17. “Royalty” - Egzod Maestro Chives #2
“My response to life is the only thing I can control.” She says it like it’s an obvious thing, understanding what is and isn’t within your control.
“What happened?” I say quietly, not trusting my voice.
“My boyfriend got distracted while driving. We were fighting over the radio dial. He ran off the side of the road, and the car rolled down the incline. The passenger side took the brunt of the impact.” She tells it like she’s rattling off events for her history teacher.
“I’m fortunate it was only my spine that broke. ”
Fortunate? God, is she delusional?
“I don’t know how you do it,” I say meekly. I’ve had nothing like the struggles she has, yet my happiness looks as fake as a smiley-face bumper sticker next to hers.
“I still have so much to be grateful for. Focusing on that and not on my problems helps a lot.”
I shake my head and the thoughts in it, trying to get them to fall into a place that makes sense.
Preston nudges my elbow from behind. “We need to be moving to the next room,” he says under his breath.
I step toward Samantha’s bed and place my hand on the blanket next to her. “You are an inspiration.” I reach to wipe at the tear dangling from my eyelashes before remembering I’m wearing rubber gloves.
“Thank you for coming.” Her smile beams into the center of my soul. “This made my year.”
As we leave the room, Preston whispers, “Hold on to that tear. The press is waiting for us outside.”
I school my features into as much casualness as I can and follow him into the hall, Davies at my side. “See to it that someone interviews that dear girl,” I say. “Her story needs to be nationally broadcast.”
As promised, there are several reporters lining the corridor of the hospital when we step out of Samantha’s room.
Cameras are already running. We duck into the next patient’s room like we’re trying to escape, but all I can think is that I hope all this effort is worth it.
Even if it’s not, I will never forget the girl in room 1086.
Drayton Center for Young Learning is a primary school located in the Junction, a neighborhood of Wesbourne City known for its gang violence and crime.
The brick front of the building looks tired and depressed, as if it’s seen more than its fair share of life.
The concrete steps leading to the doors are cracked, weeds sprouting through them.
A large oak tree sits in the front yard, shading a good portion of the school from the afternoon sun.
Preston prepped me for this visit on the way over. Most of the information was unnecessary, but we’re trying to avoid what happened in Samantha’s room. It doesn’t look good when the monarch doesn’t know anything about the people she’s meeting.
We’ve arranged to visit several of the classrooms. There won’t be time for all of them, but Preston agreed to an assembly with all of the children in the gymnasium so they can at least get a chance to see me and wave before we need to leave.
Davies seems on high alert as we enter the school. With unemployment and crime high in this section of town, the boredom and depression can lead to devastating consequences. He didn’t want me to come here, but Preston insisted it was important for my image.
As expected, the press has followed us here, although I doubt they’ll be allowed inside. Two security guards inspect our bags when we enter. The click of cameras penetrates the glass of the front doors.
There is a cluster of faculty waiting for us inside.
They bump each other as politely as possible, all wanting to be the one to “fetch you some water, ma’am” and “if you need anything, please let us know.” I greet them and shake their hands before Preston says we need to move on to the children if we’re to keep to our schedule.
The headmaster leads us down the corridor. It smells of mildew and chalk. The floors are bumpy, and the tile is cracked in multiple places. I’m surprised the city hasn’t deemed it unsafe for kids. If someone were to trip and go down on this tile, the bruises would be significant.
I’m scheduled to visit Mrs. Humphrey’s first-grade class first. The headmaster pops his head in to let them know I’ve arrived.
When we step inside, the students are deathly quiet for a group of six-year-olds.
Every child has stopped what they are doing to stare, around thirty sets of eyes glued to me from each corner of the classroom.
A little girl holding a giant collection of plastic dinosaurs in her arms is the first to move. She walks up to me, stops right before she treads on my toes, and says, “Are you the queen?”
I laugh and crouch down in front of her. “I am. Pleased to meet you.” I’d offer to shake her hand, but hers are a little preoccupied at the moment.
“I’m so sorry.” A woman in her early fifties approaches and both bows and curtsies. “I meant to have them all lined up and teach them to bow but”—she waves her arms around her in a circle—“it’s like corralling circus cats around here. I’m Mrs. Humphrey.”
We shake hands, then she allows a few of them to ask me questions. After I tell them that no, I don’t know Santa Claus, no, I’ve never ridden a dragon, and yes, I have a real crown, Mrs. Humphrey has them all sit down while she passes out coloring pages.
Their tiny plastic chairs look older than the ones I remember using in primary school. The children settle into them like a hungry mob, grabbing crayons and markers from the baskets in the middle of their tables.
I use my hand to fan my face. The air is practically stifling in here. The extra body heat we brought with us doesn’t help.