Count On Me

by Abigail Graham

  “Can we leave now? Please?”

  “As soon as my people arrive. I will hand you off to one of my adjutants who will arrange the details. Then you may speak to your daughter again. When you are on the plane, I will arrange a video conferencing call.”

  “Oh God, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “It… It is my pleasure…” he says mechanically.

  He hands the phone off, as he says, to one of his men, who speaks in curt, accented English.

  “Everyone out,” he says in a flat, quiet tone.

  It’s like someone set off an alarm. Everyone on the entire floor just vanishes, even the guards at Melissa’s door.

  Everyone but me. I stand to my full height, such as it is.

  “It is a shame you refuse to be a princess. You would be a magnificent one.”

  I cock my head to the side.

  “Maybe you’re not completely evil. Now, can I call my parents?”

  “I will consider it.”

  “But—”

  “Enough.”

  I close my mouth sharply and tilt my head down.

  The prince reaches over and pushes my chin back up with his fingers.

  “I like you better with your head held high. You’re prettier that way.”

  I bat his hand away. “Don’t get grabby, mister fancy pants.”

  He laughs. “You berate me for inspiring so much fear. I think my men were more scared of you than they were of their prince just now.”

  I smile but quickly force my face still.

  I really shouldn’t encourage him.

  “If you think you can buy your way into my pants with kindness to my friend, you’re wrong.”

  “What would it take me to convince you that I was moved by your pleas? Truly?”

  “I don’t know if you can.”

  Just for a bare moment he glances at the floor. Then he simply turns and walks, expecting me to follow. I quicken my pace to catch up, and it’s like someone hit a giant pause button. All the activity in the hospital resumes, people just sweeping right back to work as we pass, as if nothing happened.

  Almost nothing. I can still taste it on the air, the tension. Like ozone before a thunderstorm. I can sense the relief, too, as we step into the elevator.

  “You don’t see it at all, do you?”

  “What?”

  “These people are terrified of you. Truly afraid.”

  “Do you not fear the police in your country?”

  “In my country?” I repeat, my eyebrow twitching as I eye him.

  He sighs.

  “Yeah. I am a little scared of cops if I think I might get in trouble. I don’t come from the land of sunshine and lollipops. But if I was at work and the president came to visit me, yeah I’d be a little intimidated, but I wouldn’t be afraid that he’d murder me if I sneezed in front of him.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “It’s called hyperbole.”

  “I don’t murder my people.”

  “When you call yourself judge and jury and act as the executioner, yeah, you do.”

  “Why does it matter that these things be done separately?”

  “One person shouldn’t have all that power over another person’s life. What if you chop off someone’s head, and you’re wrong?”

  I almost expect him to tell me he doesn’t make mistakes, but instead he says, “Your country uses the death penalty, too.”

  “Yes… But there’s a difference. There are rules of evidence and the court is supposed to be unbiased. I’m not saying it’s perfect, but did you execute that man I watched you kill because the evidence demanded it or because he pissed you off?”

  “Both. Wait,” he says sharply. “I don’t know. Do you argue he didn’t deserve to die?”

  “No. Maybe, I don’t know. He’s not a good example. He was a complete piece of shit, yes, but maybe whether he deserves to die or not, it isn’t up to you to decide.”

  “Yet it is done in your country.”

  “Not everywhere. Look, I don’t know if capital punishment is right or wrong. I can’t make up my mind, but the government of my country has that power because the people have granted it to them. The people can take it away, and they have in many states. You only have that power because nobody can stop you. The only difference between you and any other thug is a castle and a fancy armor suit.”

  I expect him to snap at me again, but he looks almost thoughtful as he regards me. Then his expression shifts.

  “You are very passionate when something angers you.”

  I look away, hoping the harsh hospital lighting won’t let him see me blush. I have to control myself. In spite of however I try to make myself feel, I get a little tingle every time he praises me.

  The prince opens my door to the car in a gentlemanly gesture and steadies me as I step inside before entering himself.

  He sits back in the seat.

  “Why did you help her?”

  “Who?”

  “My friend. You could have just dragged me off if you liked, you didn’t have to do that.”

  “I dislike the sound of a woman in distress. It…aggravates me.”

  “I think you do care about these people, on some level. Part of you has to see that this isn’t right.”

  “I tire of this line of conversation.”

  I sigh. “Will you let them go home? Her parents? If she can’t leave, why can they?”

  He clenches his jaw. “I don’t know. You make me regret my rash decision.”

  “You should let her go.”

  “If I let her go, her life is forfeit. Do you doubt me? You think the people who were ready to sell you will protect you? I will protect you!”

  I shrink back and swallow hard.

  “You’re not protecting her. Locking her in that room forever will kill her as surely as some assassin’s bullet, my prince.”

  He leans forward. “I tire of this. We go back to the castle.” He clasps his head between his hands. “You make it sound as if my every choice is between one evil or another. I’d rather not choose at all.”

  “We’re not going back to the castle.”

  He lifts his head from his hands and looks at me.

  “You promised me you’d show me around. Show me people, not horses and hawks. I want to see how people live here. You promised.”

  He sighs, hard. “Very well. Where would you like to go?”

  “It’s lunchtime. Let’s eat.”

  7

  “I do not know where you would wish to eat.”

  I bite my lip and think about that one for a moment.

  Then it hits me.

  “Show me a school.”

  “A school?”

  “Yes, a school. With children.”

  The prince looks away. “As you wish.”

  I fold my arms over my chest and sit up in the seat. “Last night, you asked me to have your child. Which is not how it is done, I might add.”

  “People in my country believe a strong mother begets a strong child.” He considers that for a moment, idly scratching his chin. “And you have birthing hips.”

  I glare at him.

  He gives the driver an order, and off we go, away from the hospital. I look back, silently praying that the prince will be good to his word and help Melissa. He seemed moved on the phone.

  I glance over at him, trying not to catch his attention. I want to believe that my instinct is more than attraction, that there is more than the flutter in my chest when his sharp eyes look at me, more than the longing for his powerful arm and thick chest, and that feeling I get when he walks in front of me.

  He has a great ass. I noticed. Can you blame me?

  It’s layers and layers of masks with this guy. I saw it when Melissa’s mom was pleading with him on the phone. The mask slipped and I saw the man underneath.

  I want to see that again.

  He glances at me and I look away quickly, shivering as all the heat in my body goes to my
cheeks. I fold my hands and end up wringing them for the rest of the ride.

  “Here we are,” he says as the car stops.

  You could have fooled me. This doesn’t look like a school.

  This time I wait for him to walk around, open my door, and offer me his hand. I grip the handle above the door and lower myself down without touching him, keep my chin up, and walk toward the front entrance of the school. Kosztylan is close enough to Solkovian that I can read the legend printed above the door: Secondary Elementary, No. 19. No name, nothing like that.

  “Secondary elementary?”

  “What you would call…” he furrows his brow, “fourth grade through sixth. Older children, not yet adolescents.”

  “Tell me about it. The education system here.”

  He steps beside me and opens the door.

  “School begins at three. From birth to the child’s third birthday, the mother is given a stipend and expected to stay home from work.”

  “Generous, but then she can’t advance her career.”

  “There is no advancing of careers here. Work is not a competition. From each according to their ability.”

  I stop in the lobby, at least I think it’s a lobby, and look at him.

  “Who decides what their ability is?”

  “Let me finish telling you. At age three children enter a crèche… I think the American expression is day care. It lasts from an hour before the workday begins at six in the the morning… What?”

  He must be reading the look on my face. Admittedly it’s not going to be hard to read. My jaw dropped.

  “You make them get up at six in the morning?”

  “No, they are collected at six. Most of the younger children are still asleep when the caregivers pick them up from their homes and take them to the crèche. They spend the next twelve hours there—”

  “You make everyone work twelve hours a day?”

  “No, nine with an hour lunch period in the middle. The extra time is to allow parents some time to prepare meals for their children.”

  “Can I ask you something before you finish?”

  “Ask.”

  “What kind of meals?”

  “Food is rationed based on the results of biyearly blood tests and a yearly physical to… You’re staring at me again.”

  “My God,” I breathe. “That’s horrible. You tell people what they can eat?”

  “Yes. Would you rather I have an obesity and heart disease epidemic?”

  “I’d rather kids get to have some cake or candy.”

  “The restrictions are lifted during the festival days. As I was saying, academic instruction begins at the age of seven. Given your background in the field, you should know that the latest research indicates that instruction before that age is generally wasted, outside of basic reading and arithmetic skills. My early education teachers are trained to guide the children through structured play to help them build…”

  I make a rolling motion with my hand. “Right, then what?”

  He grits his teeth then sucks in a breath. “They are further divided by age. Seven, eight, and nine year olds together, then ten through thirteen. At age thirteen, children are put into small classes designed to assess their various intelligences and skills, administered a test, and start on a career path when they reach their fourteenth birthday.”

  “It’s by age? There’s no summer vacation?”

  “Don’t be absurd. What an enormous waste of time that would be. They get four days off per month, same as adults. If they fall ill, they are taken to a clinic and…”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You don’t let them have sick days? You don’t let mothers care for their sick children?”

  “Why? Their mothers aren’t nurses. Well, some of them are. I thought you wanted to see the school.”

  “Is this the lobby?”

  He nods. “I suppose. A place for parents to wait when they are called in for meetings. There is a bimonthly review process…”

  “You can stop telling me about your processes now. God. This doesn’t look like any school I’ve been in.”

  He folds his big arms and cocks his head. “What do schools look like, then?”

  “There’s no drawings, no art, no trophy cases here. Where’s all the finger paintings and class projects the kids do? It looks like no one even comes here.”

  “There are no drawings because I don’t waste their time with unproductive activities. There are no trophy cases because I don’t make them compete. They’re all equal.”

  “That’s horrible,” I whisper. “I’m not sure I want to see this.”

  “Then we should go—”

  “No. It’s lunchtime, right? Take me to the cafeteria.”

  “They eat at their desks. I learned the custom from a visit to Japan. Very efficient, and promotes unity—”

  “Whatever, just show me.”

  I can feel him bristling, but I’m starting to lose my patience.

  I love kids. I always loved kids. I started working with them while I was still a student myself, tending to preschoolers for a class credit when I was a senior in high school. When I remark on this to the prince, he gives me a side eye and keeps walking.

  He chooses a door, seemingly at random, and knocks.

  The teacher opens it a moment later and, judging by the look on her face, nearly shits herself when she sees who just knocked on her door. Her face goes milk white and she steps back in quickly, lowering her gaze to his shoes.

  I step past him and walk inside. She doesn’t acknowledge me. The kids all look up from their lunches at once. There’s a cart for their food trays where lunch was brought in. They’re eating steamed carrots and broccoli, and what looks like boiled chicken with a little pepper and salt.

  Oh, he gives them a cookie. At least, I think it was a cookie. Almost every single kid ate theirs first except one, who is biting on hers in between bites of bland veggies and unflavored chicken to try to make it taste like something.

  They all just stare at me.

  The teacher trembles, no doubt wondering what offense she’s committed to draw this kind of attention on herself. I can almost see her formulating a plea and weighing whether or not to offer it to this man who has total authority over her entire existence.

  God, it’s so plain in here. Even the teacher wears a plain gray dress, and the kids are all wearing uniforms, identical down to their shoes, all gray and black. The only color is from a world map and the coat of arms hanging from the wall, mustard yellow and black. There are no drawings, no pictures, no projects, no hermit crab in a terrarium, nothing but books with plain gray covers. Even the pencils are a drab neutral shade.

  I start to shake looking at this. It takes everything I have not to turn around and vent my fury on him.

  Then I hear a whisper, from the back row. They’re talking. My lips twitch, and I fight to suppress a smile.

  Kids are kids. They’re afraid of spiders and the dark and monsters under their beds. They’re afraid when Mommy is sick or when Daddy is late from work, but they’re too inexperienced, or maybe too smart, to be scared of the stupid shit that frightens adults. They look at the prince with absolute wonder, like they’ve never seen a man before. It wouldn’t surprise me if he has some dumb rationale for all the teachers being female; it might be they never have seen a man at school before.

  I take a good look at him. I meet his eye. Then I grab a spare chair and sit down right in front of the closest kid.

  The prince turns to the teacher.

  “Ring the office and tell them to bring a teacher’s lunch for the lady and myself.”

  “No,” I add haltingly, in broken Kosztylan splashed with Solkovian. “Give me what they eat.”

  “It’s not enough for an adult,” the prince interjects.

  “Then I’ll eat a double lunch. Please.”

  He eyes me then nods at the teacher. “As she commands… As she says. The same for me, no teacher lunch.”

 
; Meanwhile this kid is staring at me, wide eyed and shaking a little, with excitement or fear, maybe both.

  “Hi,” I say to the kid.

  His brown eyes go even wider.

  “Hello. I am proud to speak English.”

  I jerk back, surprised. “You speak very well. My name is Penny.”

  “I am Klaus.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Klaus.”

  I offer him my hand. He wraps his tiny fingers around mine and gives me a fair shake.

  “Are you from America?”

  “Yes I am.”

  Another voice chirps out, “What’s it like there?”

  The entire room goes silent. The little girl who asked me sinks into her seat like she wants to disappear, and the teacher looks at me, mortified. I look at the prince.

  “You may ask her questions. One at a time.”

  I put on my teacher voice and speak slowly, to make sure they understand me.

  “That’s a big question! America is a very big country, much, much, much bigger than Kosztyla. The state of Pennsylvania where I come from is bigger than this whole land.”

  The girl frowns. “But…”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s better, honey. Just different. In America there are forests and plains, deserts and jungles, mountains and deep lakes. You can drive for days and days and you’ll still be in America. It’s three thousand miles from one side to the other, and that doesn’t include Alaska and Hawaii, way up north and out in the ocean!”

  Someone, either a custodian or a cafeteria worker, arrives with another cart with our lunches.

  I stand up and take mine then walk over and sit on the floor at the front of the room, leaning up against the wall.

  I look at the prince and pat the floor next to me.

  He shifts on his feet, and for a fleeting second looks at the kids—nervous. Then he walks over and sits down, legs folded, back straight, shoulders back.

  The kids look at me like I’m an alien until the boy I was sitting in front of gets the hint. He picks up his lunch and walks over, sits down, and balances the tray in his lap, seated in front of me, waiting for me to go on. I lift the lid from my tray and use the plastic spork and knife I’ve been provided to saw into my chicken.

  It’s not bad, it’s just so bland.