“You’ll get in,” I say confidently—maybe too confidently, because three pairs of eyes snap toward me. Mrs. Hayes’s eyebrow is lifted in a perfect, curious arch over her carefully blank expression and I feel the need to explain. “I just mean, I know you’re worried about that, but you’ll get in. Everyone thinks so.”

“What do you mean ‘everyone thinks so’?” Adam asks. Shit. I shouldn’t have said that.

“Um…” My forehead is breaking into a sweat under the triple-Hayes gaze. “I mean, you’re really smart. And we all believe in you. Like, the people at this table. We all think you can do it.” I’ve lost all control over what I’m saying but it’s okay because the sludge is starting to crack, like grass growing through concrete.

“Yes, we do,” Mrs. Hayes agrees, giving me an inscrutable look. That’s a word that Adam loves: inscrutable. He says I’m inscrutable but I don’t think I hold a candle to Mrs. Hayes’s face right now.

“Absolutely.” Mr. Hayes nods strongly, beaming at his son, the sun ray of pride overlapping onto me. But Mrs. Hayes is still staring at me, head tilted like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. I’ve gotten used to a Hayes trying to figure me out all the time, but it feels sharper coming from her. More dangerous.

“Um, yeah.” I rub my hands on my legs, trying to distract myself from the ants under my skin. “So don’t be worried or anything. Because it’ll be fine.” I’m nodding too much, conscious of my beet-red, sweaty face. Thankfully Adam is feeling too contented to notice.

“Well, okay”—he blushes—“thanks, everyone. I guess.”

“Cake!” Mr. Hayes shouts suddenly, rising from his chair. Adam and I both jump a bit in our seats at the outburst but Mrs. Hayes just laughs again, breaking her focus on me to put her grinning face in her hands.

“You have to get that man under control,” Adam deadpans to his mom. Mr. Hayes has moved into the kitchen, where he is humming something unrecognizable but almost definitely out of tune.

“I gave up on that a decade or two ago, sweetie pie,” Mrs. Hayes chuckles, moving to clear the dishes away. Adam makes a gagging face—I’m assuming at the nickname—and Mrs. Hayes just ruffles his hair as she follows her husband into the kitchen.

“So…” I lean forward to look at Adam, drawn in by the balmy blue-green tide of his happiness. “What kind of cake did you make?” This prompts a head tilt, smirk, and bubbly playfulness that tells me he’s about to tease me.

“How many minutes a day do you spend thinking about food?” He grins, sparks in his eyes creating electricity between us.

“It’s an important subject,” I toss back. “It is, you know, necessary for survival.”