text: Who needs sleep? I mean really, way overrated. I bolt straight out of bed at seven this morning, having first gone to sleep somewhere after two. And it's a Saturday! And it feels great!
  
  I'd found a whopping clue and I leveled up to eighteen, which happens to be the Jewish numerical assigned as "life," which I think we might deem a rather timely portent.
  
  Flush with success, I call for a meeting, sending out our urgent, no-time-to-explain-meet-me-here text, which is an emoji of a "thing" followed by a number.
  
  It's our newest system, one not found in Emojipedia, because we designed it right after our last system was imploded by our parents. There are several emojis to choose from, each designating a specific location, none of them featuring an eggplant or a peach. In this case, I used a plate plus 1. One o'clock, Platitude. It's efficient if not deep.
  
  I'm not particularly happy about having to wait until one, because we all know I am so all over this, but it can't be earlier. I mean I suppose it could, but then there would be no Jimmy because he has a game tomorrow, which means he has morning practice today. And I am not doing this without him. Not going to happen.
  
  Vikram and I have been more or less fine working together on the robotics challenge, but it's a little on the polite side of fine.
  
  If I'm fully confessional here, even in my excitement, calling the meeting has me a little bit jittery. Last time, I distinctly remember, it didn't go so well— especially for me.
  
  But it's done. So now all I have to do is kill some time without bouncing off enough walls that there would be questions.
  
  Questions would be bad.
  
  Can't have questions.
  
  "Sidonie?"
  
  Geez! It is so unpleasantly weird how I can even think about avoidance and she's right there. And not like, "oh she has eyes in the back of her head" there. No, it's way worse. It's more like she has eyes in the back of mine!
  
  I take a calculated moment to un-grit my teeth. Work on relaxing the jaw so I can achieve vocal nonchalance. "Oui, Mama?"
  
  Not bad. A little pitchy, but still in the "sounds like me" zone.
  
  "Can you please open the door?"
  
  Eye roll. Un-grit teeth. Again. Open door. Lean out. Gear up half smile. Raise eyebrows. There's Mom, down the hallway, having stepped out from the kitchen.
  
  "You know I dislike yelling through a closed door." And dramatic pause, while we both make sure I heard that.
  
  "I'm setting out breakfast. Are you planning to be here to join us, or are you heading out somewhere else?"
  
  Breakfast? I hadn't given that much thought. And now that she's mentioning it, breakfast sounds great. It's not like I need to rush off. "Nope. I'm in."
  
  And oddly enough it is lovely. Croissants from a little patisserie around the corner, fresh fruit, yogurt. Chitchat with the folks, who are so miraculously chill there is no grilling to be had. Note to self, pop in for breakfast more often. Turns out to be an incredibly indulgent and civilized way to start the day, which today is topped off by Jean having to leave first to go somewhere I don't really care, other than now his thinking we are somehow buddies and trailing after me can be officially removed from my list of details to take care of. And for just a moment, it really is all so zen.
  
  But you know, zen and I are such fleeting friends.
  
  And just like that, zen jilts me. Gone. Goodbye. Leaving me pacing up, down, left, right, waiting for one o'clock, a consequence of having arrived half an hour early. I now know it takes eleven steps to walk from the front door of Platitudes to the street using an average stride. If you walk north-south in New York, it's about twenty blocks to go a mile. I'm thinking I have already logged at least a 5K.
  
  I could probably be more precise but I am still working to convince my parents an Apple watch is not a luxury, but a necessity.
  
  Yeah. So far it's not really working for me.
  
  I did actually go inside to grab a booth in the back, but sitting by myself downing two cups of coffee unfortunately seemed to unleash the Vikram angry face, setting it loose and flitting wildly across my brain. With each sip, he grew larger and loomed angrier, setting off a bout of shrinkage-of-my-nerves, which I tried calming by alternating aimless incessant knee bouncing with crossing my leg under my body to stop said knee bouncing. Mercifully I finally had a lightbulb thought.
  
  Waiting out front will be a better use of my completely over-caffeinated, overwrought energy.
  
  Which is why I am out here pacing, up and down and boom, hit the corner, swing around the lamppost, turn, and boom, seven zillion steps later, approaching me from the other side, is Ari.
  
  About five feet before reaching me, she stops and pulls up, so I stop and pull up. Suddenly I am under her microscope, being looked at from top to bottom, and then bottom to top. Full eyeball examination.
  
  And then, before I can say anything, Ari lunges and shrieks, wrapping me up in her arms— and into her rather substantial— uhmmm, chest, and gives me a big, wild, side-to-side rocking hug. "I knew you'd do it."
  
  "Do what?" I do manage to ask despite feeling a bit at sea— and no, not from the rocking motion. It's hard to maintain any kind of linear thought, other than trying to think not to sink, straight down and into ...Nope. No sinking.
  
  Sometimes I don't think Ari remembers the power of her "girls." Those Double D's. On me. Not in general. In general I know Ari knows fully well the power of those girls. I've seen them in action. No. No. No. Not personally. Get your mind out of the gutter here. I was referring to her LARPing attire. Wowzerhole.
  
  Then again, really, who am I kidding? Ari probably knows exactly what those girls do to me. Getting weak from lack of air. Self, there will be no passing out.
  
  "I knew you'd find a way to get Vik's toys back."
  
  I am about to protest that I really didn't actually do all that much, that I don't have his winnings back, at least not yet, when Ari grabs me up again.
  
  This time I try and keep the crushing, rocking, overstimulating motion at bay by focusing my one unmushed eye on the horizon, which is not easy when your glasses are part of the Tilt-a-Whirl.
  
  But eye-smush and all, as I am mercifully being released, I spot Imani and Jimmy making their way down the block. Fortunately they are too far down the street to see me straighten my glasses, realign my shirt, and buckle my knees. I attempt to politely snort up my loosened nasal membranes and regain some sense of, uh, sangfroid just as Vikram also arrives.
  
  As we all meet in the middle, Vikram walks solemnly up until he is directly in front of me. "I'm sorry, Sid. I was an ass."
  
  I'm proud of myself. I don't flinch. I just look directly at him. "You hurt me."
  
  "I know." Vikram stands there and waits. No more words. No excuses. No explanation. Just the acknowledgment.
  
  Which is all I need. "Okay."
  
  And with that we are all smiling wide, and within minutes, we are once again the fearsome five, crammed around the big table in the back of Platitude, gawking over a computer with coffee and black and whites for all. No robo-peeps. No group hug, let's go team, rah-rah kind of thing. Nope. We are hashtag Throwback Thursday-on-a-Saturday.
  
  And I am so loving today.
  
  Enough so that I just ordered an honest to gosh black and white malted to go with it. Color me nostalgic. Chichi, foo-foo coffee shop hangouts don't have them, you know.
  
  And I'd like to tell you that my week of playing was worth the expression on Vikram's face, but I have to say it wasn't.
  
  Not to say he wasn't stunned, and just to confirm, he absolutely wasn't angry, and not to say everyone else wasn't perfectly impressed, but really, when you play for days on end and wind up more or less finally passing out hearing a slurp, chomp followed by, "Bile ...Bile ...Fed for a While ...Ha Ha Ha" ringing in your ears, incorporating itself into your less than fun dream, even one's own giddiness and Vik's happy face doesn't fully achieve the even-stevens.
  
  I did manage to miraculously defeat the Lassa and level up to eighteen before I hit upon that charming chomp, slurp couplet. Which was key because, just between us, if it had taken me all those nights to hear those lines and I was still stuck on like, level five, we would so not be here this morning. I do have some pride. Because even though my discovery of the SwHypo is impressive, of and by itself, it's not enough.
  
  Knowing someone has stolen your property and getting it back are two entirely different things. And getting it back needs a lot more backup. Or at the very least, more than just me.
  
  I know I'm not the best gamer on the planet, although I would like to be clear I'm also not the worst. I can, however, live stress free knowing I won't be taken in the NBA 2K League draft. Because while I would like to think I could be SSSniperwolf or Cupquake, I believe the appropriate snark would be "in my dreams." I do take some consolation in believing I could outcode them all, even if I can't outscore them.
  
  Hey, sometimes it's the little thoughts that count. Like, you know, are there any small oceans?
  
  And your first thought is to snort and say, "nooo," but then you realize, well yes, there are, if only metaphorically. As in I woke drowning in the ocean of pus released into my body by the KroniK PP virus, which is what happens when at level fifteen you get caught in the tidal bore of pneumonia plus pulmonary disease, and you have no defenses for it!
  
  Yes my friends, even here, while glowing in my achievement, I am still hating this game.
  
  But now, now I have backup. Here we are, sitting with everyone's laptop on the table, having all created names and signed up to play. Well, everyone except Vikram. Vikram is on the outside of our lovely red pleather aka vinyl booth, leaning over everyone else's shoulders, working to jump-start each of the newbies so they will quickly get a few items to help them play.
  
  By the time we hit the three-hour mark, it is two hours and thirty minutes past recognizing who games and who does not. Jimmy is already up to level twelve, and with a few Vikram pointers I have actually managed to come close to defeating the body mucus and nearly leveling up to nineteen. Which is not the same as actually leveling up, but better than not lasting five seconds before succumbing— repeatedly.
  
  Under ordinary circumstances this would be sad enough to maybe even be pathetic, except I am playing with Imani and Ari, and they, well, let's just say it, they are never going to be much help.
  
  Not that being useless gets anyone off the hook. Nope. Ari gets to hunker down in the rough near the cave, keeping an eye out for a reappearance of the SwHypo, while Imani culls through the Global Chat to see if there are, or were, any other messages about the big blue.
  
  "Arghhhhhh!" My fit interrupts everyone's concentration as I slap at my keyboard and watch myself get taken out for the sixth time by the deadly Marburg virus. And I was this close!
  
  The small side glances of sympathy do nothing for me.
  
  I honestly think it might be a better use of my time, and really, all our time, if I were to join Ari and Imani. But who am I kidding? That's so not going to happen. I know, deep down, even if I suck, even if I hate this game, I want to be part of the action.
  
  I crack my knuckles and shake out my fingers. To quote The Grey, "Once more into the fray."
  
  Of course, I don't remember Liam Neeson weeping to himself as he said this.