Em’s on a break, and she’s joined me at our favorite table, at the back of the dining room, where we’re discussing Mom’s plan for me to become a STEM goddess.

“Me, at a big data start-up? Is she out of her mind?”

“You gotta give her credit for optimism,” says Emily.

“There’s optimism and there’s delusional . . . ism.”

“She’s not delusional, Ceej. Stop buying into the girls-can’t-do-math-and-science baloney. We don’t need more stereotypes.”

“I’m not talking about girls, I’m talking about me. And anyway, if I am good at math, I’m an Asian stereotype,” I remind her.

“Yeah . . . but, for real, though.” Emily taps her cranberry-walnut scone on her plate. “You do kind of brick your way through stuff. It’s like you don’t care about it, or, like, I dunno, like maybe you’re afraid to succeed, or afraid to fail, or . . .” She waves the scone vaguely, as if to conjure up a reason why I might not be Trying My Hardest at Life.

“Thanks for the insight, Dr. Baxter.” I flick a crumb at her, and she flicks it back. Em is a bit of a paradox. She’s genuinely the sweetest person I know: she doesn’t swear; she isn’t petty. But she’s ruthless about calling me out. Which is kind of cool. But it’s also kind of annoying. “Anyway, what the fuck, Em? I do not half-ass my way through stuff.”

“Uh, yeah, you do,” she says.

“Name one thing.”

“Okay, how about school? Like, every class?” says Emily. “You could totally be in AP English if you tried. You should have applied with me last year.”

“Hey, you dropped out of Korean school.”

“That’s not the same thing because I didn’t have time for Korean school. And don’t change the subject. Just admit you don’t want to try.”

“That has nothing to do with not wanting to try. I just don’t like playing impress-the-teacher with a bunch of brownnosers.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“Not you, duh. Just the others.”

Em frowns. “Why do you have to be so judgmental?”

“Oh, now that you’re in AP, you’re best friends with all of them?”

“No. But why can’t you just give people a chance?”