“Where’s Professor Redmond’s class? It’s not up there.”
“Must be a mistake.”
“Wait, here it is.” I find it out of order, at the far end of the others. Sawyer’s in the picture, gorgeous but also somber, his dark eyes haunted.
“I don’t think you should get attached to Professor Redmond. He won’t be here long.”
I shift in my seat. “Because he’s covering Lancaster’s class only until you can replace him and he can go back to New York?”
“He’ll be going somewhere, but it won’t be New York.” As if remembering himself, his composure returns. “The department is questioning its investment in the Stars competition.”
My gaze snaps to his, the photos forgotten. “But we just qualified through regionals.”
“I appreciate that. But it was one of Lancaster’s particular interests. He had a long history with the department and was allowed certain indulgences. Now that he’s passed, we need to re-prioritize.”
I remember reading that the department’s budget has been cut relative to the business school and the law school. I guess even at a well-funded school, some areas get relatively less attention.
“Have you talked with Professor Redmond about this?”
“It’s not his decision. It’s mine.”
No.
The team is finally getting along. We have a real chance. I won’t let this end.
It means everything to Royce and Madison and me. Just as much as for us, I want this for Sawyer. This matters to him.
My mind spins. I’m not good at playing games, but now, I need to be.
“But before regionals, you said there were companies interested in our work?”
“Interest is a long way from dollars.”
I take in the photos on the other side of the room. They’re still formal, but contain only a handful of people and feature ribbon cutting ceremonies, awards, and men in suits with big checks.
That’s what speaks to the dean.
I think of the voicemail sitting on my phone from the attorney about the money Lancaster left me. He would want this to succeed—for me, and my classmates, and for Sawyer.
What about tuition? There’s a real chance my family won’t help.
If the project gets shut down, Royce is screwed. Everything we work for flies out the window.
Now, not a few months from now.
“My father has been difficult for you to get hold of. But he’s excited about this project. And has been meaning to support it.”
The dean shifts forward, steepling his hands. “Is that so?”
“Would fifty thousand be enough to signal his commitment and keep the project on track?”
The dean blinks, gesturing with a hand. “Of course, that would be a welcome contribution.”
I stand, my heart racing.
“Good. Then I suspect you’ll be getting a check soon.”
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter as I drop into a seat in the corner of the library foyer and open my laptop.
Preparatory call: Northeast Stars competition teams.
When I open my web browser, the banner announcing the call takes up most of the screen.
I’m regretting telling Royce and Madison I had it under control. It’s midterms and everyone’s busy. Which is why I’m late—after a beaker exploded in my chem lab, I ran late cleaning it up and going through hazardous material protocols. I bolted to the first location I could find to take this call.
I pull up my Notes app on the side of my screen before entering the passcode into the browser window.
No luck.
The clock says the meeting started three minutes ago. Maybe they’re running even later?
I try another code and it sends me through.
Finally.
But only one other face pops up on the video screen.
“What are you doing here?” a woman with dark braids pulled back in a headband demands.
“I’m here for the Stars competition call.”
“Me too. But we’re in the wrong room. Aliya,” she volunteers.
“Liv.”
She screws up her face and I hear the clack of keyboard keys. From her smooth skin, she can’t be more than a few years older than me.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to hack into the feed.”
That kind of computing is way beyond me. Royce could probably do it, but he’s not here.
I catch sight of something over her shoulder, suspended from the ceiling in what I’m guessing is her room. “What is that?”
“A hang glider I made…”
“Wow.”
“…in eighth grade.”
Damn. She’s super smart.
“Aerodynamics is my first love,” she says breezily. “When I was vice president of the engineering society at our school, we brought in an entirely new course on it.”
“So you’ve graduated.”
“Yup. I’m involved in the Stars program peripherally—as an alum advisor for people who need help.”
“You competed when you were in school? How did it go?”
“We won. I got funding for my company.”
I’m a little awestruck. “What’s that like?”
“Intense. It’s not like school, where everything comes down to what’s technically possible. It’s a big world and so much more matters. But you can also be a bigger piece of the puzzle—work on longer term projects, if you have the funding.”
I click back into the calendar invitation and send off a message to the organizer saying we can’t get in.
No response.
“Do you know what the new requirements are?” I ask, tapping my pencil against the paper.
“Hmm?”
“I mean, that’s the point of being on the call.” I surf around websites to see who won last year. “It looks like they had press releases about a new lead sponsor this year. Which could mean the companies don’t have money to sponsor or it’s less appealing.”
She laughs. “Nice observation. When I did the competition, there wasn’t even a phase where you submitted a statement of purpose. You could stick one throwaway line in your presentation about the applications of your work and be done with it.”
“Bingo.” I notice the same thing online. “That’s what they’re trying to do. They want projects that are exciting. But”—I chew my lip—“we have less than a semester to make it perfect.”
“It doesn’t need to be wrapped up in a neat little bow. In fact, better if it’s not. Gives you time to build something awesome after.”
I think about the applications we’ve discussed as a team.
“Know what would be cool? Helping to preserve the world we have.” I repeat some research about underwater ecosystems that I found while looking up caring for Lancaster’s fish as Aliya keeps typing away.
My email dings and there’s an apology from the organizer with a PDF document summarizing the changes.
“What’s your email address?” I ask Aliya.
She tells me.
“Incoming.” I forward the document.
“Thanks. Hey, I’m running an online roundtable for prospective engineering students in high school in a few weeks. We had a speaker back out. You should join.”