Coopertition must be the stupidest word coined in the last decade, and that puts it right up there with bougie, fleek, and adorbs. Happily, I was not required to use any of those words in my elevator pitch. Thank God.

The word was up there in all its glory on the first page of the pre-packaged slide presentation: "FIRST Robotics—Gracious Professionalism and Coopertition™.”

I wasn’t supposed to be there. This job properly belonged to someone else entirely. I was merely a poorly-disguised fraud dressed in borrowed business attire.

I had opted for an ice-blue linen shirt and black pencil skirt in lieu of my usual T-shirt and jeans. I’d removed my piercings and done my best to actually style my spiky black hair. I had even tried my hand at some subtle makeup to give my winter-pale skin a hint of warmth.

Still, I wasn't convinced that I managed to pull off anything resembling ‘young professional.’ Especially since I’d forgotten to change out my navy blue nail polish. Perhaps I came as close as ‘reformed drug addict.’ Not that I did drugs, but people said I had a look.

I ran my hands over the coarse fabric of my skirt, my palms slightly damp. The oppressive overhead lighting gave off a faint hum, and the air smelled of lemon-scented wood polish. I was afraid I might sneeze. I really wanted to itch my nose, but I thought such a crude gesture might ruin my disguise entirely.

I was filling in for Jennifer Xiong—business team lead and homecoming queen—who was much better at these things. Jennifer had come down with an unfortunate case of bronchitis and was out of commission for the next few days at least.

Evidently, it was poor form to pitch donors from one’s sickbed via video call. I did feel bad for her, honestly, but I wished I hadn’t been personally affected by her sudden illness.

How had I ended up as the chosen one? I had been picked as the person least likely to trip over my own tongue or vomit on my shoes while standing in front of actual business people—which was not to say I enjoyed public speaking.

There was a reason I wasn't on the business team.

Then again, Jennifer didn’t know her way around a table saw or a CAD program. We each had our own specialties.

“Good afternoon, my name is Alberta Mattson. I’m very pleased to meet all of you today. I’m here on behalf of Williams High School’s FIRST Robotics team…”

I tried to make at least a little eye contact with the gray-suited professionals around the mahogany conference table. I wondered if it was required for them to coordinate their clothing with the muted decor of the room.

I caught a few suppressed yawns. They'd probably seen the same slides every year for the past five years. Well, they couldn't be more anxious than I was for my spiel to finish.

Eventually I made it to the last slide. "We appreciate the donations your company has made in the past."

My mind suddenly went blank. There wasn’t a script for this part.

I should have rehearsed more carefully before trying the real thing. I had no idea how to bring my speech to a natural close, so I simply stopped talking.

Nobody seemed to realize I was done speaking.

After what seemed like three years, the slightly-balding man at the head of the table thanked me for my time and handed me a check. They could just as well have handled things electronically like the rest of the civilized world.

Still, reaching out in person to local companies was an important part of being on the team. Real life experience. Interfacing with the business community. Networking. Blah blah blah.

After shaking hands all around, I wobbled out to my car, quite a feat, even though I was wearing ‘sensible shoes.’ In my actual life, I didn't wear anything with even the hint of a heel.

The drive back to school seemed to take forever. When I entered the Lair, Williams High School’s robotics lab, I was greeted by the familiar scent of pizza, freshly-cut lumber, WD-40, and soldering flux.

A bunch of guys from the drive team were gathered around the last of the pizza boxes. Deondre and Lewis, together as always, were messing with a remote control unit that was on the fritz.

Lewis was wearing a baseball cap to keep his sandy blond hair out of his way. Deon’s dark brown locs were caught back in a hair tie.

“Aw crap,” Lewis said.

Deon let out a yelp and jumped back as something sparked. “Dude!”

Some Asian kid that I didn't recognize was standing at the table saw, contemplating a stack of two-by-fours and a collection of pool noodles.

His glossy black hair kept getting in his eyes, so he took a rubber band from around his wrist and made a ridiculous looking ponytail on top of his head. It wasn’t quite long enough for a bun, which I found vaguely disappointing. He would look good with his hair pulled back.

Wait—why should I care what this kid looked like while operating power tools?