That President Frank lived within walking distance of Heller did not prevent his appearances from being spectacles. At some point, after all the people he could call his "friends" graduated, his visits had become less frequent: he kept to side-hallways, visiting only his favorite teachers to discuss arcane points of policy, or occasionally he'd take the back entrance into the administrative offices and watch the students frolicking in the central courtyard from Principal Kurtz's office. "Frolicking" was a pleasure reserved for Alphas, and the grassy space once used for Frisbee and spirit activities now had picnic blankets all seasons of the year. Carts ran alongside offering lemonade in summer and hot cocoa in winter. These were all pleasures that President Frank, now an adult in the club's eyes, had to find himself: if he went out, he would certainly be mobbed by the fans who weren't too scared to pass in front of his graze. What they considered a brooding masculine charm impartial witnesses would call shyness, or a sense that his true temperament was only reserved for the worthy.

But President Frank was coming to speak, and they had booked the theater (not that Mr. Cathcart had much control at that point over when the theater was booked), and all who could afford the $200 ticket were invited.

"Why are they charging admission fees to see President Frank speak when we can instead watch the live-stream for free?" Marco asked.

"Because it's him, it's President Frank! He's a celebrity," Jessica explained condescendingly. "I've met him for free plenty of times before, and I'm still buying my ticket."

"You're a corporate sellout," Priya interjected.

"No, I'm going to see a celebrity. Like he's a K-Pop star."

"What's this event anyway, a panel on entrepreneurship? It's old hat, they've talked about it plenty."

"Entrepreneurship is important now, Marco, because we have so many people applying to universities now, and entrepreneurship is something that they look for on your college applications."

"Like every kid from Silicon Valley hasn't already done something entrepreneurial," Priya said. "Can we just finish our lunch?"

But it was true: President Frank was coming to speak, and this was something so exciting Jessica continued to bring it up obliquely over their burritos, all until she recognized some Deltas who walked in and thought it wouldn't be kind to show her privilege. They settled the bill quickly and left.

Jessica had to leave to attend to some sort of matter, leaving Marco and Priya lingering outside the Mexican restaurant. Marco peered back inside and saw the Deltas eating, and presumably talking about something besides President Frank's impending arrival.

"Those speeches get so repetitive," Priya said after Jessica had left earshot.

"When they first were recruiting for speechwriters, not like I'd have ever had a shot, I thought it was because they didn't think President Jamal would be able to give speeches the same way President Frank did—and I mean that with all the wink-wink nudge-nudge I mean to imply," Marco said. Priya nodded.

"I know, it's ridiculous. But I think he'd still just talk about whatever he wanted. Sometimes we'd have speeches on the silliest of topics, like breakfast cereal, and you'd think it was because he went grocery-shopping the previous day and saw some breakfast cereal—that must make it so easy, being able to read your shopping list to a rapt audience."

"Like Seinfeld," Marco said.

"I've never seen it."

"It's about a comedian named Jerry Seinfeld played by a comedian named Jerry Seinfeld."

"Sounds original."

"It invented meta-humor. But it's so easy, and it's a show about people living their ordinary lives. Imagine living around the guy: the moment you say something funny, it's written into a script."

"I'd be great at playing myself on camera," Priya said. "If they paid me, I'd let people film my life as it stood. I could then tell jokes about Kenny to the masses."

"How is he?"

"Nasty, brutish, and short."

"That's a Thomas Hobbes quote! President Frank used it in one of his speeches."

"To describe Vice President Juliet, no doubt."

"What do you mean? They're like Bill and Hillary Clinton. The perfect couple."

"You didn't hear the gossip, freshman year, but I guess no freshman boy would ever be paying attention to that sort of thing. You just had to watch the two of them: sure, they danced the tango together at homecoming, but that doesn't mean they loved each other."

"Was that the homecoming where Greg and Gina danced the paso doble together?" Marco asked. "They were good."

"They were. But they aren't dating, Greg and Gina, if you get my point."

"That two people can dance without dating?"

"No, that they don't love each other. At least they didn't, then."

"Good for them."

Priya stopped to tie her shoe, and then they continued walking in silence. San Sebastian's downtown was always silent at the weird times they, kids without jobs, visited. There was a time when Heller's students would descend downtown en masse after school, every day without fail, to buy their boba and trade pearls of gossip. But that was the school year, which in the summer felt all too distant. All their cohort would be busy with their college essays, or at Heller, or better yet: cities other than San Sebastian. Not that it didn't have much to offer, but the summer was one of the few opportunities kids their age had to roam afield, and that said something about those like President Frank who made such a show of coming home to roost.

He was coming: the prodigal son had returned. He may have had a meeting on campus the previous week, but that didn't have a public audience, so it hadn't happened. The Betas, including Marco, had been conscripted to prepare for his arrival, whatever that meant. Only the finest Betas, whatever that meant. Not those with rebellious quirks, or who would be so distracted by President Frank's presence that they'd shirk their duties. Those who could tie their ties straight and who knew how to be seen without being heard.

"Neater!" a surly Alpha commanded Marco, who reshuffled the programs until they were stacked in an orderly way inside the box. His job was to stand in the vestibule and hand out programs like a glorified theater usher. They had paid good money to see President Frank, the guests—Alphas from all over, Alphas with their dates and Alphas looking to find new ones, Alphas who'd been Alphas all their lives and Alphas who realized they dangled on the same marionette strings as all the other puppets of the regime. Why the condition of programs inside a box none of the guests would see mattered wasn't Marco's business. But President Frank was coming, and so it all had to be perfect, like everything he touched.

That was tonight, it was tonight! The greatest spectacle of all—right this way, right this way to see a man whose face was plastered around campus! Would he sign their little red books? Would he look back at one of them, while being escorted off-stage, in that way he always looked at those who had potential? Would he tell a story about Vice President Juliet, the girl he had loved at first sight, and who was an inspiration for all in her quiet but iron-willed leadership? Would he tell the audience's fortunes, and prognosticate that the next year was bound to be their most prosperous yet, now that all who remembered the old ways had graduated? Maybe he'd say he'd dreamt of seeing his name in lights on Broadway, like the Leo Bloom of his favorite musical, and at once the stage would unfold and gold-clad showgirls would appear from every place. It would be a spectacle like any other, because anything that President Frank touched was a spectacle. The audience stood outside in the fading summer light, a monochromatic snake that coiled all the way up the driveway back to the parking lot, tapping their feet to be let into the greatest show of their lives.

The doors were about to open, and Marco hadn't seen President Frank. But he had likely taken a back entrance. President Haneul, Treasurer Nicodemus (he really preferred to be called Nico, but the club wouldn't stand for such informalities), and a few other names Marco had likely heard before but chosen to forget were all joining the panel. He hadn't seen any of them either—they must have taken the back exit. They had been chosen because they were Betas, who had no expectation of meeting President Frank, and not Alphas, who each would have felt personally slighted if they didn't get to shake his hand and ask for some personalized wisdom. "To each their own," he would say to one; "To thine own self be true," he would say another, and down the line of VIPs he would go (these Alphas had paid an extra $100), telling each the hackneyed phrase they most wished to hear, and then he'd enter the theater. That was another lesson of being an Alpha: not everyone had the advantages you'd had, and other people had advantages you didn't have.

A few minutes later, Jessica made her way through the vestibule; by then, she had learned to walk confidently in high-heels, at least for long enough to make it to her seat.

"Hi Marco," she waved, walking too quickly to say more. Someone would have given her a look for talking to the help—another Beta stood inside the vestibule, urging the monochromatic snake of suit jackets and black cocktail dresses to move, move quickly: there were enough seats for all of them, since they had paid for the privilege. Their hours tutoring their less-privileged peers had not been wasted.

Marco did some quick mental math: about six hundred seats, times two hundred, and there was six digits of club revenue, all for the cost of some printer paper. Heller was a public school, open to all and free to all, and what else did the taxpayers want than to sponsor the finest melding of minds since the School of Athens? Heller's students were so mature for their age, too, choosing to come here on their Friday night instead of going to see the latest pop star. President Frank was charismatic, quick on his feet, and political. Not enough kids talked about politics, so it was good they were getting a head start. They'd vote for President Frank—quite frankly, who wouldn't?

The crowds began to fade; all had arrived on time, which meant five minutes before they were supposed to. The theater was quiet once more, and the Betas gathered around the TVs in the lobby to watch the panel. The video quality was good, but the cameras were far away from the empty stage, and it was unclear what they had all assembled for. The audience was dead-silent—then, a distant suit-clad figure walked on stage, and the audience erupted in loud, synchronized clapping. Then, a howling chorus: "Frank! Frank! Frank!" The Betas next to Marco joined in, and he halfheartedly copied them. The other panelists had taken their seats in the furor, and the panel began, without any of the populist zeal that had brought them all together.

It was true: President Frank had spoken, and they were all there to hang upon his words, and to rush out of the theater just as excitedly as they had entered in the hopes of catching sight of him in the lobby. To be seen with him—to shake his hand—was to absorb some of his intelligence. And if his hand were a touch sweaty, that was a souvenir of the magical night. Marco stood, hands limp, in the vestibule, watching the guests leave. Jessica pulled him aside:

"Did you hear the panel? It was magical! President Frank is so wise."

"What did you learn about entrepreneurship?"

"Those who aren't capable shouldn't waste their time with entrepreneurship," she said declaratively. "The club offers so many opportunities already for its members to innovate, why strike out on your own when you can use the club's resources?"

"That's a surprising moral."

"I know, they're all out-of-the-box thinkers. That's what makes them entrepreneurs." Jessica left, her mind undoubtedly spinning with how she'd join the club incubator, or perhaps join their "junior McKinsey" and consult for local businesses who were staffed by bad people who'd succeed if only they walked more quickly.

Marco lingered to help clean up the theater and clear the stage, for lack of anything else to do until his mother arrived to pick him up. Many years earlier, in the epoch of incredulity, President Frank had been a theater usher, and had cleaned the same aisles. Nobody knew why he did it, except that he claimed there was something hardening in the thankless work, and when he founded his club it all became clear: a good person was one who did what nobody else had the willpower to do. But what better pulpit was there than the empty stage? If all the world were a stage, why didn't he play his rightful role? People kept telling him he was destined for greatness, and who was a king without a kingdom to rule? It was poetic justice that President Frank finally had his time in the limelight that he had worked so hard for.

Marco's mother pulled up outside the theater and they drove off, passing a shadowed figure walking home after his star performance.

"How was the panel?" Marco's mother asked.

"It was boring. I'd rather hear from actual entrepreneurs, not people whose only experience is lording over their classmates."

"It is a bit funny, yeah. But at least you could listen for free. One of my book club friends was telling me her son bought a $200 ticket."

"The livestream was free to watch," Marco explained.

"They should have their next panel on budgeting and financial planning. Spending so much money is irresponsible. These people don't have jobs."

"I saw Jessica there."

"Your friend who keeps picking you up to go places?"

"Yeah. She was so eager about it all. Made it sound like she was going to see a pop star."

"We all have our hobbies, and even if it's all a bit silly, we'd best not judge."

One of Marco's aunts was in town, which meant that they had to go to San Francisco for the weekend to "sightsee," whatever that meant. They lived too far away from San Francisco to be locals, but nevertheless Marco's parents had a sense of regional pride, as if San Sebastian had nothing to offer. There was an authentic charm to San Sebastian in the same sense San Francisco had its own authentic charms, one for every neighborhood; San Sebastian didn't have someone who disguised himself as a bush to jumpscare passersby. Unless Marco's aunt wanted to see ducks, San Francisco it was—Pier 39, the ghost of Westfield Mall, and then Chinatown.

"It says here in this tour guide that the best dim sum in the Bay Area isn't here, it's at this chain called Waterfront Pavilion. There's one in San Sebastian, actually," Marco's aunt said, snootily.

"I know the owners' daughter! She went to my high school," Marco said.

"Let's go there tomorrow then, for the authentic experience," she suggested.

"How can this stuff be inauthentic? They have arches and dragons everywhere," Marco's mother asked.

"It's all for the tourists. You have to go to the side streets to see the markets, where the locals buy their produce," Marco's aunt explained.

"That's just a grocery store. You can find those everywhere, I don't get the appeal."

"I don't think it's worthwhile either. Let's go find some souvenirs. I want something to bring home for the kids."

The following morning, the four of them entered Waterfront Pavilion and were surprised to see that the cashier knew Marco by name:

"Marco, long time no see! You've brought your family! Take that table in the corner."

"I heard that many places are moving away from these traditional carts because of food waste," Marco's aunt observed.

"I can order for us. I know what's good by now." Marco flagged down some carts, and before long their table was stocked with the best the restaurant had to offer (at least according to Marco's limited knowledge).

"You've grown into a very responsible young man! Much taller than last time I saw you. When was that, Christmas? Have you started thinking about what you want to do with your life?"

"I don't know yet. I have time."

"Marco has time," Marco's father interjected. "But we're very proud of him. His grades have improved, and he's thinking about going to Occidental."

"Like his mother! It's a good school. I remember when we were young, your mother always had these lofty ambitions. I was the lazy one. But we both turned out fine."

"You turned out better," Marco's mother said.

"Oh, you're such a tease! So what's inside these buns?"

"These are barbecue pork. They're traditional," Marco said.

"I see. They're delicious! You all have to try this."

"Marco's been very diligent lately with attending events at his school. He attended an entrepreneurship panel on Friday," his mother said proudly.

"The entrepreneurship panel? The one you said cost $200 to attend?" his father interjected.

"You're letting your son spend $200 to attend a panel?"

"I was volunteering there. It was free, don't worry."

"That's very responsible of you. Your parents have raised you well."

"They have."

"So have you decided on a career yet?" Marco's aunt asked between sips of tea.

"I haven't, though I've been told they're important."

"They're very important. It's not enough to get into a good college these days, you have to have a good career. You're well-spoken: you should consider law."

"I think Marco would make a good lawyer," his father observed. "He has a strong moral compass."

"It's not hard to have a strong moral compass when you're young. You haven't encountered any tough decisions yet."

"But I think Marco will get there. We've raised him right."

"I think you have."

Marco's parents had some part in raising him right, instilling a naturally reverent mindset that didn't lend itself toward blind faith, but what was of greater importance was the environment he was brought into. One could tend a garden all one wanted, but gardens were meant to stand by themselves, long after their creators moved on—and when Marco grew past his most impressionable years, he was at the mercy of whichever pollinators flew by. All he needed was to show up to school and learn his middle school transcripts had left an indelible mark, and it was out of his parents' hands: Marco had entered a brave new world. He had been raised to handle these new challenges well, as well as any parents could. But had they known all that had passed, perhaps they'd have sent him to Catholic school.

Sometime during their conversation, which had rapidly shifted to adult topics (death and taxes, nothing less), Marco spied Vice President Juliet entering the restaurant, accompanied by similarly-attired friends. Perhaps they were old Heller buddies, but it was far more likely that this was some sort of working brunch: maybe their SoCal caucus, or a "Women in Business" group. In a few years, maybe Jessica would be venerable enough to stand by their side. Of course she would bring them to dim sum when she could have her pick of any of the fancier brunch places in town: Waterfront Pavilion was the epitome of the American dream, and its multiple locations across the Bay represented their ideology's dominance.

They brushed by their table, without any signs of recognition, and Marco realized then that for all their talk about his moral compass and special qualities, to Vice President Juliet he was a Beta—if she cared to know his rank at all. No amount of time spent in their movement's hallowed temple would bring him any closer to enlightenment. The Alphas were being bilked by the club with expensive tickets, that revenue would certainly be embezzled, and so it would go until the very top—how often, and Marco could only speculate at this, had President Frank done anything for Vice President Juliet out of love, and not a belief that it was the only way to see his great work to the end? To this end he was eternally devoted, and if President Frank were to marry someone (likely Vice President Juliet), he would be betrothing himself to a cause and not a person. He would be betrothed until death did them part, and his legacy would last long after the last funeral bouquets rotted.

Certainly both of them—and all of them who'd signed their souls away—had their own reasons to garner sympathy, their own ghosts of the past. But Marco did not care for any of it, now that the great lie had revealed itself. He attuned his ears to his family's conversation, and pretended he'd never lost interest.