Page 1 of Playing Games

Friday, May 16th

Lexi

Sometimes, when you have a genius IQ of 146 in a sea of average 100s, you start to think you can’t be wrong.

You know better, you know more, you have thedatato back yourself up, and the possibility of falling victim to unsound theorization is so low, it’s barely a possibility.

But then there are moments that define us—little slivers of time that change the way we think about ourselves and our existence. It happens in science, too, of course, when some small piece of information shifts the course of your experiment entirely when you least expect it. But when it happens in life, the swift and all-encompassing fist to the gut is even more debilitating.

Because, as it turns out, geniusescanbe wrong.Ican be wrong. So wrong, in fact, I nearly crash and burn altogether.

“Hey, Lex, I have a question,” my little brother Wes Jr. says, his tone way too innocent for the certified smartass I know him to be. I listen, but I don’t look up yet. I can’t.

I’m in the middle of running a test on an AI-coded app I’ve developed for my second doctoral dissertation. My first PhD, in Mathematics, completed a year and a half ago, is anaccomplishment to be proud of, but it also isn’t enough to prepare me for what I want to do in the world of technology.

So here I am at the dinner table with my favorite food getting cold, knee-deep in my second PhD, this time in Computer Science. The spaghetti on my plate sits untouched, but my test run is almost complete—sixty seconds to go, if I can just finish without interruption.

My little brother is undeterred by the fact that I’m clearly busy, plowing ahead to dropthebomb.

“Will you have a funeral one day…or will we just have to visit your rotting corpse in the lab?”

My gaze jerks to his, a mischievous curve to his lips setting the tone, and my breath catches in my chest. His words should be inconsequential—to many people, they would be—but to me, they are earthshaking.

Because of my complex, neurodivergent chemical makeup, being caught off guard is almost akin to an extinction-level event. I’m a planner. A thinker. A certified head case of attention to detail confirmed by a neurologist and seven highly efficient screenings by the state of New York from the age of four onward.

When people speak, I expect to have an idea of what they’re going to say, but nowhere on my radar did I see this incoming missile of attack.

“Seriously, Lex,” my little brother adds. “Hazmat suits are expensive and hard to get. Just want to know if I need to start figuring out the dark web to get my hands on one.”

“Wes,”my mom chastises through a half sigh and a half laugh, while my stepdad fights the urge to burst into his own laughter.

My brother’s bravado is bolstered by their amusement, so he stares, waiting for a response.

I roll my eyes, pause the test run on the app, set my phone on the table beside my plate, and pick up my fork again. “My doctoral dissertation on advancing technology with artificial intelligence-based code is due at the end of this summer. It’s normal to be preoccupied with it,” I argue sensibly, fighting the sting in my chest.

“Yeah. Maybe if you hadn’t already finished your dissertation over two months ago—before your final semester even starts,” Wes objects on a snort. “Now you’re just obsessing.”

“Wes, stop picking on Lexi,” my stepdad says, attempting his best stern dad face. You’d think that being a billionaire and the owner of the New York Mavericks, one of the most successful professional football teams in the country, would make him a master at laying down the law—and maybe it does in business—but when it comes to my brother and me, Wes Lancaster Sr. is no firmer than microwave-softened butter.

When my mom met him, I was just a little girl, and from the start, he treated me like I was his own. My biological father, Nick Raines, wasn’t around back then, so for a long time, Wes wasn’t justlikea dad to me—hewasmy dad.

Even now, at the age of twenty-five—with a biological father whoisin the picture—I still address him asDad.

“Yeah, Wes,” my mom chimes in. “I’m sure there are quite a few things Lexi could find to teaseyouabout.”

“No way. I’m pure perfection,” my little brother comments haughtily, like only a teenage boy can. “And I’m not picking on her, just inserting a few strands of reality into her perfect DNA.” He looks over at me. “I know you like the lab, Lex, but there’s more out there. I promise.”

My smile is smug. “The thirteen-year-old expert on life. Trust me, Wes, I have more going on than coding and apps.”

He snorts. “Ah, yes, you have complex mathematical equations and the whole difficult mental challenge of trying to solve all of the mysteries of the universe too.”

I shake my head and look down at my plate, willing myself to keep my mouth shut. Just because my little brother is instigating doesn’t mean I have to be reactionary. I have lots of things in my life that he doesn’t know about—that practically no one knows about.

I run Dickson University’s underground secret society, Computare Caterva, for one, and as soon as I finished my run of my dissertation test app, I was going to start planning for tomorrow night’s event at Dragon Stadium. We’ve expanded to seventy-five members now—due in large part to Ace Kelly, a family friend and fellow Dickson student, who invites people as if secrecy is just a suggestion—and pulling off each gathering is getting harder and harder.

Not only that, but I’ve had boyfriends. I’ve had sex. I haven’t experimented with drugs or alcohol, but that’s more because of my fear of feeling out of control than anything else.

Milestone-wise, I’d say I’m just about on freaking schedule for a woman my age.

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