A Time for Greatness

by Emily Roth

When I told Mom I was running for third grade class president, it took her a long time to respond.

At first, I thought she hadn’t heard. Then she stooped to my level, her hazel eyes brimming with tears.

“You’ll win,” she said in Polish. She tapped the Star of David pendant on my sternum. “You’ll show them that Jews can do anything.”

I had wanted to be President for as long as I could remember. I would be kind and fair, just like handsome President Kennedy. I spent weeks planning my campaign. I promised new crayons and glue, ten extra minutes of recess, and no more than one test per week.

My opponent was Gordie Parks, who had a fat tomato head and sticky-looking hair.

The night before our class debate, I called Gordie and demanded he meet me at the sandlot next to our apartment building to discuss our campaigns.

We met by second base. Gordie’s face was half-shadowed by streetlights. I tried not to shiver in the November cold.

After I explained my platform, Gordie grinned. He had a front tooth missing.

“My campaign is unlimited chocolate milk,” Gordie said.

“And?”

“That’s all.”

I laughed like a maniac.

“Esther!” Mom hollered from our window. I scampered inside.

* * *

At school the next day, our classmates listened politely to my plan. When it was Gordie’s turn, he announced, “If you elect me as the 1963 president of Mrs. Henry’s class, I will ensure the cafeteria always has chocolate milk.”

The class exploded in cheers. Someone held a paper that read, “Parks for President!”

I squeezed my hands into fists. I would destroy him.

* * *

That night, I called all the classmates who lived in my apartment building and six kids showed up at the sandlot.

“Tell us,” I commanded, “exactly how your plan will work.”

“Easy,” Gordie scoffed. “If the cafeteria raises the milk price to two tickets instead of one, the school will have extra money for more chocolate.”

“Milk tickets aren’t money,” I said. “They’re pretend.”

“It’s all pretend!” Gordie said. “We can’t actually change anything at school.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “My promises are real.”

“How will you buy glue?” Gordie asked. “Or control how many tests we have?”

“I just will,” I sputtered.

“I don’t like milk,” Alice said. “I’m voting for Esther.”

“I’m not allowed to vote for Jews,” said James.

My breath froze in my throat.

“Me neither,” said Susie. “Sorry, Esther.”

My Star of David felt like an anchor against my neck.

As I ran away, I heard Gordie laughing.

When I told Mom what happened, she grabbed a broom and sprinted to the sandlot. The kids were gone. Mom stopped short by first base, breathing hard. Her black hair fell wild around her shoulders.

“Were you going to hit them?!” I panted as I caught up.

“This is how it starts,” Mom said, her face pale in the cold. “When you’re just a child.” She looked up at our apartment building, at the gold squares of light in the windows, and shuddered. “It’s everywhere.” She stared at me intensely. “You’ll win. You’ll prove them wrong.”

She hugged her bare arms over her chest, hiding the tattoo on her forearm.

* * *

When Gordie and I met at the sandlot the next night, I arranged treasures on second base: an eraser, two pennies, a marble, a tangerine-haired Troll doll.

“If you withdraw from the election, all of these are yours,” I promised.

Gordie chuckled. “Aren’t Jews supposed to be rich? I’ll consider it for twenty bucks.”

I shoved everything away, fuming.

* * *

There was only one day until the election.

I decided that if Gordie took one of Mom’s sleeping pills, he’d scare his parents enough that they’d take him to the hospital.

I couldn’t read the Polish words on Mom’s medicines so I chose a large pink bottle at random.

“What is it this time?” Gordie asked when we met at the sandlot after dinner.

“A truce.” I offered the sand-colored pill. Gordie frowned. “Polish people take these for luck.”

Shrugging, Gordie swallowed it dry.

After he left, I paced around the bases, cackling like a witch. I imagined my classmates seeing Gordie’s empty desk tomorrow and realizing he wasn’t fit for office.

Then my stomach heaved. What if I’d poisoned him? What if he died? But Mom wouldn’t keep poison at home … Would she?

I lay in the center of the field and waited to be arrested.

Eventually Mom found me, and I confessed. To my shock, she laughed.

“Darling, you gave him a vitamin.”

I felt so relieved I started crying.

Mom lay next to me and leaned her head against mine. “Still,” she said, “was that a kind and fair thing to do?”

I shook my head.

“Is it what President Kennedy would do?”

“No.” I studied Mom’s profile as she stared up at the stars. “What if I’m elected, and none of my promises come true?”

“When I wasn’t much older than you, we moved to Warsaw’s ghetto.” Mom swallowed hard. “I didn’t dare hope. For anything.” She grabbed my hand. “Even if you aren’t elected, you have all the dreams of our ancestors inside you. You’ll prove how good you are.”

* * *

The next day was Friday. Election day.

Time stretched forever as Mrs. Henry counted our votes. I studied the curly way she’d written November 22 on the blackboard. My mouth felt dry. What I wouldn’t give for a carton of chocolate milk.

“Boys and girls,” Mrs. Henry smiled, “our class president is …”

My heart thudded. Gordie glanced at me sidelong.

A knock on the door interrupted her. The principal whispered something in Mrs. Henry’s ear. She hid her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.

Goosebumps rose on my arms. I sensed something was happening, something bigger than me and Gordie, bigger than the sandlot. Bigger than politics.

I had a funny feeling that I'd remember this moment forever.

About the author

Emily Roth’s short fiction has been published by The Masters Review, Reflex Fiction, Exposition Review, and others. She lives in Chicago with her rescue dog, Obie, where she works as a librarian. Follow her on Twitter @emilymroth, and read more of her work at https://emilymroth.wordpress.com.

About the illustration

The illustration is John F. Kennedy presidential campaign button, 1960. Used under the the Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike 4.0 International License: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/