Takuto Kimura stood nervously at the door of his grandmother's house, adjusting the red Tang suit his mom had picked out for him. He looked less like a well-dressed young boy and more like a walking WANGZAI milk candy. The vibrant red fabric clung to him as if it were trying to suffocate him with festive cheer. He could practically feel the judgment of his cousins already. As he took a deep breath, it wasn't to prepare for family bonding but to brace himself for what he knew would be a battle—his cousin was an all-around child prodigy, and Takuto had no intention of being outperformed today.
"Remember," his mom squatted down to adjust his bowtie with the precision of a military drill sergeant, "when you see your cousin, make sure to say hello. And don't go on about things like 'mergers,' 'valuation,' or 'capital flow.'"
Takuto, in his infinite wisdom, rolled his eyes. His cousin was the embodiment of everything he wasn't—organized, driven, successful. Meanwhile, Takuto's proudest accomplishment was figuring out how to not set the kitchen on fire when trying to toast bread. He had no hope in hell of impressing anyone at this family gathering, but maybe, just maybe, he could at least survive it without too much shame.
Before he could even respond, the sound of Flight of the Bumblebee blared from inside the house. It was being played at such an absurd speed that it sounded like the piano was under attack by a swarm of bees. Takuto flinched. He could feel his insides seize up in terror.
"Your cousin's practicing," his mom said with a proud grin that could have given the Mona Lisa a run for her money. "She won the national children's piano competition last year..."
Takuto's hands immediately began to shake, his mind racing. This isn't human hand speed… Was she an octopus in her past life? He could barely play "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" on the toy piano without accidentally smashing the keys.
The living room was already transformed into his cousin's personal performance stage. It was a showcase of her endless talents, each one more mind-boggling than the last. She wasn't just practicing piano; she was preparing for some sort of modern-day Renaissance tour, and Takuto was about to be the star of the show—of failure.
Show 1: Mental Math Tricks
Uncle: "There are 18 red envelopes, and 6 kids... how should we divide them?"
Without missing a beat, Cousin answered: "According to age-weighted distribution, I should receive 32.7% of the total. The remainder can be reinvested into government bonds with a 3% return rate per annum."
Takuto's jaw dropped. Age-weighted distribution? Bonds? His mind felt like it had just been hit by a wall of bricks made out of math. He didn't even know what "government bonds" were. Was that something he could buy on the stock market with LEGO pieces?
Show 2: The Analects Rap
"Learning and practicing, isn't it a joy? Yo! Friends from far away come—Skr~"
The rhymes were so tight that Confucius himself might have rolled out of his grave and declared, "That's fire!" It was as if ancient Chinese philosophy had been put through the filter of a rap battle, and the result was nothing short of astonishing. Takuto sat there, awestruck, wondering if his cousin was some sort of time traveler who had been imbued with the wisdom of the ancients.
Show 3: Pi Recitation Talent
"3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197169399375105820974944..."
By the time she recited the 500th digit, Takuto was starting to think he was in some sort of fever dream. He looked around and realized Grandpa was already snoring in his chair, unbothered by the math wizardry unfolding before him. Meanwhile, his mom was too busy recording the performance on her phone to notice that Takuto was sinking into the ground from embarrassment.
His 3-year-old cousin, meanwhile, was in a corner, not to be outdone. He was drawing the Fibonacci sequence in the air with his drool, apparently working on some kind of avant-garde math project.
Takuto could feel the pressure mounting. All eyes were on him. They were waiting for his big moment.
"Takuto, you should perform too!" Uncle suddenly suggested, his voice tinged with excitement. It was as though he was expecting Takuto to be some sort of hidden talent, a young Mozart waiting to burst forth from his shell. Takuto's brain immediately went into crisis mode.
Plan A: Recite Das Kapital. But knowing how that might go, he quickly nixed that one. His cousin would probably calculate its economic implications in less than a second.
Plan B: Show off his LEGO stock exchange. But again, his cousin would turn that into a math problem faster than he could say "dividends."
Plan C: Pretend he had sudden, irreversible memory loss.
The clock was ticking.
"I… I'll perform the times tables in 30 seconds!" he blurted out, his voice cracking with the desperation of a man grasping at straws. It was his only option.
The first half went smoothly. He rapped off the times tables like a true professional. "Seven sevens are forty-nine, seven eights are fifty-six, seven nines..."
Then, disaster struck.
He froze. The numbers vanished from his brain like a stock market crash during a recession. All he could hear was the echo of his 3-year-old cousin's baby voice, chirping in with the coldest of insults:
"Seven nines are sixty-three, idiot."
The room erupted in laughter, and Takuto could feel his face turning the same color as his Tang suit. His mom's laughter was the loudest, a high-pitched cackle that felt like a betrayal from someone who should have been supporting him.
Dinner was no less brutal.
Aunt: "Takuto, what level of piano are you at?"
(Actual skill: Two Tigers on a toy piano, and even then, it sounded like a dying cat.)
Uncle: "I heard your cousin won a gold medal in advanced math!"
(And here Takuto was, struggling to figure out how to calculate the tip at a restaurant.)
Grandma: "Eat more fish, it'll help your brain!"
Takuto stared at the fish head she had picked up with a sly grin, its dead eyes staring right back at him. He was pretty sure the fish had seen the entire ordeal unfold and was judging him just as hard as everyone else in the room.
As his cousin began arranging strawberries into calculus symbols—no, really, she was—Takuto finally snapped.
He secretly added half a tube of mustard to her Coke when no one was looking. It was a petty act of rebellion, but in his world, it was the only victory that mattered.
On the way home, Takuto's mom launched into her repetitive brainwashing mode.
"Look at your cousin..."
"If you could be half like her..."
"Do you think next year you could…"
Takuto suddenly stopped walking and turned to face his mom with a determined look. His gaze was sharp, like a man about to drop a truth bomb.
"Mom, do you know a secret about her?" Takuto asked seriously, his voice grave with importance.
His mom's face lit up with curiosity. "What?"
He paused for dramatic effect, giving her time to lean in closer, eager to hear his revelation. Then, with all the conviction he could muster, he said:
"She's actually an AI robot!"
His mom's eyes went wide with disbelief. "What? How do you—"
"I've observed three pieces of irrefutable evidence," he continued. "First, she blinks exactly 17 times per minute. Second, she eats fish without spitting out the bones. And third, when playing Monopoly, she calculates probabilities using game theory."
His mom stared at him, her face frozen in an expression of confusion and mild concern.
"...Did you finish your winter break homework?" she asked.
Takuto's eyes narrowed. "Oh, right. Homework."
He had completely forgotten about that.
In the end, though, Takuto walked away from the family gathering with a sense of pride. He hadn't outperformed his cousin, sure, but he had successfully completed a covert mission—he had injected a little chaos into the otherwise perfect world of his overachieving relative. The mustard trick was small, but it was his. And sometimes, that was all you needed in a world where your cousin could recite Pi to 500 digits.