John pounded the water with even strokes, leaving a bow-shaped wake that combined with everyone else in the pool to create choppy interference. Breathe in, breathe out. When he forgot this mantra, the electrifying shock of chlorine in his nose would jolt him back to reality, and he would take a few moments to find his rhythm again. Careful breathing made John perceive Ms. Stevens's voice as an old, grizzled monk at a Buddhist monastery; Jason had told him once about how in middle school, someone matching that exact description whacked him with a bamboo pole during guided meditation. John thought that sounded painful. The sun reflected in the ephemeral patterns, granting everyone a sun-dappled sheen when they emerged for breath. Beth grabbed the concrete lip of the pool, pulled her torso up, and turned back to look at John and the others who were still finishing their laps.

Today was technically the second day of the swim unit, as the first was yesterday during the short day, a scenic tour of the facilities punctuated with frequent reminders not to act like idiots. If they misbehaved, Ms. Stevens and one of the water polo coaches would have to get in the water to supervise them. The students laughed among themselves, blissfully unaware of their impending new routine. The following morning, like many others, was cold. The boys came out of the locker room in small clusters, some in oddly sized flip-flops and some barefoot, most clutching striped towels or plastic bags of clothing and shoes. They paced back and forth to ward off the cold, damp floor, which felt to them like it drained their life force with every second. The girls on the other end seemed more loquacious, but they too were burdened by the cold; some stood on their towels in an attempt to ward it off, but this only delayed the numbness, as eventually the moisture would seep through to every fuzzy filament and they would have to move. By John's period, the day had warmed considerably, but nobody was comfortable. They didn't know how good they had it, Ms. Stevens warned.

Jason barely tolerated running, and he also barely tolerated swimming. At least he was buoyant, unlike Frank, who astonished Ms. Stevens by his ability to sink like a rock despite his light figure; after the first swimming session, Frank innocently inquired to Ms. Stevens about alternative activities, and they came to the consensus that his time would be more efficiently used on the track. She suggested he try scuba diving (Ms. Stevens never had had a student scuba dive for PE credit, although she never explicitly forbade it; if anyone ever did, she would have a cool story to share at the next staff meeting). Coincidentally enough, Pranav's sophomore PE class was on the track during that time, and Frank would blend in perfectly. Jason finished every lap with his head and heart pounding. It wasn't that he was out of shape—Jason could lift weights and do push-ups all day—Jason simply lacked endurance, and PE was nothing but a competition of endurance. He considered asking Ms. Stevens for a similar exemption, but as soon as he walked by her to enter the locker room, she gave him a glare that indicated clearly he had not earned the right to favoritism. Jason could feel the chlorinated water eating at his skin, wicking away moisture and turning it into a crumbly patchwork. He tried blasting away any trace of the chlorine in the shower, scrubbing with a bar of soap, but he left every day feeling raw.

Ernest was frequently bothered, and today was no exception. Mrs. Huang took a portion of class that morning to lecture on Chinese culture, a topic he believed he needed no further education on. The Chinese had invented gunpowder; they had invented kites; they had invented the printing press; they had invented the compass; they had invented poetry—Ernest believed this claim to be a bit dubious, and Mrs. Huang then asked the class if they knew any Chinese poetry. Frank offered up one of the poems that every other student in the class knew by heart from a young age, and Mrs. Huang applauded and told everyone to learn more. If Frank could do it, they could too. Her vaguely racial rhetoric bothered Ernest; a few weeks prior, she had explained to the class how people from the south of China were more attractive due to the clean air and water, while those from the north, like herself, were ugly—but not to worry, they were from the heartland of Chinese culture, and for this they should be proud! These statements ensured most in the class felt insulted in some way; Mrs. Huang looked at Frank as she explained these truths that apparently were common fact. The juniors, who had already heard this same talk their previous two years, made sport of watching the freshmen's jaws drop.

Ernest was also bothered by English class. He had been doing exceedingly well, at least compared to the rest of his period, and in his mind, receiving the highest score on the English essay was a form of personal attack. Did Ms. Baldwin have an ulterior motive by making him feel good? Was she trying to build up his confidence only to pull out the carpet from underneath? Madeline, who received the second-highest score, was far more deserving. She was also too humble and modest—in Ernest's mind, modesty was his right alone. Because she talked little, and she did not have any clear feather in her cap that put her head and shoulders above the rest, she slipped incognito under everyone but the rest of the academic elite and her teachers. That was also because many found her boring, but to Ernest, boredom was the product of a lazy mind.

Jason, another member of that pantheon, had his own eccentricities. Jason fancied himself a bit of a historian, and could talk excessively about World War II on cue. This trait was accepted by few: the other history nerds in his classes, his history teacher, and Mr. T, who casually matched him on every historical intrigue and offered even more as appropriate. This went as far as to turn into an impromptu proctored debate when Mr. Simon happened to encounter the two of them discussing Stalingrad after school, when they enjoyed tea and cookies from Mr. T's cabinets and argued late into the afternoon. Jason found it easier to talk with teachers and older students, as a rule. Ms. Bracknell's TA, who spent the majority of the period in the back browsing Tinder, taught him tips and tricks on succeeding in all his classes while complimenting him on his taciturn wit. There were some exceptions, of course: he still enjoyed talking with Frank, despite his penchant for verbal irony and talking like a character from an Oscar Wilde play. At least he wasn't banal—too many of Jason's peers talked of stupidities, laughing at jokes that weren't funny and refusing to act civilized. They didn't like Jason, and Jason didn't like them.

Frank shared Jason's preference for maturity, but he was a man of the people too. Wisecracks and witticisms were his bread and butter, along with an unabashed demeanor and willingness to speak the truths that needed to be told. These contributed to an eccentricity that was entirely his own, one that many others considered as taking the best parts from all his peers. Life was good.

The previous week, after seeing Ms. Bracknell nearly fall asleep during office hours, Frank asked if she needed any help grading the pile of paperwork in front of her. She said yes without question, and gave Frank the answer key, no questions asked. Frank had nowhere else to sit, but Ms. Bracknell did not want him sitting with the riff-raff in case they peered over his shoulder at the gradebook, so Frank sat in his very own swivel chair a few feet from her. The classroom appeared quite similar from his new vantage point: it was well-lit as usual, and some students played with Rubik's Cubes in the back corner while others tried to study. Ms. Bracknell affectionately dubbed the cube-toting clique the eggheads, and spoke of them fondly to other teachers. As soon as Mr. T heard about this at a staff meeting, he pulled out a cube from one of his cabinets and solved it in under ten seconds, smiled, and told none of the other teachers to ever mention it to their students. The eggheads scared John, and he sat as far away from them as possible.

That day, John was equally occupied by finishing his English essay on a Chromebook as stealing furtive glances at Beth, who did not notice. People-watching was a favorite hobby of John's, and he assigned backstories to many he met without any particular rhyme or reason. He extrapolated from minor details and overheard conversations, and sometimes he would share these musings with others, forgetting that they were entirely figments of his imagination. He looked at Frank, who was so absorbed in his grading that he didn't even take advantage of his swivel chair, and decided he was an agent of MI6, sent as a spy to avert a nuclear apocalypse. Apparently, as part of his deep cover, he had to attend the musical, in case some important foreign dignitary with a funny accent and pocket-watch were sitting in the mezzanine and some stagehand secretly carried a pistol underneath their black shirt.

Frank was indeed conducting espionage, but of a different sort: inside Ms. Bracknell's voluminous gradebook, which had loose worksheets folded inside, he could see the grades of many he recognized. Unsurprisingly, Jason had a near-perfect grade. Frank and Pranav still had As, but their performance was not clearly exemplary. He did not find the calculus grades interesting; any who made it to that level had gotten their act together long ago, and took the even more challenging material as an excuse to study even harder. John, a solid A—not bad. Juliet, A+—out of all people, her? Beth, B+—tsk tsk. Frank found it hard to feel sympathy for his peers when they were numbers on a paper. They were all passing anyway, so they had no cause for complaint.

John found a healthier outlet for his speculations during English class. They were close to being done with Pride and Prejudice, which some considered a cause for celebration. It is a truth universally acknowledged that rambunctious teenagers love nothing more than drawing rooms, tea and crumpets, and epistolary flirting. Some affected British accents as they finished their lunches, thinking this made them posh. Mr. T and Ms. Baldwin conspired one day, along with the culinary arts teacher, to give them a traditional British tea service as they watched scenes from one of the many movie adaptations, which the students found a welcome surprise and the teachers thought a great way to spend a period relaxing while still "teaching." Mr. T spoke proudly of how they had baked everything themselves to create an authentic environment; that was a few days prior, and today was more mundane. John was rather ambivalent regarding romance: he struggled to identify it outside books and movies, and thus only knew it as a vehicle for character development. If he were a romantic, and he did not consider himself one, he wanted his romances to be brooding and mysterious, so much that nobody involved knew they were involved.

Regina turned her desk toward John as he explained the evil of Wickham, releasing a faint smile as he leafed through his book and read a passage in a seemingly sexy monotone. She could imagine him riding a horse through a grassy glen, or perhaps through the misty rain, or whatever the scene was in the movie Ms. Baldwin showed where Darcy triumphantly rescued Lizzy. Now was the time. Fate had brought them together in the theater, and it had brought them together in their current seating arrangement—how could he possibly say no? If she admitted so herself, she certainly was a catch.

'My chin?' John asked, searching his classmates' faces for some innuendo he was missing, but they looked back at him blankly, almost as if they were judging him.

"Yes, I think you have a very attractive chin," Regina continued, not fazed by John's lack of reaction. "From the moment I first saw you, I felt attracted to you. And the more we talked, the more I became certain my initial impression was correct. I have patiently waited for months to confess the feelings I am sure you have for me as well, but I can wait no longer. In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

John was confused. This was the first time anything of the sort had ever happened to him. How was he supposed to respond? He thought Regina was nice, certainly, but "ardent love" was pushing it a little. She continued clumsily, and everyone nearby said "Aww..." in unison, even Ted, who could immediately detect John's discomfort but wished to see what would happen. The others at the table smiled at first at the pure passion of the moment, but as it became clear that John and Regina were not a match made in heaven, they buckled down and waited. After Regina finished, the silence was palpable.

"Well?" Juliet prompted with a smile.

"I'll think about it," John responded dismissively, and nobody knew what to say. The bell rang to save them from any more awkwardness, and as John left, Ms. Baldwin suggested he keep his options open. Few students were given such opportunities, and those who refused them rarely got a second chance.

Regina was too optimistic to think her chances were ruined, but she also had another class to get to, and so any thoughts of John would have to wait until later. Her parents would ask how her day was, she would tell them of her failure, and they would console her and offer tips for next time. Maybe her mother would tell her the same story again about how her father showed up at her dorm room door at university with a bouquet of her favorite flowers. Regina did not know which flowers John liked. She had made the safe assumption that John, befitting his literary inclinations, would have appreciated her tasteful homage. What had she done wrong?

"You did great, Regina," Beth reassured her after school. Beth wanted to say "I told you so"—the scheme at the theater was ambitious even by Regina's standards, and John also seemed shy, so launching into a dramatic speech in front of the entire class was perhaps not the best idea. If it were Beth's decision and Beth's initiative, she would have eased John into the idea of being more than casual friends, first finding him in the hallway between classes and working from there to the anguished declaration of love.

"I didn't. I messed everything up."

"Well, maybe, but John seems like a forgiving guy. Start with an apology for embarrassing him, and work from there to something healthier. Trust me."

"You ride the bus with him, Beth. Ask him what he likes."

Beth nodded, told Regina that as she was so kind to mention it, she really did need to get to the bus, and bid her farewell. She walked through the shade back to the bus stop and decided she would do John a favor and not mention anything. It would be awkward for her, and she did not want to be tainted by whatever had happened in English that period. John waved to her, which was rare, and she returned the gesture. He still sat in the front, she still sat in the back, and quiet peace returned.

John suffered from insomnia that night, as he did on many when particularly weighty thoughts occupied his mind. It was blindingly obvious, in retrospect, that Regina always had designs on him. It was clear from day one that he was in her crosshairs, and the fact that it took her three months to fire her Cupid's bow meant he had three months of missed signals to compensate for. John was so intrigued by Beth that he was blind to all else. He had promised Regina that he'd think about it, and he set about thinking of pros and cons.

There was one big pro in John's mind regarding Regina: she had made the first move. He disliked her method, but she had tried, so there was that. She was also kind-hearted if a bit blunt, not unintelligent, not unattractive, and not so many other things that he struggled to find room for criticism there. There was also one glaring con: she had made the first move. John was forced to act spontaneously, without thought, in class that day: every moment he thought, every moment the others blinked and Regina stared at him with pouting eyes. John did not mind tests in class that had time pressure, as it was only him and the paper locked in that dance of death. But testing was not a spectator sport—no other people had personal stakes in the outcome of any assessment, only John and John alone. He tried to assume best intent: Regina had no way of knowing how he would prefer to be approached. He wracked his mind for alternatives, feeling his heartbeat's steady rhythm, but could not think of an answer. It had never occurred to him that there was an alternative to being a bachelor. He knew some people with boyfriends and girlfriends—not anyone he knew intimately, but classmates he saw on occasion. They were happy; they stole away to make out in the restrooms and behind the gymnasium. As John tried to imagine the exact path he and any special someone would take from class down the steps and through the paths of fallen leaves to a secret place, now that this case was no longer a hypothetical but a tangible possibility, he fell asleep.

John decided in the spur of the moment that the backstroke was his favorite: it allowed him to stare at the cloudy skies up above, which each lap seemed to shift ever so slightly, and clear his mind. The backstroke was precise, and John counted exactly sixteen circuits of each arm needed to swim the whole length of the pool. That number never changed, although swimming, as with all things, became easier over time. John was so engrossed in his movements that he took a few seconds to process the voice calling his name from the balcony. He turned and looked up, and Regina stood leaning over the railing.

"Hi," she murmured, and John gave a friendly wave. Ms. Stevens blew the whistle loudly to discourage any more fraternization, and Regina walked off before he could process it any further. John had started keeping a notebook of "incidents," as he dubbed them. 1:49 PM: Regina flipped her hair in the hallway near Mr. T's classroom (John had done some online research and learned this was a sign of affection). 7:58 AM: Regina complimented John's sweater. 6:02 PM: John saw someone outside the library with long hair that, from a distance, looked like her. Regina's confession had been a spark in John's mind, and there was ample tinder to stoke the flames. John saw it as clear as day that his classmates held secrets.

John may have considered his swimming meditative, but Ted loathed every minute. It was his mistake telling Ms. Stevens he planned on playing water polo in the spring, as he was chosen to act as her TA, adjusting his classmates' arms and modeling proper form. Most of all, Ted loathed his mandated affability: he really wanted to act like a drill sergeant and chastise those who, after weeks of lessons, still couldn't kick in that rat-a-tat-tat rhythm any swimmer needed to know. But he needed to smile, gently remind them yet again not to kick him in the face, and give Ms. Stevens all the juicy details every period. He could no longer even gossip with his friends, as Ms. Stevens would frequently lean over and join in—to put it mildly, he found it humiliating. Ms. Stevens was perfectly aware of this, but she had discovered through years of experience the last thing her students wanted was for her to try being cool and hip. Generally, one private, informal mention of "yeeting" something was enough to keep her students on task. One minute, Ted was a mentor; one blast of the whistle later, he was ordinary. Ted weaved between the two worlds with little exertion, joking with his friends while treading water yet turning silent when needed. From day one he vowed to "be water," as Bruce Lee advised, and he had moved through the first few months of his high school career without making waves. Nothing fazed him, not the timed miles or the pop quizzes, and he succeeded in strong performance without ever being the best. Some, he thought, viewed this behavior as him "not applying himself"; he interpreted his own behavior more generously as a rationing system: if he were to tire himself, he had already lost the game. Incidents around him were but comic material, interesting ideas to be contemplated and then filed away somewhere in the recesses of his mind. The spectacle of Regina's confession or Jason's exquisite hand-drawn picture of Stalin were not even sticks in the water that bent the stream around them; rather, they were pebbles that made a splash and then sank into the mud.

"You need to work on your attitude, Ted," Ms. Wolfe told him menacingly after he had earned garbage duty yet again for throwing a carrot stick at one of his friends.

"I stick my head out for nobody."

"All I'm saying is that if you want to enjoy your time at high school, you might just want to turn that perpetual frown of yours upside-down." She contorted her face into a grin, as if his disobedience stemmed only from a lack of education. Ted gave her a thumbs up and left quickly.

Final exam week offered an unusual reprieve for Frank due to how the schedule was structured. On each day, there were two exams, following each student's regular schedule. When Frank realized this meant one day only had PE and drama, he saw an opportunity. The sophomore PE teacher, impressed by Frank's good spirits and power-walking, handed out extra credit to him and any other similarly-motivated students like candy (Pranav was annoyed he didn't think of this loophole until Frank came along), and Frank calculated that he could skip his final exam and still end with an A+. He expected Ms. Stevens to object, but she instead congratulated him for his hard work and wished him an excellent break. In drama class, a similar policy was in place: Mr. Cathcart gave extra credit for seeing the show, but Frank discovered there was no limit to how many times one could see the show and receive a bonus. He and the other ushers decided to group together on the final project, and after the first day of work decided they did not feel like giving it any effort. They presented him with a well-argued case that no matter what they turned in, they would have at least 115% in the class, and that their time could best be spent elsewhere.

"Well, you guys need to do something for the next few weeks. I'm nice, but I'm not that nice."

Frank thought for a moment, then offered something genius: "I remember you mentioning you were struggling to decide which shows to put on in the next few years. How about we watch a variety of shows online, read through the scripts, and prepare some proposals that you can take to the drama council? We can critically review if the subject matter would mesh with a high school audience, and brainstorm how effectively Heller could perform them."

Mr. Cathcart was amazed at their audacity; clearly they had thought this through. "This sounds like more work than my project, but at least it's educational. I'll permit it." Frank and his newfound friends, who he found to be surprisingly likable when they weren't talking about anime, colonized the green room, snacking abundantly as they took notes. They presented their bulging portfolio to Mr. Cathcart the day before final exams started, who thanked them wholeheartedly and also wished them well. "You still have to come to school on finals day, but you just need to be on campus somewhere."

Frank spent many of his four hours in the library reading, and at Mrs. Huang's urging he spent a good chunk of time helping her move boxes and make copies. Mrs. Huang gave him a pushcart stacked high with textbooks and other miscellany, and instructed him to keep going back and forth between the library and her classroom, each trip transferring a new load, until everything was tidy. The sun was out accompanied by a light breeze, which in California passed for winter. The hallways were quiet, and teachers ignored Frank as he walked. When he passed over the walkway by the pool that he had so cleverly avoided the entire semester, he heard Juliet call out, who was on break and lazily held onto the rim. Light broke through the window of the main office at such the right angle to give everyone in the area but Frank a celestial glow.

"What are you doing?" Juliet asked the figure above. Frank turned and looked down; Ms. Stevens was occupied elsewhere and did not blow her whistle.

"I'm doing Mrs. Huang a little favor. Shouldn't you be swimming or something?"

"I finished already. The water's warm. You missed out."

"Life is sink or swim, and unfortunately, I have no choice but to sink." Juliet laughed, even though Frank did not think he was that funny. If the other PE teacher were there, he would have made some crack about things going swimmingly, or Frank's remark being a stroke of genius. Frank preferred dry humor. Before Juliet could think of an appropriate response, Frank kept walking, used to the cart's weight at this point. He walked back along the same route to avoid the sun, and Juliet waved again, he waved back, and the pattern continued until Mrs. Huang ran out of things to give him. Mrs. Huang was so happy about his efforts that she gave Ms. Wolfe a call, who granted permission for "her special assistant" to leave school early. Frank arrived at his house, opened his front gate, stopped to think, closed it, and kept walking onward downtown. He had earned a treat. Sushi sounded good.

Discussion Questions:

Like the last chapter referenced Don Quixote, this chapter references Pride and Prejudice. Why do you think this choice was made?

How has romance been portrayed so far? Do you think the portrayal is realistic?

What do you believe has been foreshadowed for later chapters?