Chapter 13 Liam
The Kingswell auditorium smelled like old money. Polished brass. Velvet seats. The kind of place where even the air felt expensive.
The audience split down the middle like a river divided—Riverside on the left in hoodies and jeans, Kingswell on the right in blazers and designer casual. No overlap. No mixing. Just the invisible line that had always been there.
My knee bounced. Emily’s hand settled on my thigh—warm, grounding—but it didn’t stop the restless energy crawling under my skin.
My jaw clenched.
Emily’s fingers squeezed my leg. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
I scanned the crowd without meaning to. Rows of faces I didn’t recognize. A few Riverside kids scattered through the audience, but mostly Kingswell students.
I didn’t know what I was looking for.
Or maybe I did, and I just didn’t want to admit it.
Emily followed my gaze. Her eyes moved across the auditorium, then back to me.
“Looking for someone?”
“No.”
Her thumb brushed the inside of my knee. “He’s going to do great. Relax.”
“I’m fine.”
I wasn’t fine. Sitting here, breathing Kingswell’s air, surrounded by kids in designer jackets—it made me feel sick.
The moderator stepped to the podium. Mid-fifties, silver hair, the kind of voice that expected people to listen.
“Welcome to the Riverside-Kingswell Inter-Collegiate Debate,” he said. Polite applause rippled through the auditorium. “Today’s format will be one-on-one debates across three topics. Each debate will last twenty minutes—opening statements, followed by rebuttals and cross-examination.”
He adjusted his glasses.
“Our topics for today: First, are inter-university rivalries detrimental to student wellbeing? Second, does competitive athletic culture reinforce emotional repression in men? And third, should elite private institutions be required to share resources with underfunded public schools?”
I leaned forward. Three debates. Three chances for Riverside to prove we weren’t just good on the water.
“Our first pairing,” the moderator continued, consulting his notes. “Riverside’s Sarah Chen versus Kingswell’s James Whitmore. Topic: inter-university rivalries and student wellbeing.”
Sarah stood—confident, sharp-eyed, ready. She walked to the stage like she owned it.
The debate started strong. Sarah argued that rivalries created toxic competition, unnecessary stress, reinforced harmful hierarchies. Whitmore pushed back—claimed rivalries built character, fostered excellence, gave students something to rally behind.
I agreed with him until Sarah dismantled him. Cited studies on anxiety rates, spoke about how rivalry culture normalized unhealthy obsession. She was right about unhealthy obsession. But it wasn’t just some study... I lived it every day for the last year.
By the time rebuttals rolled around, it was clear.
Riverside took the first one.
Emily squeezed my hand. I squeezed back.
“One down,” I said.
“Our second pairing, Kingswell’s Alexandra Morrison versus Riverside’s David Park. Topic: competitive athletic culture and emotional repression in men,” the moderator said.
My chest tightened.
Emily glanced at me and raised an eyebrow.
I kept my eyes forward.
Morrison took the stage first. Polished, prepared, spoke like someone who’d been trained in debate since middle school. She argued that athletic culture created safe spaces for male bonding, taught discipline, provided healthy outlets for aggression.
David countered. Talked about how athletes were taught to suppress vulnerability, how “toughen up” replaced “talk about it,” how performance became more important than mental health.
Every word hit closer than I wanted to admit. But it was true. Noah had already proven this to me... and he was right.
Emily’s hand found mine again. She leaned in, voice low. “Sound familiar?”
“I’m working on it,” I said.
We both smiled.
The debate continued. David was good, but Morrison was better. She pushed back on his assumptions, forced him to defend positions he hadn’t expected to defend.
The judges deliberated.
Kingswell won but the argument didn’t convince me. It was a narrow margin, but a win.
One to one.
“And our final pairing,” the moderator said, “Riverside’s Noah Patel versus Kingswell’s Benjamin Crawford.”
Here we go.
This was it. Noah walked onstage from the left. Calm. Focused. The version of him who’d probably one day be doing the same thing on Capitol Hill.
From the right came the Kingswell team. The kid was tall with orange hair and wire-rimmed glasses, looked like his family had a library wing somewhere. That was Crawford.
The moderator announced the question.
“Should elite private institutions be forced to share resources with underfunded public schools?”
Noah started his opening statement and his voice cut through the room. He didn’t have any cards and he didn’t mumble.
Damn.
“The question before us isn’t whether elite institutions should share resources. The question is whether we believe education is a right or a luxury. Because right now, the answer is clear. It’s a luxury. And that luxury is reserved for those who can afford velvet auditoriums and brass railings.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd. A few Kingswell kids shifted in their seats.
Noah didn’t smile. Didn’t acknowledge it. Just kept going, his tone sharpening.
“Public schools across this country operate with outdated textbooks, overcrowded classrooms, and teachers who spend their own money on supplies because their budgets have been gutted. Meanwhile, institutions like Kingswell spend millions on facilities that benefit a fraction of the population. That’s not meritocracy.
That’s systemic inequality with a trust fund. ”
A smile cut across my face.
God damn, he has some guts to go up there and say that in the belly of the beast.
Crawford stood for his rebuttal. Adjusted his glasses and smoothed his blazer.
“My opponent makes an emotional appeal, but emotion doesn’t replace sound economic policy. Private institutions generate value through innovation and excellence. Forcing resource redistribution would—”
“Would what? Make things fair?” Noah said, his eyes burning through Crawford’s attempt.
Crawford blinked. “That’s just simply not how the economy—”
“The economy doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It’s built on people. And when you decide some people matter more than others based on their parents’ bank accounts, you’re not defending free markets. You’re defending a caste system.”
Crawford’s jaw tightened. He glanced at his notes.
But he relied too much on his cards—Noah didn’t.
Noah improvised. Listened. Adapted. Moved like a rower reading the current—adjusting his angle, finding leverage, pressing advantage when he saw weakness.
And he was destroying Crawford with surgical precision.
Crawford stammered through his next argument. “The data suggests—”
“The data suggests,” Noah cut in, “that public school students perform equally well when given equal resources. Your own sources confirm it. Did you read past the abstract?”
A few people inhaled sharply.
Destroy him.
Crawford’s face flushed. “I—yes, of course I did—“
“Then you know that the achievement gap correlates directly with funding disparity, not student ability. So when you argue that private institutions shouldn’t share resources, you’re not arguing for excellence. You’re arguing for exclusivity.”
I leaned forward. My pulse kicked up. Emily’s fingers tightened on my leg.
Noah asked questions that backed Crawford into corners he couldn’t escape. Questions that sounded simple but unraveled entire arguments. Crawford stammered. Repeated himself. Reached for statistics that fell apart under scrutiny.
When Noah delivered his closing statement, the room went quiet—tense quiet.
“Education isn’t charity,” Noah said. His voice was softer now but no less sharp.
“It’s investment. And if we continue to hoard resources in institutions that serve the few while the many suffer, we’re not just perpetuating inequality—we’re ensuring it.
We’re building a system where success is determined by zip code and bank balance instead of talent and effort. ”
He paused. Let the silence stretch.
“And if that’s the world you want to live in, then vote against this resolution. But if you believe that everyone deserves a chance—not just the people in this room—then the answer is obvious.”
He sat down.
The Riverside section erupted.
I was on my feet before I realized I’d stood. Emily stood beside me, clapping hard, grinning.
The moderator called for judges’ deliberation.
It took less than five minutes, Noah won, unanimous decision.
The Riverside kids went wild. A few Kingswell students clapped politely, but most just looked uncomfortable.
Pride swelled in my chest. That was my best friend up there. And he just eviscerated a Kingswell debater on his own turf without breaking a sweat—just like I had done to Alex last weekend. Just like we planned.
Emily leaned into me. “He’s incredible.”
“Yeah.”
She kissed my cheek. “I’m going to hit the bathroom before we head out.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll meet you in the lobby?”
“Sure.”
She left and I stayed in my seat for a moment, watching the crowd filter toward the exits. Noah was still on stage, shaking hands with the moderator and the Kingswell team. Crawford looked like he wanted to disappear.
I stood and made my way down the aisle toward the lobby.
***
The crowd thinned as people headed outside. I caught sight of Noah emerging from backstage, riding his high. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled up, expression of sheer exhilaration.
I clapped him on the shoulder. “You crushed it.”
Noah grinned. “He made it easy.”
“Bullshit. That was all you.” I kept my hand there for a second longer than usual. “Seriously, man. That was... I don’t know. Impressive doesn’t even cover it.”
Noah’s grin softened into something more real. “Yeah?”