He nods, but I can still feel his gaze burning the side of my head as we walk.

“Dude, I’m not going to try to take the trophy home.” I laugh. “It’s yours until the FATE Powers That Be lock it behind glass, man.”

“It’s not that. It’s just . . . do you have any idea what a gift that is? Not having your stomach fill with bile when you’re in front of a crowd like that? You would have spent an hour up there, huh?”

“You’re only being so nice to me because we won. You would be destroying me right now if we’d lost.”

It’s still nice to hear.

“Well, obviously,” he scoffs as we step out of the strange school, catching the eyes of a few people lingering in the courtyard discussing our performance.

Greg’s chest puffs a bit at the attention, and he turns my way one last time before sliding into the back seat of his car. “But I mean it, Henri. It’s, y’know, a rare gift.”

On the walk home, I can’t help but think about Greg’s words. He’s right. I’ve been so in my head lately that I might have forgotten that I am normally good at this stuff.

I text a quick selfie of myself throwing a victory sign to Dad and Ma and to Ming. I consider sending it to Lion but change my mind. I doubt he has much use for the extracurriculars of a privileged high schooler.

But there’s one person I want to share the news with more than anyone. I pull up Corinne’s name in my phone.

WE WON! I won’t be strangled to death by my teammates!

I know, I caught the stream. You’re an expert bullshitter. :)

I prefer pre-congressman. Was streamed? Where?

FATE’s website. Peak viewership: 538. Three times more than the fencing matches.

For a moment she looks like she’s texting a lengthy reply. The ellipsis on her side of the conversation blinks for a good ninety seconds. Not that I’m counting.

Sorry I didn’t make it, finally comes through, simple and succinct.

No worries. I wasn’t expecting you to.

Oh. Cool, then.

Not that I wouldn’t have wanted you there or anything. That would have been fine.

Cool.

Ming wasn’t even there. I’m just saying there was no wide-scale invite that you weren’t included in. Plz don’t say cool again.

Coolio.

It’s my turn to take a very long time to craft Corinne a simple message. I type and retype it again and again, trying to formulate a clear explanation, but in the end I choose to use her own words.

It would have been more fun with you there, though.

It takes twenty-seven seconds that feel much, much longer, but Corinne’s reply eventually comes:

☺

It’s nowhere close to matching my own.

Seventeen