Chapter 18 — Two Sides of an Argument

The Debate Club's living room was rearranged in a completely unusual way that Friday afternoon. Instead of the familiar two rows of opposite seats, Mr. Sơn arranged the tables and chairs into a large U shape, almost exactly simulating the layout of a real competition auditorium, with a small area at the front of the room for the judges. Not only the teacher, he also invited Ms. Hạnh to teach Literature and Mr. Long to teach Citizenship Education, two teachers who had many times judged school-level academic competitions, to sit as judges so that this practice session would be as realistic as possible. All more than twenty club members were required to be present in full, sitting on both sides as spectators, some even brought notebooks to take notes, all clearly understanding that this was the last big practice session before Mr. Sơn finalized the official strategy for the national preparation round.

Hạ Vy sat at her table, clearly feeling the weight of that unusually solemn atmosphere on her shoulders. She glanced at Việt Bách sitting next to her and saw him keeping his back straight, his eyes looking straight ahead, his hands clasped together on the table so tightly that his knuckles turned slightly white. Over the past week, the gap between them had only grown wider and wider, every practice session he tried to cut down on her presentation, every time she tried to start a conversation it ended with curt answers. She had hoped, faintly, that this big training session, with the whole club watching, would force him to return to the combined strategy that had brought them victory, that the pressure of a real match would remind him of why they had been such a good team.

"Today's topic," Mr. Sơn said, standing up and holding the card that had just been randomly drawn from the familiar box, "Should we completely replace the traditional high school graduation exam with comprehensive competency assessment tests? Hạ Vy, Việt Bách, you two stand by to support."

This topic was not unfamiliar to them - they had briefly discussed it in a previous practice session, and Hạ Vy had prepared a story that she believed was the strongest in everything she had ever written: the story of a former classmate from her previous school, who was very good at practical thinking and good at solving practical problems, but always failed in traditional written exams because the pressure of the exam room made him completely freeze, and then almost lost the opportunity to enter university because of just one image. The assessment did not accurately reflect your true ability. She told this story to Việt Bách last week, saw him nod, and even gave her suggestions to help her make the story more coherent. She was confident it would still be their introduction today.

But when he walked out of the presentation area, standing next to her in front of the entire room's eyes, Việt Bách turned and whispered, his voice dry: "I think today I should start with data first. You present the story later, briefly, then I will close with analysis."

Hạ Vy was stunned for a second, but had no time to protest when teacher Sơn gave the signal to start. She had to nod, swallowing her confusion, allowing Việt Bách to start the presentation with a series of data on graduation failure rates, about studies comparing two assessment models in many countries. His voice was sharp and precise as always, but there was an unusual tension in the way he spoke, like a machine trying to run according to a pre-programmed program, without any of the natural flexibility he had in previous training sessions.

It was Hạ Vy's turn to tell her story. Although it was shorter than originally intended, her voice still conveyed true emotions, and she could clearly feel the attentive silence spreading throughout the room. A few club members sitting in the front row nodded slightly, and Ms. Hạnh's eyes flashed with emotion. When she finished, passing the words back to Việt Bách so he could finalize his argument, she felt a small surge of confidence return, believing that they could still get through this training session, even though there were some problems in the sequencing.

The counter-argument from the opposing team - two other members of the club playing the role of hypothetical opponents - focused on attacking the representativeness of Hạ Vy's story, just as Việt Bách had feared. But instead of letting Hạ Vy defend her story herself like before, when she was always the one to directly refute by expanding the story's meaning into a general argument, Việt Bách took the answer, responding entirely with data, brushing her story aside as if it never existed. Hạ Vy stood there, feeling like she was being pushed out of her own presentation, but she tried to maintain a calm appearance, telling herself this was just a temporary tactical adjustment.

When the simulation round ended, Mr. Sơn stood up, his face thoughtful before starting the comments. "In general, the logical argument is very solid," the teacher said, his eyes turned to Việt Bách first, then to Hạ Vy. "But I noticed that today there was something different from previous practice sessions. Hạ Vy's opening story, the part that I and the other teachers all rated as the two of you's strongest point all season, was shortened today and almost ignored in the reflection. Was that a deliberate choice?"

Ms. Hạnh, sitting next to Mr. Sơn, nodded in agreement and added, her voice full of encouragement. "I agree with teacher Sơn. Hạ Vy's opening speech was really touching, I saw that many people in the room were also moved. That's what made their presentation more soulful than teams that only rely entirely on dry data. I think in the national round, such a strong emotional element can be a great competitive advantage, if it is exploited more fully instead of shortening it."

The whole room, the atmosphere still retaining the solemnity of a real combat training session, now turned its eyes towards Việt Bách, waiting for his response. Hạ Vy also turned to look at him, with a small glimmer of hope in her heart that perhaps, in the face of such open and sincere praise, he would realize and return to the strategy that had brought victory to both of them.

But Việt Bách, standing there in the middle of the room, under the gaze of his teachers and the entire club, under the weight of praise for exactly what his father had warned him was weak and unstable, felt a dull panic flare up in his chest. He thought about the two-week countdown, thought about the stack of files on his father's desk, thought about the cold voice that announced that he would withdraw his sponsorship name if he did not clearly show which path he had chosen. And in his weakest moment, when the pressure that had been building up for the past two weeks was like a string being stretched to its final limit, he let it snap, bursting out into words before even considering the consequences.

"I don't think so," Việt Bách said, his voice rang out so clearly and coldly that it made the whole room suddenly silent. He did not look at Hạ Vy as he spoke, his eyes directed straight towards Mr. Sơn and the two teachers, as if he were presenting an argument in court, not talking about his teammate standing right next to him. "Hạ Vy's presentation may move the audience, but it does not have a solid argument. If you want to win in the national arena, it's better to minimize emotions and focus entirely on data."

The room sank into absolute silence, a silence so heavy that Hạ Vy could hear the steady rotation of the ceiling fan above her head, and the sound of someone breathing softly in the row behind her. Mỹ Duyên, sitting in the front row, raised her hand to cover her mouth, her eyes wide open in shock. Hồ Tuấn Kiệt jumped up from the chair halfway and then sat down again, as if not knowing how to react. Ms. Hạnh and Mr. Long exchanged confused looked, while Mr. Sơn, his usually calm face, now showed a rare stunned expression, his lips parted as if he was about to say something but could not say it yet.

With Hạ Vy, time seemed to freeze. Each word in that sentence stabbed straight into her chest like cold needles, and the most terrible thing was not its content - she had heard harsher criticism - but the way it rang out almost intact, almost word for word, the sentence that had been thrown in her face by a strange judge in the middle of a crowded auditorium more than a year ago, the sentence she had tried to bury, tried to overcome, tried to prove wrong throughout every training session, every match since that day. She entered this club. Too emotional, lacking in science, only good at moving people's hearts and not having solid arguments. And now, the very person she had learned to trust, the person she had built a team with that she believed was living proof that old criticism was wrong, had just said it almost verbatim, not in a private moment, but publicly, in front of the entire club, in front of the people she had begun to think of as a second family.

She felt the blood rush to her face, her ears ring, and for a moment, she wasn't sure how much longer she could stand. Her throat was tight, she couldn't say a word, her eyes were burning, and she knew that if she stood there another second, tears would flow out right in front of everyone.

"Hạ Vy—" Teacher Sơn spoke, his voice suddenly became softer, full of worry, one hand gently reached out as if to stop her.

But Hạ Vy turned around, walked quickly out of the presentation area, through the suffocatingly silent room, without looking at anyone, without saying a word, pushed the door of the club room open and closed behind her with a dry sound echoing in the empty hallway.

In the room, the silence lasted a few more seconds before whispers began to spread throughout the rows, shocked eyes, whispers unable to hide their shock. Mỹ Duyên stood up, intending to run after Hạ Vy, but paused for a second, turned her head to look at Việt Bách with eyes that were both angry and unbelievable, then quickly rushed out of the room.

Việt Bách stood there, in the middle of the room, amidst the eyes focused on him, feeling like his whole body had just turned to stone. He had just heard his own voice say those words, but there was a part of him that couldn't believe that it was really him, that he had just done something he never thought he could do - used his sharpest weapon to stab straight into the weakest part of the person he cared about.

"Việt Bách," Mr. Sơn spoke up, his voice now carrying a rare severity, completely different from his usual calmness. "Do you know what you just said?"

Việt Bách could not answer. He stood there, looking towards the door that had just closed, where Hạ Vy had just disappeared, clearly feeling the judgmental silence of the whole room weighing heavily on his shoulders, but his feet felt like they were nailed to the floor, unable to lift up to run, unable to open his mouth to take back what he had just said, even though inside, a small and desperate voice was screaming that he had just destroyed the most precious thing he had ever gained during his two years as a lonely debater at this school.

Hồ Tuấn Kiệt was the first person to break the silence surrounding Việt Bách, standing up and walking towards him, his voice low but full of undisguised disappointment. "What the hell did you just do, Việt Bách?"

Việt Bách turned to look at his friend, his lips moved but no explanation came out, because he himself was not sure what the answer to that question was. He only knew that, amidst the fear of the two weeks that were counting down, of the door to the future that could close forever if he did not prove that he had "chosen the right path", he let that fear control him, turning the same teammate who once trusted him absolutely into the victim of a battle that should never have included her in it.

Teacher Sơn sighed, gently rubbed his forehead, his eyes scanned the room filled with stuffy atmosphere, then stopped at Việt Bách. "That's it for today's practice session," the teacher said, his voice tired. "Việt Bách, I want to talk to you privately, but not right now. Right now, everyone needs time to calm down."

The club members packed their belongings and left in a heavy silence, completely different from the excited atmosphere at the beginning of the practice session. Occasionally, someone glanced at Việt Bách with confusing eyes, part pity, part reproach. Việt Bách stood for a long time after the room was almost empty, his hands still clutching the stack of strategic notes that he and Hạ Vy had been building together for many weeks, now feeling as heavy as an incriminating piece of evidence, living evidence of what he had just betrayed in just a few short seconds, with a few words that he could no longer take back.