“You guys are late!” Greg exclaims, jumping off the couch, uniform already wrinkled. He is even paler than usual, and there’s a crumpled brown paper bag he might have just been breathing into.

I wasn’t kidding when I said that public speaking wasn’t his forte. The day of every debate plays out exactly like this: like someone about to confront their fear of snakes by spending ninety minutes in a pit of anacondas. There’s something admirable about it, I think but don’t say because Greg is also a major pain in the rear a good 40 percent of the time.

“We’re almost an hour early, dude,” Yadira says, settling on the opposite corner of the couch. “Halti is here looking like a six-foot-two-inch snack. I’m as pleasant and curse free as I can possibly be.” She raises her mug. “This is decaffeinated tea, for God’s sake. So please, don’t start.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I just—I want to win,” Greg says, making it sound like a yoga affirmation. “We’re so close to the finish line. I just want it, y’know? I want a big win.”

I do know.

“Greg, isn’t there something you want to tell Halti?” Yadira says, somehow urgently and disinterested all at once.

“Right, Halti, um . . . ,” Greg begins. “I meant to apologize about last rehearsal. I was a little too extra the other day at practice. Um, sorry.”

It’s Yadira talking, clearly, but it’s still weird for a guy like Greg to apologize. About anything. Really, ever.

“Are we good?”

“We’re good.” I Smile and give him a fist bump. It’s safe to say that neither of us will name their firstborn after the other, but Greg’s a good teammate.

“So,” I say, moving past the awkwardness as Yadira smirks smugly. “Did you have a chance to meet them before that guy quarantined you in here?” I ask. “Our distinguished competition?”

“Briefly.” Greg sighs. “They’re probably creeping right outside. They’ve been walking by the door, chatting and laughing way too loud for it not to be some kind of mind game to try to psych me out.”

I open the door and catch a clear look at our opponents, a yard down the hallway: the St. Celeste counterparts to Greg, Yadira, and me are three guys in navy blazers and red ties. They look like an a cappella group.

They catch my eye, and the tall guy with a mess of freckles and close-cropped hair nods me a ’Sup. There’s a vague Marvyn Callan energy to him.

“Creeps,” Yadira says, returning to listlessly swiping her phone with an arm behind her head.

Another one sends us a big wave, smiling, and his Smile™ is much worse than mine.