Abby and I glance over at each other as the entire room applauds. Neither one of us do because we share the same thoughts. A drug dealer and a kid always bent for an adrenaline high. God help us all if the world rests on our backs.

The guy continues to drone on and on about the exciting things we’ll tackle today. Science labs, advanced math, problem solving, and new technologies. All lead by people from visiting universities. For a few lucky souls, there will be interviews for scholarships and admissions.

Abby’s cell buzzes. With her arm remaining on the rest, she checks the text and doesn’t seem to care that I watch as she sets up a drug deal. If there’s anyone in this room that could be a tycoon for business later in life, it’d be Abby. She’d eat up anyone who stood in the path of whatever she wanted.

She turns off her cell and returns her attention to the guy up front. The room goes dark and he cues up a PowerPoint presentation. Her arm is still there. So’s mine. The heat building between us is starting a fire in my blood.

Abby sighs. “I should go.”

“Why?” I ask.

“I don’t belong here.”

I shift in my seat. “Did you get a letter inviting you to this thing?”

She nods.

“Any interviews?”

She shakes her head no. “My letter explained the university reps were bothered by my lack of extracurricular activities and job experience. Evidently no one believes a person of my age has several years’ experience in conflict management and aggressive pharmaceutical sales.”

I snort and Abby smirks.

“Take one of mine,” I suggest.

Abby glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “What?”

“I got three interviews. Take one of mine.”

“I think they’ll catch on that I’m not you. If the lack of a penis doesn’t tip them off, my breasts might or my lack of knowledge of which direction I should run if I magically hit a ball with a stick. That might come up in conversation.”

“Bat, not a stick, and you run to the right. You want to go in pretending to be me, do it. But I think it would be better if you went in and sold yourself.”

“Because drug dealer is a well-sought-after commodity in an applicant.”

“You’re more than that.” I meet Abby’s eyes and she blinks like my words soaked in further than her ears. “The way I see it, you still owe me a dare and I’m calling you out.”

Abby laughs and several people turn around and give us death glares as if we’re dancing at a funeral. Abby offers them that smile that promises a detour through hell and they quickly return to being part of the herd.

“Are you telling me you’re chicken? Is a guy in a suit from a college your kryptonite?”

Abby flips her cell around a few more times in her hand. “I’m only staying because they’re offering lunch and I hear they’re ordering Geno’s Pizza. I’ll be pissed though if they don’t have the breadsticks. They have orgasmic breadsticks.”

“This means you’re taking my last interview?”

“Your funeral,” she sings.

Maybe it is. No doubt, this is going to piss plenty of people off, but Abby’s staying. If anyone is Harvard material, it’s her and if she has enough courage to waltz into a room where she isn’t expected, then I can own up to the man I claim I am.

With a deep breath, I link my fingers with Abby’s and she jolts as if she’s experiencing the same electricity zapping through my veins. Talk about a rush. My heart races, my blood pumps harder, and when Abby sinks her fingers tighter in my grasp, I’m a man that’s flying.

She skims her finger along mine and the sensation is one I’ve never experienced. A tingle in my bloodstream, a recognition of my skin and her softness and when I inhale, it’s the sweet smell of honeysuckle.

There’s satisfaction in knowing I’m not the only one affected. Abby’s face is flushed and there’s a gentleness not often found in her eyes.

“Since you’re not here,” she says, “and I’m not here and none of this is happening, I should mention I’ve never held a guy’s hand before.”

The admission causes me to hold on to her like I’d never let go. “That’s okay. I’ve never held a girl’s hand before, either.”

Abby’s eyes flicker to mine and I rock our combined hands. She moves, just a centimeter, toward me. Her shoulder brushing mine, her knee making contact in a way that causes me to close my eyes, and then because this is the best damn day, Abby rests her head on my shoulder.

Like the two of us are normal. Like the two of us are seventeen and belong in this room and don’t have a care in the world. Like how life should be.

Abby’s pretending this isn’t real, but it is and I’m dead set on having more moments like this... a lot more.

Abby

Harvard. I’m sitting across from a bastard from Harvard. I’m going to drop kick Logan the next time I see him. Fucking Harvard.

Me and Mr. Harvard have been in the library conference room for thirty minutes though, way past the maximum of fifteen allowed per student. His tie is loosened, the first button of his white shirt undone, and he’s grinning because he doesn’t know what the hell to think of me.

He leans forward in his seat and rests his arms on his thighs. “Let me get this straight, you’re able to create an 80-percent markup on the items you sell, most are aware of this, and none of your fifty-plus client base care?”

This guy is going back to my opening line of: I have my own business with an 80-percent markup. I have a client base where I have to turn people away and I have sales that on average triple yearly and I possibly make more than most college grads do so wow me on why I should attend your school.

He forgot Logan pretty quickly.

I shrug. “I’m sure they care, but the key is to act like I don’t care. That’s wrong. I’m all about customer service, but people often mistake customer service with people pleasing and that’s not the same thing. My customers ask, I provide. They tell me when to show, I do. I keep my word, which is important, but at the end of the day, I have a product they want and the beauty of capitalism is all about supply and demand. I’ve got the supply and I demand the price. Succeeding in capitalism is not for people pleasers. It’s about my clients receiving what they want and it’s about me making money.”

“I’ll ask you again, what do you sell?”

I widen my eyes to mimic annoyed and a tad crazy. “I’ll tell you when you offer me a full ride.”

He laughs. “You’re different, Abby. Sometimes that’s good. Sometimes that’s bad. In the end, it’s always refreshing.”

“But I’m not Harvard material, am I?” I’m bold with the question and hate the little twinges of hope that he’ll disagree with me.

He flips through the folder he requested on me after the fifteen-minute marker. The teacher in charge of this area freaked out. Freaked. Couldn’t believe I was in here. Couldn’t believe Logan wasn’t. She was red-faced, flustered, apologizing and this guy asked for my student record.

“Great test scores and grades. Aptitude tests are impressive. But your attendance is sketchy and you have no outside activities.” He closes my folder. “You sell yourself well, but I need to be able to sell you on paper.”

Besides junior college, the story will always be the same. “Paper kills trees and I like trees. Creates oxygen and all that.”

A sad smile on his end. He reaches into his breast pocket and withdraws a card. On it is his name, his number, and his address. “Email me. Send me a list of schools you’ll be applying to. Maybe I can help you, give you a word of recommendation if it should help.”

I accept and push past the defeat and focus on the golden pass in front of me. That’s another thing about running a business. You don’t let emotion get in the way of an opportunity and that’s exactly what this guy is offering.

“Your loss.”

He stands with me and shakes my hand. “I agree. Good luck, Abby. I have a feeling I’ll be hearing about you someday.”

Probably. On the six-o’clock news and not in the good way. “You better believe it.”

I walk out the door and in front of me is the principal, guidance counselor, and the flustered teacher. Before any of them can say a word, I flash his card. “Anyone else walk out with this? I believe it reads Harvard.”

Only the guidance counselor smiles a knowing “No.”

“Didn’t think so. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.”

Gotta admit, all of that, including turning my back on them felt really good.

I’m down the hallway, heading toward the exit and sitting on the steps near the exit to the school is Logan. He’s resting his arms on his thighs, his hands are clasped together. The baseball cap pulled down keeps me from reading his emotions, but then again, it’s Logan and he’s always a tough read.

The urge is to go to him, to show him the card, to smile at what I accomplished while he smiled along with me. To act seventeen. To make up a story and listen as he played along. To tease him and have him tease me back. To let him hold my hand again and revel in the butterflies that hatched in my chest the moment his fingers first touched mine.