“We are presenting to an expert in the tech business. He wants to know we can sell—it doesn’t matter what we’re selling.”

Sara scoffs. “Says the guy who refused to work until we had an idea. Thanks, but I’m going to keep coding.”

He sighs and joins us at the table. “Then at least put me in charge of the presentation.”

“I’m not so sure I want to put you in charge of anything.” Sara makes a big show of turning back to her work.

“I think we should let him,” I say.

“What? Why?” She looks at me like I’m betraying her.

“Because he just sold me on the idea of becoming a graphic design major for half a second, and I don’t actually want to do that at all. If he can talk like that about logos, I trust him to talk about our project well.”

“Fine, whatever.” She grumbles. “Braden’s in charge of the presentation then.”

“Great, thanks!” He throws his backpack over his shoulder. “I’m gonna go for a walk. Get the creative juices flowing.”

“Do whatever you want,” Sara says.

“Thanks, Mom.” He kisses the top of her head and is out the door in an instant.

“Useless,” Sara sighs, scrubbing her head as if to get rid of his cooties. “I can’t believe he gets to put his name on this project too.”

“I know.” I reach for my water and take a sip. “But hey, maybe we will get to fill out one of those things at the end.” I set back down my glass. “Group evaluations where we say who did what and how well, so we can set the record straight.”

“Trust me,” she says. “I’ve been writing mine since day one.”

Chapter Nine

Sara

“Dude, it’s time to go to sleep,” Braden says. He slides the cup of coffee, now cold, away from me.

I hold up my hand to signal this is not an option, not taking my eyes off the screen. My fingers are poised above the keyboard, at the ready. “There has to be some way to make it better.”

“Dude, it’s due at midnight, and it’s—” Braden checks his stupid diamond watch “—eleven-thirty. If you try to ‘fix’ something, you could ruin the whole damn thing. Just let it go.”

He doesn’t need to tell me how close we are to the due date. I keep looking from the clock on my microwave to the clock on my computer, as if one might be different.

Braden tilts back the chair he is sitting in and rests his feet against my kitchen table in a way that seems dangerous.

I’d tell him to sit up, but I’m not sure I’d be sad if he fell. “But—”

“Sara.” Robbie shakes his head.