“A portrait!”
“Painting a turtle!”
“A turtle painting a portrait!”
“A turtle’s portrait!”
Exasperated, Brian rolls his eyes and shows the artist he drew. “Oh! A painter!” Andrea shouts.
He nods, waiting for us to make the connection. “An artistic turtle?” Mason ventures.
“Is it a turtle with a painter’s name?” I ask, suspecting I know where this is going.
Brian energetically nods with his thumbs up, and Mason also figures it out. “Bro, why aren’t you drawing a ninja if this is about the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?!”
Realizing his mistake, Brian grimaces. Andrea and Mason start shouting artists’ names at him until he approves Michelangelo, less than a second before the last of the sand falls through the small plastic hourglass. It’s the next team’s turn, and because I don’t really care, I allow myself to zone out until it’s our turn again. Mason is the one drawing this time. It goes much better, and Andrea is the one who guesses. When it’s my turn to draw for the last round, I reluctantly approach the board.
To no one’s surprise, my attempt at drawing Godzilla leads us nowhere, and our time ends before I can adjust my potato-shaped dinosaur. “I’m sorry,” I say with a wince. “I’m a human calculator, not an artist.”
“Are you, really?” someone wonders.
“More or less, yes.”
“What’s sixty-seven times eighty-three divided by thirty-five?”
“A hundred and fifty-eight point eighty-eight. Do you want the rest of the decimals?”
“Okay, new game,” Mason claims, clapping his hands together. “We make him guess equations, and if he fails, he drinks.”
I probably should say no, but everyone seems to love that idea. I turn to Andrea, wondering what I should do. It seems she likes the idea because she smiles and nods before getting up.
“Alright, I’ll need a pen and a notepad, and I’d rather tequila over other liquors,” I decide.
Mason and Brian immediately rush to find what I asked for, and the others make room on the table. In a way, I’m used to unique reactions or treatments because of my brain, but this is a new one. I fetch my glasses in my coat and return to the couch, amused to see that everyone’s focus is on me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, so I take it out, still waiting for the pad and pen. When I see it’s from Andrea, I seek her, finding her by the kitchen. Something in her smile lets me know what to expect from her text.
Andrea Walker
I’m staying away because complex math on top of the dark suit, glasses, and turtleneck? I’ll act up if I’m too close. But know that your dick is getting sucked dry tonight.
I chuckle at the text and type,
Me
Are you purposefully trying to mess with my focus, Miss Walker?
Andrea Walker
If it helps, I’ll do it even if you perform poorly (which would be a first).
It takes twelve tries for them to make me drink my first shot of tequila. And that’s only because I keep asking them to make it harder. The hourglass has been repurposed for this, so I have a minute to calculate whatever they give me. Two people are in charge of ensuring I’m right, doing the math on their phones while I do it mentally. I counter the third shot, though, so they redo the math and realize they messed it up.
The thing lasts about half an hour, enough for the first few shots to make their way into my blood—especially since I haven’t eaten much tonight.
Andrea’s the one who comes to my rescue. “Alright, everyone, the show’s over. Unhand my genius,” she demands.
After some protest, they dissipate, migrating toward the food. She motions to sit next to me, but I like having her on my lap, so I pull her back onto me with a firm hand. I don’t care if there’s room on the couch now. This is where she belongs.
