We close out the restaurant, and as we stand on the curb waiting for our cars, I wedge my phone out of my tiny purse.

I open iMessage and click on the top name—Robbie.

Me: Hey, please don’t be mad

He responds immediately, before I can send the second text.

Roberto: why would I be mad?

I continue typing as Braden opens the door for me and I slide into the Uber.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Roberto

“You’re really gonna flake on the camp?” I ask. I was in bed when she texted me last night, and I woke up hoping it was a dream. But alas, no, Sara really is considering dipping on the coding camp she helped organize to do rich kid spring break. I asked her to come over, thinking I’d have a better chance of changing her mind in person.

“Like I said, I’m not sure what I’m going to do.” She paces around my kitchenette, picking up an old mug of tea from the table and putting it in the sink.

“But you’re considering it?” I say.

She grabs a paper towel to wipe the liquid ring left on the table. Classic Sara stress-cleaning behavior. “It’s a free stay in a mansion, so, yeah, I’m considering it.”

I exhale and look out the common room window. When she got here this morning, she had what looked like a large bruise on her collarbone. It took me a second to realize it was a hickie. That he gave her.

I tried not to let the frustration, the nausea I felt thinking about him with her, affect my judgment. Not to confuse those feelings with the matter at hand, about which I have a right to be mad.

“You were the one who pulled me into this in the first place,” I say, turning back to her. “I asked my neighbor to sign up and everything. You can’t just bail.”

“I’m not bailing,” she says. She paces across the room, the rubber bottoms of her fuzzy slippers squeaking. “Most of the administrative stuff I can handle before, and then I’m sure I can get someone to cover my shift.”

“That’s not the point,” I say. “You recruited everyone to do this. It is basically your camp this year. How will it be for morale if you don’t even show up?”

“Maybe that’s not my problem,” she says, her eyes darting from me and back away frantically. “You’re right. So far I have carried this thing, done way more work than everyone else. Maybe it’s someone else’s turn. I don’t want to be the girl who always does the work for someone else. Why can’t I, just once, be the slacker, the one who skips class to do something fun?”