It felt like he’d been here before—not just in art class, but here, about to say what he was about to say.
“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 would. It was only once, and you never spoke to me the entire time,” Clyde said.
“I know.”
Clyde had secretly hoped the art teacher would seat him next to her. 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 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 kids laughed. He noticed a beautiful ring on one of her fingers—it looked like his mother’s.
“Now we are friends,” she said, turning back to the turtle she was drawing.
Clyde returned to his own turtle.
Art class happened only once a week. All the second- and third-graders were packed into one classroom and told to draw something, with very little explanation. None of the pictures ever looked particularly good, but as long as you tried, you passed.
“Hey, can I say something?” Clyde said.
“I know. Your name is Clyde, and you’re eight years old.”
“No. I mean, yes—but I wanted to say something different this time.”
Princess stopped drawing and looked at him. She waited silently, which confused him. Did she want him to speak?
He was sure this had happened before, but it couldn’t have. Still, he pressed on.
“Are you a real princess, or is that just your name?”
“I am Princess. Of course I am real. Aren’t you real?”
“I think so,” said Clyde, but he wasn’t even sure this moment was real.
“Neat. I’ve never met a real princess before.” He said, but hadn’t he met this one?
Princess smiled.
He remembered doing this before and having his heart broken, yet he couldn’t stop himself.
“Can I be your prince?” Clyde’s words hung in the air, as if a pudding-like black goo were blocking them. This was when it always happened he remembered now. Her words—her answer—even though this was the first time. The words circled in his head, echoing, folding back on themselves. He’d always be nothing but a Clyd…
“Yes,” Princess said.
This was different, and in a very good way. Clyde wanted to cry or laugh—or both—but he was too stunned. He wondered why his heart wasn’t racing, then remembered it had stopped in a car. Everything was strange, yet suddenly right. The classroom seemed to shimmer for a heartbeat, and in that shimmer he saw himself on a white horse, on a golden throne, the ring on her finger he had rescued from a dragon cave as an old man. He saw it all—folded together, past and future, real and imagined, but for how long would it last?
“Forever and ever,” she said.