NYU's entrance exam was on a Saturday in December.
Song Qingci woke at three in the morning—not because her alarm went off, but because her heart was racing too fast, jolting her awake. She lay on the mattress, staring at the ceiling above. There was one more crack than last week, the water stain shaped like a map. She took three deep breaths. Her heart was still racing.
She got up and washed her face with cold water. In the mirror, her cheekbones jutted out sharply, her lips were chapped, dark circles hollowed beneath her eyes. She spoke to her reflection. "Song Qingci, you have to pass today."
The mirror didn't answer.
She put on the only shirt without grease stains—Rachel had given it to her, calling it "interview attire." White, a bit tight at the collar, but clean. Over it, she wore the olive green coat. She shouldered her canvas bag and left.
NYU's exam hall was on the third floor of the Stern School of Business. When she arrived, a long line had already formed at the entrance. All of them were young people in their twenties, wearing down jackets or wool coats, holding Starbucks cups. Some were reviewing notes, some were chatting.
Song Qingci stood at the back of the line. No one noticed her.
"Hey."
Someone tapped her shoulder. She turned to see a girl with a round face, black-rimmed glasses, and wild purple hair, wearing an "I LOVE NY" hoodie.
"You here for the exam?" the girl asked.
"Yes."
"Me too." The girl stuck out her hand. "Rachel He. Chinese American, but my Chinese is terrible, so don't quiz me."
Song Qingci shook her hand. "Song Qingci."
"Song Qingci?" Rachel tilted her head, thinking. "Your name is so pretty. Where are you from?"
"Beijing."
"Wow, Beijing!" Rachel's eyes lit up. "I've always wanted to go to Beijing. Eat Peking duck. Do you know the best place?"
"Quanjude."
"Quanjude? Got it." She pulled a notebook from her pocket and wrote it down carefully. Song Qingci glanced at it and saw other entries: "Don't be nervous for NYU exam," "Buy milk," "Call Mom."
"First time taking this exam?" Rachel put away her notebook.
"Yes."
"Me too." Rachel lowered her voice. "I'm so nervous I could die. Look at my hands—"
She held them out. Her palms were sweaty.
"I studied computer science originally, but I think coding is so boring. I wanted to come study finance. My mom says I'm crazy, leaving a perfectly good software engineer career to throw myself to the wolves on Wall Street."
"Why finance?"
Rachel thought for a moment. "Because I want to make money. A lot of money. What about you?"
Song Qingci was quiet for a moment. "Because I promised someone I would stand in the brightest place."
Rachel looked at her, didn't pry, just nodded. "Then we'll stand there together."
The exam hall doors opened. Everyone started filing in. Rachel walked beside Song Qingci and said, "You know? When I was waiting in line, I saw you standing at the very back, and I thought—you must be really good."
"Why?"
"Because people who are really good don't talk." Rachel smiled. "And your eyes are very bright. Like someone who's been backed into a corner but still charges forward."
Song Qingci paused, then smiled. "You talk a lot."
"I know." Rachel pushed up her glasses. "My mom says my biggest flaw in life is talking too much."
They found their seats. Song Qingci was in the third row by the window; Rachel was in the middle of the fifth row. When the exam papers were handed out, Song Qingci's hand trembled—not from nerves, but from cold. The heat in the exam hall was broken. Her fingers were stiff.
She rubbed her hands together and picked up her pen.
First question: derivative pricing models.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. In her mind, Donovan Black's blackboard flashed before her. The book she'd read to tatters in the basement. Every calculation done at two in the morning.
Then she began to write.
Her pen scratched across the paper, a steady rhythm. Formulas, derivations, conclusions—each step clear. Her hands stopped trembling. Her fingers moved as fluidly as if playing piano—though she hadn't touched a violin in a long time, muscle memory remained. Her fingers remembered where every note lay, just as they remembered every variable in every formula.
A three-hour exam. She finished in two.
She didn't turn it in early. She went over it twice, checking every number, every symbol.
When she handed in her paper, the proctor glanced at it. Her expression shifted.
"What's your name?"
"Song Qingci."
The proctor didn't speak, but her expression was one Song Qingci recognized. Donovan Black had worn the same look the first time he saw her.
Surprise. Appreciation. Recognition from one professional to another.
When she walked out of the exam hall, Rachel was waiting at the door.
"How did it go?" Rachel asked.
"Okay."
"What does 'okay' mean?"
"It means… I think I passed."
"Think?" Rachel's eyes widened. "You look like someone who just aced it."
"Not perfect." Song Qingci adjusted her bag. "There was one part I think I could have written more concisely, but I ran out of time."
Rachel stared at her, mouth opening and closing.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." Rachel shook her head. "I just think you're a really strange person."
"Strange how?"
"You're clearly brilliant, but you say 'okay.' You know that guy who sat next to me? After the exam he said, 'I nailed it.' I glanced at his paper—he got the third question wrong."
Song Qingci smiled. "Everyone has different standards."
"What's your standard?"
"Perfect."
Rachel was silent for three seconds. Then she slapped Song Qingci on the shoulder. "Song Qingci, I think we're going to be good friends."
"Why?"
"Because you're a freak." Rachel laughed, loud and bright. "And I like being friends with freaks."
They walked out of NYU together. The sky had darkened, but the streetlights were bright, reflecting off the glass facade of Stern, casting light across the whole street.
Song Qingci stopped and looked back at the building.
"What's wrong?" Rachel asked.
"Nothing." She turned back toward the road ahead. "Just thinking—if my mother could see me taking the exam here, she'd be happy."
"She must be very happy," Rachel said.
"How do you know?"
"Because standing here, you're standing in the brightest place."
Song Qingci didn't answer, but she smiled.
A faint smile. But Rachel saw it.
She thought, this girl is really beautiful when she smiles.
She should smile more.