On top of the suspension, there will also be a mandatory two-week intensive in Ethics during the summer semester. Honestly, when your high school diploma is in the balance, they might have dropped me into a Siberian dungeon for a year and I would have said, “Yes, please.” Two weeks of summer school at FATE, reflecting on “the great philosophers and ethicists of history, from Kant to Somerville,” didn’t sound so bad.

The good news is that a week off leaves plenty of time to study and catch up on papers, and this last set of high school finals will be pretty much a breeze. Luckily, between Mr. Vu’s and Chantale’s appeals, Columbia decided to keep my indiscretion within its ivy walls, so it wouldn’t ruin my other college chances. Looking back, it’s more mercy than I deserved.

Tonight’s debate finals audience is, for lack of a better term, packed to the rafters. It’s somewhat unexpected to pull up to FATE on a weekend night and find the school bustling with so much energy. Luckily, my suspension didn’t extend to this—one of Mr. Vu’s many kindnesses—otherwise Greg probably would have had a coronary. Students, parents, faculty. Most of whom I recognize but a good chunk of them belonging to Spence’s side of the stage. Those are the folks with the same vaguely tribal and off-put air that Greg, Yadira, and I probably had at all our off-site competitions.

To say that FATE goes all out for these is an understatement. There’s a professional photographer for the occasion, and every student already knows that these photos will be on the website and printed in high-res for all of next year’s donation mailers.

“All these people are here for you?” Ma asks as she, Dad, and I take in the crowded reception hall, a full hour before the actual debate.

“No, of course not,” I quickly say. “It’s senior year. People get nostalgic and just start to lean into school activities.”

But when I look around the room, the only person I really want to see, or maybe just catch a glimpse of, isn’t here. There’s no reason for her to be, really. I haven’t spoken to Corinne since our fight outside the Wyatt. I even bought Palm Tree an adorable new outfit and left it outside her apartment door with a big “I’m sorry” balloon and flowers but nada. First girlfriend, first breakup, is all I can keep telling myself here. Who knows? I might turn out to be one of the great philosophers of the twenty-first century.