“Just have to finish this email to Elon real quick,” I say when he hands me my coffee, which is in an annoying oversized mug. But I am excited for all the caffeine.

“By all means,” my father says. He sits down beside me on the couch and sips from his mug.

“All right,” I say, then shut the laptop. “I’m all yours.”

“So, Em,” my dad says. “What kinds of things does Elon consult you on? I’m admittedly rusty on the zodiac. Do you, say, look at the stars and decide whether it is a good day to launch a rocket?” He laughs a little, and I force a laugh too. I guess it is funny. But I want my dad to think I am legitimate, even though everything I say to him is a lie.

“No,” I say. “My expertise is not in the transits.” This is true. “We have another person for that.” This is a lie.

“The transits?” my dad asks.

“Put simply, the transits involve interpreting how the planets move through the zodiac and what it means.” I sip my coffee. “My focus is rather on personality profiles based on the location of the transits at the time each employee was born, or the birth chart.”

“Fascinating,” my dad says. I can’t help but smile a little bit.

“Whenever Elon considers hiring someone, I look at their birth chart and determine first whether they would be a good fit at SpaceX or Tesla, second on which team their skills would be best suited.”

“Wow,” my dad says. “That must be a lot of work.”

“It is,” I say. “I have to make all these charts to determine compatibility. Sometimes my apartment looks like the jail cell in A Beautiful Mind.”

My dad laughs. “You’ve always had a great sense of humor, Em.”

I force a smile. I am tired of people telling me I am funny. All I want is to be taken seriously.

“Can you give me an example?” he asks. It is so cute that my dad is at least feigning an interest in astrology.