BENCHED

by Abigail Graham

  "I can't work with them in here," Jason says. "They throw off the feng shui of the whole room."

  "He's not going to touch me," I tell them.

  "Nope," he agrees.

  "If he touches me I'll scream and you'll break his legs," I tell them.

  Thorlief gives me a peculiar look I can’t read, and leads Bjorn away.

  "Yep," he agrees. "Wait, what?"

  I give him a sharp smile and spread a napkin on the table, then open my pocketknife and use the can-opener attachment on the tuna. I drop the wet lid neatly in my now-empty bag, squeeze out the mayonnaise, and mix it into the meat with my spork.

  "Are you seriously going to eat tuna out of a can with mayonnaise on it?"

  "I like fish."

  "It's not even cold. Why do they even sell that in the minimart?"

  I shrug and eat small bites from the can, then peel my orange.

  When I dip a segment of the fruit in the tuna and pop it in my mouth, Jason makes a disgusted noise, as if he's about to spit out his Super Protein XXXTreme Power Bar 9000.

  It actually said that on the label.

  He stares in horror. "What are you doing?"

  "You don't eat fruit with fish?"

  "No!"

  I shrug. "I do." I pop the next piece in my mouth, but salt it first.

  Jason looks at me as though I have two heads.

  "Does this mean you no longer find me attractive?"

  "Sugar Buns, I could watch you eat an orange all day. Even if you do put tuna salad on it. Shitty tuna salad. You know tuna salad has onions, right?"

  "I don't like onions," I sneer, then wash down my meal with half of my milk carton.

  Jason eats his energy bars so fast they seem to disappear as soon as he peels back the wrapper, all the while chugging his chocolate milk.

  "You keep looking at the bottle," he says, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm.

  "I have never had chocolate milk."

  He gapes at me. "Are you sure you're not really an alien?"

  I snatch the bottle from him and take it in both hands, and tip it back.

  I lower it slowly, swirling the sweet milk in my mouth. I have never tasted such a complex flavor before, so many notes, though the sweetness nearly overwhelms it.

  "You're looking at that bottle like you want to take it home."

  "I'm more likely to take the bottle home than I am you."

  "You're breaking my heart."

  "I don't think it's your heart that pines for me."

  "Oh it does. The other part gets wood for you."

  I roll my eyes. "That was almost clever."

  "Thanks. Come sit on my lap and we'll talk about the Gospel of Wealth." He pats his knee.

  I start to blush.

  Stop it, Anastasia.

  "Are you forgetting I threatened to have your arms broken?"

  "It was my legs, and you only said that so you could get me alone and ravish me."

  "It was your legs, and it was five minutes ago. I have a good memory."

  "So you remember this morning when you were sitting on—"

  A flush creeps up my neck. I do in fact remember. I remember well. I glance at his crotch and remember very intensely. I look up and he's grinning.

  "You are so damn cute. Cuter when you're embarrassed."

  "Are we going to study? If not, I am leaving."

  He lets out a long sigh. "Yeah. Do you want to go first, or should I?"

  "We shall study your subject first. Show me where you are having trouble."

  He sits up and spreads out an exam paper on the table. I slide it over in front of me and look it up and down. He is going through these geometry problems all wrong. I tap the page with my pencil.

  "You don't know what you're doing."

  "Right. That would be the problem, Princess."

  "You weren't paying attention to the fundamentals."

  "Right, right."

  "Are you listening to me, or am I just here to be ogled?"

  "I'm listening, seriously."

  I sit up. "Each one of these problems builds on a simpler exercise. Let's us consider the cylinder. What is a cylinder?"

  "My—"

  "I'm leaving," I tell him and start packing my things.

  "Okay, okay. A cylinder is a round thing that's flat on both ends."

  "Good enough. Does it have anything in common with other shapes?"

  "Yeah, a circle."

  "Good." I draw a rough circle on a piece of scratch paper. "A cylinder's two-dimensional basis is a circle. Now, how does one calculate the area of a square?"

  "Length times width." He rolls his eyes. "Are we going back to grade school?"

  I ignore his sally. "How do we transform a square into a cube?"

  "Depth."

  "Depth or height, yes, and we multiply the length times the width times the height. In effect, we stretch the square into a cube and measure it that way. Does that make sense?"

  "Wait, you do the same thing with a cylinder? Just stretch it?"

  "Yes."

  "Why didn't they tell me that?"

  I shrug. "That is not how they wish to teach you, I suppose."

  "Show me how it works. Take me through it step by step."

  For the next hour, he is perfectly serious and a perfect gentleman. I take him through the volume and surface area of a cylinder, cone, and pyramid.

  "How is it you had difficulty with this before? Were you faking being unable to complete these assignments to get closer to me?"

  "No," he says, smirking. "I don't need tricks to get closer to you. Okay, it's your turn. Let's do you."

  I raise my eyebrow and press my trembling lips tightly together. Do not smile, Anastasia.

  "I meant do your studies, not something perverted. Why would you think that? You have such a dirty mind for such a pretty girl."

  I start to blush again and will myself to stop. It only makes my cheeks burn hotter. I try to distract him by pulling out my textbook.

  "I'm behind on the reading. I need help with it. I…." I can't finish the sentence. I look down at the floor.

  He brushes my arm with the back of his hand. "Tell me."

  "I have trouble reading English."

  "That's okay. I can't even try to read… whatever you speak."

  "No, you can't," My voice chokes a little. "That's different. I'm expected to—"

  "Hey, calm down. You don't need to get so upset. It's not that important."

  "Yes it is," I shout.

  "Hey, library. Shush."

  I sink into the seat and sigh. My eyes burn with tears. "It is important."

  "Why does it matter so much? I'll get you through it."

  I look at my feet. I always look at my feet when I'm nervous.

  Unless Mother snatches up my chin.

  I look up abruptly.

  "Princess? Ana?"

  "I didn't give you permission to call me that."

  "I don't need permission. People call each other by name when they're friends. I'm tired of the princess. I like Ana better."

  I bite my lip. "Mother attended this institution," I tell him. "She never failed a class, or an exam, or a paper, or an assignment. She did it all perfectly. She mastered English before she even arrived. I don't know how she did it. It is such a difficult language to read. I keep jumbling things up."

  "I'll help. Come here."

  I glare at him.

  "I mean it, I'm not making a dumb joke about sitting on my lap. Sit next to me and we'll read and talk about the book. Come on. It's just you and me, and I don't care if you stumble."

  I consider it for a moment, then slide along the seat until I'm next to him, hip to hip. He is true to his word and doesn't throw his arm over my shoulders or try to take me into his lap. I am overwhelmed by his presence anyway. He's so big.

  He pulls my book into his lap and spreads it open.

  "You said you're behind. The marker?"

  I nod and he opens the book.
>
  "Read aloud."

  I freeze. "I can't."

  "Would it help if we close the door?"

  My eyes narrow. "Why?"

  He puts up his hand. "I swear I won't touch you unless you invite me to. You have my sworn oath. I swear on my love of Rice Krispies Treats."

  "You're joking," I snap. "I'm done."

  "I mean it, Ana. I want to help."

  I sit back a tiny bit, and look at him. Hard. "Why?"

  "I saw a damsel in distress. I'm a Knight. It's what I do."

  "I am not a damsel."

  "You're pretty much the definition."

  I groan in annoyance. Then I stand up and swing the door shut, closing out not just my bodyguards, but the rest of the world too.

  Hesitantly, I sit down next to him. When I breathe in, his scent fills my nostrils. I can feel the heat of his body pulling me in, like the heat of a fire on a freezing day.

  Quietly, I start to read aloud, then with more confidence. When I stumble over a sentence, he breaks it down for me, reading it aloud. I am a fluent speaker, so it goes that much easier for me. When I have questions he always knows the answer. What should be a reading of about forty pages, perhaps an hour, turns into three.

  By the end of it, my head is resting on his shoulder. He takes what should be boring, dusty, old American history that even Americans don't care about and brings it alive. He does voices, he gestures, he sweeps me up in stories of battles and triumphs and defeats, of life and loss.

  I enjoy listening to him talk. He becomes so animated, so engrossed in the telling of it that he doesn't notice that I'm pressed against him, or that my hand rests on his arm.

  Finally he realizes what's happening and sits back.

  "I think that about covers it. You should have an easier time with the next assignment. Bring me your review questions before you turn them in and I'll help you proof them. Grandolf docks points for grammar."

  "She would," I huff.

  He starts to pack up.

  "I need help with something else," I say quickly.

  "I have practice in the morning. It's seven o'clock already."

  "Please?"

  He sighs, and the look in his eyes begins to melt something inside me. I can feel the heat of it spreading through my chest.

  "Well, since you asked like that. What is it?"

  I draw out The Great Gatsby and show it to him, holding it in both hands.

  "Sit down," he sighs.

  I join him by his side again. He opens to the first page.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Ana, if you have that much trouble with a history book, you're not ready to read this. There's nothing wrong with that, but we need to accept it. You're going to have to take a hard exam on this book and you need to know it. We can help you with your reading another time. I'm going to read it to you. Just listen, then we'll talk about it. Okay?"

  He begins to read.

  I listen.

  I fall into the words as they leave his mouth. He reads neither slow, nor fast, but his voice breathes life into the words in a way I never could by reading them on my own. My eyes drift halfway closed, and I let his voice carry me off, lift me up and bear me into the world of the story. Again he never says a word as I lean on his shoulder, or slip my arms around his great, thick bicep. I don't even know why I do it, except that I enjoy the warmth of him, the way his body shifts when he takes massive breaths. After two hours we have only read the first two weeks' assignments, and he stops.

  We talk about the book. He asks me about the characters, but not what I expect—who they are, where they came from, facts. He asks how I feel about them, how I feel about Gatsby, whether I think he is good or bad or something in between. I have not made up my mind yet. I don't like Daisy. I think she is vapid and superficial, and I do not know what to make of Nick at all, except it seems pathetic to me that he clings to these people who clearly look down upon him. Jason points out that Gatsby is not one of them either, and I think on that.

  "You don't have royalty in America," I observe. "No princesses."

  "No, not unless we borrow them from remote Scandinavian islands full of warrior women."

  I sit up and jab his arm with my fist. He grins at me, and I start to say something, but my mouth closes. I feel warm all over. My hand has taken on a life of its own and is stroking Jason's arm. I yank it back like I was touching a hot stove and feel myself turn even redder. My clothes suddenly feel too hot and tight around my neck.

  "It's late. Almost nine. Can I walk you back?"

  "I have armed guards."

  "Her Grace's royal person should have the finest protection. Let me walk with you."

  I take in a deep breath. It's like sucking ice into my lungs. I hate what I have to say.

  "Listen to me, please." I grip his arm in both hands. "I can't date you. I can't be involved with you."

  "You want to."

  "No. I don't," I lie.

  "You're lying to me, Princess. That's not very nice. I thought I was helpful tonight."

  "You were, but you have to understand—"

  "I know. I'm not good enough. I should have figured."

  "No," I blurt out. "No that's not true."

  "Then what is true, Princess?"

  I swallow, hard. "I have to marry someone else."

  "Who?"

  I think of Mortimer and my stomach sours.

  He blinks. "What, like… arranged?"

  The way he says it makes its sounds so barbaric and primitive.

  "Yes," I say in a very tiny voice. "Don't you know who I am?"

  He looks at me warmly and rests his hand on my shoulder. It curves along to rest on my neck, and his other hand grips mine, lightly squeezing my fingers.

  "The prettiest girl in the world."

  "I'm a princess. Someday I'm going to be queen. I'm the heir."

  "So?"

  "So there are laws…."

  "I get it," he says, coldly. "Some shitkicker isn't good enough to be king."

  I swallow, hard. I feel sick, like I ate something rotten.

  "No, please listen. You are not a… shitkicker," I don't know what that word means. "You are a very fine man but…."

  "But what? I'm not talking about marriage anyway. I'd rather go on a real date before I propose to you."

  "I'd like that, but you have to understand that I can't."

  He seizes me by the shoulders.

  "Look at me. Look at me. Now."

  I swallow to try and wet my dry throat, but I can't. I look him in the eye.

  "Don't take your eyes off me. Look me right in the eye and tell me straight up. Tell me if you want me to leave you alone. I will. I'll never bother you again."

  My mouth works. I want to tell him, I need to tell him. If he chases me it will only break him. He can't catch me.

  I can't. The words won't come out. They stick in my throat and die there, and other words scream at me to be said.

  "If you want to be with me and some goddamn rule is the only thing stopping it, then I'm not going to give up. I want you."

  "Me?" I squeak.

  "You. Not the princess. You. Anastasia."

  I shake loose of his hands. "You don't know me."

  "I want to. Don't you want to know me?"

  I look at him. Study him. He's the most handsome man I've ever seen, and so strong, such power in his arms and hands and yet so gentle. I liked it when I lay on his shoulder and he told me stories. I'd like to know more. I've never felt what I feel now about anyone.

  My eyes burn.

  "I can't. I have to go."

  "Ana."

  I gather my things quickly, without thinking, making a mess of my carefully organized bag.

  "Ana!"

  I throw the door open and hurry out. Thorlief and Bjorn let me get halfway to the elevator before they notice and run to catch up with me.

  "Your Grace?" Bjorn asks.

  "I do not wish to speak."

  He goes silent.
Bjorn never says anything anyway. The two of them flank me in the elevator, and I feel their presence like stones about to crash down on my head. I need air. I almost run outside, and drink the cool night in deep gasps, shaking.

  I shoulder my bag, and I run. Hard. I make it back to the house in under seven minutes of nonstop, all-out running, slowing only when I reach the front steps. I twist the key in the lock and run upstairs. I neither know nor care if the guards kept up with me. I don't stop until I'm curled on my bed.

  A solid five minutes later, there is a knock on the door.

  "Princess?" Thorlief asks.

  "Go away."

  He swings the door open and steps inside anyway. I sit up as he closes it behind him, walks over, and sits on my bed.

  Through tear-blurred vision, I look at my longest-serving bodyguard. He's followed me everywhere since I was five. I'm so used to him, I barely notice him. When Mother took him into our service, he was already a grizzled veteran of wars. Now he is older. There is more silver in his hair than blond, and even more in his beard. His stomach has softened, but his massive shoulders have grown no narrower.

  "Princess, what hurts you so? Was it the boy? Tell me."

  I ignore his impertinence. I try to answer but can only snuff and sniff.

  "Tell me when you are ready."

  I snatch a tissue from the box by the bed and tear it into shreds blowing my nose and swiping at my eyes. My whole body quivers with effort. I will myself not to weep but tears leak out anyway, burning hot as they slide down my cheeks and itch along my chin.

  "He didn't hurt me. That's the problem, Thorlief."

  "You have feelings for him."

  "I don't know," I whimper. "I want to try. I want…."

  I don't know what I want. I can't finish that sentence.

  "Princess. I would only wish to see you spared this pain. You should let him go."

  I sniff into the tissue. "I can't. I can't stop thinking about him."

  "Your mother will never allow it."

  I nod and dry my tears on another tissue. "You are right."

  "Your mother, also, is not here."

  I look up.

  "The boy reminds me of myself at that age. That is why I want him to stay away from you."

  I smile, but sadly.