"Okay, so each team starts out with an account balance of $800 to spend for the first year, including interest rates. Is that it?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Oh, okay. Just making sure. Wasn't present the other day, so this activity's a bit cloudy to me."

"So now we're doing bidding against the other teams for 4 additional fishing boats? How much money do you think we should bid?"

She doesn't respond verbally.

The prices placed by each group, written on shredded pieces of scrap paper, are to be seen only by the teacher in order to prevent other teams from learning one another's bids, and knowing whether or not theirs is high enough.

She uses a series of hand gestures to 'spell' out the number 200.

"That won't be enough to secure the auction," I say, rather bluntly, "even if it cuts our current funds in over half, I still think we'll need to place at least $450."

"No," she scowls, spelling out her adamantly-chosen number 200 again for whatever reason.

Well, it seems we have ourselves another real-life godmodder.

I don't let this observation of mine manifest verbally, of course. I know at least a bit better than that.

"$800 isn't a whole lot to start out with in this excercise," I say, attempting futilely to soften things up for what's to follow, "but $200 won't be enough. Not nearly enough. We'll need $400 at the very least..."

"...Unless, of course, you don't particularly wan't to win this fake auction."

She doesn't seem to think this stupid money game is just that: a game, a phony economic excercise having essentially nothing to do with ecology.

"No."

She stands adamantly by her bid, leaving no opening for discussion, even though we're expected to cooperate and agree on the best price as a group.

"I still require a bid from Team 3," Teacher announces, referring to us.

I give up.

"Fine, I don't really care either way. We'll stick with $200," I roll my eyes.

She scribbles down her bid and hands it to Teacher.

She's disgusted by my attitude. Apparently, there's something morally wrong with daring to disagree with her about anything.

What a world.

"And the winning bid goes to Team 5," Teacher announces, looking over the pieces of paper. I'm hearing softcore cheering coming from up front.

"See? I told you."

She scowls at me. Having a lousy day, maybe?

So we're moving on to year 2 on the chart. We need to decide how to distribute our four fishing boats for maximum profit.

Boats sent far out to sea reap the highest profits, at the operating cost of $250.

Boats sent to coastal waters reap a smaller profit, at less of a price: $150.

Boats left in the harbor harvest no fish, obviously, but cost a mere $50 to make use of the harbor.

If we run out of funds, we have the option of receiving a loan from the bank, but only if we manage to secure zero profit or higher and avoid debt.

"So we'll send one boat out to sea, one to the coastline, and two to the harbor," she states rather than suggests.

"With just four boats, that set-up won't earn us nearly enough money in the end to make any profit," I say, "if we send two out to sea and two to the coast -- a cost of exactly $800 -- we'll have no money, but our profits should cause our funds to rebound and double by the next year."

"Don't you know that doing that costs too much money?" she replies, "we're doing it this way: one to sea, one to the coast, and two to the harbor."

I shake my head, knowing that we would only have less money to spend in year 2 than we do this year if we go her way.

It saves money by reducing profit to a negative margin," I don't even know why I think I'm actually capable of changing her mind, "another option besides the first one I suggested would be to send three boats out to sea and one to the shore - at $900, too expensive - but if we borrow money from the bank--"

"No way. I can't stand going into debt," she interrupts.

"This isn't real debt."

"You know what? You can just stop complaining, okay?"

"I'm not complaining; I'm trying to have a discussion with you and find a price we both can agree on - something we're expected to do."

"Besides," I add, "it's just a stupid game. Don't take it so seriously."

"Uh, for your information, I'm taking this game very seriously."

I'm just about to explain to her why both of my proposals work better than hers, but she proceeds to start raising her voice level and begins angrily rambling on about how rude and annoying I'm being.

I'm not showing any emotion right now, for I feel none.

Her ranting causes heads to turn in our direction, and grabs Teacher's attention.

I give up, for real this time.

"You know what? You're in charge," I say flatly just as Teacher walks over and asks to have a word with both of us out in the hallway.

My teammate, mumbling furiously and acting as though nothing that ever happens to her is her own fault, fast-walks out the door.

I follow suit as ordered, but I'm not angry, or even particularly agitated.

Hands in my pockets. Casually strolling out the door in front of Teacher to prove that I'm nothing like my teammate.

After some brief counseling or whatnot, Teacher decides to move me from Team 3 to Team 6, which has much more open-minded peers composing it, while my teammate remains on Team 3 with the third person in the group, who never spoke a word during the argument.

On Team 6, my peers listen to my advice, and in no time at all we're the second-placers among the six teams, behind only Team 5, the three-time highest boat auction bidders. Not bad, really.

We worked things out so well mostly because none of us really cared. The three of us silently agreed to mix carelessness with common sense and financial know-how, and our profits remained consistent, although small.

For the rest of the game, Team 3 remains in last place.