Monday came around again, and Marco's morning routine did not go unchallenged until he opened the front door to see the sky the color of pumpkin a few months too early. The air was cold, and occasionally a flake of ash drifted downward from the heavens to break the stillness. He went inside to grab a light sweater. It was probably fine.

Nobody else was out, but if it were truly an apocalypse and not just a wildfire somewhere in the north, he'd have known.

"Oh the weather outside is frightful," Marco sang to himself, thinking it apropos. "But the fire's so delightful. When you've no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!" Another flake of ash brushed his cheek. That was morbid, even by his standards. But it was a joke worth retelling—not anything about whales. He tried mumbling through the rest of the lyrics, but couldn't remember anything but the chorus—according to Google, the rest of the lyrics were nothing catchy, just a relic from the era when all songs were about love. If he ever became a film producer, it would be a great song to play over a nuclear apocalypse. Something like a modern Dr. Strangelove.

The water at Pavilion Park looked even prettier in orange, like it were reflecting a Hawaiian sunset; the ducks swam unbothered by the color inversion. Science dictated that all the particles, ash aside, were in the atmosphere too far above the air they breathed to matter, but that didn't stop Marco from thinking it all an omen. Climate change, again—rising temperatures, drier grass, mercurial ocean currents, fish boiling alive. The usual. He took a photo for his parents, as if they were not about to see the same sky as they began their days, and went to breakfast, shivering slightly in the unnatural breeze.

Waterfront Pavilion was just as full as usual, which made sense: if there truly were an apocalypse, what better way to celebrate than a last meal of dim sum?

"Weather's interesting today," Marco remarked to the cashier.

"We'll all be here anyway," he said back, gesturing to the full tables. Marco went and took his own seat.

There was a chance, however faint, that by the time the others woke up, the sky would have returned to normal. Marco sent them that morning's gatesofheller posting, a quip that the sky had brought pumpkin spice latte season to the Bay a few months early (which prompted comments saying that pumpkin spice latte season was a state of mind), asking them too "did you see the sky?". It was admittedly hard to miss, but still deserved comment. It was also the sort of thing the club would inevitably comment on, and have become a metaphorical fixture of their speeches for weeks straight as members jockeyed to outmatch each other rhetorically—and that intrusive thought proved again that the club's hegemony wasn't simply telling people what to wear, it was controlling their thoughts, such that every conversation drifted toward the club.

Sometimes people talked about having "school friends" and "real friends" depending on if you were friends because some matchmaker had put you as part of the same orientation group, the same book club, or something else where the smiles were forced, or through chance—a shared hobby, a mutual acquaintance. It was with these school friends that there was truly nothing interesting to discuss but how President Haneul had been tricked into asking "what's updog?" or people's budding courtships—Jessica had wanted to talk about little else after that night at the fair. She would ask him if he had heard anything new—but Isaac certainly wouldn't spill, and God help you if you thought Vice President Cynthia would disclose her feelings to her school friends.

Another side effect of thinking about school friends was that they tended to appear when thought of—they were conjured of dream-dust only to scatter in the wind when graduation came. Greg Parsons and Gina Ping, the failed President Frank and Vice President Juliet, walked in and recognized him, and the waitress was all too happy to seat them at the same table.

Jessica had put it simply and wittily once: it was a truth universally acknowledged, in the club's eyes, that a white guy and a Chinese-American girl with initials "GP" for "good person" were to be star-crossed lovers, whether they liked it or not. There had been some notions, their freshman year and the first year of the club's uncontested reign, that "Frank and Juliet," as they were familiarly referred to then, were not meant to be—the feelings were asymmetrical, and there were more important things to do on a day-to-day basis, like squashing thoughtcrime, than think of love. So while the leaders were occupied, it was only fair that two sophomores who already were good friends could be encouraged to be something more. When they had performed the paso doble so passionately at homecoming, how could they not have ended up together? Perhaps it was the club's prying eyes—perhaps it was Gina's insinuations she swung the other way, or at least was open to both—or even more simply that they were truly "just friends".

In any case, they were at Marco's table, and he had to say something.

"Congratulations on graduating, you two," Marco said, taking a dainty sip of tea.

"There's no need to congratulate us—most of us graduate," Gina laughed. "Congratulations on becoming a Beta. You're one step closer to being worth a whole human being."

"Hey, that's not nice!"

"In the club's eyes, I mean. I hate them so much," she admitted.

"Gina hates them so much she's become vice president of the club at Yale," Greg clarified.

"And you hate them so much you've become president," she retorted. "But enough about our problems: what have you been up to lately? I haven't seen you since the pool party."

"College apps, the usual," Marco said.

"You know where you're applying yet?" Gina asked.

"I really want to go to Occidental."

"The Tigers, good choice! And where Obama went. You'll be in good hands over there."

"Speaking of orangey things, have you seen the weather out?" Marco asked.

"It was hard to miss," Gina said.

"Makes me want to sing 'Let It Snow,'" Marco quipped.

Greg's face lit up in recognition. "Oh, I get it, 'the fire is so delightful' and the falling ash. That's clever. Took me a second."

"My family doesn't observe Christmas," Gina said. "It's a bit sad. I need to watch Hallmark movies to get my fix of holiday cheer."

"What, Christmas dinner with my family wasn't enough?" Greg asked.

"The Christmas dinner where everyone thought we were dating and where your great-aunt was flabbergasted I spoke English and knew how to use a fork?"

"Anyway... what brings you out here so early, Marco? Gina and I thought we were the only people crazy enough to go out to eat this early on a Monday morning—though a certain school of thought might claim that this is the thing good people should do more often, making a pilgrimage to one of our religion's most sacred sites."

"No shop talk during summer vacation!" Gina chastised him while gesturing for a steamer of chicken feet.

"I've been coming here for a few weeks now. It's cozy. I like the vibes. Can't understand what anyone else is saying, but I like the vibes."

Gina paused a second to listen to the table near them. "They're just talking about the weather. Same thing we were doing."

"I like the vibes here too. Gina suggested we come here, and we're going to take a day trip to Monterey after this, so we needed to fuel up. We're big Steinbeck fans, and wanted to visit the museum there."

"Steinbeck... don't think I've read anything by him except Of Mice and Men," Marco said.

"He has this way of portraying the grittiness of America in all its forms that's irreplaceable. There's like a grittiness of the human condition, and then a general grittiness. It's hard to describe, there's a certain je ne sais quoi," Greg explained.

"You sound so pretentious right now," Gina teased.

"We're in good company, we can sound as pretentious as we want," he said. "I see pretension as putting on airs, not speaking earnestly in appreciative company."

"That's very insightful," Marco said, holding his tongue. "And you were going to go to Monterey in this weather?"

"It's just smoke. And it shouldn't be as bad down there. If you think about it, it's a natural color inversion," Gina said. "I'm going to break my own shop talk rule, actually: do you have any fresh gossip? The lives of those underneath me—my co-workers—are still more interesting than my own."

"It's quite fascinating, Gina, how you have people we knew well in our year, the Jasons of the world, who maintain such a heavy interest in club affairs. And then there are some who may have been just as involved, but made a clean break from it all. I doubt you'd remember people like John Zakarian and Beth Young, Marco," Greg said.

"I don't, but one of my other friends was talking about them the other day. Jessica Wu, Jason's sister?"

"Oh yes, he has a sister! I always forget. But how could I, he's Big Brother?" Gina said dramatically. "So I bet she feeds you all the gossip then."

"I suppose if you want gossip, there's something happening with one of my friends and Vice President Cynthia, though I'm under the impression you must have seen this if you were at the pool party."

Gina nodded.

"Sure, but I'm only spilling the tea because I was with the two of them the other night, at the fair, and I don't think you two will betray me."

"Good people betray their friends, though, you can never be too careful," Greg said slyly. "Anyway, go on."

"It's the usual sort of thing: Vice President Cynthia is into Isaac, but he's too jolly to see them as anything but friends. They go to lunch together, and we were all at the fair last Friday. I don't think it will work, ultimately: Vice President Cynthia's too much of a girlboss to shackle herself to someone like Isaac. I think it's just because if it's not him, she's going to be forced to reciprocate President Timon's affections."

"A classic love triangle! I saw it in action, so I know it's true," Gina said to Greg. "This proves a point I was making earlier, too."

"What is it?" Marco asked.

"History repeats itself. Ever since President Frank and Vice President Juliet had their thing, the club's been looking for worthy successors. And it wasn't us, so it has to be them. It's a sociocultural phenomenon I'm sure has been repeating itself at our university campuses, and it certainly will happen here at Heller, again and again. Until the end of time."

"And we had Harry and Daisy in my year, too," Marco observed.

"Don't get me started. Harry Potter and Daisy Buchanan, the club's darlings. They're more presentable than any of us will ever be—they can dance the jitterbug and live out their own Gatsby fantasy," Gina continued. She took another sip of tea for effect.

"You're right, though. I was thinking the same thing the other day, when I was doing my summer reading. The conversations always come back to things like the club, or who's into whom, or why we're living in a waking nightmare."

"President Frank must have made a deal with the devil. It's more likely, though, he tossed a coin into that wishing fountain outside and something went wrong. He is the sort of person where no matter how interested he may seem in having a conversation with you, the topic always drifts back to something he's interested in. It's subtle, but you notice it gradually—and it's always something he's good at, if not that, some lie that furthers the club's interests. It's one thing that Gina and I hope to change at Yale: we want to promote genuine talent, not fast-talking charlatans who want to pull a Harold Hill on us all."

"You have to admit though, President Frank's adaptation of 'Ya Got Trouble' was a blast at the holiday gala," Gina said.

"That does sound nice. Maybe if I get into Yale—if I can afford it—I'll join all of you."

"There's good financial aid, both through the club and otherwise. Maybe we can pull some strings and help you out. You're well-spoken, I'm sure you can write a good essay," Greg said.

"I'll think about it."

Greg and Gina ate hurriedly, wisecracking between mouthfuls, and they all finished at the same time. Before Marco could say anything, Greg took out his card.

"My treat," he said to Marco.

"What rank?" the cashier asked.

"Alpha."

The cashier nodded and swiped his card.

"We'd invite you to come with us to Monterey for the day, but since you aren't a Steinbeck fan you might find the trip a bit boring. We should hang out again, though," Gina said. "You see the world the right way."

"Thanks," Marco said, and began his walk home. The weather showed no signs of stopping; flakes of ash settled on his hair like dandruff. One could even say, to complete the rhyme, that Marco could have brought some corn for popping—that was a strange lyric: popcorn was for movie theaters. If his parents knew he went out that morning, though they knew how fixed he could become to his habits, they'd claim his lungs were irreparably damaged. At least his mom would. She had her own particularities.

Jessica responded to Marco's messages with a scream-face emoji, then saying "it's spooky season." He couldn't argue with that, though he almost hoped his texts would have been taken as an invitation to go out and enjoy the peculiar snow day before the sky faded to yellow, then gray haze, then a clear blue sky. Blue skies were boring when one could instead have orange. He took a few more photos at Pavilion Park to immortalize the occasion, thinking them the best photos he'd ever taken, and then made an about-face: he'd take the long way back, one that took him by the Bay, and then through Foghorn Park, and by the time his feet gave out, the weather would return to normal.

Later that morning, after the forecast that it would only be overnight that the orange faded, Jessica texted him asking to call.

"Hey, what's up?" Marco asked from the comfort of his bed.

"My parents told me I couldn't go outside today because of the air. And it's so annoying, I want to go out and take good photos."

"How would they know if you went out to take photos if they're out at work?"

"A good point," Jessica said. "Want to go out to take photos later?"

"Sure. When the nukes hit and our world's a conflagration, we can go out and take more photos. Maybe 'Let It Snow' would play in the background."

"Why is that?"

"You know, 'the fire is so delightful,' so on and so on. Greg thought it was funny."

"Who's Greg?"

"Greg Parsons, going to Yale?"

"Oh, Gina's friend, Greg! How is he? They're so good together."

"I don't think they're together," Marco said.

"I mean just as friends. Anyway, I was just reading a bit more of Pale Embers. I thought the name was fitting with the fire. Have you read any more of it?"

"No, the writing style began to bother me once the novelty wore off. I've been reading the other books. They feel less shallow."

"Interesting. I actually relate a lot to Mary Hsu," Jessica said indignantly. "Well, I was going to talk more about my favorite scenes, but if you don't like the book, it might be less interesting."

"Maybe I'll come back to it at some point, since it sounds like it gets better if I keep reading. Were you going to spoil anything?"

"Good point, I'd spoil things. But the plot is also a bit predictable. Lisa faints twice every chapter, and all the commenters are surprised every time, like it's this big twist. I see the repetition as being commentary on Sisyphus."

"No you don't, Jessica."

"I'm saying that because I think it's what you'd say. But she faints every chapter, and it still catches me by surprise."

"At least that's not a spoiler."

"You didn't answer my first question: what are Greg and Gina up to? They're always so responsible."

"They're going to Monterey today to visit the Steinbeck museum. And we talked a bit about college, about school, that sort of thing. They want me to apply to Yale so they can help me get in. It's not quite a legacy admission, but it's the same thing. Would be an ironic twist, wouldn't it?"

Jessica looked confused. "I think you can get into Yale, I believe in you."

"I'll need all the luck I can get."

"Did they say anything about Isaac and Vice President Cynthia?"

"No, not really, except how the club keeps trying to set up its people with each other."

"That's what kids do. How about I come pick you up after lunch, and let's go sightseeing then?" Jessica asked.

"Sounds good. Talk to you later."

"Bye, Marco," she said, and she hung up.

Marco repositioned himself to have a better view of the orange sky outside, and pulled up Ella Fitzgerald's "Blue Skies" on YouTube. It felt appropriate for the occasion, though not as original as "Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!".