Priya returned from her self-imposed exile just in time to invite Marco to one of President Timon's parties, and just in time to save him from another Friday night of binge-watching TV. She had called him the previous day, short of breath:

"Hey, Marco, you free tomorrow night?"

"What for?" he asked.

"President Timon's having a party at his mansion tonight. Supposed to be Alphas only, but you act like you belong. And do you know what's the best part?"

"That President Timon is rich?"

"It's casual dress!"

"So?

"When else will you get to see all the Alphas in swimsuits?" Priya laughed. "Come on, I want to go, I'm sure as heck not bringing Kenny, and Jessica says her parents don't let her go to parties."

"And what about Isaac?" Marco asked.

"You really think he would want to go to this?"

Marco shrugged, though Priya couldn't see. She continued after the pause:

"I'm kinda kidding with you. He told me he's already going. A certain someone invited him. But everyone who matters is going to be there: President Haneul, President Jamal, and I even heard rumors that some of the really old people might come."

"Do you mean President Frank?" Marco clarified.

"It's just a rumor," she answered airily. "Let me know if you're coming, and I can give you a ride."

"Let me ask my parents," Marco said, and hung up.

"This is at that rich kid Timon's house?" Marco's mother asked.

"Yeah, some sort of summer party. I don't know, I never go to parties like his."

"If you drink a little, don't tell me, as long as you don't get in trouble. And if you drink too much, just give me a call and I won't ask questions."

"Thanks, mom, but it's a club party. There's not going to be any drinking."

Marco's mother laughed. "Oh, so does this mean you have to go swimming in your suit? Don't forget, businesswear is heavy—I'd be distraught if you drowned."

"No,it's casual dress. President Timon is really making a statement with that, I'm sure all the club pundits are going wild speculating as to why. Everyone from the universities looks to us to see what the future trends may be."

"I'm sure Neil Cavuto will be on the story. Do you need me to drive you? I've always wondered what his house looks like."

"No, Priya's giving me a ride."

"Is she still with that Kenny guy?"

Marco was beginning to regret being so free-flowing with his parents, at least where gossip was concerned. As all good parents were, they were perturbed at the events that had unfolded at Heller, and considered pulling Marco out and sending him to Catholic school before Marco clarified he'd much rather go to Heller. Marco's father cared less about what happened at Heller, saying that "boys will be boys" with all its associated implications, but Marco's mother saw in it ample fodder for her weekend book club's coffee chats. They were reading Thomas More's Utopia.

"Yes, she's still with Kenny. He's not coming to the party, though. I can't imagine why he'd want to miss out on the fun."

"He goes to St. Sebastian, right? That's a Catholic school. Maybe it's done him some good."

"I think that's why he's not coming. He wouldn't be big on the idolatry."

Marco realized that joke was a hair too irreverent, but his mother didn't call him out on it, and he had made his point. He spent the beginning of Friday ordinarily, and returned home to comb his hair, smarten his outfit (none of the club's casual events were judgment-free, and Priya had once observed people's "casual" outfits likely cost more than their suits, even if they were a quieter chic), and wait outside for Priya. She arrived about ten minutes later, rolled down her window, and beckoned Marco to get in.

"You look sharp," Priya said to Marco, adjusting her sunglasses.

"Why are you wearing sunglasses? Aren't they distracting when you drive?"

"Everyone wears sunglasses to fancy parties. I'm supposed to look bohemian. Tell me I look bohemian."

"I don't know what it means to look bohemian."

"Ugh, Jessica would know."

They drove through downtown, which was empty because it was after lunch and there was nothing any reasonable person would want to do downtown if they weren't eating or drinking something, and began their ascent. Heller was "in the hills" but not actually in the hills, where the truly rich people lived; Heller stood proudly over the landscape while refusing to look behind it and see who held real power. Marco had previously thought of the railroad as the spine of the Peninsula, but one could make a more compelling argument for whatever this mountain range was, that spanned from Pacifica out past where the real cut-off of the Bay Area was, to Gilroy. That's where the garlic grew, and no people of note lived there: it was a city meant to be driven through. So for all practical intents and purposes, the hills were yet another spine of the Peninsula. It had lumpy vertebrae, a thin and winding road that served as its spinal cord, so what else did it need?

President Timon lived in one of the many townships that were not technically San Sebastian, and likely existed solely because long ago, some rich people had decided they did not want the people "downtown" (this being all the places were tall commercial buildings were permitted, none of which were places they lived) to lower their property values, or to make them feel unsafe after sundown. The boundaries of who looked safe and who looked unsafe had in the post-Internet era leveled out racially, despite what some of the older residents believed, and it was in some ways fortunate that Marco and Priya were dressed as well as they were. Perhaps one distant evening past, as one of President Timon's neighbors had been strolling through the cooling twilight, they had privately marveled that they solved bigotry. It was the dominion of the people downtown, who held protests at city council meetings about housing for the homeless—here they had no homeless.

Marco navigated Priya, with the help of her Google Maps, through confusingly labeled streets to a cul-de-sac where President Timon's house stood at the head. When President Timon's parents had moved to the Bay Area when he was a young kid, they had decided it was only fair, living in the most democratic nation on the planet, their son attended public, free, democratic schools. This had lasted until high school, where they discovered something wasn't quite right at Heller. But all had become well when they realized their son commanded authority, and would eventually become president. They considered oligarchy a consolation prize, and a lovely opportunity for their son to get in touch with his heritage. Their roots were shallow in California, so they needed to compensate somehow.

"I feel so out of place here," Marco said, staring at the hedge-lined driveway that had a marble fortress at its zenith.

"They should still have room in their garage. President Timon said it was multi-story."

"What the..."

"It's like you've never been to an Alpha party before. This is the first time I've been to President Timon's place, but so many of our classmates live similarly."

They drove up the driveway, where a Hispanic man in a fluorescent vest gestured them to a valet booth that had been set up. Priya handed her keys over, and they got out of the car and made their way to the back.

Marco decided the real spectacle was not what Priya had originally promised him, seeing Alphas be uncomfortable with their own bodies as they soaked their feet in the jacuzzi; nor was it the wealth, which President Timon's name carried alone without any expectation of a physical basis. The real show was in what was only socially tolerable because they were Alphas: the pool boy at the cabana stand juicing celery and sticking lemon slices on for garnish; the pasty-white arms that had hitherto never seen sun; the classical ensemble, all Alphas of course (even if they were just "the help," no Epsilons could be permitted at an event like this), that gazed longingly at the fun the others were having between songs. They had wheeled out a piano and a microphone, because there was no such thing as excess—occasionally someone would shout out a song, and an Alpha in a tightly buttoned tuxedo would stand and sing a lounge standard with the band's accompaniment.

A shouted request of "Luck Be A Lady" led Marco to Isaac, who leisurely reclined in a beach lounge chair and ate grapes off a platter.

"I didn't know you were coming—what are the odds?" Isaac said warmly. "Here, take this chair, and get yourself some food. I heard the shrimp are lovely, though technically I'm not supposed to have any—I can justify it if it's shrimp paste and I can't see it, but when the tails are on, and I can see the flecks of char from the grill, my mouth waters thinking about it. Have some for me."

"I will taste the forbidden fruit on your behalf," Marco laughed, and went to get himself some shrimp, loading the rest of his plate with paper-thin curls of dragonfruit, papaya salad, and beef satay. The smell of the chlorinated pool added a sophisticated undertone to the aroma of the freshly grilled meat.

"What are we supposed to do with the skewers after we eat the beef, stab each other?" Marco asked Isaac. "It tastes great, I must admit."

"I already tried some of the lemongrass chicken. I guess if you're crazy rich, you can do anything you want. But I must tell you," Isaac said, lowering his voice, "I feel a hair out of place here. Being a Beta. I can only imagine how you feel as a Gamma. If they knew we were here..."

"They know we're here, Isaac, but we were invited. Basic hospitality dictates you don't discriminate against your guests."

"How did you know Vice President Cynthia invited me?" Isaac put his hand over his lips. "I gave it away just then, didn't I? I've always been terrible at keeping secrets."

"You two have been getting along well. Like oil and vinegar."

"She's been nice to me, and my parents always told me to never look a gift horse in the mouth."

"What if she's a Trojan horse?"

"We aren't there yet—let's not put the cart before the horse." Isaac grinned.

"I've had enough of this verbal horseplay. My throat's going to go hoarse." Marco sat down and kicked off his shoes. "Do they have anything to drink around here besides celery juice?"

"Let's call someone over and find out—"

"No, I'll look myself." Marco walked past some familiar faces—Gina was reading a thick book under a beach umbrella, ignoring all around her—and found a cooler of drinks. He took a sparkling water for himself and returned to his chair. Someone, probably one of the pool boys, had placed there a fluffy white towel. He rested it over himself like a blanket, and had just started to make himself at home when Vice President Cynthia loomed over him.

"Sorry to bother you, Marco, but is this chair taken?"

"Yes, it is, I'm here."

Vice President Cynthia looked as if she were about to say something snooty, but instead gave her best impression of a genuine smile, and gave the occupant of the chair on Isaac's other side a knowing glare. The chair was emptied, and Vice President Cynthia made herself at home.

"I'm surprised to see you here, Marco, I didn't know you were invited," she said, projecting over Isaac.

"Marco and I are great friends," Isaac said, letting a crisp bite of a chilled grape serve as punctuation. Immediately Vice President Cynthia became at ease.

"My apologies, Marco, it's lovely to have you here. Some diversity is welcome, if I'm being honest—President Timon invited his Alpha friends, and they're all, you know..."

"White?" Isaac asked, filling in a gap that didn't need to be filled.

"I didn't say that on the record, but yes."

"But I am too."

"Of course," Vice President Cynthia said with an affected chuckle. Marco decided in a snap judgment he would not attend any more of President Timon's parties unless he could keep Priya by his side—they had parted ways as soon as they entered.

"The food's not bad," Marco observed. "I wouldn't have expected President Timon to go in this direction for the catering. I expected more caviar."

"It reminds me of what we had for lunch Wednesday," Isaac bluntly observed. "It's a lovely coincidence President Timon went in such a Southeast Asian direction tonight."

Vice President Cynthia looked at Marco and Isaac's plates of food and shook her head. "And so it is. I'll be back in a few minutes, I want to say hello to a few more people. Make sure nobody takes my chair."

"Will do, boss," Isaac said, and Vice President Cynthia left.

"Have you met President Timon yet?" Isaac continued. "You must meet President Timon. He's not the most exciting guy, but talking to him, you wouldn't think his family owned this place."

"Do I have to?"

"I don't see why you wouldn't want to. It's polite to greet the host—let me find him." Isaac scampered off before Marco could voice any other objections, and a few moments later returned with a bemused President Timon.

"President Timon, this is my friend I was telling you about earlier. Marco is a Gamma, but you couldn't tell by looking at him—he's very bright. President Haneul recruited him for the AI project."

"That's delightful," President Timon said, reaching out his hand for a handshake. "I'm always happy to meet my supporters. How are you liking the party?"

"It's great," Marco said. "I can feel the charisma in the air."

"I hadn't noticed that," President Timon said sagely. "Mind if I sit down?"

"You can take my seat," Isaac said. "I'm going to play cards inside. I'd be wasting this party if I didn't use your poker table."

"I'm President Timon McLaren," President Timon said as he sat down, in a self-assuring way as if to remind himself he was still president even though he was talking to a Gamma.

Marco expected more to follow, but President Timon seemed content to soak in the sun and stare at the majesty of what he'd created. Marco had heard once that fake wealth was loud, but real wealth was quiet—it was why President Jamal had still taken the bus, even though everyone knew he had a generous stipend thanks to an old club treasurer's well-timed obsession with cryptocurrency, and why the school was so enchanted by President Timon, who didn't have to say a word for people to know he was rich. How To Be A Good Person had taught that intelligent people belied their intelligence to mislead others, but this was written before President Frank had known there was something more to aspire to than being upper-middle class. Many of the club's teachings decried those who hoarded wealth and did not spend it altruistically (though later interpretations did say it was forgivable if it was in the club's interest).

"Want anything?" President Timon asked. "You should try the celery juice."

"I'll take a celery juice," Marco said, and all President Timon had to do was hold up two fingers, and a pool boy brought them celery juice. Marco was never a fan, but it felt inconsiderate to refuse his hospitality.

Vice President Cynthia returned to see Isaac replaced by someone more bronzed, more muscular, and far more likely to eventually go jet skiing off the Malibu coast or do something equally adventurous. This would be a victory for many, but not her:

"It's so nice to see you, President Timon. Wasn't Isaac sitting here, with my friend Marco?"

"Hey Cynthia, glad to see you could make it! Here, why don't you come sit next to me?"

Vice President Cynthia saw no choice but to sullenly sit where she sat before—she didn't recline, since it would've shown weakness.

"Let me get you some food, Cynthia. If nothing's to your satisfaction, I can see if they can make something inside," President Timon insisted.

"I already ate," she said sternly.

"What did you think of the food? Tonight's theme was Southeast Asia—we all know President Frank was biased toward China, and President Haneul loved Korea, so I thought I'd differentiate myself and go more southerly."

"It was edible."

"Ha, you're such a tease!" President Timon laughed. "I'm going to go check in on some other guests, but if you need anything, give a holler." He sauntered off, proud at his performance that would've made Trimalchio blush.

After President Timon left, only then did Vice President Cynthia recline; she faced the sky, as if in a psychiatrist's chair. Marco turned to face her.

"Congratulations on your election, by the way. I know you must've heard it from so many people by now, but it really is an accomplishment. You'll do great things," Marco said.

"Why are you a Gamma anyway? You carry yourself well, and President Haneul has told me you've been quite diligent with her AI initiative. I ought to make you a Beta right now."

"My grades have never been great, and quite frankly, I've never been able to bring myself to have much interest in all this politics. I just want to become a better person. It's kinda like The Graduate, if you've ever seen that. 'Ms. Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?' That movie."

"Yeah, that's not a Beta attitude," Vice President Cynthia said declaratively. "But you're good for a Gamma, and I don't think anyone would complain if you kept attending these sorts of parties, as long as you stayed on the outside and didn't try to stick your nose in much. Sometimes it's good to have an outside perspective."

"It is, it is."

"So what do you think of President Timon?" she said sharply, turning to face Marco across the demilitarized zone of Isaac's empty chair.

"He's certainly generous. Throwing a party like this, you'd think he were trying to be like Gatsby—we all read that, right? I liked that book."

"It was one of President Frank's favorites. He'd always talk about it, privately to us. I think there's a shade of Gatsby in all of us, but I think some of the guys in the club take too much inspiration from the book."

"Too much?" Marco asked. "Certainly it's not a model to live by, but what would I know?"

"If you have a bunch of guys thinking they're Gatsby, then that means people like me have to be Daisy, and that's no fun. Daisy went into hysterics about how lovely it was to be a fool, but that's not what people like me, or Vice President Juliet, or heck—Daisy from our class, Harry's lovebird—should aspire to. If I were president, I'd change some things about how we did things around here."

"What does President Haneul think of all this?"

Vice President Cynthia grinned wryly. "President Haneul never had to deal with any of this. She was a mentor to me, but she could only teach me so much—and now she tells me about how those older guys at Princeton treat her. I think if she had her own President Timon on her heels, she'd be a deer in the headlights. But I love her, as anyone ought to love a role model. Oh, you must think I'm crazy now, but what's the harm? Nobody would believe you anyway. Do you mind getting me some of the food? I lied when I said I ate already. This has worked up an appetite."

"Sure thing, Vice President Cynthia. What do you want?"

"Ehh, a bit of everything. But not too much food, lest people think I'm a glutton."

"Got it," Marco said, and he went to get her a plate of food. A good person belied their intelligence to mislead others—would anyone think that he, a lowly Gamma, were privy to the short-winded elations of Alphas? And why was everyone asking him to get them food? It was a fair trade, and at the very least, these conversations were interesting. Certainly business was being discussed elsewhere, but it wasn't his sort of business.

He returned with a plate of food for Vice President Cynthia, with the most delicate portions of everything he could assemble; they blended a bit on the plate, and she had to use her chopsticks to gingerly pull out individual morsels.

"This isn't bad, actually. Tastes authentic. I guess money can buy you anything."

"Money is power," Marco said in agreement.

"So since I'm here, can you tell me anything about Isaac? I know the story like everyone else of the time his catapult broke Mr. Ivanov's window and that other time he turned the swimming pool incarnadine for his Shakespeare project. But you're friends with him, what's he really like?"

"He's like any other man, only more so," Marco said, deciding in the moment his previous chipmunk analogy wouldn't fly.

"So what motivates him? Does he want to be an Alpha? He's quite close to being one, and honestly would be one if we didn't think he would fiddle with something and accidentally destroy Heller."

"What sort of motivations?"

"I don't know, wealth, influence," she said airily. "I'm just hypothesizing here, affection, charity, spiritual enlightenment. Any of those?"

"Isaac's always been obsessed with luck. He went inside to play poker just before you came back, actually. With someone like Isaac, he's a good friend of mine and I should really have a better answer, but you can't ever say. He blows with the wind."

"I'll figure him out," she declared. "Good talk."

"Good talk," Marco said, and he decided then the wind was blowing him elsewhere. He let it carry him off his chair and along the poolside, in the hopes of finding some more interesting conversation he ultimately was unable to find. The music carried past twilight and into dusk, and when people grew tired and it became clear this would not be one of Gatsby's bacchanales where people slept the night under the stars, Priya found Marco and they drove back to San Sebastian.