“My name is Clyde,” Clyde said. “I’m eight years old.”
“I know you. We ate lunch together last year. You don’t remember?”
“Of course, I remember. I didn’t think you remembered. It was only once, and you never spoke to me the entire time,” Clyde said.
“I know.”
Clyde had silently hoped the art teacher would put him next to her because he hated watching the other kids, many of them his own friends, be mean to her.
“Give me your hand,” Princess said.
“Why?”
“Give me your hand.” She grabbed his hand in both of her slightly larger hands and jerked it up and down hard, almost violently. Clyde let out a little cry of pain as several of the other kids sitting nearby laughed.
“Now we are friends,” the girl said, and turned back to the turtle she was trying to draw.
Clyde turned back to the turtle he was trying to draw.
Art class only happened once a week, and the school piled all the 2nd and 3rd graders in a big classroom and told them to draw something with little explanation. None of the pictures ever looked good, but as long as you tried you passed.
“Hey, can I say something?” Clyde said, trying to catch her attention.
“I know, your name is Clyde and you are eight years old.”
“No. I mean, yes, but I mean no because I was going to say something different this time.”
The girl stopped drawing again and turned to Clyde. She waited but did not speak, which confused Clyde about whether she wanted to talk.
“Are you a real princess, or is that just your name?”
“I am Princess. Of course, I am real. Aren’t you real?”
“I am,” said Clyde. Part of him wanted to say that he had never seen a princess like her before, with uncombed hair and oversized clothes, but he didn’t. Instead he said, “Neat, I’ve never met a princess before.”
Princess smiled.
“Can I be your prince?” Clyde asked.
“No,” the Princess replied. “But you can be my Clyde.”