Ma and I send him dual glares while Dad’s back tenses up as he already looks around to see if someone might have overheard and misinterpreted the comment.

“Will you two relax? I’m obviously kidding,” Lion says, hands up. “Auntie here mentioned it when she stopped by my old desk. I figured I’d check out this school that’s caused so many woes.”

“That was supposed to be between us, Lion,” Ma says, earning her a mischievous “oops” from Lion. So Ma did visit Lion, after all.

“I should go find Greg and Yadira,” I say, checking the clock. “Mic checks and all.”

“Good luck, Henri,” Dad says, grabbing me by both shoulders and rubbing them and adding a firm nod. “You’ve got this.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

It’s still a bit awkward, this hyperamount of eye contact Dad’s been making in every interaction with me as if to make up for years or something. Ma touches her chest, and Lion raises a single amused eyebrow.

“You two corny brothers look like one of those family insurance ads you see on the subway.”

“Lionel!”

“Sorry, sorry! Sheesh.”

The debate itself is not a slaughter, but after two even opening rounds, our side of the stage makes a few key rebuttal mistakes that give Spence a lead they never lose. The Spence girls play a very good game.

Considering the catering comes with a dessert course, no one is in a big hurry to flee the premises after the actual debate. Spence folks are happy to linger to take their victory lap, and the FATE faculty is happy to flex their hospitality. Plus, generally, there’s nothing wealthy adults love more than to network. They cream themselves trading vigorous handshakes and referrals and jotting down information on their phones.

To be fair, no one on the Spence side of things seems to be a dick. They laugh and throw their arms around us, juxtaposing trophies, and posing for photos. It’s always fun being the gracious winner.

From across the room, I can spot Lion, who has, of course, found an audience of enthralled kids looking for “hip” mentorship.

“A firefighter? Shut up. No, shut your actual mouth!” A woman is marveling at Ma’s physique and keeps trying to guess her trainer, which seems to delight Ma. My face hurts from smiling and shaking so many hands. I’m a sprint runner when it comes to smiling, but this is a marathon.

I turn the corner of the west wing, Mindfulness, and spot Dad and two other middle-aged men. Their jackets are off, and their respective glasses of champagne catch the light of the dimly lit hallway. FATE conserves energy by adopting a greener, automated ambient light system after hours.