“We better stop boring you kids with our stories.” Rep Brown leans forward to shake my hand and kiss me on the cheek. “Looking forward to seeing your parents at the next fundraiser,” she whispers in my ear, before leaning back seamlessly with a brilliant smile.

“Certainly.” I nod. “Have a nice evening.” They head off to the next group they need to schmooze, and I turn around, tilting my champagne flute to examine the few drops left, unsure if there’s enough for another sip.

“Want to sit down?” I ask Sara. “They’ll probably start soon.”

“Hmmm?” She looks at me blankly.

“Do you want to find our seats?” I ask again.

“Oh yeah, sure.” She shakes her head, as if trying to snap out of some sort of trance.

“Are you okay?” I ask. I place my hand on the small of her back as I guide her toward the ballroom. “You seem unusually quiet.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” She smiles, but her eyes are flat. “It’s just...” She makes a face. “You know.”

I actually do not know.

We find the place cards for “Mr. Braden Hart” and “Guest” and take our seats. I unfold my napkin and drape it over my lap. I flip open the program resting on top of my plate and skim it. The main speeches are before the meal. Which would be disappointing considering my growling stomach, but I’m not looking forward to this dry chicken as much as I am to the drinks.

“Do you think they’ll bring wine around before this?” I point to the first speech. “I’ll try to find a waiter,” I add before she can answer.

I search the room, half rising out of my chair.

“What do you think we should do?” Sara says.

I turn back to her. “What, like white or red? I think it’s chicken so...”

“No, about Perfect10.”

“Oh.” I narrow my eyes. “I think it’s obvious, right? It’s our company. We’re not just going to let them take it from us.”

“They’re not exactly taking it,” she says. “I mean, I wouldn’t exactly call paying millions for the work of college freshmen a hostile takeover.”

“Hey, don’t sell us short like that,” I say. “Picasso was thirteen when he started painting. Page and Brin created Google from a Stanford dorm room.”

As PhD students, not freshman, but maybe she doesn’t know that.

“Zuckerberg started Facebook during sophomore year.”

She laughs. “I don’t think comparing ourselves to them is necessarily productive.”

“Who else would I compare myself to?” I catch the eye of a waiter across the room and wave him over.

He fills our glasses, and I assume we’re done with that conversation for now.