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This is what taxpayers are spending their money on?
After what seemed like an absurdly long time, an entirely forgettable guy sat down across from her. When she shook his sweaty hand, Sloane stopped herself from wiping her palm on her skirt. It wasn’t Alexander McQueen’s fault this dude had a glandular problem.
Flu y Hair started passing out sheets of paper. “Okay, so the game is simple. You’ve got three minutes to find out something you have in common with the person across from you, and before you ask, a few things don’t count: that you went to law school, that you’re waiting for bar results, or that you’re in this room. The spirit of the game is to get to know each other. Don’t try to stretch your baby lawyer muscles by trying to find a short cut. Once you’ve got your
shared trait or whatever, you’ll write each other’s names down. The person with the most names wins.”
“What happens if you can’t find anything in common?”
Sweaty Palms asked, killing a tiny piece of Sloane’s soul.
Smiling, Flu y Hair was apparently unconcerned with the lack of critical thinking skills. “If you didn’t find anything in common when the timer goes o , then whoever is sitting on this side gets up, moves one chair to the right, and tries again.”
Sloane was legitimately shocked no one asked what the person all the way on the right was supposed to do. She was encouraged that someone was capable of independent thought.
Flu y Hair produced a neon green stopwatch imported from 1987. “Three minutes to work on your examination skills!”
Sweaty Palms turned to Sloane with focused intensity.
“Okay. You like sports?”
“Is that a question or a statement?”
“A question. Obviously,” he snapped, annoyed by Sloane’s refusal to play the g
ame.
When three minutes were up, he moved without jotting her name on his list. The next dozen went a little better, and Sloane managed to collect a handful of names. At least they weren’t all mouth breathers.
Listening to a dude rattle o everywhere he ever lived for a possible match, Sloane noticed Frodo was only a few seats away.
How the hell is her list so long? Glancing down at her sheet, she guessed her old rival had at least triple the number of
names.
“So, no pets,” the guy across from her said as he smoothed the well-groomed beard he’d definitely have to shave before stepping foot in a courtroom. “How about hobbies?”
Deciding that she was going to play for real, Sloane cleared her throat and picked up her pen. “What was your undergrad major?”
“Political Science and Econ double major,” he replied, listing her guess.
“I also majored in Economics and Finance,” she said, already jotting down his name.
He smiled, showing o blinding white teeth. He’d be cute if he weren’t an idiot. “Oh, cool. I think there were like three girls in my whole class at Loyola.”
Sloane dropped her pen and crossed her arms over her chest. “Child prodigies. Impressive.”
Beard cocked his head to one side as confusion etched a line in his brow.
“You said they were girls, didn’t you? I’m jealous. There wasn’t a single Doogie Howser at my school. I guess Duke is not as appealing to tweens as . . .” Her pause was as intentional as the full body scan she gave him. “Loyola.”
As understanding blossomed on his face, Beard straightened as his grin evaporated. She wanted to tell him he should do some deep work to resolve why he belittled his female contemporaries, but Flu y Hair called time before she got the chance.
By the time Frodo slid into the seat across from her, Sloane had seven names on her list. Better than what she had
before, but way fewer than the laundry list on Frodo’s sheet.
Frodo’s lips shrunk from smile to cold, thin line. If looks could kill, Sloane would’ve been vaporized.
