John entered Ms. Liu's classroom like any normal day: he waved hello, tried to remember which desk he was supposed to sit at, sat down, waited for Ms. Liu to remind him that wasn't his desk, moved to the right desk, and stared into space. Today, something felt different:

"Ms. Liu, I've noticed that Harry's been absent for a few weeks now. Is everything allright? Is he ill?"

"Oh, no, nothing of the sort. His grades were so good last semester that he transferred out of the class—he didn't need your help anymore. You succeeded. Yay!"

"How often do people graduate out of this program? I hope frequently."

"Very few, if I'm being honest with you. This year we've had more than usual, but it's rare people don't need a guiding touch through all four years. That's why we're so lucky to have tutors like you and Regina who are able to make a difference. When you graduate, don't forget that you've made someone's future better."

"I always try to look out for the little guy," John admitted. "At the end of the day, when I'm wandering through the cosmos, I'll survive. If others can't say the same, well, that's my duty. That's what a good person does."

"Harry did mention that he attended the club meetings; do you think that was it, John? Maybe that's why..." Ms. Liu trailed off, staring at the club poster taped in the back of her room with a new sense of understanding.

"The other day when we had brunch with Mr. T, he quoted Don Quixote, something I really appreciated: 'every man is as Heaven made him, and sometimes a great deal worse.' But why can't the tables be turned there? We live in the 21st century, there's nothing stopping a wee bit of upward mobility, don't you think? Ultimately, I think teaching is about revealing that inner essence—the power that was within everyone all along." Regina had silently snuck in during John's monologue, and had taken her seat—unlike John, she always knew where to sit.

"I think that's the purpose of everything in high school, John; it's the definition of personal growth, and it doesn't matter where exactly that push comes from. There are some people who are easily impressionable, who soak up the world like a sponge and live all of eternity as a muddled mess of ideologies and virtues. If you want to talk of Heaven, maybe that's what all of us need here, a bit of Jesus to give us something to focus on," Regina offered; she was not religious herself, but had come to the realization over the previous few years that maybe it would be good for her. She considered herself adventurous enough, and whenever she felt like the club was a bit cultish, it seemed a tempting counterbalance.

"When I look up, I see people cashing in. I don't see heaven, or saints or angels. I see people cashing in on every decent impulse and human tragedy. I see sharks chasing minnows and cats chasing mice. I see all my classmates selling their souls to the highest bidder just to line their pockets. Heaven's a lie, if that's what we've been promised. It's not here, wherever it is."

"That's a cheerful sentiment," Regina laughed. "I choose to be more optimistic: I couldn't have done high school without my friends. I don't believe they're all out to screw me. Nobody's selling their soul here."

"In a world full of crooks and conmen, the one person you can trust is yourself. I'm not a crook. You aren't either. But we can't say the same for everyone, right? That's just how life works."

"I don't know what I would have done without my friends. You can always sit around and meditate on your own worries, but when that isn't enough, what can you do?"

"I'm only speaking for myself, of course, but I think over time, I learned to compartmentalize my anxieties. I think back to freshman and sophomore year, and I cringe—it's absolutely shameful how many mistakes I made! But then I think more rationally: I am the only person who remembers these experiences in the same way, if at all. Even if I cringe, I have an important duty here: to protect what would otherwise be forgotten."

"That sounds quite noble of you John, but did this really make you any happier?"

"It did, because I am being truthful and honest, and doing so makes me happy. Some memories make me sad, but that other happiness outweighs it. I remember when we saw Man of La Mancha, I don't want to say together, but I guess we kind of did—in a way, the impossible dream speaks true to all of us. We all have our own moral compass, and although we may not always agree, I think we all think we run where the brave do not go to reach that unreachable star."

"Friendships generally arise as a result of that shared moral compass though. We say opposites attract, but if you look hard enough, you can always find those common attitudes that are responsible for shared attraction. And I can say confidently that there are some people here who I believe have different values than I do, and because of that we never became friends."

"Would you say you and Tom are opposites attracting then? I'm no good judge of character, but I'm curious what you think you share."

"John, oh darling John, always asking the tough questions. As much as it pains me to say it, I find what I think are my worst qualities reflected in Tom, even though I didn't realize it first. But I still love him, and he loves me. He may be a bit of a narcissist, but we all are, and I've come to discover that with that self-assuredness comes outspokenness for what he thinks is right. That's his moral compass, and all of the school and so I'm told, about 5000 people on Reddit, saw that as clear as day. And I'm all the better person because of him."

"So he's no saint then."

"None of us are," Ms. Liu interceded, and she rang the bell to begin class.

During his leadership period, Frank delicately gave his portfolio of daily work to Alan and made the pilgrimage to the theater, saluting his peers he saw and trying not to slip on the damp concrete steps; the back gate was unlocked, as usual, and he knocked on Mr. Cathcart's door. Mr. Cathcart quickly exited out of his Minesweeper game before he noticed it was Frank and not Ms. Wolfe.

"How nice to see you again! What brings you into my lair?"

"I'm here to obtain your blessing," Frank said.

"For what?"

"I didn't think of this during the show and I'm kicking myself for it, but I'd like to buy a seat plaque. Or install it myself, whichever is fastest."

"Well, it's not like you need my permission; this isn't my theater, and if you decided you wanted to repaint the walls or something, it's not my call. But yeah, I can certainly arrange that. Did you have a message in mind? Is this in honor of yourself, or someone who's passed, or..."

"I was thinking something simpler. 'To The Ushers.' I don't know, maybe a bit too self-indulgent, but—"

"That's touching. For all the ways you've changed the school, you think of your most humble position first," Mr. Cathcart remarked while delicately rubbing his chin and re-opening his Minesweeper game.

"People have asked me before how I want to be remembered, especially as it's increasingly likely at this point next year will be like this one. I don't want to be remembered with a sculpture; I don't even want to be remembered by name. Ultimately, without everyone else here, I wouldn't have been able to become who I am, and I think that anyone with the same surrounding conditions would do the same."

"Without everyone enabling you here, you mean."

"No, not that. Even before I held my first meeting, simply by virtue of writing what's effectively an extended newspaper editorial I accumulated a throng of followers who would have shown up and stayed regardless of how I spoke. I would be a guru, and they would collect my words like falling lotus petals. Suppose I hadn't put my name on How To Be A Good Person, but instead given it to Jason to use as he saw fit; he would still have accumulated a following, different in its own way but still a following, and if he had made a club he'd be president by now too. There's nothing mystical about any of this besides human nature."

"While you're here, Frank, what should we do for next year's musical? People loved The Producers, but that's the sort of show that becomes only deeply ironic when you have this surrounding societal context. And since you seem like you're down-to-earth, give me your best shot."

Frank looked around at the old theatrical posters on Mr. Cathcart's wall for inspiration, all of which beckoned toward simpler times and eliminated a lot of his first choices. "Well, I don't know... given how much I know these shows have the power to influence young minds, I don't know what the first class to not know me should get as their first impression. How about Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat? I remember I saw that once when I was but a wee young lad."

"Your wish is my command," Mr. Cathcart declared. Frank waved a quick farewell, and he took the long way out of the theater, walking through the house and its rows of identical, darkened seats. Frank found the seat closest to the door, where he often sat to stay out of view. It was separated from the others in its row by an empty space, where anyone with a wheelchair could position themselves as if they were sitting down anywhere else; nobody in their right mind would ever willingly choose to sit here if they paid for their own ticket, but perhaps, Frank thought, one of his brothers-in-arms would sit in that seat, notice the plaque, and smile.

In his zeal to distinguish himself from Behrooz, thinking that Frank and Juliet would otherwise not give him the attention he deserved, Alan had accidentally volunteered to be the head of the dance commission. Alan had initially told himself that his outsider's perspective would be valuable, but his attention span waned when he was asked to pick color schemes for winter formal besides "I don't know, what's the French flag again, American colors?"; now, a far more monumental task lay ahead of him: picking the prom theme. This was, by tradition, the sole responsibilities of seniors, and so Alan's committee looked at him sheepishly when he insisted they do the hard work for him. This proving impossible, he then created a ballot and gave one to every senior, voting mandatory under pain of demotion.

"Isn't this a waste of paper?" Frank had asked him after watching Alan struggle to carry reams of printer paper into Ms. Foster's room.

"Relax, trees are renewable resources. Besides, it's democracy. What were you thinking as a theme?"

"Seeing one of the posters in Mr. Cathcart's office reminded me: maybe five to ten years ago, they did a Gatsby-themed prom. Some may say you can't repeat the past, but why of course you can!"

"You're a genius!" Alan declared. "I hope the ballots agree with you."

"It doesn't need to be that literary, just that old-timey, gin and cigars without real gin and cigars, vibe. You'll see what I mean. Carry on, Alan, with your merciless campaign against our ecosystems."

When the ballots arrived, Alan insisted on counting them one-by-one, despite Ms. Foster's insistence that Alan was really making a fool of himself.

"You don't understand, Ms. Foster, this is our democracy at stake!" Alan explained, his fingers stained with ink. "If we can't get this right, there's no hope for us." Ms. Foster sighed and walked away. Alan spent about half an hour counting before he grew increasingly uncertain in his own abilities to do math; his tally marks had begun to take a life of their own, some sets of five turning into wavy scribbles. Alan looked around to make sure that Ms. Foster couldn't see his own weakness and dumped all the remaining ballots into a paper shredder, thus declaring premature victory for "A Night With Gatsby." Democracy was still undoubtedly important to Alan: he lived every day under the mistaken assumption that his actions were justified by popular support. But Alan knew what defeat meant, too, by that logic: if something, some undefinable force existing outside of the four dimensions, were to overturn Frank's demands, that would be the toppling of the first domino that took down everything Alan had ever dreamed of. He sent an email cryptically titled "You've won" with no further content to Frank, who read it, shrugged, and deleted it.

A brief spark of humanity wormed its way into John's mind one early winter morning, when the sun's first rays crept over the fence, through his window, and melted his heart. He and Beth had been Snapchatting for some time, John mainly attracted by the extensive arrays of emoji and the promise of immediate gratification when Beth happened to read his messages instantly.

"Hey friend, brunch today? Waterfront Pavilion?" he typed out, his hands still stiff.

"Yes, friend," Beth responded after a few minutes of tense anticipation. John would have screamed in delight, but he knew his parents would get mad if he woke them up. While his dad drank coffee at the dining room table and typed angrily on his laptop, John waved adieu and promised he'd be back "whenever."

Beth was already standing by the fountain, wrapped up in a scarf and mittens, when John aimlessly wandered past her; she said his name once with no response, and the second time made John stop in his tracks.

"I'm not used to seeing you dressed casually," John admitted, looking over Beth's face to make sure it was really her.

"When was the last time I saw you in sweatpants? It must have been August or September. I'm freezing. Let's go eat. Have you had dim sum before?"

"Huh?"

"You know, all those little buns and everything? Why else did you suggest this place?"

"Oh, yeah..." While Beth took the lead, John took a moment to throw a penny into the fountain, watching it settle among an even coating of other loose change, making the water shimmer.

"What did you wish for?" Beth asked.

"You'll find out."

"I've been on many dates with a lot of my classmates, and this has been my favorite," Beth said as she tucked into another shrimp dumpling.

"That sounds really weird coming from someone the same age that I am," John remarked, continuing after pointing out a pair of cute ducks outside, "It's impressive how despite our high school experiences having such different trajectories, ours both converged to this moment. Looking out over the water, drinking tea, being content."

"We still have a few months left, but you're right. I feel so wise right now. Let's see... What is past is prologue; what is future is epilogue."

"You sound wise, indeed—what do you mean?"

"For the last three years, our lives have been converging to this moment. We may have many more of these moments in the future, or something more exciting—maybe we'll discover this is all a hologram made by Alan and Jason in their robotics club—but whatever that is, it's hazy and undefinable. I'm not a math person, so I can't precisely estimate the probability of anything. There are so many possibilities out there, and I don't know which ones will lead to us drinking tea like this again. Any action I make now or in the future will lead to a slightly different timeline, or maybe not. I could throw this teapot out the window, and maybe that's the gesture that leads me on the road to prison, or maybe because of it I'd become a millionaire."

"When you phrase it that way, it certainly becomes overwhelming. I'd be even more crippled with anxiety than I would be otherwise had I known that every decision I made in the past at school would either lead me to this moment or away from it. What matters now is that we are here together enjoying a nice brunch, and that we are enjoying it the best we can, while we can. Here: you know I'm not much of a social media person, but let's take a selfie. Post it if you want, or don't," John said as he awkwardly pulled out his phone from his pocket and held it to the side of them, clearly not having thought through this plan fully. Beth playfully swatted his hand away and pulled out her own phone. "Smile!"

They walked briefly in the park nearby, where Beth explained she had once been with Behrooz—or maybe it was Ted, she couldn't remember—and pointed out a flock of other ducks, just like the ones John had seen out the window.

"Those ducks look different. Look at their plumage—it's like a rainbow!"

"They're called mandarin ducks, native to Asia. I never realized we had a feral population here. The male and female pairs you see are said to mate for life. Or that's what Mrs. Huang said once, if you remember. I don't believe in omens like that. You can sit here for hours if you want, but eventually they fly away. Where do the ducks go?"

"It's winter, so I think they're coming here from somewhere else. Maybe they really flew all the way over the Pacific, wouldn't that be lovely?"

"They're birds, Beth. Enjoy them while you can." John had been right, John was still right, John was always right. How could he have doubted himself? The reason he saw no angels up above on moonless nights was because they walked the Earth instead in mortal guise. All the temptations that John had experienced served a greater purpose, to ensure that he would be ready to be rewarded for his faithful devotion. Who knew that reward was sitting on a cold bench holding a gloved hand?

Another time-honored tradition at Heller which remained remarkably unchanged with the new political party in charge (after growing tired of constantly being called a cult leader, Frank had reinvented himself as a liberal, portraying those who still valued the old way of doing things as wantonly backward and conservative) was the teacher Open House night: teachers opened their classroom doors to inquisitive parents who stuck their noses in everything and demanded special treatment for their children. Mr. T considered the night glorified babysitting, and had conscripted student volunteers to answer the most obvious questions and let him deal with the interesting ones, which was typically an excuse to discuss Iranian politics or supply chain management with a few and let the bothersome ones grow bored and quit.

Juliet's grandmother lived with the rest of the family, and had made the minor mistake of expressing interest in learning what exactly it was Juliet went to school dressed up nicely for; Juliet's parents, seeing the opportunity to get a night alone, gladly obliged her request. Juliet walked slowly up from the parking lot and across the school as her grandmother used her cane to keep up as well as she could. They walked in silence, and not because of any particular animosity, but rather because Juliet could not speak Cantonese. Despite her parents owning a dim sum restaurant, they had decided at some point in Juliet's youth that Mandarin was the language of the future, the one that would open doors where none had existed before, and thus made that the language of the household.

"This is my grandmother!" Juliet announced to Frank and Beth, who had all assembled in Mr. T's classroom. "Grandma, you go the sitting chair?" Juliet's grandmother and Mr. T looked at Juliet skeptically, as she gestured the rough outline of a chair in case somehow her message wasn't clear.

"Feel free to sit anywhere you like—here, let me help you. Do you want anything to eat or drink? You are an honored guest," Mr. T offered, taking Juliet's grandmother's enthusiastic smile as a sign his message was more than partially grammatical.

"I appreciate the offer, but I don't need anything. You speak well, where did you learn?"

"I did business in Hong Kong after I graduated," Mr. T continued, ignoring that everyone but Frank was staring at him, "and I kept studying after that. I'm a bit rusty, though, but I hope I don't offend you."

"You flatter me. But don't worry, you speak like a native. I've never visited this school before, but I saw my granddaughter's face on a poster outside—what's the meaning of that?" Frank stifled a fit of laughter while Beth and Juliet continued to look at Mr. T with mouths agape.

"How do I put this? Your granddaughter is the vice president of the school; she has shown remarkable leadership and personal growth, truly one of the best students I have ever had."

"Oh, really? Could you show me around a little? My body may be weak, but my mind is sharp; I don't want to sit here all night." Without any further comment, Mr. T and Juliet's grandmother left the room slowly, and Beth and Juliet turned to Frank looking for an explanation.

"It's Mr. T, what can I say?"

"Is this normal?" Beth asked.

"It's Mr. T, so yes. We've learned to accept his surprises." Juliet shyly responded, clearly avoiding Beth's intent.

"No, silly: that your parents would leave your grandmother with you, seemingly not in accordance with her wishes, knowing perfectly well that you two struggle to communicate?"

"I love my grandmother, and she loves me. Just because I speak at the level of a dumb toddler doesn't mean that I don't care for her. My parents are busy and can be a bit distant, but they show their love in different ways. I can't judge as long as she's in good hands."

"So more importantly, what do we do with the parents?" Beth asked, noticing a few looked askance at them as they lingered near his desk.

"I'm used to people shepherding," Frank explained. "They'll go away eventually. So, uh, how's everyone doing on this fine evening?"

John wandered into Mr. T's classroom a few minutes late as usual, and was about to start addressing the empty desk when he realized that Mr. T wasn't there.

"You missed the fun; Mr. T took Juliet's grandmother for a walk, or I think—none of us could understand what they were saying," Beth explained, and when Frank appeared he was about to start laughing again, she corrected herself: "well, neither of us could, maybe that joker over there."

"Yeah, Frank, explain yourself," Juliet said sternly.

"I have absolutely no idea—I'm just as clueless as any of you, and I wouldn't know anything about your grandmother being an honored guest or you displaying 'remarkable leadership and personal growth.' I'm just as clueless as I always am."

"Oh, OK then," John remarked. "We'll just have to wait for him to come back."

Mr. T did not take terribly long to return, simultaneously opening the door and making some sort of joke that put Juliet's grandmother into peals of laughter. Beth, Juliet, and John now stood staring at him, while Frank coincidentally decided that something in the opposite corner of the classroom seemed very exciting; Juliet's grandmother leaned and whispered something in his ear with a smile as he walked past.

"You need to talk with your grandmother more. Frank's Cantonese is far better than yours, he can help you practice. It would make her so happy if you improved," Mr. T chided, still with a smile that made his advice more loving than critical.

"Hold on, what?"

"I've been teaching him during his TA period. Surely you've overheard us at some point. Hong Kong is a great place to do business these days. Sure, they speak English, but you never know." Frank blushed, and worked up the courage to walk closer again.

"This is embarrassing. My parents are going to find out and think I'm stupid."

"Let's not mention it again," Frank proposed.

"Anyway, I'm no good judge of character, but she seemed to enjoy my little tour of the school. I made sure to tell her only nice things about what you've been up to." Mr. T looked around his classroom, which seemed completely undisrupted in his absence. "Glad to see you didn't set any fires while I was gone—hold on, another phone call. Lovely." He went back to his desk and took out his phone.

"I wonder what language it will be today. I'm guessing Navajo," John joked.

Discussion Questions:

Consider the pacing of these past few chapters. Has there been a traditional climax yet?

So far, is John and Beth's relationship harmonious compared to the others we've observed?

What commentary is present on intercultural dynamics at the end of the chapter? What might the message be?