Nina Potischman is a writer and a 2022 Marshall Scholar. She holds an MA in English Literary Studies from the University of Exeter and a BA in English Literature from Pomona College. She is working on her debut novel.

Email: ninapotischman@gmail.com

Instagram: @ibs.girlboss 

IS ANYONE NOT READY? (CH. 1)

I only opened the livestream because I wanted to know if I could beat Peter Cohen. It was octafinals of the Battle for Los Angeles, which was a varsity tournament. Even though (like me) Peter Cohen was only a high school freshman, and freshmen rarely competed in varsity, and the ones that did allegedly “had their asses handed to them.” But he’d just eliminated Johannes Rosenberg, who championed the 2013 Yale Invitational. That was how you made a name for yourself: beat someone who amounted to something. Then people knew you were worth taking seriously. 

It was an incomparable thrill, a feeling around which I tried to organize my adolescent life. Kelly Jacobson was my first. And though she was only a novice, I hung onto the memory of her pink braces and glossy tears, her coaches glaring in the audience. 

“Bitch,” she’d said under her breath when we shook hands at the end, and I only smiled, lifting my trophy as if in salute. She’d likely seen my name in the bracket and scoffed. When people asked why I debated, I said something generic like: ‘It is fun to push my brain to its limit.’ Which wasn’t wrong. But more than anything, I relished moments like dethroning Kelly—the shift in her eyes as I became real to her, the kind of person worth considering.

When I logged onto the live stream, the round hadn’t started.  It was almost 10 PM in New York, and I was curled up in bed. Bob the Cat, who’d just bitten me, now lay against my stomach, rumbling like my heater. My room was dark, save for a purple coconut-scented candle I bought with my tutoring money; on the live stream, the classroom was streaked with sun. Peter sat at a desk spinning a pen and laughing to a boy with red hair who was covered in pimples while a few others watched with rapt attention. He looked young, with shoulder-length hair that fell in his eyes. The audio quality was poor. But from what I could make out, Peter was in the midst of a story about a judge who yelled at him, and got so mad he ranted about Peter on Facebook. The room laughed, including some of the judges behind the camera. The video crinkled with static. Peter’s eyes had a dark, heavy quality as he scanned the room. 

“I just wanted to do something different,” Peter said, and people laughed again. I want that too, sometimes, I thought. Then his opponent stood. Joss Jacobin, a senior from Eastlake Academy who had three bids—you needed two bids to qualify—to the Tournament of Champions, which was like the Olympics of debate. I didn’t like the Eastlake Academy kids. They were like driver ants, which could eat you whole if you got enough of them together. None of them made smart arguments or collected good evidence, but they always had dozens of novices swarming across tournaments in their red sweatshirts with EA emblazoned on the front. Their coaches usually followed close behind them, middle-aged men writing prep documents against their pre-adolescent opponents. 

“Because I believe that poverty is the biggest threat to health, I strongly affirm, resolved: developing countries ought to prioritize resource extraction over environmental protection when the two are in conflict,” Joss Jacobin began in his oily voice. He was too glossy with his shiny hair and rosy cheeks, like a display doughnut made from cardboard and pink glue. He spoke quickly like all varsity debaters, but with practiced intonations. The sharp movement of his hand as he read the Heimowitz evidence about how environmental protection efforts in developing countries backfire, increasing pollution. The shift of his gaze as he explained the Montgomery evidence about how environmental protection intensified poverty, increasing infant mortality. The sharp arch of his eyebrows as he talked about babies in Ghana who were born with deformities from malnutrition, a direct result of economic underdevelopment. He was a good speaker, although you could tell he didn’t care about the babies. He was probably glad when he read about them, thinking how good they would sound in his final speech as he implored the audience to think about the children. 

“I now stand ready for cross-examination,” Joss intoned. Fuck you, Joss, I thought, even though I said the same thing at the end of my speeches. It was different, how he said it. Smarmy. Not only because I had lost finals of the Scarsdale Invitational to an Eastlake Academy debater after their balding, prune-like coach, Samuel Stamps, had written responses to my arguments. I could (mostly) tolerate losing. It was inevitable; it was a ‘learning experience.’ But to lose because of someone like Stamps (that’s what everyone called Samuel Stamps), I couldn’t take. There was no beauty, no humanity, in that kind of loss. It was like getting hit in the knees with a crowbar before entering the ice. 

“Glad to hear it, Joss,” Peter said, still sitting. He wore the same expression as before, like he spent most of his life on the verge of laughter. It was a nice way to live, though people like that made me nervous: it was too easy to disappoint them. Peter perched his pen between his thumb and middle finger. Joss stared straight ahead and clicked start on his timer. 

“Did you write this position yourself?” Peter began, spinning the pen. It was a strange question. Stamps noticed, drawing his eyebrows together as he straightened himself. 

“Why?” Joss flashed a row of small teeth toward the judges. 

“I am the one asking questions,” Peter said, matter of fact. “If you refuse to answer, let’s agree to treat this position as if you wrote it yourself.” 

“I don’t see what difference it makes.” Joss smiled as he shifted weight to the other leg, one hand on his hip. A few people in the audience looked uncomfortable, including Stamps, watching from the right corner.  

“So, we agree.” Peter crossed his right leg over the left, his shoulders curling inward as he fixed his gaze on his computer. “Next question. Have you read Heimowitz’s book?” 

At this, I sat up. 

“I appreciate your curiosity about my research methods,” Joss said. He rarely answered questions. He just squirmed around with his beautiful hair, luring his partners to muddy their hands in the water of his banter. I never knew how to cut through those people. Had I debated, I might have said something like, Joss, I don’t need you to explain to me how to cite a post from Tumblr—meanness without precision or utility—and I would have lost.

“So, you haven’t,” Peter said: the correct play. Joss opened his mouth, and Peter held out a hand to stop him, eyes still fixed on his computer screen. “I’d like you to read the entire paragraph you quoted from, including the bits you omitted from your speech.”

Joss’ eyes darted to Stamps, who seemed startled. He had reasonably expected no one else to find the evidence, as the book was expensive and elusive. Mine required a pleading email and some lies to a librarian at Columbia University, which I’d done in a fit of rage after the Scarsdale Invitational. 

“Peter, this seems like a waste of time.” Joss’ voice was louder now. He ran a hand through his hair. 

“I disagree. Please read it.”

Joss’ eyes darted again to Stamps, who raised his eyebrows and opened his eyes wide. Joss nodded a few times, readjusted his tie, then narrowed his eyebrows. 

“Peter, I thought you would have better questions for me.” Joss paused, shaking his head as he polished his glasses with his sleeve. “Is this really how you beat Johannes Rosenberg? You’re young, so I’ll give you some friendly advice. Clarification questions about people’s evidence might fly in novice, but this is varsity. This is a bid round. Do better, Peter.” 

There was a sense of stillness in the room, a nearly unbearable quiet. Joss smirked, and Stamps nodded slightly. Peter didn’t flinch. He only knit his hands together and pressed his pen to his lips. Peter suddenly looked small, and I wondered if that was how he felt. Joss, looming with his deep voice and speckles of pale stubble. Peter’s bare skin and rounded shoulders, his crackling voice, the wrinkles of his untucked shirt and his tight gray jeans. His legs were short. He was probably only 5’3” or 5’4”, and maybe that was why he sat. Not a power play about his casualness, the inevitability of his victory. Ten seconds passed and Peter had said nothing, hands pressed together. For a moment, I wondered if he was willing himself not to cry, as I would have done. I burrowed deeper into my bed, pulling my comforter up to my chin.

“Oh, Peter,” Joss said. “Is that all you have?”

Peter didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he straightened his back and looked up. Straight in the direction of the camera, perched on the judge’s desks. If any trace of laughter remained on Peter’s face, it had been blotted out. His dark eyebrows framed a raw, unfaltering gaze. When he spoke, his voice was chilled. “Read the evidence,” he said. 

“If you have nothing better…” Joss sighed, but it was clear that he could no longer play off further attempts to evade Peter. 

 “Please,” Peter said. 

Joss paused, cleared his throat, then took a sip of water. “According to Professor Heimowitz from the University of Toronto, banning resource extraction leads to an increase in resource extraction after the ban is put into place,” he began, then paused to run a hand through his hair.

“Go on,” Peter said. Not once had he looked at Joss, which thrilled me. 

“Under the condition,” Joss continued, pausing to adjust his tie. “That polluters are permitted a grace period, such as toxic waste dumping before landfill closures. However, these effects were canceled out…’” Joss paused again, his eyes narrowing. Until then, Joss had not understood the graveness of Peter’s request. He sensed only that Peter was guiding him somewhere, and with the pleasure of an obstinate dog and the best debaters, he lay down and refused to be moved. But with the word ‘however,’ his face darkened. While reading the evidence out loud, Joss had omitted the word ‘however.’ When it came to evidence, ‘however’ was a damning word. And though Joss continued to squirm with each question, making up various excuses for why he could not continue reading the evidence, Peter was unrelenting, picking up his own copy of the book to highlight phrases of particular import until they reached the climax of the round: the conclusion of Heimowitz’s book, which argued the opposite of Joss’ assertion.

“So,” Peter finished, the glimmer of a smile, which I couldn’t help mirroring. “The conclusion of your evidence contradicts the part of the evidence that you cited in your speech, correct?”

“Well, sure. But…” Joss said. 

“That is a yes or no question,” Peter cut in. When Joss said nothing, Peter said only: “I will take that as a yes. No more questions.” 

I took a deep breath, then pushed it out of my lips in a slow stream. I had imagined the same round dozens of times, myself in Peter’s place. How sweetly I’d say, “Did you know that Heimowitz concludes the opposite?” and my opponent would turn inwards and crumble. So convinced I was of this outcome, I had barely imagined what would come next. But Peter had. For three minutes, I watched as he made twelve intricate arguments that misrepresenting evidence, especially as egregiously as Joss had, should result in a loss. Which, though they were well-reasoned arguments, struck me as overkill. 

Joss’ next speech was as tedious as it was abhorrent, a barrage of tightly packed reasons he should not lose the round: the evidence should only be discounted. Which seemed futile, as misrepresenting evidence was the worst crime a debater could commit. After the first minute, I took out my math homework. What people like Joss got out of debate, I couldn’t say. How boring Joss was. Wasn’t he bored listening to himself? The best debaters made me marvel at the capacity of the human mind, the connections it could draw. Joss was pure efficiency. Nothing more. If he were less of a jerk, I might pity him: to have put so much of himself into something and to produce nothing of value.

When Peter’s timer went off, I looked up briefly from my homework. He stood for a moment, his elbow resting against his hip. 

“It is telling,” Peter began. “That Joss has a pre-written file with fifteen reasons why he should not lose for misrepresenting evidence. This must happen to him often.” The line was devastating, the sort of thing I would think of only days after the fact. His voice was harder than before, and he did not, as I expected, laugh. The room was silent. 

“Now Joss,” he said. “Here’s why you lose.”

It was a carefully considered speech, delivered with glances at the piece of paper on which he had taken notes. He cut easily to the core of Joss’ fallacies, grouping the 1–4 point with the claim: “Learning about a topic through false evidence is worse than not learning about it at all.” How true that was. Even though he tried to say the line twice before it came out fully formed. Even though he looked up at the ceiling and tilted his head back and forth to regain his train of thought before murmuring the killer: “Deterring bad evidence practices promotes better topic education in the long term.” His language lacked artifice, his sentences appearing as a crystallization of deep thought, his voice intoned with real feeling.

“You claim honest mistakes happen,” Peter said. “First, omitting the word ‘however,’ suggests ill-intent. Second, getting away with ‘honest mistakes’ encourages reckless practices. Reading whole paragraphs is the bare minimum.”

Peter was not as fast as Joss. There were rhetorical missteps, like the moment he said Montgomery instead of Heimowitz. Or when he stated: “There are terms we agree to when we engage in discourse. If we violate…” and then he bit his cheek, paused, stared at the ceiling, and said: “let me rephrase.” But when the idea came out, I found he had distilled the essence of things: “If we violate conditions that lay the groundwork of discussion, discourse crumbles. Debate is a privilege, not granted to those who cheat.”

It was this power that Joss missed. Joss could only whittle lies into their sleekest form. Peter, who had no bids to the Tournament of Champions, could press his finger into the pulse of something true. And so, it was Peter I envied, Peter to whom I was easily recruited. Joss was nearing the end of his career. He was good, but no one would remember him. Of Peter, the same could not be said.

Had I despised Joss less, I might have been more unnerved that Peter was, and would continue to be, so obviously better than me. He was clearly, as people said, the star of my class. He would likely qualify to the Tournament of Champions the following year, advance to elimination rounds his junior year, then win the whole thing his senior year. If we debated, he would annihilate me without raising a finger. But for a moment, in the safety of my warm room and pink bunny pajamas, I was grateful for his excellence, for I was allowed to watch. How thrilling it was: the way his shoulders pressed back against the chair, and he spun his pen with long fingers. How he said, nearing the end of his speech: “Stop looking at Stamps, Joss. Even he cannot save you.” And everyone in the room looked upset that Peter had violated an unspoken rule, and Stamps even opened his mouth to demonstrate his outrage. But Peter had been right.

When Peter was done, I was almost sorry. And so when Joss stood again, I watched Peter. I measured his reaction to Joss’ claim that Peter had failed to reply to an argument that “the humiliation of being called out for bad evidence is adequate deterrence.” (Peter typed something on his computer with his eyebrows drawn together). I watched as he sipped his water while Joss said: “This is a round-ending argument.” I watched his expression as he and Joss shook hands (casual, indifferent), and then Peter walked out of the room carrying his water bottle.

~

It was 11:05 PM when the round ended. As I waited for the judges to decide, I went downstairs and ate some yogurt and made Sleepy Time tea, lied to my mom about having finished my math homework, told my dad that of course, I was about to go to bed, cleaned Bob’s litter-box, brushed my teeth, put acne cream in between my eyebrows, and slid into my pajamas. As I did everything, I carried my computer around so that I would know when they reached a decision. Waiting, I felt the dull buzz of anxiety as if I had debated.

To me, the round was clear. Yes, technically, Peter had missed an argument. But that argument was terrible and without justification. A judge could vote on it, but only if they were hell-bent on voting against Peter. Which was possible—I hadn’t seen the judges’ reactions—but I doubted they would intervene against someone clearly on the side of truth. Yet while I appreciated Peter’s rawness, people who stumbled were sometimes dismissed. Then, there were the Eastlake Academy coaches who came from offscreen to sit next to Joss. Stamps, who was infamous for exactly this, stood behind Joss with hands crossed over his abdomen. For the whole thirty-minute period, they all glared in the direction of the judges while Peter sat alone, sipping water and typing on his computer with a nonchalance that must have required effort. 

My throat burned as I watched. How I wished to pull the Eastlake Academy coaches aside, grilling them in the way they grilled coaches who voted against their students: how do you sleep at night? I would say. Really? What do you take? But the practice was so ubiquitous, I almost felt crazy for being incensed. Oh, how Stamps would look if Peter took out his crown jewel. How I wished to see him lose his cool, to yell and yell and yell without effect. By 11:35 PM, I could feel my heart in my collarbones. Peter ate a Pop-Tart. Bob left me, and I lay my head in the warm spot on the bed. As I watched the maple trees outside of my room and the deep blue of the night sky, I heard a deep male voice. 

“Congratulations to both debaters,” the voice said, and I grabbed my computer. “It is a 2-1 decision…” 

Peter pressed his pen into his lips. Joss’ eyebrows drew together. 

“For the affirmative from Eastlake Academy,” the judge finished. Joss smiled. Stamps slapped him on the back, while the other coach gave him a fist bump. Peter didn’t react. He stood to shake Joss’ hand and said:  “Congratulations.” Not like he meant it, but not like he didn’t. He sprawled notes as the judges explained their reasons for their decisions. One judge claimed that Peter’s concession of Joss’ deterrence argument was damning. Another claimed that the argument was too brief and unjustified to be considered seriously, that it was only a jumble of words in Joss’ second speech, and that Peter could not have been expected to respond. 

The third said only: “You need to watch your attitude. Attacking your opponent’s coach is not acceptable.”

Then it was done. My stomach felt dark and prickly as I watched Joss leave, flanked by teammates and coaches. Peter, biting the end of his pen, stared straight ahead. The look was arresting. The bitter contraction of his lips, a darkness in his eyes that verged on cruelty. For a moment, I recognized myself. I watched as the expression passed, and Peter sat completely still, the room silent save the whir of the air conditioner. 

~

At the time, I didn’t have the right words for what had wounded him. Later, he would give them to me. 

He had wanted it too desperately. For that, he was punished.