Tom was late again. This wasn't an infrequent occurrence, and through force of habit Regina looked around once more, sighed, then sat down and started browsing Instagram. She had told Tom many times, with varying degrees of politeness, how she did not appreciate his constant tardiness; it reflected poorly on his character and made her feel less valued. Tom never had anything to say but "absence makes the heart grow fond." After Regina had waited about ten minutes for Tom, he sauntered toward her, still oozing casualness. Seemingly not sensing any annoyance behind Regina's smile and hug, he pointed vaguely behind him, explaining that there was "traffic." Regina recalled no such traffic.

"We should get some coffee," he suggested, knowing that Regina loved coffee and relied on it to cheer her up; as she had stopped drinking bubble tea because of the club, coffee naturally was a far healthier substitute. At least it was unsweetened. Tom recalled the example of Pavlov's dogs that Frank had discussed in a meeting at some point, with the unspoken lesson that the attendees were conditioned in the same way, and hoped that Regina would associate him with coffee and thus happiness. Whenever he ran into Regina happy for her own reasons that seemed not to be due to his involvement, he always remarked "Wow, looks like you've drunk your coffee today!" as if it were the funniest thing ever; Regina never failed to laugh, and he knew the trick worked. He never knew a happy relationship could be this easy.

"Do you want to sit around the park and just relax, you know? It's a nice day—ooh, have you ever been to the Japanese garden?" The Japanese garden was its own enclave within the park, taking up a deceptively small amount of space. The city had sent architects to Japan to do research, and after great expense successfully recreated something that would not be out of place in a remote mountain village or the grounds of a Buddhist temple. Tom mumbled his assent, and they made their way over to the garden; due to the cold weather, the only other passersby were old couples who walked tremulously. Regina pointed out the koi, the jizo statue that Fujiwara-sensei said had special cultural significance, and the exact replica of a Japanese teahouse (or a chashitsu, as Regina insisted on calling it).

"You can book authentic Japanese tea ceremonies there—they even import the tea!" Regina explained enthusiastically, and Tom shrugged without paying what she said much consideration. One day Fujiwara-sensei had taken the class on a field trip here and gave the same tour in far more detail than Regina was giving to Tom. Tom did not think a Japanese tea ceremony sounded particularly interesting, although it sounded like the cultured sort of thing his father would appreciate; he appreciated more the general feeling of tranquility that pervaded the space. If he applied some wishful thinking, a few deep breaths, he could imagine himself on vacation with Regina at his side.

Regina was about to show Tom her favorite spot to sit, under a ginkgo tree, when they discovered John had beaten them to it. He appeared plaintive, staring out at the pond and blinking occasionally. He seemed not to notice them when they sat down until Regina tapped him on the shoulder. John recoiled, then relaxed again, still sitting sphinx-like. John and Regina both considered this their favorite spot in the park because it completely blocked out any view of the city surrounding them; it was truly as if they were in Japan.

"How are you, John? What a funny coincidence to see you here. Do you come here often?" Regina felt guilty for disrupting John from whatever he was doing, but thought it less awkward than waiting for him to notice them.

"Sometimes when I feel like life is overwhelming, I take the bus here by myself and come here. I could sit here for hours. They say that the secret to meditation is breathing—have you heard that before? You begin by focusing on your breath at the exclusion of all else: in and out, almost like you are tasting the air. And when that rhythm becomes natural, you lose track of even that, and then your mind becomes quiet. We live in a society that focuses on speed at the exclusion of everything else. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, we always move against the waters of time. It's a river that runs downhill forever, or a waterfall. If we always think about what needs to happen tomorrow, all the way until our universe is a shriveled black dot, when do we think about today? Life is meant to be lived slowly, savored, chewed, contemplated. Will you stay a while?" Tom looked at John with a rare awe—he was a monk at the temple, sharing wisdom accumulated over generations! But Tom did not want to listen; he had left his house with the intent of socializing, of being boisterous and laughing a little too loudly, of having a good time to eclipse all other good times. There was no room in that for John's quaint philosophy. He was content to leave John as he was and take Regina with him before she, too, could become a statue, but she had other plans:

"When you describe it like that, John, it sounds lovely, but life ought to be lived with a healthy moderation. You can't appreciate the exhilarating thrill of going quickly without slowing down sometimes, and the opposite holds true too. Tom and I are going to indulge ourselves a bit; you've earned a treat, if you want to join us." John saw no flaw in this logic, and stood up creakily, taking Regina's quickly offered hand to steady himself. They walked as a trio over the bridge that was so perfectly framed in view before and left their slice of a foreign land for the familiar city.

John looked at the baristas, the menu, and the confections displayed with such confusion that Regina had to ask him if he'd ever been to a Starbucks before. He had, he indicated, but he had never made a decision himself on what to order before.

"You'll want an iced latte, right?" Tom asked, and before Regina could say anything to the contrary, he had added it to the order. Regina would have ordered one anyway, but couldn't he have asked first? Rather than gently rib Tom about this, as John was standing behind them, she cooed, "Of course, my love," smiling to Tom and then to John, as if to say "Aren't you jealous?". When their drinks arrived, Tom grabbed a straw in his hand, damp from the condensation on the plastic cup, and jammed it through the lid of Regina's latte. She, still holding hers, daintily held Tom's cup in place as she did the same, leaking a few drops of his own iced latte onto her hand. John, not knowing any better, assumed these extravagant displays of largess were normal in every relationship. It was quite sweet, actually, how they held the door open for each other, never hesitated to grab a napkin when the other had crumbs on their chin, and how they never seemed to extend any of these favors to him. John grew slightly annoyed with these displays when he bumped into a glass door that Tom did not hold open for him; Regina, hearing a mild thunk, looked back at John, who shrugged as if these things just happened. She mouthed "sorry," not wanting to say it in case Tom realized he made a mistake. Tom, then, would give her a look as if she was in the wrong for not correcting his mistake. And later, once John was comfortably out of earshot, Tom would shake his head, and maybe say something like "a good person would have held the door open." By then Tom would have happily forgotten that he was the one in error, having held the door open for Regina in the first place.

After they finished their drinks, they walked more quickly under the spell of the caffeine with no particular destination in mind. Tom saw a good place for a photo, and commanded the others to stop and smile; John did not understand what was going on until Regina pulled him into the frame. John had a tendency to ruin photos, as his facial expression was always halfway between two extremes. It began to grow late, and John couldn't help but think he was supposed to be home; he bid them a swift farewell when he saw the bus come, and they stood waving him good-bye until the bus was comfortably out of sight. They had forgotten by then that they did not originally count on meeting John, and they were growing tired too. Tom and Regina sat in each other's company impatiently until their parents came to pick them up. Tom was happy to see in the car that his hastily captioned picture of the three of them (two-and-a-half, Tom corrected himself—John was so quiet he barely counted) was receiving the suitable amount of attention online. On a sudden whim, he asked his father if he had ever participated in one of the tea ceremonies:

"I did, once. They're very sophisticated—every minuscule movement is chosen with precision. I don't think it's something you could ever appreciate." No surprise there, Tom thought.

Beth let out a sharp exhale after she was dropped off at Behrooz's house; even though she had already seen it multiple times, the black Ferrari proudly displayed in the driveway projected quiet power, especially as the house was not nearly as sprawling as some of the others in the neighborhood. One time Behrooz giddily let Beth inspect the car, pointing out every flawless detail; it was his dad's, bought at a steep discount from an old friend and dutifully maintained ever since. Behrooz promised Beth that when he learned to drive well enough to be trusted behind the wheel, he would take her on a ride along the coast somewhere. She knocked on Behrooz's door sharply, then rang the doorbell when she received no response. She had gone through this ritual multiple times, but this was her first time eating brunch with the family; she thought it a sign she was being absorbed into them, accepted not as an invader but as a friend. Behrooz's mother opened the door quickly and apologized for the delay.

"Breakfast isn't anything fancy today, but we're so glad that you could come," she explained, and Beth sat down just as Behrooz's father exited the kitchen holding two steaming plates of eggs Benedict—they had calculated the perfect time to invite Beth such that nobody would have to wait.

"It looks gorgeous," Beth commented, not wishing to speculate what their definition of "fancy" was if this wasn't it. She spied Behrooz waving to her from the kitchen, who was busy mixing a salad.

    "So, Beth, how is Behrooz's new business going?" Behrooz's father asked in between mouthfuls.

    "Well, he tells me it's going well, but I'm not sure. Behrooz, how is it going?" she responded politely, noticing Behrooz rolled his eyes slightly.

    "I couldn't have predicted it to be this great. There are so many positive experiences and so many good memories—I can't thank all of you enough for supporting me." His parents grinned, his father even clapping faintly: this was the correct answer. Behrooz took any opportunity he could to ply his trade, even the senior center. Behrooz surprisingly enjoyed these gigs; nobody was in his face screaming song requests, and he felt like he was appreciated for helping them remember happier, more nimble times. Parties for friends, or even friends of friends, were pleasurable in their own way—if not for those, he wouldn't have met Beth, so in that respect he couldn't complain.

    "While we've always been supportive of Behrooz in his, how should I say it, entrepreneurial endeavors, I do wish he would be more discriminating in the jobs he takes. I worry that people are doing bad stuff at some of these parties, smoking or vaping or drinking, you know, bad stuff. That second-hand smoke isn't good for you. You two are rare exceptions to the trend: I think so many teenagers are misguided these days. They hide it well, but they all have their problems. It's hard to see that when you're stuck inside with them, you know, but the most level-headed people can get out of that trap," Behrooz's mother explained to Beth; Behrooz tried to intercede by quipping "they don't call it 'high' school for nothing," but his parents shot him a look as if to say he was proving their point.

    "I understand exactly what you mean, Mrs. Ghorbani, but I don't think any of us are better than the rest of them. If you were to sit down to brunch with any of my peers—well, OK, most of them—I think it would be the same. I do agree with you regarding him though, I would hope there are plenty of legitimate opportunities out there for him that aren't relying on teenagers."

    "I think he's so desperate for anything he can find, Beth, because we don't give him an allowance," Behrooz's father said with a smile, and everyone but Behrooz laughed. "But no, don't get me wrong, that's a good thing! More people need to take initiative these days—there's a good P.T. Barnum quote, you must have heard this at some point, 'there's a sucker born every minute.' Am I right?" Behrooz gulped and nodded, hoping his father wasn't referring to him.

    "Well, if society doesn't support teenagers' entrepreneurial efforts, how are they to become independent? Just for once I'd like to see all these things sort of straightened out, with each person getting exactly what he deserves. It might give me some confidence in this universe." Behrooz sighed, then turned back to his food. He ate in silence while the others kept talking.

    John could not help but think that life was going quite well. A new semester promised a fresh start, and most of all, more opportunities. John had brought one of his more skeptical friends to the semester's inaugural club meeting, who was even less impressed when he was sent to overflow seating in the back of the classroom, where about ten kids stood while Mr. T pretended to work behind them. A few days prior, Mr. T kindly informed Frank that it would not bother him in the slightest if a few lucky waitlisted club members stood in the back during club meetings, hands at their sides and not allowed to show any discomfort. Frank thought this genius, and Mr. T was curious himself to see if this measure would exacerbate the status differences between students; while some lucky students got off the waitlist and could intermittently earn seats, others were forced to spectate forever.

    "Today, I want to talk about beginnings. We all have heard the cliches: a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, 千里之行始于足下, or however you want to say it. For some of us here, this is the beginning of your awakening. You have watched us here grow and evolve over the last semester while staring in from the outside, fervently praying that someday you may be given your turn. We are all caterpillars in our chrysalises, and some day we may burst out and become butterflies! As unfortunate as it is that you did not come here last semester, you are advantaged now in that you have so many kindhearted people around you to welcome you into the fold to our casual melding of minds. I believe people learn best by imitation. When we were children, we watched what the others did on the playground and mimicked their movements and rituals for fear of being left alone. When our parents spoke to us in puerile baby-talk, we moved our lips to match theirs. And so here too you shall learn through imitation. I will not waste time explaining again how to walk, talk, and otherwise carry yourself. You will watch what others do and try your best to copy them—and if you are in doubt, you will remain silent until you work up the courage to blend in. I am glad to see some familiar faces here, Ted and so on, who have decided to be on the right side of history. Could we get a round of applause for our new arrivals?" The audience clapped appropriately, and Ted knew immediately he had made the right decision. Tom had sold him on coming to the club with the promise of absurdist comedy, but Frank's double-talk was not quite his sense of humor. What Ted did find interesting, however, were the dating prospects. Ted found the prospect of so many conditioned to deference and obliviousness impossible to resist.

Ted thought himself clever and beguiling. He had worked hard to cultivate his bronzed, muscular figure, and he believed he was entitled to a return on his investment. Ted advocated thrift and hard work and disapproved of loose women who turned him down; he found it strange that those who loitered in the hallways and were catcalled by so many others did not even think to give him a sweeping glance. The others tried too hard, that's why they were never successful, Ted thought. He did not think to apply this same logic to himself.

Ted's train of thought led him to a second intuition: it could not possibly be a coincidence that the club was developing such special assets, and if anyone were responsible for that, it would be Frank. But despite that, Frank did not seem to have a girlfriend, and Ted was immediately curious to know if this were some stratagem Ted was too blind to see.

"So Frank, who's the lucky girl?" Ted asked with a wink, turning his head slightly toward Beth and Juliet.

"Alas, I am a bachelor. Business and pleasure are two separate spheres, Ted, and any intersection only ruins both—besides, I wouldn't be following my own advice then, would I?" Frank knew then that Ted's motivation for joining the club was not entirely honest, but then again, neither was his for running it.

"No profit grows where there is no pleasure taken. I think you have that peculiar charisma that would suit you very well if you were to throw your hat into the ring. And I know exactly whom I would set my sights on if I were you, my friend."

"Ted," Frank sighed with a voice beyond his years in wisdom, "there is a benefit I am reaping from this moral austerity that you may not realize. I am not sure if I understand it myself. But I urge you to take a day to observe this intricate architecture that surrounds us and admire its beauty. Nobody alone could do it, it's simply not possible. I do not know what higher power I serve, but I think He has made it so if I resist that self-gratification for now, the penthouse suite awaits me upon my retirement. If you are content with a little cardboard box somewhere, then live your best life; did you know that Diogenes, one of the greatest philosophers of all, lived naked in a barrel? Alexander the Great once came to seek his counsel, and Diogenes told him to stop blocking his sunlight."

"Am I Diogenes in this story?"

"No, you're the barrel," Frank said with a laugh, and both reached a mutual understanding. "A better comparison may be the film Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, if you've seen it. I'm the guy in the suit living in the mansion, you're Ruprecht."

"I would have expected greater humility coming from the greatest philosopher of our time."

After the meeting, John promised his friend that if he kept showing up, he would have even more fun, and could not understand why he politely declined. Oh well, his loss. John had had mixed success with recruiting for the club: he didn't know why, but nobody ever wanted to listen to him. Everyone always asked John so politely what exactly it was they did in the club, nodding at regular intervals and commenting on how interesting it all seemed, but they never showed up. This must be exactly the sort of moral duplicity he was supposed to fight! In reality, plenty of these casual inquirers watched the recordings online, and decided henceforth to keep a safe distance from John and the other disciples at all times.

"Tyger tyger burning bright, in the forests of the night; what immortal hand or eye, could frame thy fearful... uh, symme-try?" Jason's classmate read the line again a few times in the hopes it would make sense. Jason's eyes smoldered with rage.

"It's symmetry, like it would be said normally. Nobody says symme-try, what language are you speaking?" Jason was used to his classmates being idiots, but this was a new low. He scanned the classroom for Mr. T, hoping he could provide some support, but he was occupied elsewhere.

"You see, Jason, bright and night rhyme, and therefore eye and symme-try rhyme as well. William Blake was from England. In a British accent, or at least the one used at the time, they must have pronounced those words differently."

"What sort of British accent have you heard where they say symme-try? This is English class; we are supposed to preserve traditions, not annihilate them. It's symmetry, but go on. It's irrelevant." Jason's classmate saw an opportunity to topple the mighty academic titan, and continued arguing:

"In poetry, did Mr. T not say that much is left to the interpretation of the reader? There is a rhythm here we can see through the trochaic meter, you can even beat it on the table. Tyger, Tyger, burning bright, in the forest of the night. And part of that too is the rhyme scheme; if you don't have that, you don't have rhythm. Poetry is like music with words; I never knew you were tone-deaf."

"You're all idiots. I'm done with this," Jason said in a volume approaching a shout and stormed out of the room. Mr. T was tempted to chastise him, but Jason did have a good point—it clearly was symmetry and not symme-try, and nobody with a good grasp of poetry would think otherwise. This wasn't the first time Jason had grown surly in class discussions: Jason had the unfortunate luck of being paired with similarly obstinate students, who unlike him tended to be wrong frequently.

Pranav happened to be walking by Mr. T's classroom when Jason came out in a huff, and suspected the worst.

"What's wrong, Jason?"

"Nothing's wrong—they're wrong! It's symmetry and not symme-try! My classmates have no idea what they're talking about." Pranav had no idea what Jason was talking about either.

"My dear Jason, when will you realize that in this world today, isolationism is no longer a practical policy? You can't always be going on about making enemies. We are brothers in arms, so if there is anyone or anything we should be fighting, it's not each other. Get some fresh air, take a drink of water. Your classmates need you." Pranav was generally loath to be a mentor, but it was a role he found himself in increasingly frequently. During club meetings, Pranav tried his hardest to deliver cogent points, encouraged by Ms. Liu to take something out of his experiences besides a love of sadism. Alan, still thinking Pranav a "consultant," frequently went to him for advice; Pranav discovered Alan was satisfied with "try reading How To Be A Good Person more carefully" as a blanket answer for everything, and he hoped this would not stunt his emotional growth.

Ernest quickly found Jason after class in the hallway, who immediately began ranting again about how unfairly he was being treated. Ernest could do nothing but shake his head. Jason was a loose cannon, a disrupting influence. Sure, he told jokes on occasion, having a surprising ability to pun when required, but all that camouflaged bitterness. At least Ernest was justified in his cynicism, having to overhear every week Mrs. Huang smile and nod approvingly as Frank explained the week's meeting to her (one promise to discuss Confucius, which Frank intended to keep, only cemented in Mrs. Huang's mind that he could do no wrong), unaware how she was being poisoned. How could he not grow bitter himself when he was the sole truth-keeper, cursed with knowledge he could never share, and even when he did share, was never believed? Jason had no such problem—in fact, Jason believed that Ernest was the duplicitous one, somehow being popular while just as bad as he. They were alike, Jason thought, except that Ernest had what he didn't. How dare he pretend to be nice? He was just looking for someone else to criticize. This simmering tension manifested itself in a conversation that rapidly fizzled:

"I don't know what I can say besides 'if you need help, please ask me. I am here to support you,'" Ernest said with a pat on the shoulder he had seen done many times elsewhere.

"Don't worry about me, worry about yourself," Jason sneered, and patted Ernest on the head in a decidedly unaffectionate manner. Ernest left for robotics before Jason could think of anything else to say.

Discussion Questions:

How is Tom and Regina's relationship in public different than in private?

Is the club straying from its original purpose? Is this a bad thing?

What function does the scene in English class serve?