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"Sweet." Dylan rises to his feet. "Let's get this party started."

I take an extra moment to type out one last message to Nikki and get a grip on myself. Boarding. Text soon.

K. Take care of Dylan for me. Love u. Her answer flies back so fast I can almost picture her flopped out on her bed with phone in hand and nothing better to do than live vicariously through me.

Guilt lances through my insides like a flash of lightning, competing with the anxiety treading on my frayed nerves. The same feeling I've had to fight off ever since the scholarship candidates were announced. Nikki should've been here, keeping watch over her own boyfriend. But then I remind myself that she doesn't need this opportunity. Her family is loaded.

Love u too.

It takes an extra minute, but I open my Gmail app and send Mom a quick note to let her know we're boarding. Texting would be far more efficient, but she dropped her cell line to save money after she lost the house to foreclosure. She should've canceled my line too, but she insists she has enough stress without having to worry about me. Like most days, she's probably at the public library, using one of the computers to search for jobs. Six months hasn't been long enough for anything to pan out, but she's doing her best. It's hard when all you can put on your résumé is "high school cheerleader, stay-at-home mom, and failed MLM direct sales home-based business owner." Those boxes of hideous, stretchy leggings lasted longer than most of our furniture, which is rather fitting, considering they 'cost' more than the furniture. I swear she was crying when she finally had to unload them on the poor, unsuspecting employees at Goodwill.

She should've tracked my dad down when he stopped making child- support payments two years ago, but at the time she just wanted to be done with him. Not that I can blame her. There's no better way to tell your family—your 'daughter'—that she doesn't matter than to refuse to give financial help. He left home when I was in fifth grade, the year I enrolled at Exeter, like I was the only thing tying him to Mom, and since the divorce was "amicable" they opted out of court-mandated payments. I got to see him a lot for a few years, until Mom eventually made him so mad with her reckless spending he just sort of vanished—birthday cards and payments and everything. For a while, I'd tell her to ask her sister or my grandma for help, but she'd get all quiet and pinched, so now I don't say anything about it. And Dad . . . he's just a distant memory.

When I glance up, Dylan is halfway to the line forming in front of the boarding ramp. I stuff the phone back into my pocket and climb to my feet before remembering my boarding pass is still in my bag. Trying to fish it out while walking turns out to be a bad plan, because I promptly collide with one of my fellow travelers.

"Oof, sorry," I mumble into a dark-red wool blazer. My gaze tracks upward past an embroidered gray crest to the owner's face, several inches above my own. Clear blue eyes beneath tousled dark hair fill my vision as my brain stumbles through the list of competitors' names. I come up with nothing, because how can I think straight when he's grinning at me like this?

"No worries. I'm Liam." He taps the crest on his blazer. "Scoatney." As if that explains everything I need to know.

"Em . . . Emily." I stumble over my own name. 'Really nice, Em. Way to underwhelm your competition.' "I'm from Exeter. In Connecticut. Just finished my junior year." My hands flail like they're attached to somebody else. "This is my first time traveling out of the country, other than one trip to Prince Edward Island when I was little." Good grief, now I'm babbling, as if that's going to compensate for not knowing my own name. Why should he care about my travel history?

"Cool. I've never been up there." Graciously, he points toward a TV out in the hallway, where the Red Sox are taking on the Yankees in Fenway Park. I'd forgotten that game was on today. "Sorry for standing in the way"—he smiles apologetically—"but I got caught up watching the game."

In an attempt to regroup, I glance at the TV in time to see the Sox third baseman field a grounder and sidearm a stellar throw to first, making the double play. My fist pumps almost on its own. "Did you see that?"

A bemused grin flits across his face, and he pulls back like I'm contagious. "Oh no. Don't tell me you're a Red Sox fan."

"I'm from Connecticut." I hold up my hands. "What can I say?"

"You can say the Red Sox are losers and you regret your life choices." Despite his words, the way he's still smiling at me is, quite frankly, adorable. And for once, Nikki isn't here to steal the attention. Or tell me how boring baseball is.

"Whatever." I shake my head. "Why on earth would you like the 'Yankees'? Isn't Scoatney on the other side of the country or something?"

"Seattle." Merriment dances in his eyes at my obvious lack of geographical knowledge.