532

We broke for lunch.

The powerful river of people that had burst the door open to get in, now meandered happily in and out of the threshhold with an intensity that depicted a waterfall ahead.

The second round of callbacks was about to begin.

The buzz of the children was delightful. Aubrey smiled and chatted and smiled again. Israel, ever the boy, darted through the glass doors of the building to climb upon the garden walls outside. Gil and I spoke with several families, participants, and staff members of the event.

It was unspoken, the decision to return to the auditorium. The crowd moved almost as one, and took seats with nary a complaint or press. The thoughts of so many, although unspoken, were visibly audible. Who would be tapped on the shoulder to be viewed and considered - placed even, with an agency?

The MC and his assistant took seats upon the platform. Final words of instructions, and edifications were given.

"We will call the name of an agency, and the participant number of all they callback. After we've read the callbacks for each agency, if your number has not been called, you are dismissed. If you've been selected, you will go to the ballroom, where each agent has a table set up. You will speak with each agency that has requested your number."

The River suddenly shifted, preparing to tumble down over the cliff of hope and desire.

It began:

"Acme Agency. You will speak with Jane:
12, 29 101, 321, 541, and 810.

Generation X Agency. You will speak with James:
321, 323, 422, and 532."

Did our ears decieve us? Was that Israel's number? YES! It was!

Yet there was no time to register the excitement, we had to listen carefully. The yet forty agencies had to be heard.

"532."

"532.'

"and 532."

"532"

Over and over again, Israel's number was called.

The emotional torrent was such: We'd thrill quickly for 532, then, with ears strained, listen again, to the next agent numbers, holding our breath, listening for 531 - Aubrey's number. Each round was a cresendo of hope, internal congratulations for Israel, followed by a crash of disappointment for Aubrey, rounded by yet another wave of intese hope that the next set would house her call.

Finally, the last agent was set to call. The microphone carried an intensity as the auditorium sat in utter silence, waiting with bated breath:

"101, 468, 721, and 810."

Hot tears welled in Aubrey's eyes, and I positioned myself next to her so she could bury her head in my shoulder. The heart tear I had experienced the night before had returned, with a searing vengence: Excitement of and for one child, shouldering the disappointment of and for the other.

Again, there was little time to react.

The MC stood and asked all who had recieved call backs to stand. The River forked in a pronounced divide.

Then, meticulously, he began a countdown. "If you've received 2 callbacks, please remain standing. If you've recieved 3 callbacks, please remain standing . . ." and so on until only three people in the room remained upright.

A young woman in her 20's ahead of us, a young gent in his 20's to our side, and a young boy between us: 13 to be exact. The only child among the top three.

"If you've received 10 call backs, please remain standing." Israel sat down.

Nine.

Nine.

Israel had received nine call backs.

The young gent, 10; the young woman, 14.

Number 532 had recieved nine call backs.

The River, now a Tributary moved to report to the ballroom.