“I don't,” I say quickly, as ifthat'sthe issue here. As if what's weird about this is that he didn't bother to check if I was going to go into anaphylactic shock over something in this little sack lunch. No, the weird part is that he brought it to me. Is that…
I look at the sandwich, at the carrot sticks. This isn't something private chef-y. The sandwich is cut on the diagonal, oozing a bit—what is it with this guy and almonds? I wonder—and the crusts are cut off. They carrots aren’t perfectly turned like carrots you'd see on a restaurant plate. They're scrubbed, peeled, quartered, chopped imperfectly and a little unevenly.
My eyes dart back to the band-aid on his finger.
Kingston made me a sandwich. He cut me up carrot sticks.
The image flashes in my mind. Him in the Camlann House kitchen, finding a cutting board, a knife, carefully slicing off the peels and presumably cutting himself in the process, pouring them through his hands into this little Tupperware.
I can't even…
No. What? I don't know why I'm so overwhelmed. It's just a stupid sandwich.
And Iamhungry.
I take a bite of one triangle corner. It’s…fine. Nothing to write home about, honestly. The kind of bread that's so chewy and dense it must have 300% of your daily fiber allotment. The almond butter is unsweetened, too, and sticks to the roof of my mouth. Guess that's what the milk is for. I pinch the top and pull out the spout. He packed a straw, at least, so I don't have to drink out of it like a kindergartner. I stab it in, take a sip, and clear my throat.
And I have to say, something about the old-school combination hits. Because once that first bite is done, it's like my appetite comes back online all at once. I scarf the second half, trying not to eat it too quickly, and work my way through the carrot sticks, chewing as quietly as I can, even though inthe quiet of the classroom, I'm probably crunching like a Bugs Bunny cartoon on max volume.
When I'm done, I replace the container inside the bag and stare out into space. I can't really focus on work again, but I can't quite look at Kingston either. Like I need to explain something, say more.
“They would watch us,” I say suddenly, “At Renfrew.” I don't bother to look and see if he's listening, because if I do I'll probably lose my nerve. So I rattle on the rest of what I have to say. “A lot of the girls had eating disorders. Not me,” I clarify, “but I guess it was just easier to make sure everyone was eating than to single out the ones that were trying to hide it. So they'd have counselors, every two girls, keeping an eye on us, just staring as we, like, cut up our food and chewed and swallowed. It was really…” I exhale sharply. “I didn't like it. I know it was for a good reason, but…”
“You don't have to explain,” Kingston says. “I'm just glad we found something that worked for you.”
I nod, not that he's looking at me. And suddenly, it feels like the almond butter is stuck in my throat all over again.
“Thank you,” I say suddenly, because I realize I haven't yet.
“You're welcome,” Kingston says.
He returns to writing, and I look at what's under his pen. The notes he's been transcribing. Maybe it's just that my blood sugar's perked back up, but I notice something.
"Hang on," I say, tucking hair behind my ear and leaning over from my seat.
Kingston looks up. "What?"
"That's..." I hesitate, squinting. "That's wrong, what you have there."
Kingston bristles a little. "What?" He looks down at his notes.
"The translation, the notes you're making, look," I get up and point, "this word, viriditas."
"Yes," Kingston says. “Manliness, vigor, strength."
I shake my head. "No, no. It's not fromvirorvirtusforman. It's fromviridis. Green. It'sgreenness."
Kingston's silent a second. "Oh," he says. "That changes things."
"Yes, it changes things," I say, half exasperated, half excited. "Here, just..." I grab the entire folio of pages from his desk, his notepaper and all. "Give me that."
Kingston doesn't refuse, just leans away a bit so I can clear it off his desk, then sits there, looking blank. I don't care. I'm too excited to pick apart what's going on here. Not least because it involves jumping on a very stupid etymological error made by Kingston, which is satisfying in its own right.
As I grab my pen, Kingston looks around. “What should I read now?”
"If I may?” Professor Emrys says from his desk. "We've yet to review many of the Grail legends proper in any depth. Perhaps you might look those over? I suspect that stories of chivalry might be more your…semantic field," he adds.
I snort as I go back to the Hildegard text, furiously scribbling and scratching things out. No wonder his translation made no sense—the idea that God’smanlinessis giving life to all the Earth is…a stretch at best.
