But it had all worked. Same as this was. With the minor hiccup that Maddie had stopped speaking. From the side of the stage, Delia watched Sadie swivel her head, waiting for Maddie to kick back into gear, to finish the design section before Maddie moved on to the coding. The clock was ticking, and yet Maddie simply stood, staring at Danny, stroking her four-leaf clover.

Delia turned to see Lucy, who was further backstage, deep in conversation with Emma, both of them checking their phones. She’d yet to realize anything was wrong. Delia had to tell her. She took a step and reached for a lock of hair, winding it around her finger, remembering the day she left Littlewood. The day her father told her she’d eventually find what she could do, not what she couldn’t. Because there was a role for every actor and for every actor a role. And right now, Delia’s role was that of friend.

She gulped down enough air to last her the next two minutes, steeled herself with a brief closing of her eyes, and walked out onstage.

“Sadie,” she said, her voice shaking more than she’d hoped. “What do you think?”

Sadie raised an eyebrow, looking from Delia to Maddie, then eased back into her performance, same as Cassie and her mom had done.

“You tell me!” Sadie hit the trackpad, and a recognizable “Who run the world?” refrain reverberated through the room.

“Does that mean you like it?” Delia asked as Maddie jolted back to life.

“Like it?” Sadie tapped her finger against her lip. “Let’s just say . . . I’m in!”

A look of panic consumed Maddie’s face, and Delia smiled to set her at ease.

Sadie hopped on the scooter, and with a final circle, veered offstage.

Maddie moved closer to Delia, who reached for the mic in her hand.

Before letting go, Maddie mouthed, “you sure?”

Delia nodded despite the butterflies dive-bombing in her stomach. She knew what she’d written out for Maddie to say about the code, about how Delia had designed the games to work, how they progressed in level of difficulty both as a game and in the code being taught, but none of that seemed important anymore. Not as important as what Delia really wanted to say.

She rolled the microphone in her hand and brought it to her lips, which felt so unnatural. A barrier between her and the audience that her mom would never allow. Delia hooked it back onto its stand and stared at her feet. She pressed her heels into the bottom of the sandals she’d bought at the campus bookstore to replace her sneakers, Mountain View U written across the straps. Despite everything, maybe because of everything, she still wanted it. Because she believed in moonshots.