All work and no play made Marco a dull boy, if playing instigator in the sordid lives of his peers had enough of a higher purpose to make it work. If it were play, then the adage didn't have the right ring to it. All play and no work made Marco a lazy boy, one who had begun to shirk his club-related work and slack off on his college essays. They were due in a few months, but that was no excuse: a good person did not procrastinate, and it wasn't like there was much else to do with his time.

For lack of anywhere else to sightsee, there was the local library branch he would visit on occasion during his morning walks, mainly to pick up a local newspaper for his father. It was unclear what value it had compared to the Chronicle, the Times, or any of the more established newspapers he could get himself in the city, but his father would read it diligently regardless. After work he'd read it in his armchair, and share details with his mother like he were informing her Netherfield Park had been let at last—but whenever Marco read it, all he saw were which family businesses were closing and which local politicians had embarrassed themselves. There wasn't much else at the library but books, books found in such excess that their novelty wore off, and printers for public use.

Reading was a dignified hobby, and one encouraged by the club and his parents, but Marco found it hard to justify devoting excessive time to it when he was already exposed to an excess of words on a daily basis. He couldn't possibly be malnourished, a Philistine, or whatever the clinical term was for a lexical deficiency. In the old days, people might pass the day without seeing any words at all that weren't on street signs, but in the present, text messages and Reddit had a sufficient variety of words to convey his thoughts without being forced to rely on antiquated notions of reasoning. Not to say that he didn't enjoy reading when he did read, enjoying it enough for the book club, but it felt too erudite for a summer vacation.

Shortly after the incident that made speculating on Isaac and Vice President Cynthia's relations lose its taste, Marco woke up to a text from his mother asking him to pick up a book from the downtown library—the main branch of the San Sebastian libraries, and the most glamorous of them all. That was simple enough, Marco reasoned. Half an hour there, half an hour back, he'd be back before lunch. And it would be a dignified expedition, not like his spying from the other night, one in pursuit of family values and the arts. He got dressed in a hurry and began walking to the bus stop, not stopping except to notice one of his neighbors needed to trim their hedges. It was undignified to go for a natural, organic, wildlife-friendly look in suburbia, not unless one hired a landscaper to design such a look for a five-digit sum.

A half-remembered muscle memory was about to lead Marco, as he was waiting for the bus, to text the group chat to see if anyone was around. If they split searching the aisles, they'd find his mother's book in half the time. Priya had grown absent, texting often but being too busy with Kenny to be present physically. His outing with Jessica to see Isaac in action had been transgressive, and it was a reminder that while they contented themselves with imaginings of what could be, others were living those same moments. It was no surprise, then, that Priya believed a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush: hers was a rough-feathered pigeon and not a peacock, but it was better than nothing. So that was Priya taken care of, and Marco realized fully then that Isaac had his own priorities: unlike Jessica, he would never be carried by impulse to join Marco for an outing just because, not when there were greater celestial forces that pulled him to and fro. There was no point, then, in texting them, and by the time Marco solidified this notion, he was halfway downtown.

A familiar voice greeted Marco when he entered the library, and while Marco knew he was supposed to feign surprise, it was common knowledge that the universe had it out for him:

"Marco, what a surprise seeing you here!" President Haneul said warmly. "Are you here for the piano recital?"

"The piano recital?"

"Yes, the piano recital. Treasurer Nicodemus is performing, and since he will be treasurer this year it is important we're supportive of his endeavors. You remember him, right?"

"With a name like that, he's hard to forget."

"You can sit next to me," she said, and Marco followed her down the hallway. How did the club always pull off these timely interruptions? Any more of these and he'd steal Isaac's line, and ask incredulously, "What are the odds?"

Marco inferred from the lack of guests that President Haneul had arrived early for the recital, not that anything less would be expected of her. Two adults were moving chairs into formation, presumably Treasurer Nicodemus's parents; the walls were gray and the light sterile. Marco searched around for a program, and found one on a plastic table next to an unopened tray of celery sticks and other vegetables. He flipped through it, but didn't recognize the names of the pieces, only the composers.

"I am such a fan of this Mendelssohn, the 'Rondo Capriccioso' he has included on this program," President Haneul said, reading her program seemingly under the impression Marco was doing the same. "And these Rachmaninoff Etudes-Tableaux are spectacular! Opus 39 is my favorite, and I'm glad he's picked them. What do you think?"

"I think they're great," Marco said politely.

"It is such a shame that Treasurer Nicodemus wanted this to be a small recital. He could have performed on the Bosendorfer we have in the theater—you know, President Frank's piano teacher used to study under Horowitz, and so that piano has been touched by the hands of greatness. And now we've settled for whatever the library has."

"I think it's good for the performer to feel comfortable."

"He can sometimes be nervous around crowds," President Haneul remarked, not lowering her voice despite being within earshot of Treasurer Nicodemus's parents.

"The more the merrier to see his recital then." Marco placed his program next to President Haneul's seat, and calculated that the twenty minutes before the recital could be spent finding his mother's book.

"I'll be back," he promised President Haneul, and left the side gallery and returned to the main body of the library.

The San Sebastian Library spent the money it received from its donors well, using some of it for a wall of names that greeted all newcomers. Over the years, its trustees had realized that they were losing ground to the Internet, and began trying all sorts of ventures to attract the youth and get them hooked on reading—first a well-intentioned collaboration with The Wiggles, then a café on the top floor that served coffee in paper cups, and then a TikTok account that posted videos of the librarians cavorting through the library to catchy numbers like "Fruit Salad" (they hadn't yet figured out The Wiggles weren't hip). In a way, it was the perfect venue for a club venture (and all ventures of those associated with the club were club ventures, by definition): ostentatious enough to be noticeable without being ineffective.

Marco found his mother's requested book quickly, a cookbook of Oaxacan recipes by some contemporary author (his family was not from Oaxaca, but there was nevertheless a hint of familial shame in picking such a gentrified cookbook), and brought the book downstairs to check it out.

"You must be a great chef and responsible young man if you're checking out this cookbook," the librarian remarked.

"It's for my mom."

"Oh. Well, that's responsible."

Marco tucked the book under his arm and returned to the performance hall, which now had roughly forty chairs pushed into rows. Only a few others had arrived, and forty chairs began to seem an overestimate.

"You're back!" President Haneul said. "And what is that book? 'A Taste Of...'"

"Oaxaca."

"It's spelled very differently. 'Wa...'"

"Wa-ha-ka," Marco said again.

"Wa-ha-ka. I said it!"

"You did."

"I would teach you some Korean phrases, but Korean is a hard language to pronounce," President Haneul said proudly.

Marco looked around at the largely empty room. Treasurer Nicodemus's parents had been joined by some other adults, who huddled in the sunlit corner. Treasurer Nicodemus stood by the piano, guarding it from invaders; occasionally, an old woman would walk up to him and say something reassuring, before returning to her front-row seat. Marco assumed she was his teacher. There were no other kids in sight.

"It's great we're supporting Treasurer Nicodemus today. How did you find out this performance was happening? I don't see many kids here."

"He mentioned it to me last week, at a club event, and I thought it would be a very pleasant last impression of him to have of me before I left. He will see me again, so maybe not my last—whether he likes it or not!"

"I see."

"It's important for our club members, especially the shyer ones in these leadership roles, to feel that they have a very visible support network. Because let me tell you, Marco: I do not feel I had the strongest support network I could have had, compared to some of the people we have. So when I see someone like Treasurer Nicodemus, and I do not know who taught him, where his mentors are, I try to lead by example."

"And no other club members are coming?"

"I assume Treasurer Nicodemus invited many others, and they are just a bit late to showing up," President Haneul said. "Or they are being neglectful and not coming at all. I think we would have had more people come if we hosted this at Heller. The acoustics would be better there."

One of the adults from the huddle walked over to Marco and President Haneul, correctly appraising them as interlopers.

"You must be some of Nico's friends! It's so nice of you to come. I'm sure it means a lot to him."

"We're glad to be here, Mrs. Prendergast," President Haneul said.

"I told Nico that he should have hosted this at Heller so more of his friends could come, but he refused. I think he's a bit shy," Mrs. Prendergast said in a measured voice, staring at Treasurer Nicodemus, who sat on the piano bench with his hands clasped.

"I think he will perform beautifully," Marco observed.

"Has he greeted you yet? He should greet his guests. Nico!" Mrs. Prendergast called out, and Treasurer Nicodemus walked over. "Two of your friends from school are here!"

"Hi," he mumbled.

"Is there anything else you want to say?"

"Thanks for coming..."

"He must have some stage fright. He was a lot more talkative at the entrepreneurship panel," President Haneul said to all of them. Treasurer Nicodemus took out a pocket square from his suit and cleaned his hands.

"Break a leg!" Marco said jovially.

"Thanks," Treasurer Nicodemus said. He returned to his seat, and Mrs. Prendergast returned to her huddle.

"Are you supposed to tell pianists to 'break a leg'? I think that is just for theater. You don't want them to break the leg they use to pedal," President Haneul said to Marco.

"I'm not known for my deep knowledge of proper etiquette. If I had known there was this recital, I would've brought flowers—did you bring flowers?"

"Yes, I stowed them inside that closet over there before anyone else arrived, so nobody would see I had them," she said, pointing to a nondescript closet with chairs stacked in front of it.

"It's almost 11, we should take our seats," Marco said. President Haneul nodded, and they took their seats, the twenty or so assorted figures who had arrived. Half of the seats were empty, but people sat spread out to make it less noticeable, and so Treasurer Nicodemus could have that treasured feeling of playing for a crowd.

Treasurer Nicodemus eschewed tradition and began playing without giving a welcome speech, and seemed to play brilliantly, undaunted by the circumstances under which he was performing; in between pieces, he would wipe his face and hands with the pocket square, which by the end appeared rather damp. Genius was one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration, Marco recalled: this, and many other aphorisms about genius, defined the motivational speeches he received as a kid and at Heller.

It was good fortune no sweat made its way into the piano by the end of the performance, and everyone gave Treasurer Nicodemus a polite sitting ovation. Some in the crowd left immediately after the recital, but President Haneul went to retrieve her flowers, and returned to present them graciously to Treasurer Nicodemus.

"I think you are the next Trifonov," President Haneul said, pressing the flowers into his hand.

"Nico, what do you say when someone gives you flowers?" Mrs. Prendergast shouted above the room's quiet murmur.

"Thanks..."

"Let's take a picture, all of you," she said, and Marco and President Haneul flanked Treasurer Nicodemus for a picture. Taking a picture made Marco feel he deserved some credit for the performance—his presence likely contributed little other than making his tremolos more authentic.

"Brilliant show, Treasurer Nicodemus," Marco told him quietly while President Haneul chatted up the adults.

"Why does everyone call me Treasurer Nicodemus? I keep telling them 'Nico' is fine."

"Because, Treasurer Nicodemus, if we don't show respect to our superiors, we'll be scrubbing toilets with toothbrushes."

"Will I be scrubbing toilets with toothbrushes if I don't call myself Treasurer Nicodemus?"

"Nah, they'll give you something larger. Maybe a hairbrush."

"She scares me..." Treasurer Nicodemus trailed off, as President Haneul returned.

"I think it would be brilliant if you gave another recital at the start of the school year, to welcome the new club administration. That would be an excellent idea, yes?"

Treasurer Nicodemus nodded.

"I will suggest it to President Timon. It is so lovely to have you on board. We need more artistic talents like you, and fewer robots who are so insensitive to human nature."

Treasurer Nicodemus nodded again.

"Is it time we go, Marco?"

"We came independently, but I think I'm going to leave too. I need to bring this book back home."

"Goodbye, then," President Haneul said, and she took the bold move of leaving the room first.

There was not much to say about President Haneul that had not already been said, or that pertained to someone like Marco who was outside the spiderweb the club called an org chart. Some speculated as to her designs at Heller: some club graduates, like President Jamal, had shown little sentimental attachment to their stomping grounds, and barely visited even on holidays. The college offices of the How To Be A Good Person Club were important, capable of effecting the sort of change only mature brains without parental supervision could effect, but they were often isolated from the chain of command; those who ran offices at "minor schools" felt the same way a Soviet bureaucrat felt when they heard their new post was in Siberia. The University of Virginia was a good school, suitable for someone of President Jamal's caliber, but he struggled to swing his iron fist outside of his sphere of regional influence; having strong Heller credentials only helped those who were conniving enough to leverage them. She had the choice, then, of being one of those club leaders who disappeared into the mist of time, or being one whose specter still haunted Heller's hallways; it was a testament to President Frank's legacy that those who had the most influence were those who never forgot their hometown roots.

It was only when relating the secondhand embarrassment of the piano recital to his mother, when presenting the cookbook, that Marco realized what sort of leader President Haneul intended to be. Her title at Princeton was unimpressive, and Marco had already forgotten it, only remembering that her responsibilities included self-abasing work. But she would always be president at Heller, and if she was genial, maintaining votes on committees and loyal underlings who could investigate affairs on her behalf, she would never not be president. Treasurer Nicodemus would not necessarily remember her fondly, but he would remember her. To be forgotten was the worst sort of death, and President Haneul would avoid it. Marco crossed his fingers that he would avoid her fate.