“Just a way to challenge us,” Lucy said. “Considering we all come from high schools that are more advanced than most colleges, they’ve got to do something.”

“Sure,” Delia said. Her own high school only had two AP classes, and as usual, Delia was one of two girls in them. She’d been on campus for ten minutes and already felt years behind. “It’s just . . . the thing is, I didn’t realize . . . and so, well, I have orientation.”

“You? Why just you?” Lucy reached for her notebook.

“It’s not part of the program. I have a part-time job.”

“A job? But ValleyStart is your job—our job—all of us, together.”

Delia focused on the Washington Monument on the “D.C.” sticker at the corner of her mom’s suitcase. “It won’t interfere, I promise.”

“But how . . . I mean, is this even okay with the program?”

Delia’s eyes shifted to the Mardi Gras beads surrounding “New Orleans” before turning to Lucy. “They had a link at the bottom of the website for campus jobs. I’m used to working and going to school.”

Lucy pursed her lips.

“Me too,” Maddie said, glancing up from her phone, which was so new, Delia wasn’t even quite sure what model it was. “Go, we’ll catch you later.”

Delia didn’t wait for Lucy’s reaction. She left her mom’s suitcase on the bed, said a quick “nice to meet you both,” and hurried through the doorway still wearing her too-heavy jacket beneath her equally heavy backpack with a heart that outweighed them both.

She nearly barreled into a girl in a cropped denim jacket carrying a guitar. Delia was so mortified that she couldn’t even attempt to return the girl’s “hey.”

As soon as she reached the stairwell, Delia pressed her head against the cool brick wall and tried to breathe. She pulled her phone out to text Cassie and realized she’d be busy moving scenery just in time for her mom’s solo. Delia was early for her orientation. So she sat on the top step and opened Delia’s Den.

*   *   *

“Uh, yeah, we have Hot Pockets in Illinois,” Delia said for the fourth time in the common room of the student center. Kiosks, including hers, lined the perimeter of an open space furnished with a brightly colored rainbow of beanbag chairs, couches, and even a couple of chaise longue chairs.

A guy with floppy blond hair and a sunburn that had turned his white skin the color of a red bliss potato eyed her skeptically—apparently completely unaware that she was the one who should be side-eyeing him. Delia was pretty sure that the ocean wasn’t around the corner, and yet he was wearing jeans over a full-body wetsuit. The top half dangled unzipped around his waist, and his blue, red, and white plaid shirt hung loose, unbuttoned. If anyone needed food-service lessons, it was this guy.