Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

                                     who deserves the piece of cake with the frosting bootie at Cousin Jenna’s baby shower



                                     who’s taller (they are identical twins)



                                     who’s more handsome (see above)



                                     whose birth year, according to the Guinness World Records book, has more recorded python attacks (see above!)



                                     who gets to pick the dog’s name (we never had pets)





            This is a noncomprehensive list. Over the years, the feuds have become more rabid, Dad more absent, Mom more reliant on me for cleanups. “You can’t be your family’s janitorial staff,” Cece tells me once a week, but I do my best to make Mom happy, even though of all the Elsies people want, hers is the fakest—and the one with deepest roots. I have, after all, cursed my way into it, tirelessly and painstakingly.

            “How are you, Mom—”

            “Overwhelmed. Lucas and Lance are at it again. Almost came to fists after their soccer game.”

            “Over the result?”

            “Over Dana.”

            I rub my temple. “They both agreed to stop dating her.”

            “They did. But Dana needed a ride somewhere.”

            “Who did she call?”

            “Lucas. Lance slashed his tire. The neighbors are starting to talk. You need to stop them.”

            “I did, Mom. Two weeks ago. A month ago. Three months ago.” I’ve been holding a series of conflict mediation seminars in my parents’ basement. They mostly consist of me reminding my brothers that murder is illegal.

            “Well, do it again. Come over tomorrow.”

            I physically cringe. “I’m sorry. It’s not possible.”

            “Why?”

            “I—” No. No I statements. Too personal. “This is a stressful, busy time. The semester just started and . . .” Do I tell her? I shouldn’t. But maybe she’ll want to know? “I’m interviewing for a job.”

            “You have a job.”

            “This is a better job.”

            “Your job is already a better job.”

            I consider bringing up concepts like relativity, gig economy, and insulin resistance. “This is even better.”

            “Let’s hear it—what is it?”

            “Professor.”

            “So you’d go from being a professor to being a professor.”

            Needless to say, I don’t bother telling my parents about the pendulous nature of my job situation. Or . . . anything else. “I’ll call them tomorrow morning, okay?”

            She grumbles for five more minutes and guilts me into calling tonight, then switches to complaining about something related to toxic deodorants that she saw on Facebook. I hang up to a notification—not Greg, but some guy looking for a fake girlfriend for a Valentine’s Day group date. I decide on the spot to personally blame Faux for tonight’s shit show and chuck the iTwat into the laundry hamper.

            What’s the plan here? Cece asked.

            I have a grand total of zero ideas, which means that I’m going to have to annihilate Jack Shitwipe Smith-Turner the old way: by excelling at my job.

            I sigh deeply. Then I pull my ancient Mac onto my lap, click on my teaching demonstration, and rehearse the crap out of it.