A moment later, she heads out to meet up with Isabel before I hear a group of children.
“I heard we’re going to meet Max Ferreira,” one of the children says as he enters the room.
It hits me then that that’s the same last name I heard at Silverstone. Different first names though. I have to assume there’s some relation but before I can question it, the rest of the children spill inside.
Their excitement electrifies the room.
“I can’t wait to meet him,” another little boy exclaims.
The children are accompanied by a woman dressed in a white button-up and black pants, with a VIP tag that denotes her position as the chaperone.
“Hello,” I greet, arm extended. “Come in.” I have her and the children take a seat around the table.
“Good morning,” I wave from the front of the table.
Six out of the ten wave back, while three give me smiles or nods. One little boy remains silent and seemingly completely unfazed by it all.
I watch him for a beat before speaking again.
I give the children and their escort a brief introduction, showing them my name tag that hangs from a yellow lanyard around my neck.
“On behalf of the collaboration between the Jacqueline Reed Foundation and Formula 1, we all welcome you to this year’s?—”
“Are you pregnant or just fat?” the little boy who’s been silent up until now suddenly asks.
A few of the other kids cover their mouths and snicker.
“Alain!” their escort chastises. She stumbles over her words in English until she switches to French to admonish him properly.
“It’s just a question,” he tells her in French, then looks slyly at me like he’s pulled one over on me.
“Yes, I’m pregnant,” I reply in French.
His eyes widen, but then he sinks lower in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.
I watch him for a few more seconds. There’s something familiar about his countenance. It reminds me of someone …
Before I let myself get sidetracked, I continue my introduction and go over the day’s events. As soon as I finish speaking, Philo Baier, the lead engineer for Krämer racing, enters. A few of the children start whispering excitedly with one another.
“Hello,” Philo greets, but it comes out more as ‘halo’ due to his German accent.
Philo keeps the children entertained by showing pictures of his career and clips of races. I make myself watch the short, one minute race videos.
If I can’t watch this, I won’t be able to watch the actual race on Sunday,I reason.
A sigh of relief passes my lips when I make it through all of Philo’s footage. He goes on to explain more about what the children will see up close today when Alain yells out, “That’s stupid!”
The children’s escort calls his name, but he keeps going.
“It doesn’t make any sense. It’s dumb. I don’t want to be here!”
“Go sit in the hallway then,” she tells him.
With slumped shoulders and a poked out lip, Alain stomps out of the room. The need to check on him overcomes me. I make eye contact with the children’s escort, and she nods when I gesture toward the hallway.
Alain’s crouched, arms folded, leaning against the wall as he stares at the concrete floor. He doesn’t say or do anything as I approach, but I notice the red splotches on his cheeks.
My heart of hearts tells me this little boy is angry at the world about something but doesn’t have the words to express himself.
