“Chris Kominski,” one of them said while shaking his hand. “From D.C. politics to Riviera elementary? I hope you’ll survive it.” He smiled.
“We’ll see.” Jordan smiled back, taking his seat.
Eight kids sat at four tables facing the judges. Each table carried a different flag.
“After the break, they’ll switch flags and representations,” Chris said, leaning sideways toward him to get over the noise that was loud enough to reverberate from the walls.
“Yes, read it in Avery’s instruction manual.”
“She’s a close friend of yours?”
Jordan eyed him, wondering what Avery had been telling people. “No. We were just in high school together.”
Twenty minutes into the simulation, it was obvious that one student there was better than the rest, though she received the least applauds from the audience. When someone from the crowd cut into her speech, she looked like she was going to explode, and the effort to contain herself was written all over her face.
“Don’t pay attention. Carry on,” Chris called toward her just when Jordan opened his mouth to say the same.
Ten minutes later, the girl got up, pushed her chair, and stormed out of the room after someone from one of the rows called in a mocking voice, “Cry baby,” while she was delivering her closing speech. Avery scolded them and announced a fifteen-minute break.
The spectators, all not surpassing five feet in height, stormed onto the floor to encourage their favorite contestants and throw insults at the others.
Jordan felt his phone vibrating in his pocket and exited the hall.
“Can I call?” The message carried the familiar D.C. area code, though the number was unidentified, and his heart sank.
“Yes.” He stood at the window and gazed at the playground. School was a survivors’ jungle. Just like in politics, it had alliances, cliques, a pecking order, running over the competition, circling the strong, isolating the weak. He had seen it all. It was sadder to see it in kids.
He picked up at the first ring.
“How are you, Jordan?”
“Fine. You?” he said with no patience for niceties.
“Great. Really great now. I had to call from a pre-paid phone, though.”
He waited.
“Not yours. Hundred percent. No chance.”
He didn’t reply. His gaze was glued to the yard outside where a first-grade gym class was being held. Were six-year-olds really that small?
“Jordan?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“They’ll send you the email with the results, too. I’m so relieved. I bet you are, too. Now we can go back to normal without this hovering over us.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Great.”
He was silent.
“Are you coming back? Heard Warber is interested in you.”
“Not for the time being.”
“Okay. If you do, I’ll help.”