Boredom hit Marco like a hangover Monday morning: weekends were interludes that never warranted conscious thought, because they always were with family and never remarkable. That weekend, they'd taken a day trip to Santa Cruz, which involved slathering on a bunch of sunscreen to sit in a car for a few hours and, like everyone else seeking the summer heat, walk along the boardwalk and take pictures of funny things. They had lovely beaches closer to home: there was Half Moon Bay, which was pretty much the same thing, and a bit farther north they had the overcast beaches of Pacifica and San Francisco. There was no point in going to Santa Cruz, but Marco was thankful they had, since there was no way he'd go by himself during the week.

So that brought him to Monday, where he woke up early (this time, intentionally), brushed his teeth, and began the desultory walk toward Pavilion Park. He hated that name. If one were to go through the trouble of building a multi-million-dollar pavilion that the local newspaper would herald as an icon of "cultural cooperation" (until the local Falun Gong group set up their info table outside it during Chinese New Year), one could come up with a better name for the park. It was to say, almost, that people came to the park just to see the pavilion, which certainly wasn't true—if one were to make a pilgrimage to the park, they would go to the Japanese garden downtown, or somewhere else where they couldn't step in, do a spin, and confidently say they'd seen it all. All it would take would be the club getting wind of this societal crisis and launching a petition, though if they succeeded, they'd certainly rename it after one of Vice President Juliet's long-dead relatives or something else banal.

"Juliet is here today," the cashier conspiratorially pointed out to Marco, and there was Vice President Juliet in the flesh, eating by herself at her own table. Marco smiled and continued to his own table, out of sight. It wouldn't do him any good to be seen in the enemy's territory.

The hot tea didn't quench his boredom, but it gave Marco energy to confront the day and the human condition. Jessica would've loved to go to President Timon's party: she would have talked with everyone as if they were old friends, and titillated suitably when she had witnessed the world's most awkward love triangle in action. She would've known to dress "bohemian," whatever that meant, and would've read hidden messages in President Timon's lazily buttoned polo shirt. He didn't have many other friends besides her and the others he'd seen at the party, and certainly none who would be so preoccupied with club business off the clock.

Solitude last time had proved unfulfilling: there was nothing to see in Sunnyvale besides the scorching sun, and if he truly wanted solitude he could hide at home.

"Want to go to the mall again? I have gossip," Marco texted her. Perhaps the day-to-day affairs of Alphas weren't truly gossip, but they had no choice but to live vicariously through others. That was such a funny word, "vicariously"—he couldn't think of another phrase where it appeared. It didn't make sense: what did living vicariously have to do with vicars? It wasn't that Gammas, or other people like him, weren't allowed to speak: it was that they had nothing interesting to say. Any musings about vicars and the quirks of the English tongue certainly didn't qualify.

He finished his food and looked back at Vice President Juliet's table as he went to pay. She was also finishing up, though it seemed she ate less quickly than she did. In between bites, she looked at her phone; she didn't seem happy with whatever she saw, though Marco assumed it might have been boredom with eating at her family's restaurant. She probably got sick of the food after a while. He still had a lot more dishes to try before he could even begin to think of getting bored.

Marco knew little about Vice President Juliet's career, both past and present, other than that it existed and was indelibly tied to President Frank's. The narrative was simple: she was a cheerleader (there was nothing wrong with being a cheerleader as far as the club was concerned, though the chants had grown increasingly macabre over its reign), a peasant girl, an Eliza Doolittle unfamiliar with the ways of the world, until President Frank had seen something in her and given her a chance to become a good person. She was never spoken of in exactly these terms, but this was as close to an executive summary as the club doctrine ever got. Then there were the complications in the narrative, revealed both through personal experience and third-party outlets like gatesofheller: some claimed that she had only been motivated to follow him because of a childhood crush, that she played up her naïveté to conceal her privileged background, that how she saw the world ran counter to true good-person beliefs.

Once, President Haneul had been selected to give a talk on feminism in the club's history, which had a sulking Vice President Cynthia in the front row and a beaming Vice President Juliet on Zoom. President Haneul had begun by claiming that feminism was solved at Heller because there was no gender inequality in positions of power, a take that attracted much mockery when the world's philosophers assembled at Novel-Tea after school. How could one argue that the club's female members were often forced to occupy traditional gender archetypes, or that the club staff's relentless obsession with setting up its members with each other objectified all involved, if feminism was solved? President Haneul enumerated many of these "opposing arguments," and had capped the speech with the triumphant announcement that by participating in the club and spreading its teachings, all in the room were feminists.

So if this narrative were to be believed, Vice President Juliet was being a feminist by eating her dim sum by herself, and he was being a feminist by supporting her family's business. He had enough of being that specific brand of feminist for the day, and settled his bill quickly. The morning air was less fresh than the days before; it wouldn't be long before summer broke through the clouds. It was simultaneously too early and too late: if it were earlier in the morning, he could walk exultant in his superiority over the late risers, but it was still too early for his friends to be awake. There was always 99 Ranch, but that was a far walk without someone calling him an Uber back home, and he did not think good fortune would strike again. Marco turned around and began his walk home.

It was a bit silly to walk so far and return immediately, but that was once again the luxury of time. Having a car would buy him even more time: instead of contemplating life for thirty minutes as he walked, he could spend five trying to not die on the road and twenty-five sitting on his bed. He was fortunate to not have anywhere else he needed to be—summer was the one time he was not kept on a tight leash by those above him. The worst thing the club could do wouldn't be to amp up how things were during the school year. It would be to take away his free time. That was yet another reason in the list of many reasons why he didn't want to be an Alpha: too many people would be looking over his shoulder.

From what he could gather on his phone, little had changed in the time Marco had spent away. His parents had left for work, but they always did that. Marco had suggested to them a few weeks ago that he get a job, something easy, like being one of those Round Table Pizza sign-twirlers. They had said his college applications were more important, and his dad also quipped that there was no need for him to plow the fields. This was Marco's last summer without adult responsibilities, he had also said, and there was no reason to squander it. That felt ominous, and Marco hoped they weren't going to ship him off to the coal mines as soon as he turned eighteen.

A few hours of YouTube later, Jessica responded to his text: "Hey, can we FaceTime?"

"Sure?" Marco texted back, and a few seconds later Jessica called.

"Hey Marco, guess where I'm headed!" she announced, lowering her sunglasses and panning the camera to show that she was in the passenger seat of Jason's car. Jason wore a Hawaiian shirt that made him look like a fusion of Deng Xiaoping and Jimmy Buffett, except many years younger; Marco inferred from his scowl that he had not picked out his own outfit.

"I don't know," Marco said.

"Jason's taking me to a boat party! One of his UC Berkeley club friends has a yacht, and we're going to go out on the Bay, and I'm going to get to meet all his colleagues. Do you like my outfit?"

"It's great. Very summery."

"Isn't it bohemian?"

"Priya asked me if her outfit was bohemian when we went to President Timon's party. What's up with that?"

"Oh, you're so out of the loop," she laughed. "There was this viral TikTok a few weeks ago that told us what was trendy this season. And it's dressing bohemian."

"You buy too many clothes," Jason said gruffly.

"I'm talking to my friend..." Jessica shot back, elongating the last word. "So how was the party? You said you had tea?"

"Is now the best time? When you're driving?"

"Jason doesn't mind—he's used to me babbling about it, right?" Jason nodded. "So spill."

"So President Timon had this ginormous spread of Vietnamese food for the catering, to impress Vice President Cynthia no doubt, and she was not having it. She was actually really frank with me about leadership, and what she thinks of people like President Timon."

"Vice President Cynthia is very wise," Jessica agreed. "So what'd she say about Isaac?"

"Who says she said anything about Isaac?"

"Aw, come on, we all know that when you said gossip, it wasn't some ordinary stuff about being your own sunshine. Jason agrees, right?"

"Why are you asking me? I'm driving."

"So what did she say?" Jessica asked again, more insistently.

"She wanted to know what motivated him," Marco explained. "Money, power, affection, influence—"

"Affection?" Jessica interrupted.

"Real influence and power cannot be bought," Jason observed.

"Thanks, big bro. So did she, like, want your advice on how to woo him, or is this another Machiavellian thing about betraying your friends before they betray you, or what's the big deal? You're taking too long to get to the point."

"I didn't say anything back to her, and honestly, I'd rather not use my friends as bargaining chips. What she said that was most interesting was something about The Great Gatsby, how she was tired of all the guys in the club thinking of themselves as Gatsby."

"President Frank started it," Jason interjected. "I've known him since middle school. He's always been reading something or other and filling his head up with wild ideas. Don Quixote, The Great Gatsby, Dream of the Red Chamber, you name it. It's why his leadership is so effective: he's an idealist, who can still be pragmatic when the situation demands. Like Lenin."

"But her point was more that it's unhealthy for the girls in the club to see themselves playing second fiddle to these sorts of male figures. She doesn't find it empowering."

"Daisy was a feminist. Ms. Baldwin told us that," Jessica declared. "And you know Daisy in our year? It's a power couple. And same with Greg and Gina, though I don't think they were actually dating—and how could we forget, President Frank and Vice President Juliet. All power couples."

"I'm not sure I read it that way, and what sort of feminism are we talking here? Is this the club's brand of feminism or something else?"

"Daisy was a slave to capitalism, like all of us are," Jason said. "Let me tell you two how I see it. I don't concern myself with petty high school drama when there's so much more exciting drama out there, but high school Vice President Juliet was always willing to sacrifice her own agency for worthless things like President Frank's affection. She spent years wearing him down, and that she succeeded is the most impressive part of all—nobody gives her enough credit for turning an obstinate, headstrong gem of a man into a romantic. That might sound critical, but I respect her for that—and it's why I respect Vice President Cynthia, far more than that lazy loser Timon, who thinks he can buy his way into all our hearts."

"Let's change the topic," Jessica said, clearing her throat. "In two days it will be the longest day of the year. Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it."

"Why don't you say goodbye to Marco and tell him your fun facts when we get back home?" Jason snidely suggested, and Jessica took that as a cue to wave goodbye to Marco and hang up. He certainly was violating some sort of club doctrine or another by having that conversation—though if it were with the club czar and his darling sister, was it forgivable?

There was one authoritative source for all matters of morality, and it wasn't President Frank, who could filibuster for weeks but was too far removed from Heller's affairs for Marco to see him as anything more than a spiritual grandfather (President Frank did keep a close watch on Heller's affairs, especially when his middle school friend Jason Wu cared to share kompromat, but he had no reason to care about an ordinary Gamma). It was Hobbes, whom Marco had neglected those past few days. A simple question would do, especially on a topic that was apparently baked into club doctrine.

"Some fellow club members and I have been discussing if Daisy Buchanan from The Great Gatsby should be a feminist according to our club philosophy. I don't find her empowering at all, but others seem to see her as a role model—even if it means they find themselves letting Gatsby-like figures speak for them. It's a reductive and disingenuous take, is it not? How should I, as a good person, read Daisy's character?"

Hobbes responded quickly:

"Friend, while literary debates can sharpen the mind, we must not let fictions distract us from life's true purpose. Our path is to uplift humanity, not become entangled in fruitless controversy. Rather than judging Daisy by today's standards, strive to see the universal virtues all great literature conveys—courage, justice, wisdom, compassion. These shape every age. Focus instead on cultivating them within, and living them each day. We judge books by their fruits. If reading stirs goodness in your heart, it has enlightened you. If it breeds discord, turn the page. For growth lies not in complex riddles, but simple truths. Be the author of your own story through good works. Let that be your concern."

Marco was tiring of Hobbes calling itself his "friend"—that was a title well-earned over late-night FaceTime chats, not something any ordinary AI could declare itself via induced intimacy—but Hobbes had answered the question at hand and also had somehow anticipated their previous discussion about what made people like President Frank great. President Frank and President Timon were of the same stock: they possessed preternatural qualities (one creativity, one money) that made their words carry beyond any sort of charisma they possessed. President Frank aspired to be Gatsby: it was presumably his idea to have the Gatsby-themed prom Marco's freshman year, one that he had heard from Jason was the best (and only) one he had attended. That was when Jason had driven them to the interestingly themed "A Night in Siberia" prom junior year, which was the best prom Jason hadn't attended. That point aside, President Frank struck Marco as a naturally impressionable sort, which made him so effective at impressing others: he took the bits and pieces from his favorite books and fashioned them into the sort of person who could at once pass for a Silicon Valley entrepreneur and a devotee of the green light.

Had those books stirred goodness within President Frank? The past, and all that came of it, was prologue to Marco, and with it the eternal question of if President Frank were merely the son of his own works, or a genius the world could never hope to understand.

A text from Priya interrupted his musings: "Hey, is Jessica around? I have something really spicy to show you two. But it has to be in person. Don't want Big Brother or any of his friends catching on."

"Little Sister and Big Brother have gone to a boat party to watch for whales and drink celery juice mocktails," Marco texted back bombastically. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Priya promised, and a few group texts later, it was decided that whatever world-shaking revelations Priya had for them could wait a day. That left the rest of Monday for Marco, which he spent idly combing over his college essay drafts for loose turns of phrase, tending his mother's garden, and yearning for a day where the future was less exciting than the present.