Personal Statement (12 page)

There’s something about being alone in a library that’s equally calming and sad. I’ve been in this reference room since 7 a.m., trying to show initiative, and hoping to get a chance to talk to Governor Watson alone. To tell him about the party and about some of my concerns from the email I never sent. (Since I woke up, I’ve been going over what I want to say, hoping to come off less preachy in person.) While I was waiting, I slid three massive tables together and dragged in chairs and benches from all over to make the room more presentable.

When Governor Watson arrives at 7:45 wearing a rumpled polo shirt and jeans, I beeline to him, ignoring Teddy’s attempt to intercept me.

“Governor Watson. Good morning.”

“Alexis,” he says without looking at me, his eyes on a series of index cards he keeps flipping through.

“I was going to send you an email last night, sir, but thought it was better to speak in person.”

“About?”

His unusually curt demeanor throws me and makes me completely forget my “prepared remarks.” I decide to wing it.

“Well, sir, for starters. The party at Richard Gains’ hotel got a little out of hand last night.”

“I don’t care about the party. We’ve got bigger fish to fry. What else?”

“Okay. Well, um…”
Is it getting warmer in here? Why are the lights so bright?
“I was also a little… concerned. About how we left things last night. I thought we were all going to sit down and figure out the best plan of attack for today. If we want to make a strong impression on the young voters, it would behoove us to be tweeting about the contest, the storm’s path and progress, information about how to help and donate money. There’s a lot I could be doing on that front.”

“Thanks, sweetie, but again… bigger fish.”

He pats me on the shoulder and moves away. Teddy gives me a sheepish look and follows the governor to the head of the table.

I try not to read too much into it, try to act like a team player. It’s his job to be tough, to not play favorites, to treat everyone equally. But it’s hard to believe that when the governor and his staff commandeer one end of the room and leave me in the cheap seats, stuck between a fire exit and a shelf of large books about ocean life.

What’s happening here? Wasn’t I the girl he started the slow clap for after I essentially
created
this entire contest? Has the governor become a manifestation of the Janet Jackson song “What Have You Done For Me Lately?” I get a knot in my stomach and feel light-headed. This was not how I expected the morning to go.

At exactly 8:00 a.m., Governor Watson pours himself a tall glass of water, looks out at the hundred of us crammed into this makeshift conference room, and says, “Okay. Let’s get right to it. Who’s up first?”

As the governor sips his water, he sits and looks to Teddy to take over. Teddy smiles winningly and stands to make a few opening remarks. He informs the twenty-three teams that they’ll have two minutes each for their presentations, and that Governor Watson will be making an immediate decision about the winner since we all need to be finished by 9 a.m. Those evacuating must be on the buses and trains departing Cawdor by 9:30. Those staying are required to ride out the storm in the elementary school auditorium. Apparently it’s the largest windowless room in town and the building is, according to Teddy, “more solid than an Egyptian pyramid!”

“First up,” Teddy says proudly, “the girl who’s kind of responsible for
all
of this—Miss Emily Kim. And partner.”

I click my pen and jot Emily’s name and the number “1” on my legal. I want to be ready to talk intelligently about the presentations should Governor Watson ask for my input. Though after our awkward tête-à-tête and my current seating assignment, I’m not so sure he’ll ask. But I want to be ready anyway,
need
to be ready. This is the job I want, the new career path I’ve chosen. If I need to put up with a little taste of the boy’s club mentality to get a seat at the adult table, so be it. Better women before me have had to suffer much worse. I shouldn’t complain, right?

There’s a smattering of tepid applause as a surprisingly un-sharp-looking Emily Kim moves to the front of the room. Her partner, Morgan’s sister, doesn’t seem to be here. Perhaps she bailed early, fearing the impending destruction from Calliope.

“Good morning,” Emily begins. “My partner Rani Caldwell was unavoidably detained, so I’ll be proceeding without her. Our idea is simple. As recent storms like Katrina, Irene, and Sandy have devastated towns along the Gulf Coast and closer to home in New York and New Jersey, we’ve learned all too well how heartbreaking the destruction can be. Those of us here today, for the most part, are among the privileged class. And as these hurricanes wreak havoc, we sit back in our homes, with electricity and heat and water, watching the coverage on TV, saying to ourselves, ‘What can
we
do to help?’ Maybe we volunteer our time. Maybe we give money. But do we really know that money is getting into the hands of those who need it most? And what do these people really need? They don’t want a handout. They don’t want to feel ‘less than’ us. They want to get back on their feet. They want to be able to take care of themselves. To feel
normal
again. They just need a little help.

“Now, FEMA and the Red Cross and organizations such as these do fine work, but they can take days or even
weeks
to mobilize and actually get the much-needed supplies and funds into the hands of those affected by the disaster. Our plan takes away the middleman. If you’re sitting at home and have a spare room, an open guesthouse, blankets, clothes, food, you name it… you can download our free app, enter your information, and within
seconds
find a needy family in your area and connect with them directly. It’s called ‘Empty Rooms, Full Hearts.’ And we think…
I
think… it’s going to change the way communities connect. And get those affected by this storm, and those affected by
future
natural disasters, back on their feet faster, more efficiently, and with more dignity. Thank you.”

Jesus! That was incredible! But the other teams don’t seem to care, silently agreeing not to clap after any of the presentations, I guess. Maybe they don’t want to sway the governor’s decision. Either that or they’re more competitive than
I
was in high school.

Emily sits as Teddy calls the next set of names on his list. Standing and moving to the front is a group of six boys who are very overweight or very skinny (nothing in between), and they’re all wearing different
Star Wars
-themed shirts. (My favorite is the one of Luke Skywalker made to look like the Obama “Hope” poster.) The tallest boy, who appears to be the leader, is the exception. His shirt has the Milky Way Galaxy on it with a small arrow pointing to a dot that says: “You Are Here.” I like these guys already.

But as I try to focus on their presentation—a promising idea about solar-powered water pumps—my mind keeps going back to what the governor said not ten minutes ago:
“Thanks, sweetie, but again… bigger fish.”

Governor Watson’s kind of an asshole, isn’t he? And I threw away a good job, a nice boyfriend, and a solid life in government for the chance to work for this guy. And then he treats me like
that
? I haphazardly tossed away everything I had to be on his team, to score a chance at a front row seat on the road to the White House. All so he can call me “sweetie” and dismiss me like some third-rate intern.

Okay, maybe I’m overreacting. Congresswoman Clark warned me about responding emotionally on the job. I’m tired. A little hungry. And perhaps a little scared that I might actually be close to getting what I want—the old cliché of being afraid of success. Plus, doesn’t everyone have to take a little abuse on the way up the ladder?

Forcing myself to refocus on the presentations, I suddenly feel guilty. Other than Emily Kim, I’ve barely heard a word anyone has said. I look up at the front of the room and see two boys mid-presentation: a puppy-dog-looking white kid and his black friend, who’s clearly in love with him. The black kid is doing all the talking. The white one seems embarrassed or apologetic somehow. Like he doesn’t want to be standing up there. Or like he and his partner had a fight earlier. I don’t know. They seem like good kids, so I listen as intently as I can.

“Our idea is not revolutionary,” the black kid says. “But sometimes the best ideas are ones that have worked in the past. So we’ve designed a line of low-income sustainable green housing. Sort of piggy backing on what Brad Pitt did in NOLA. Made entirely from recycled wood and metals recovered from the devastated neighborhoods, with added rooftop solar panels and energy efficient appliances, these are not only stronger, longer-lasting structures that can weather the next hurricane, but homes that will have a smaller impact on the environment and give their owners a sense of pride. With heating and cooling costs up to forty percent less than that of traditional structures, and by not requiring as many repairs, the homes will pay for themselves over the next two decades. Our goal was to make something that is not only practical, but also an architectural breakthrough. And I think we’ve achieved that here. Of the many nicknames for our state, like ‘The Constitution State’ or ‘The Nutmeg State,’ my favorite is ‘The Land of Steady Habits.’ Which is why our green-housing design is called ‘Steady
Habitats.
’ Homes for now, homes for the future. Thank you.”

Another solid idea. I have no idea how Governor Watson will decide. By the look of it, neither does he. He keeps running his hands through his hair and scratching the back of his head like a twitch. I can’t tell if he’s nervous or bored.

The two-minute time limit is being adhered to vehemently, and toward the end, the proposals fly by in a blur.

“We’ll use hot air balloons for post-flood evacuations.”

“Replace the levees completely with a wall… like The Great Wall? Of China?”

“Rain coats and waders for everyone in the flood zones.”

“A really, really… really big sponge. To, you know… soak up the water?”

“It’s called Relief Jam. And it’ll make the 12.12.12 concert look Lame. Lame. Lame.”

At five minutes to nine, Teddy stands, looking a little worse for wear. He glances over his list, ticks off a box, and then smiles. “And… last but not least,” he announces, “Prayer and Elijah Jones.”

The brother-sister duo make their way to the front of the room to a round of uniformly hostile looks. I guess “plays well with others” isn’t on their homeschool report cards.

“Hello,” the boy says timidly. “Our plan is actually quite simple. One of the, uh, major threats of course with a storm like Calliope is flooding, something we’ve unfortunately become all too familiar with on our farm in the last decade. In fact, after Hurricane Irene in 2011, we decided to prepare ourselves better by constructing a device that would protect us from future floods. Last year during Sandy, our idea was put to the ultimate test and it passed with, uh, flying colors. So what we’ve done for the past thirty-six hours—with some amazing help from dozens and dozens of our church members, and of course through the steady, guiding hand of Our Lord Almighty—is we have taken apart, transported, and reassembled that same device—a, uh, massive wooden lever, if you will, that acts like a dam. There’s a valve we can crank open or shut that essentially diverts the rising river water—in this case, to the west into smaller estuaries, away from town. What’s more,” Elijah continues, clearing his throat; he’s a decidedly nervous public speaker, “the re-routed waters can also be directed to the Angus reservoir. That water can be siphoned off to local farms north and west of town that, as we
also
know all too well from personal experience, have suffered greatly during this summer’s drought. The entire thing is controlled via computer and, uh, as the storm rolls in, we can monitor the water levels, opening and closing the valve. As needed.”

Holy shit! And I mean “holy” literally. That is the most mindboggling, biblically epic thing I’ve heard since Noah and the goddamn ark! If their idea even
half
works, that has to be the winning proposal.

For a few seconds, there’s complete silence. No one moves, coughs, breathes… nothing.

Then, as if on cue, all eyes (including mine) instantly, anxiously move to the governor.

“Well,” he says, after a beat. “One thing’s for sure. Our nation’s in good hands for the next few decades with
this
generation waiting to take the helm.”

There are some laughs and nods. I see the governor is hesitant, but like all great leaders, in an instant his face fills with resolve and it’s clear he’s made his decision. It’s time to rip off the Band-Aid. (Guess he won’t be needing
my
input.)

“But,” he continues, “there’s no use beating around the bush. I know it’s fast. I know there’s a lot on the line. But I gotta go with my gut. And that’s with the, uh… The Jones twins.”

The twins instantly join hands and shut their eyes in prayer. The rest of the room sits in shock. Including Teddy. But he regroups quickly, clapping his hands.

“Okay! Let’s all congratulate Prayer and Elijah Jones for their winning proposal!” Again some tepid applause, but mostly anger, jealously, and hurt. Upset teenagers sulking like six year olds who wanted the last cookie, even though they knew they didn’t deserve it.

“And I want to thank you
all
,” Teddy continues, trying to keep things light, “not only for your time and brilliant ideas, but for your hard work and generosity over the last two days. Connecticut will forever be in your debt. Now let’s get you to some safer quarters!”

Everyone slowly rises. There is very little conversation, just the harsh sound of wooden chair legs scraping against linoleum. Only Emily Kim remains seated. Refusing to believe it’s over. Maybe thinking it’s all a bad dream and surely she’ll wake up any second. I press my lips into a thin apologetic smile and give her as appreciative a nod as a lame nod from thirty feet away can be. She just stares at me, incredulous.