BENCHED

by Abigail Graham

  Her coquettish desk-sitting and booby-bouncy computer-using get as much rise out of me as they would out of a block of wood. It's like I see right through her.

  "Good morning, Jace. How are you?"

  "Bruised," I sigh.

  "Your ego, or your body?"

  "Both."

  "Oh, you poor boy. You should get a rubdown. I'm sure all the girls are lining up around the block to get their hands on you."

  I sigh again. I got tired of this game in my first year. I never told her I wasn't interested, mostly because all my other options for an advisor are worse. She at least listens to me. I couldn't get anyone else to sign off on my changing my major from education to history and literature—a double course load that will keep me in college for an extra year.

  "So what's up?"

  "I've been looking over your grades." She makes a little tsk-tsk sound. "You're pulling a seventy-four average for your math course for this semester. Geometry."

  "I'll pull it up."

  "I talked to your coach," she says, a little purr in her voice. "This is a big deal, Jason. You can't just blow it off and say you'll bring your grade up. You also flunked your first media aesthetics exam. I went over the syllabus with the instructor, and it's pretty clear you need to pull at least a B+ on the rest of the tests or you're not going to pass that class either. Those two could drag your average down enough to get your football scholarship pulled."

  I grunt. "I said I'll bring them up."

  "I believe you'll try, but I want to be sure. We both know how important that scholarship is, Jason. I'd hate to lose you. You've been one of my best students. I feel like we have a connection."

  Actually, I try to avoid her classes lately, but I'm not telling her that.

  "What if I got a tutor? Would that help?"

  She smiles a wolfish smile, toying with a pencil in her hands. Stroking it a little with her thumb and forefinger.

  "I could help you. Just an informal study session. I have a gift for math, you know. Geometry is my jam."

  I almost feel sorry for her. Her wedding band reminds me that I feel a little sorrier for her husband, especially since I hear rumors that she doesn't discriminate in choosing students to flatter with her feminine charms, and more than one has taken her up on it.

  "I know it's very hard," she says, "but we can handle it together. I'm a tough tutor. I'll ride you hard, and when you're finished you'll be drained, but trust me, you'll be satisfied. I'll help you with cylinders and you'll be able to grasp spheres, and then you can calculate the hypotenuse of a triangle all over my face."

  "What?"

  She blinks. "What did I say?"

  "A triangle on your face?"

  "No I didn't. I think this Thursday would work. We can make it a regular thing. We'll meet up at a restaurant, chat, study, I'll buy you dinner, then maybe we can swing by my place for dessert. My husband works Thursday nights, so he won't get in the way."

  "Uh, thanks, but I have practice on Thursdays. Listen, I'll find a tutor. If I can't grab somebody from class, the Academic Assistance Office can set me up with somebody."

  "Oh pishposh. They'll drop some sophomore tart in your lap that will spend your whole study session staring at your crotch. I'm a woman; I know how to handle a guy like you."

  "Um," I say.

  "I mean tutor a guy like you. In math."

  "Right, I'll be going now."

  I stand, give her a nod, and shoulder my bag. I stride confidently out of her office and avoid breaking into a run until I'm well of sight and earshot.

  My first class is, unfortunately, with her, so I don't have much of a reprieve. I hurry down to the lecture hall anyway, hoping I can avoid her, and see Ana.

  She's in the same class. Because I took my first two semesters as an education major, I have to take a bunch of freshman classes sprinkled throughout my remaining years of study. This is one of those, a two hundred level course in American history.

  Anastasia is already seated in the front row.

  The little half desk on her seat is unfolded, and she has her laptop on it and open, the cursor blinking on an empty page. I crane forward to look at her.

  Then I look back and see her two-man goon squad staring me down. I give the big one a wave. Each is big enough to play a heavy defense position. The bigger of the two has a bit of a belly and has gray peppered through his blond hair and beard, and generally looks like he eats rocks and shits diamonds. The other one is pretty much the same except younger and clean-shaven.

  They could probably fold me up and stuff me in a suitcase if they felt like it.

  Not that it keeps me from looking longingly at Ana. I rip a piece of paper from my notebook, peel off the little hangly things along the torn edge, and scrawl a note on it.

  To: The most beautiful princess on campus

  From: The biggest dick on campus

  Text me. Here’s my number.

  Neatly and carefully, I fold it into a paper airplane, then knock my arm back and throw it down at Ana before her goons can jump me.

  The paper airplane sails down the stadium rows, lofting in a graceful arc.

  Then the point sticks in her hair. Anastasia sputters and snatches it, almost ripping it as she spreads it open.

  Her guards are already stomping toward me.

  "Leave him alone," she says, her sweet voice ringing crystal clear across the lecture hall.

  They look at each other and step back.

  Anastasia reads the note, looks at me, and then crumples it in both hands, mashing it into a tiny ball so tight I swear if she choked it any harder, it would turn into a rock. Then she casually tosses it into the wastebasket next to the lectern.

  "Three points," I yell.

  "Leave me alone," she shouts back.

  "You're too beautiful to be alone. Marry me."

  Ana scowls and turns around, pointedly ignoring me.

  "Boy," Giganto Guard Number One warns.

  "I'm not your boy, Ragnar," I tell him, then sit back in my seat.

  More students file in, filling the hall. Grandolf arrives two minutes after the official start of class, and half the male students watch her prodigious endowments bounce as she walks down the steps on ridiculous spike pumps. The other half crane their heads to watch her hips sway from side to side.

  She drops her briefcase on the table and looks around with a grin, but it flickers a bit when her gaze passes over Princess Anastasia.

  Did I imagine that?

  Her TAs, who are coincidentally all male and fit, run up and down the lecture hall distributing papers. I'm one of the history majors, so they know me by sight. I look over my assignment, see the A+, and I am completely unsurprised. It's junior varsity crap, review questions from the textbook so all the non-majors taking the class as a requirement can pass. I've already studied this in more depth in more advanced courses.

  Anastasia happens to catch my eye.

  Okay, I'm staring at her.

  She holds her paper in trembling hands. The same assignment I did. No plus, no minus. An F is just an F. There is no qualifier.

  It's hard to see from four rows up, but a little wet spot appears on her paper, then another. Then it's sealed when she balls up her sleeve in her hand and dabs at her eyes.

  She's crying. She's fucking crying.

  Oh no, that will not do. That will not do at all.

  Grandolf turns to address the class. Or rather, face the class. She's watching Ana, and I see that faint hint of a wolf grin on her lips. Not the "I want Jason's cock" wolf grin, the other one. The mean, nasty one she gets because she enjoys humiliating students.

  That's kind of her thing. Guy? Potential moustache ride. Girl? Especially a young, pretty one? Grandolf probably fingers herself when she flunks them. Ana would be a prime target.

  I grit my teeth and clench my fists.

  While Grandolf grumbles to herself about the overhead projector, I bag up my shit and walk down to the front row, then down to wher
e Ana sits.

  "Hey," I say in a soft voice. "There's a couple empty seats in the sixth row. Come sit with me."

  She looks up with red eyes, her face an icy mask. "I'm fine where I am."

  "Come on. Please?"

  She seems a little shocked to hear me use the magic word. She blinks, and makes a half turn, without actually looking at the Viking Twins.

  "Look, I didn't ask you to go to a hotel room with me. It's over there." I point at the empty seats. "Follow me if you want."

  I turn, and, like Orpheus leading Eurydice out of hell, I dare not look back. I don't have to. I smell a cool, wintery berry scent and know Ana is following me to sit beside me, joining me as I sit. She takes a moment to arrange her stuff in silence.

  "If we're done playing musical chairs"—Grandolf scowls—"might I begin my lecture? We have a lot to cover today. We'll be looking at the roots of the Spanish-American War."

  Ana starts to type.

  I assume it's notes, but then notice she’s typing in caps.

  WHAT DO YOU WANT

  I slink down in the seat. I murmur, "I can help you. Let me ask you something. Are you any good at math?"

  "Yes," she murmurs.

  "Like, geometry?"

  "Perfect score."

  I slip out my last assignment and hold up the grade so she can see it. Her eyes widen a little.

  "I'm a history major," I whisper, barely mouthing the words. "What do you major in, anyway?"

  Her voice is very small and soft. "Business."

  "Excuse me," Grandolf cuts in from fifty feet away. "Miss DeVries."

  Ana bristles as Grandolf addresses her without her royal style. She swallows, hard. Her throat bobs. She glances at me as if begging for help.

  Oh that is it. That is just it. I'm starting to get mad.

  Calm down, Jason. Don't tilt at this windmill.

  I take a deep breath.

  Grandolf hides neither her contempt nor her malice with her expression. She stands, one foot out, like a conquering general, hands on her hips, chest out, chin tipped back.

  "Tell us, what role did William Randolph Hearst play in the buildup to the war?"

  Ana clears her throat, and I brace myself.

  Her voice is clear and high. "Hearst used his newspaper network to spread propaganda that the sinking of the USS Maine in Havana Harbor was Spanish sabotage. Most historians today agree it was an accident and the Spanish were blameless. Hearst instigated the war to benefit his partnerships with—"

  "Yes indeed," Grandolf snaps, annoyed. "If only you were so eloquent in your assignments. As I was saying, Hearst's business connections allowed him to profit from his manipulations of public opinion through leading and biased news stories, which today we refer to as 'yellow journalism'…."

  Ana fumes in her seat, bending the top of her textbook in tight fingers. I touch her arm, just above her wrist. The skinny muscles under my fingers are as tight as steel cables.

  "Hey," I murmur. "Hey, calm down."

  Ana's fury melts into something else, and he lip trembles. She scrubs at her wet eyes.

  "I want to leave," she says softly.

  "No, that's letting her win. Stay right where you are."

  I squeeze her hand, then quickly let go. Her fingers touch my palm for a moment.

  From the corner of my eye, I watch her sullenly taking notes. She's very efficient and organized in her note-taking, using a divided screen to jot down questions and ideas as she goes. I only jot down what subjects Grandolf is covering so I can brush up a bit before the tests.

  Anastasia is like steel, hard and brittle at the same time, but there's a softness in her too. Hit her too hard and she might shatter.

  Oh stop being a romantic idiot, Jason. She doesn't need a hero.

  Doesn't she, though? After all, she is a princess, and I am a knight. Sort of. A Knight.

  Grandolf doesn't call on her again for the remaining forty-five minutes of lecture. In fact, she ignores us both. It's odd she hasn't called me, as she usually does once per class, often for the more difficult questions. When she's done, she practically beats the whiteboard to death scribbling down the homework assignment: more dumb review questions.

  As the students file out, I rest my hand on Princess Anastasia's. "Hold up a minute."

  "I have another class in fifteen minutes."

  "You'll make it. I just want to ask you something."

  "If it's asking me to sleep with you, the answer is no."

  "I do want to ask that, just not this minute. Are you all right?"

  She blinks. "All right?"

  "You looked pretty broken up earlier."

  She tucks the offending paper with its failing grade into her messenger bag and stands up.

  "Let me walk you to your next class."

  She glances at her guards and chews her lip. Something in my chest swells. She's thinking about it. She's thinking about it.

  "Very well," she says. "Hands to yourself."

  After I slip my bag on my shoulder, I clasp my hands behind my back and walk beside her. Her guards fall in closer, within listening distance.

  Well, that's not awkward.

  "If I need a tutor, I can get one from the Academic Affairs Office."

  "Me too. I don't want someone from the Academic Affairs Office, Princess. I want you."

  She snorts. "I had hoped you were through making lewd propositions."

  "I said I want you for my tutor. You're the one that made it about sex."

  Bearded Guard growls at me.

  Like, literally.

  I remain a perfect gentleman right up to the door of her next class.

  "I'll consider your offer."

  "Good. You've got my number."

  She scowls.

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to hit your head, seriously. If that was a football, I'd have put it right where I want it."

  "Where is that?"

  I grin. "Down your shirt."

  "Your ball is never going down my shirt, Jason."

  She turns and walks into the classroom. I give her a casual wave, and her guards give me red-hot-iron death stares that could melt granite.

  I nonchalantly walk away to my next class. Then I break into a full-tilt run, because it's on the other fucking side of campus.

  When I get there I check my phone as I slip into my seat. I have one new message.

  Anastasia: You may tutor me. Text later. Anastasia Carolien Jacobina Katrien De Vries, Princess of Jyvaslka, Duchess of Karin.

  Jason: You sign your texts.

  Anastasia: I can't talk now. I am in class.

  Jason: You sign your texts with your full name and titles.

  Anastasia: Be quiet, Jason.

  Jason: You can just ignore me.

  Anastasia: You will not have the last word.

  Jason: Yes I will.

  Anastasia: No you won't.

  Jason: Yes I will….

  This goes on for five minutes until I give up and let her win. I can picture the scowl on her face perfectly. It brings a grin to mine.

  I feel like I can fly.

  Chapter Five

  Ana

  My major course load days are Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. In the morning I have History 204: American History from 1865 to the Present, then Applied Microeconomics, then after my lunch break, Religious History, and, finally, Creative Writing.

  As I walk out of my final class of the day, I begin to forget I have two burly men hovering over my shoulders. I barely pay them any attention as I purchase a bottle of water from a vending machine, having exhausted my squeeze bottle earlier in the day. I gulp half of it down and pull my buzzing phone from my pocket.

  I initially labeled Jason's number Jason in my phone. Then I changed my mind and decided he should he Horny Man instead.

  Are we going to study now?

  How about now?

  Now?

  What about now?

  I'm waiting

  I text him back.

/>   Meet me in the library in half an hour. I must go to the pit stop.

  The Pit Stop is a small market store in the dining hall across the street. There are a number of restaurants there, but none to my liking. Or perhaps they would be, if I'd ever bothered to try them.

  I still don't know what Sbarro is.

  In the minimarket, I find a can of tuna, a box of crackers, a small fried apple pie, a quart of milk, and an orange. I also find Jason buying a hand-held basket full of protein and granola bars sufficient to feed a small army, and a half gallon of chocolate milk of his own.

  He looks at my selection and raises an eyebrow.

  "Canned tuna?"

  I set it neatly on the counter and go back to pick up a chilled packet of mayonnaise and a spork. A curious utensil. I make my purchase and walk to the library.

  Jason rushes to catch up to me, carrying his enormous meal stuffed into a bag that strains at the sides to fit it all. "Let's eat."

  "I said I will study with you. Not eat with you."

  "We'll eat and study."

  "You are trying to make this a date."

  "Food makes it a date?"

  "Food makes it a date," I decree.

  "The calendar makes it a date, baby. Come on, I'm hungry as hell and I like watching you eat."

  "We cannot eat in the library, whether we wish it or no."

  "You can eat in the study nooks. Come on, live a little. Let's eat in the library."

  "I know what you want to eat in the library."

  "You know," he says, smirking at me, "you're the one that keeps making innuendos, not me. Then again, you are carrying a can of tuna. That one's too easy."

  "I will eat with you in the study nook if you shut up. But it is still not a date."

  "Fine with me. Come on, I just need to feed the beast."

  We cross the street and walk back up to the Parkman Library, and take the elevator up to the second floor. The study nooks are small rooms lined with couches set up around a table. After I sit down and Jason sits a foot away, Bjorn and Thorlief squeeze in and both fold their arms, staring at him.