Chapters (43)
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Contents
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Books by Ben Philippe
- Back Ad
- Copyright
- About the Publisher
So far, the early qualification rounds have taken our three-person team to Horace Mann in the Bronx, to Trinity’s new campus annex, Brearley on the East Side, and now St. Celeste. FATE still hasn’t hosted a competition, which means the finals could be there if we can score another win today. If.
Located across Central Park, firmly anchored on the East Side of Manhattan, the St. Celeste School is the visual opposite of FATE’s sleek, sci-fi sanctuary aesthetic. Things are all red bricks and French windows around here.
It’s not that there’s really a rivalry between the elite schools of New York City; it’s just that the St. Celeste kids tend to, by and large, think they’re better than everyone else. Or at least that’s how it feels. Their school was founded in the 1900s, and they, in turn, find us FATE kids to be upstarts without the pedigree of the true elite, no matter what our endowment might be. (Equal to theirs, for the record.)
I arrive early, courtesy of two alarms and quick, efficient dog runs around the building that did not go into overtime. Just as I’m about to text Yadira, she steps out of a town car across East 89th Street, in front of the St. Celeste gates.
She joins me on the sidewalk, coffee mug in the crook of her elbow, and looks around before removing one of her earbuds. “I freaking hate St. Celeste kids.”
“Good morning to you too, darling.” I grin. “Didn’t you date a St. Celeste girl last ye—?”
The glare I receive tells me it’s best not to broach the topic.
“Never mind. Different Yadira. Alternate universe Yadira. That Yadira has an eye patch and a Gatling gun.”
There’s a bit of a crowd outside St. Celeste today, which probably means we’re in for a packed audience. Our FATE uniform colors aren’t the kind typically spotted outside the school, making us stand in sharp contrast with the weekend sea of strollers and carefree toddlers that make up the Upper East Side. Uniforms are mandatory for debate rounds. You proudly represent your school. Again, Quidditchian logic.
“Where’s Greg?” I ask. “Should we text him?”
“No need,” Yadira says, fidgeting with her tie. “My money is on he’s already measuring the stage—or on all fours in front of a toilet.”
“Ah! The rest of the Fine Arts Technical Education team, I assume!” a balding man with gray sides and sunken eyes says as he approaches us, taking in the uniforms. “Welcome, welcome! My name is Mr. Garrison. I teach history here at St. Celeste and oversee the debate team, among a few others.”