Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance)(136)

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.

“Needs barbecue sauce,” I say with a shrug between bites.

Another kid who’s just sat down in front of me asks, “What is ‘barbecue sauce’?” She says the words very slowly, sounding out each syllable to make sure I understand that she’s repeating what I said.

“It’s…a condiment? A sauce. It’s made of molasses and sugar and pepper, but some people use tomato paste instead, and spices, and sometimes peppers to make it spicy. People make it different ways in different places.”

“However they want?”

“That’s right, however they want.”

The kids all murmur between each other, and more of them drift over and sit down. Within a few minutes they’re all sitting there, almost but not quite talking over each other as they ask me dozens of simple but earnest questions.

“You said you can drive for days,” one of them asks me. “How do you get papers? My momma asked for papers to take us to see the ocean and she was denied.”

“Papers? You don’t need papers. You need a license to drive a car, but you only need to prove you can operate it safely, then you can go where you like.”

Another kid immediately asks, “Everyone in America has a car?”

I can feel the prince shift next to me. He’s not eating, just poking the bland nasty chicken with his fork as it goes cold. The little girl next to him stares at his cookie like she’s dying of thirst and she just found a canteen.

I reach over, pluck the cookie from his tray, and hand it to her.

He looks at me, bristling, teeth clenched. I look back evenly.

“Go ahead, honey.”

I give mine away, too. To my surprise, the kids break the cookies into halves, then quarters, and pass them around.

“Get more—” the prince starts, but I silence him with a look.

“They can share, it’s fine. No, not everyone in America has a car. Not everyone wants one.”

“So you can have one if you want? No application? No denial?”

“As long as you’re old enough and licensed, yes.”

“Are you a teacher too?”

“I… Yes. I was teaching English in Solkovia, then I came here.”

“Why?”

I look at the prince. “Ask him.”

All twenty kids look right at him. The room goes silent.

“It’s not proper for them to address me,” he says under his breath, “you just told them to…”