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Holden shuts the door and we move up the stairs and intothe living room. I start unpacking my equipment so I don’t focus on how much it’s changed in here. Obviously, the layout of the house is the same, but the walls, which were a cream color before, are bolder now in a deep red. The couch is no longer a plaid monstrosity that left lines in your skin when you sat too long, but a sleek black-velvet sectional. The floors are still hardwood, but even they look rejuvenated somehow. It still smells the same, though, like warm sugar cookies. If only I could capture the smell on camera.

“Hey, Mara, can I interview you for the documentary?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she says, turning the TV off with the remote and angling toward me. She flattens her skirt over her gray-and-white striped tights, then clasps her hands in her lap.

Holden frowns. “She can’t consent to this. You need my mom or her dad.”

“Where’s her dad?”

“He works until like eight o’clock,” Mara chimes in. “We can ask for his permission after we film. Where’s my key light?”

“How do you know what a key light is?” I set up the tripod in front of her on the couch.

“We’re making video diaries for school. Like a time capsule thing for when we’re old like you guys.”

“We’re not old,” Holden says indignantly.

“Kids these days,” I say. “No respect.”

I finish setting up my equipment, which sadly does not include a key light because I’m just one person and I can’t carry an entire film studio with me, check the memory card and the battery life, and when I’m about to hit record, Holden stops me.

“What amIsupposed to do?” His tone clearly indicates thatthis is supposed to be about me.

“How about you get your submission ready? I got the copy you emailed me earlier, but I’d like to get your play-by-play of it on film.” I shoo him away with a flick of my hand and turn back to Mara. He reluctantly leaves.

I press record. “Hi, Mara. Can you tell me your full name, your age, your relationship to Holden, and if you consent to be filmed?”

“Hi, world. My name is Mara Alicia Davis. I’m twelve and three-quarters years old, Holden is my stepbrother, and I consent to being filmed.” She bats her mascara-free eyelashes with a smile.

I go through a series of introduction questions with Mara:

What’s Holden like?

What’s your relationship like?

Do you think he has a chance of winning?

What makes him suited to win?

What’s your favorite moment with him?

To her credit, Mara answers like a champ. Like she’s been waiting her entire life for this interview. She’s articulate, funny, and gives me a ton of footage to work with—not to mention blackmail material when she says her favorite moment with Holden is the time she bet him a month of chores that she could eat more wasabi than him—and then proceeded to eat avocado while Holden struggled. I wrap up in about fifteen minutes and only then realize that Holden’s sitting behind us on the ottoman.

“I’m all set up.” He jabs a thumb toward the hallway.

“I’m having ice cream for dinner since you’re being negligent and not feeding me,” Mara says, halfway to the kitchen already.

“If you get it on anything, I’ll kill you.”

“Great babysitting,” I say, pulling my camera off the tripod.

“So we agree.” He stands. “Mara, if you don’t wash your bowl, I’m going to put it on your head while you sleep and cut your hair around it.”

“Yeah, I got it, I got it,” she mumbles. She opens drawers and cabinets, setting a spoon and bowl down on the counter.

“Hey, Holden had a bowl cut around your age and he turned out—” I glance at him. He raises an eyebrow. “Make sure you get that bowl clean, kid.”

“I said I got it,kid,” she says.