Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance)(135)

“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.