“We have time to work on this,” I said to Nina, following after her. “We’ll figure it out.”

With my stocking feet on the kitchen floor, I felt the reverberation when Nina slammed the refrigerator door shut after pulling out a cup of yogurt. She ripped the foil lid off, grabbed a spoon from a drawer nearby, and dug in.

I didn’t understand why she signed, SORRY, once she finished the yogurt, which she did in about a minute. That sour look was still on her face while she chucked the empty yogurt cup in the trash.

“Is everything okay?” I asked hesitantly.

Nina flopped over onto the kitchen counter, holding her face in her hands. “I always . . . worked up about school. I feel like . . . perfect grades. And . . . love history . . . but still . . . all classes . . . important. Need . . . ace this.”

I was getting the impression that this conversation was about to move into more personal territory, and yet I still felt weirdly comfortable speaking with Nina being so open about herself. That didn’t always have to be a bad thing.

“I feel that way too,” I said. “Literally all the time.”

Sometimes it seemed like I drove myself to the edge trying to ace every homework assignment and test thrown my way. Somewhere along the way I’d convinced myself having perfect grades was the only way I’d get into a reputable RT program and actually get to do what I’d dreamed of for years. It didn’t help that I was never fully awake until at least fourth period, when two of my AP classes were done and over with. Staying up late each night to muddle through a mountain of homework made me groggy all morning, even with multiple cups of coffee.

“My mom is . . . and my dad . . . doctor,” Nina was telling me. “Big shoes . . . I need to . . . good school. Boulder . . . not . . . easy school . . .”

“Nina, I think you’ll have no problem getting into Boulder,” I told her, hoping my voice sounded firm and confident. “You’re beyond smart. You’ll be fine.”

“Thanks, but I think . . . will get into . . . before me,” Nina replied.

When I just stared at her in confusion, not understanding who she was talking about, she finger spelled, B-E-A-U.

“What about him?” I said, trying to keep from frowning like I did every time somebody mentioned Beau.

“He wants . . . Yale,” Nina said. “It’s like, all his dad . . . for him.” Her eyes crinkled up at the corners when she laughed and said, “I think that’s . . . we get along . . . well. We’re both . . . over-achievers.”

I figured Beau was smart, but Ivy League? I couldn’t help but be a little impressed.

“But at least my . . . aren’t on me . . . like Beau’s dad . . .” Nina said with a small shake of her head. “All he does is try to . . .”

“Try to what?” I said, suddenly anxious to know what she had said about Beau.