of those. I’m going to be even worse. It’s From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.”
I make an outraged noise as he carefully unwraps his present—not ripping the paper, carefully parting every piece of tape, before removing the paperback I purchased for him.
It is, of course, From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.
“Oh, loo
k,” he says. “From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. How surprising.”
I shake my head. “I may freak out when I’m nervous, but you’re even worse. When you get nervous, you have to be right about things.”
“Fine.” He leans in and kisses me lightly on the cheek. “Thank you. I’m looking forward to reading it.” Then he kisses me again, this time not so lightly. On the lips. It’s the first time we’ve kissed since…
No, we didn’t actually kiss at the hospital. Since I kissed him good-bye, thinking I wouldn’t see him for a little more than a week when he left for Australia. It’s a sweet kiss. A tender kiss. His lips ask the question that he himself has not.
Are we okay?
I pull away. “I have one more present for you.”
“Oooh.”
I give the paper bag a light shake. “Since you’re going to be like that? Guess.”
He glares at the bag as if he could see through it Superman-style. Then he looks at me. “I can’t touch?”
“Nope.”
He looks upward. “Shit. That makes it difficult. I don’t know, it’s a fancy pen?”
I look at him. He looks back at me, one eyebrow raised in question.
“Oh, look.” I reach into the paper bag and remove his present. “It’s a fancy pen.”
It is not a fancy pen. It’s a plant of trailing green-and-white striated leaves. We both look at it for a long, long moment.
“Maria,” he says in a low voice, “I kill plants.”
“I know.” Now my voice does shake, just a little. “You told me. That’s why I need to keep coming over. To make sure you don’t.”
Our eyes meet again. Slowly, ever so slowly, his face begins to light. I can see the realization of what I just said come over him like a sunrise. The corners of his mouth tilt upward. His eyes widen, and then blaze. His whole expression lifts, and I realize just how worried he really has been.
“I love you,” I say. “I love you because you make me want to be my best self. I love you because even when you hated me, you still listened and still learned. I love you because we fit together so well that you scare me. I love you.”