by Jamie Pacton
“I’m not really a—”
Before I can protest that I’m just a Serving Wench, I’m shoved into a family photo. A skinny woman clutching a terrified-looking girl child digs her nails into my forearm, pushing through the thick fabric of my costume.
“Say ‘Middle Ages,’” calls her husband, a round man in a yellow polo shirt and athletic shorts, whose paper crown is balanced precariously on his bald head.
I grin, the shutter clicks, and the woman releases my arm.
“You should go meet the Princess.” I point toward the back of the Great Hall, where Jessica stands in a shiny gown, a smile plastered on her face.
The girl’s face lights up and her mom shoots me a grateful look. They don’t need to know Jessica’s a royal bitch who just broke up with Chris after a year of dating so she could go out with the Green Knight, who’s richer than a lord in real life. No need to spoil the beautiful dream of Princess Jessica.
I smile back at the girl. “Have fun.”
She squeals happily and pulls her mother and father away.
“Nicely done, Sweetly,” says a voice from behind me. I turn around and see Jett, my second-best friend at the Castle.
He’s wearing the purple-and-silver tunic that marks him as part of the King’s court, and a golden trumpet rests on his shoulder. But his hipster haircut and sneakers place him firmly in this century.
“Oh God, it’s good to see you,” I say, leaning into his shoulder for a quick hug. “How’s your night going?”
He shrugs and slings an arm across my shoulder, hugging me back. “Pretty good so far. Len’s raging because you want to be a Knight, but I haven’t had any tourists ask me yet why there’s a brown guy in the King’s Court.”
Jett’s dad is a physicist from India, and his mom’s an anthropology professor from Russia. Predictably, with parents like that, Jett’s smart, funny, and ridiculously gorgeous. In fact, at this very moment, a pack of girls our age is openly staring at him, each of them looking like they can’t find the courage to say hello.
Jett and I have known each other since the start of freshman year. In that time, we’ve developed a few Unbreakable Rules: (1) Never speak about that time sophomore year when I tried to take us on a shortcut through the country and his car ended up in the middle of a farmer’s field surrounded by angry cows; (2) we always pay for our own food and movies because (3) friends don’t date friends because if it all falls apart, then everybody loses.
Both of us learned that lesson the hard way when Layla dated Jett’s best guy friend a few years ago. After they broke up, our friend circle imploded as he found “cooler” friends and demanded that Jett choose between him and us. After that mess, Jett and I decided we liked each other far too much to ever date.
Which, if I’m being honest, seems like less and less of a great idea every time Jett and I are alone together lately. At least from where I’m standing. But I’m pretty sure he’s okay with staying friends forever. I’ll probably end up best woman at his wedding or something.
Ugh.
Pushing that depressing thought and all notions of how good Jett smells tonight—did he get new shampoo?—way down, I focus on what he’s just said. Right. Stupid tourists who think there were only white people around in the Middle Ages.
“Next time someone asks you that, send them my way,” I reply. “I’ll cram some real history through their thick skulls.”
“You’re my hero,” says Jett with a smile. “Hey, did you get through the math homework?”
“It’s Friday night.” I quirk an eyebrow at him. “You know that, right?”
Jett laughs. “I know, but I like to get a head start on these things.”
“Next week is spring break. Why would I do my homework now?”
“So you won’t have it hanging over your head over break?”
“Spoken like a true nerd.” I laugh with him. “I haven’t even looked at it. I got home and then pretty much had to catch the bus to come here.”
A frown creases Jett’s forehead. “Where’s your brother? Why didn’t he give you a ride?”
“That’s the million-gold-pieces question. I’ve been looking for him, which is why I need to find Layla… .”
“She’s stuck behind the registers over in admissions,” says Jett. Another trumpet blast rings through the loudspeakers, and Jett and I jump. Our hands brush for a moment. It’s a feather of a touch, but it sends heat throughout my body.
Good grief. There’s a washerwoman in my stomach, twisting it into knots.
I squeeze his hand once in a hey-best-friend-glad-we’reclose-but-remember-our-rule-about-not-dating-each-other kind of way, then let go.
“Want to get coffee after the show?” he asks, as he slips his hands into his pockets. He sounds totally unfazed by our hand contact. Which makes sense, since he’s the one who suggested the Unbreakable Rules in the first place. “Promise we won’t talk about math homework.”
“Absolutely. Meet you here afterward. Have a great show and don’t forget to blow hard!” My reply comes out in a rush, but I try to make it sound cool and relaxed.
He raises the trumpet at me. “You’re hilarious. Wench your heart out.”
“You know I will.”
I most certainly don’t sound cool or relaxed. Lucky for me, though, my reply is lost in the hum of the crowd.
As I make my way toward the front of the Castle, I run my finger over and over the spot where Jett’s hand brushed mine. Feeling the planes of it like it’s a worry stone, wishing he’d come back and do more than hold my hand.
Which is stupid and not even remotely a good idea. I know this. But that doesn’t mean I want it any less.
3
THE ADMISSIONS DESK IS CROWDED WITH LATE ARRIVALS, and Layla stands behind the counter. Doodles and caricatures of people at the Castle cover the sheet of paper in front of her. Layla’s art is astonishing, and she’s already been accepted into a graphic design program in New York City next year.
“Uh-huh, yes, I understand.” Layla nods, her face a mask of customer care, as a woman in a polka-dotted dress and gold heels waves a ticket at her. “I see you do have a ticket here. But this was for the four thirty show, not the seven thirty, and we can’t do any refunds. You can sit in an open section if we have anything left …”
The woman’s face starts to turn pink as she begins a Veruca Salt–level tirade. I grab a handful of table cards and shove them across the desk toward her.
“Here, just go to section four, Blue Knight’s cheering area.”
“Thank you so much,” says the woman. “I’m glad I didn’t have to take it up with your manager. I mean these tickets are expensive.”
Layla’s mouth twitches as she holds back a smile. We’ve heard all this before: tickets are expensive, it’s a special occasion, you want your money’s worth …
“You can step on over to photo,” Layla says. Her smile breaks free, making the dimples in her cheek pop.
The woman pauses for a moment and considers Layla. “Did anyone ever tell you look just like the girl from Game of Thrones, the Khaleesi’s friend?”
At least once a night someone tells Layla she looks like “the Khaleesi’s friend.” People rarely know the character’s name—Missandei—or remember the fact that she’s fierce and super smart in her own right. Or that she was a slave initially, so maybe it’s not something you should get into with your seventeen-year-old African American cashier who’s just trying to do her minimum-wage job with a smile on her face.
Layla digs her nails into the countertop. “Dracarys,” she hisses under her breath.
A confused look passes over the woman’s face. Like she can’t quite place the fact that dracarys was the last word Missandei uttered before being executed. Or the fact that it was a signal to her bestie to burn it all down. It’s also Layla’s and my latest BFF code for “Get this person out of my face now before I lose it.”
I squeeze Layla’s arm once and point the woman toward the Gr
eat Hall. “This register is now closed,” I say. “Please move on to photo.”
Once the woman is gone, I turn to Layla. “You okay?”
“That was the third time tonight,” she says, exhaling sharply. Her fingers unclench. “Give me strength to withstand fandom tourists.”
“You handled it beautifully. Just a few more months and then you’re out of here.”
Layla smiles at me again. “Thanks for the rescue. So, what brings you this way, m’lady?”
“Chris. He’s MIA and Len’s threatening to fire him if he doesn’t show up. Can I use your phone?”
Looking over her shoulder to make sure none of our bosses are around, Layla hands me the phone. It’s a super expensive, just-released iPhone. Light-years cooler than my shitty prepaid knockoff one.
Chris’s phone goes straight to voicemail, so I leave a message: “Where are you, dude? Len’s going to lose it if you don’t get here. I’m on Layla’s phone. Call me!”
As I hang up, a text from Eric comes in. Without reading it, I delete it before Layla sees it. Probably terrible, I know. But these are the things you do for your best friend.
“Chris will turn up,” says Layla, giving me a sympathetic smile. “He’s probably back there getting ready and you just missed him. Did you see Eric at all?”
Feeling slightly guilty about deleting his text, I shrug. “I ran into him earlier. He’s still the worst in case you’re wondering.”
Layla laughs and pulls a crumpled note out of her pocket and hands it to me. “He shoved this into my hand earlier.”
I read it out loud: “Hey, princess, want to get coffee sometime? My treat … call me.” I pretend to barf into the garbage can under the desk. “Ugh—even his notes are greasy!”
“C’mon, you’re not being fair, Kit. He’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad? NOT. THAT. BAD?”
“He’s kind of cute—”
“In what? A small-mammal-wildlife-documentary sort of way?”
She laughs. “Now that he’s graduated, he’s chilled out a lot. And it’s just coffee.”
“I can’t believe you. This is the same Eric Taylor we’re talking about? Man of two first names who’s been stalking you for years?”
“He’s just persistent,” says Layla. “He’s not a stalker.”
“Don’t go out with him. Please. For the love of all between us.”
“Stop being so dramatic. Besides, you’ve never given him a chance.”
She’s not wrong. I’ve hated Eric ever since the first day he started working here, when I caught him making fun of a guest with a disability. But Layla’s heart is bigger than mine, and she’s convinced people can change.
“You can do so, so much better.”
Layla rolls her eyes at me. “Thanks, Mom,” she says. “How’s your love life? You and Jett still drowning in sexual tension?”
“Shut up.” I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one else has heard her. “We’re just friends. I can’t date him.”
“You can and you should.”
“Dating is against the Unbreakable Rules. You know this.”
“He’s adorable, smart, and totally into you. Plus, hanging out with Jett isn’t going to derail the rest of your life.”
“He’s not into me like that. And it could ruin our friendship. I’m not risking it.”
“What if it works out?”
“It wouldn’t. We’re seventeen. There’s no way we’re one of those best-friends-who-date-and-end-up-getting-married couples. That’s like the plot of a bad movie.”
Layla smacks me on the arm. “Those relationships work out sometimes. My aunt married the guy she met in eighth grade.”
I roll my eyes at her. “Don’t you have a cash drawer to count?”
“Don’t you have a section to wait on?”
I do. And I should be helping guests get settled now. Especially Eddy Jackson and his crew of big drinkers and big tippers.
“Can you get them started?” I ask. “I’ll split the tips with you. I’m going to run back to the stables and make sure Chris is here.”
“No problem at all,” says Layla. She’s been angling to move up from cashier to Wench for months, so taking my section is a great way to show Len she can do it.
Before I can thank her, a pimply Page wearing a frumpy velvet tunic and—poor thing—ancient tights that are a sort of hazing for the Pages runs up to the desk.
“Kit,” he says, trying to catch his breath. “Fight. In the stables. Your brother and the Green Knight. They’re gonna kill each other… .”
4
I DUCK INTO THE EMPLOYEE HALLWAY THAT CIRCLES THE Great Hall and race toward the stables. Bits of sawdust and sand cover the floor. The rich, earthy smell of horses fills the corridor. When I burst into the indoor stable yard behind the castle, I’m stunned. We’re so close to showtime that everyone should be lined up near the door, but chaos reigns. Grooms, Squires, and backstage hands have formed a ring around two Knights who circle each other. Over the heads of the crowd, I see flashes of red and green cloth. My brother’s long brown hair swings like a fan around him as he ducks a punch thrown by the Green Knight and spins away. Although they’re fighting for real, some of their stage training still makes its way into the battle.
Sensing the furious energy of the crowd, the horses paw at the ground of their stalls and make nervous noises. Some of them are saddled, but most of them still need to be dressed for the show. The Blue, Yellow, and Black-and-White Knights stand at the edge of the ring in costume, but the Purple one still has on his Chuck Taylors. The Master of the Horse leads a gorgeous gray stallion away from the chaos, heading into the arena to do the horse-tricks part of the evening.
“Get your brother under control,” he hisses as he passes me, nodding his head back toward the ring where Chris and Dalton—the Green Knight—throw punches.
“I’ll try my best,” I say, pushing my way through the circle of onlookers. The smell of BO assaults me as I squeeze between two particularly large stable hands, both of them sporting ponytails longer than my forearm.
Right as I arrive at the front of the crowd, Chris pushes Dalton to the ground. The Green Knight scrambles to his feet and throws a handful of sand up at Chris. Then, while Chris is blinded, Dalton punches him in the face.
Chris stumbles backward, clutching his cheek.
“Not fair!” I shout, breaking into the ring and running to Chris. “You can’t do that!”
“Chivalry’s dead, Kit,” says Dalton, sneering at me. “We can fight however we’d like.”
“Your words, douchebag,” says Chris, wiping his eyes. A bruise rises on his cheek. “Let me kill him, Kit.”
With pleasure. But that’s a sure way to get fired.
“No, you will not.” I drag Chris away from the center of the ring. “Jessica’s not worth it, and you have to get into the real arena soon.”
“Walking away from a fight,” shouts Dalton behind us. “Typical! This is why she broke up with you. Because you’re afraid to stand up for yourself.”
Chris whips around, breaking free from my grasp. I’m strong after my years of training with Chris, but he does blacksmithing as a hobby. I don’t stand a chance as Hurricane Chris whips past me.
He’s on Dalton in a moment, tackling him down to the sand. He sits on his chest.
“She. Did. Not. Say. That.” Chris marks each of his words with a punch.
Dalton squirms beneath him, turning away from each of the punches. His white-blond hair is filthy from the sand, and I pray Chris rolls him into the pile of manure a few feet away.
Before the fight can escalate, Jessica’s voice breaks through the crowd. The soft British accent she uses in the show is replaced by her usual grinding South Side of Chicago drawl.
“Get off of him, Chris!” she shouts, stepping into the circle with her white silk skirts held high in her hands. She shoves Chris off Dalton, and he falls to the sand. “I did say that, and I said that you’re to
o worried about your own self to think of me.”
“Baby, that’s not true at all,” says Chris, standing up.
“Get away from me!” snaps Jessica. “We’re over. We’ve been over for a long time. Don’t talk to me again. Don’t call me, and don’t try to beat up my new boyfriend.”
“He wasn’t beating me up,” says Dalton. He stands up and wraps his arms around Jessica. She leans into him and they kiss, a long, sloppy number that makes the Pop Tart I shoved into my face before my shift threaten to come up. Chris turns away from them.
“Everybody back to work,” shouts Len over the stable intercom. He’s probably in the royal box, but news of the fight must’ve reached him already. “Showtime in five minutes.”
We’re already running behind, and the crowd scatters. I grab Chris’s arm and lead him into a corner at the back of the stable.
“You okay?” I ask. His face is sweaty and his hands shake as he runs them through his hair.
He takes a deep shuddering breath. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “She doesn’t have to rub it in, you know? And Dalton is vile. If she wanted to date someone else at the Castle, fine. But Dalton? C’mon.”
“He’s a troll. But you can’t let them get to you. You’ll find a better girlfriend. You’re incredible.”
Chris looks up at me, and for a moment, he looks much older than nineteen. Dark circles ring his eyes and his body slumps into the wall.
“I don’t know about incredible. All I am right now is exhausted,” he admits. “Between this job, the one at the coffee shop, the Uber driving, plus school, and now Jessica, I don’t have much left in me.”
“Have you been sleeping?”
He shakes his head. “Maybe an hour or two every night for the past week. My anxiety’s been terrible and I just lay there awake, trying to see a way ahead for all of us.”
“You’re going to hurt yourself if you fight out there tonight,” I say. “Make you a deal: You do the initial scenes where you have to ride around and play the games, I’ll do the fighting scenes.”