“Don’t forget, first impressions are everything. It starts with your shirt being tucked in, combed hair, and a good handshake. No one likes a flabby one.”

“Got it,” I said. Without any traffic on this fine Saturday morning, it was actually pretty easy to listen to my mom. For better or for worse.

“Your suit still fits?”

“I sure hope so.”

“Nick. If it doesn’t, we still have time—”

“Yes, it still fits.”

“Give an example in every answer. When they ask you what your strengths are, don’t only say leadership. Talk about a time you showed leadership in soccer.”

“Okay.” My mom looked straight ahead and gestured with her hands. She was in her element and I was another one of the people that she coached.

“Don’t say ‘um’ or ‘like.’ If you think you’re going to, slow down.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t ‘up-talk.’ That’s making sentences seem like questions? Like that?”

“Okay.”

“Don’t mention your GPA.”

Because mine’s not good enough. “What should I mention?”

The light ahead turned to red, and my mom’s lecture stopped when my car did. “What do you think you should mention?”

I tapped my foot against the brakes. “Maybe balancing school and soccer? How I like helping other people with injuries?” Those were the realest things I could think of. I could only hope they would be enough.

“Great,” she said. The light turned green and I sailed through. “Make sure you ask them questions.”

“Okay.”

After ten more minutes of that, I pulled onto our street. “You’re going to do great,” said my mom.

“Okay.”

We arrived at our house to find none other than Austin Banks sitting like a garden gnome on the front lawn.

“Go ahead,” Mom said. “I can take it from here.” I hopped out and she drove up the driveway.

“Hey, man.” The too-long grass scratched my ankles as I approached. “What’s up?”

“Are you okay?” he asked. The overcast, cloudy backdrop emphasized his worry.

“Yeah . . . why wouldn’t I be? Are the Red Sox losing because last time I checked—”

“Unfortunately, no, they’re not,” he interrupted. “You weren’t answering your phone. Which, if you were anyone else, I wouldn’t come all the way to your house for, but you told me that if there is ever a girl fight, and I text you about it, and you’re not there . . . I should come to your house immediately.”

“Ah crap, sorry, I drove my mom and didn’t have my phone on me. Who was in it?”

“Sophomores. I don’t know their names. It wasn’t that good, though. You didn’t really miss anything. That’s about it. Want to chill?”

“It is Saturday.”

He followed me to my room. It was a little small for hanging out, with an old-school 1980s TV.

“Haven’t been up here in a minute,” said Austin. He flopped on my bed as I clicked on the TV. “Still have your Legos?”

“Check the closet.” Playing Legos at my house had been a staple of our elementary school experience, before Carter and his toys moved to North Cassidy.