“Have you been talking to her this entire time?”

“Yeah, I asked for stories about you.”

Carter took his phone and the interviewer came out of the room, motioning to me. “Nicholas Maguire?”

Because . . .

You can be anyone you want, right?

Feeling the most confident I had all trip, I nodded, fixed my blazer, and went to shake his hand. I knew that Nick Maguire wasn’t perfect, though he wasn’t all bad, either.

Hopefully the interviewer would see that.

Eliza was wrong about one thing, however: neither of us could be anyone we wanted. She would always be Carter’s sister. And I’d always be his bro.

RULE NUMBER 13

A bro shalt treat his mother like a queen.

After our interviews, Carter and I grabbed pizza at the place on campus. It was Sicilian pizza, square and extra crispy, whereas Straight Cheese ’n’ Pizza was thin crust, so we couldn’t decide which was better. Apples and oranges, basically.

The car ride back consisted of Carter sleeping and me testing my luck with the state police: how fast could I go without getting caught? Turns out 95 mph, since that’s the fastest I went (although I didn’t pass any speed traps).

We did the six-and-a-half-hour drive back in under five.

Even though it was after dinner, none of the lights were on in the O’Connor’s house.

“You sure you don’t want dinner?” asked Carter.

“We have frozen food at my house too, bro.”

“Gotcha. Later.” The passenger door blew shut as he slung his duffel bag over his shoulder. The half-eaten bags of chips stayed with me, however.

The second I rolled out of his driveway, my phone started buzzing. I secured it in my phone holder.

“Nick?” came my mom’s voice. “Are you back yet?”

“Almost home.”

“I just finished at the office. My car’s in the shop and your dad’s still at the school board meeting. Could you give me a ride back home?”

Geez, Mom. Late night. Though a twinge of guilt hit me like an itch. The extra hours were for me. My parents wouldn’t let me get a job and contribute to my college fund—because apparently, I needed all my spare time to practice. Given how prepared I was for the tryout, it seemed to have paid off.

“Be there in fifteen.” My Mustang kicked into gear. Her car was perpetually at the shop, but my mom was determined to run that thing to the ground. For three reasons:

1. With my college coming up, new cars weren’t exactly on the top of our expense lists.

2. She was too far above asking our neighbors and family friends for rides.

3. She has the lowest Uber rating the world has ever seen.

Everyone thinks their crazy, vomit-prone, foul-mouthed friend is the person with the lowest Uber rating: nope, it’s Alison Maguire.

My mom approached the pickup curb as I drove up. She worked in an eight-floor building, where most of the walls were windows. All of them were dark. Her black suit blended in with the shadows, and her dark hair shone under the streetlights. Her weary face gave away her put-together façade.