The Life and Medieval Times of Kit Sweetly

by Jamie Pacton

  She answers her phone as she walks down the hall. I grab the letter from Marquette but pause when I see another letter beneath it. “FINAL MORTGAGE PAYMENT NOTICE” is stamped on the envelope in bright red letters. My hand trembles as I turn it over. I open it without thinking twice.

  Dear Mrs. Sweetly:

  Consider this your final notice for payment on the mortgage. You are now three months behind, and we will move into short-sale proceedings if you do not pay the full balance of $3,800 in a month’s time… .

  The letter drops from my fingers. With shaking hands, I put it back in the envelope. Mom hasn’t said anything about not paying the mortgage. Why hasn’t she been making payments? Are we really not making enough together to cover it all?

  The letter from Marquette stares at me, ready to deliver even more bad news.

  I can’t face it yet.

  If this isn’t an acceptance, then I’ll have to go to community college. Which is fine, except I really, really, really want to study history at Marquette and then go on to law school there. It’s a great school, close enough to home that I can commute to the Castle on the weekends, and I can still help Mom and Chris around the house. Plus, they have a collection of J. R. R. Tolkien’s original manuscripts (aka nerd heaven) and a chapel Joan of Arc was supposed to have prayed in, and their history professors are famous. I read about one of them who’s traveled all over the world to do things like drink beer out of barrels from the ninth century and study rats in the sewers of Paris. To get to work with someone who—

  “Courtney Love Sweetly!”

  I cringe as my full name—the unfortunate by-product of my parents’ love of ’90s grunge music, too many drugs, and their desire to have a different last name than either of their families—comes charging at me down the hallway. Mom stomps into the kitchen in her bare feet, her face nearly pink. The cheap prepaid cell phone in her hand trembles. Did I mention that the reason we all still have cell phones is because they’re essential to life? I mean, you can always swipe an extra roll of TP from a public bathroom, but you can’t always use someone else’s phone. It’s Poverty 101.

  Mom drops the phone on the table. “That was Len.” Her voice is very precise. Each word measured and furious.

  I exhale sharply. There’s no way this can be good. “Yeah? How is he? He had a good show to—”

  “Kit. Don’t pretend like you don’t know what he said. He told me you fought! As a Knight. Where’s your brother and how could he let this happen?”

  “It’s not Chris’s fault, Mom! I wanted to fight. And I’m good at it. I won! Did Len tell you that?”

  “He told me you got your ass handed to you! And that he’s probably going to have to fire you because of company policy. Apparently somebody made a video of it, and it’s all over the Internet. His boss called him, raging. You might’ve lost not just your job but also your brother’s and uncle’s.”

  My stomach churns at the thought. But a part of me is righteous and insistent.

  “But, Mom, it’s not fair! They should get rid of the gender restrictions at the Castle! To just let guys fight is outdated at best and illegal at worst.”

  My mom lets out a slow breath through her teeth.

  “This isn’t some political march or history lesson, Kit. Take a stand where it matters. This is real life, and we don’t have enough insurance to cover you if something happens. Our deductible is five thousand dollars! What happens when you break your leg?”

  I can’t think of anything to say to that. “I’m not going to break my leg.” I hate how petulant my voice sounds. “I’m really good at it.”

  “I don’t care if you’re the world champion of jousting at some crappy theme restaurant! You’re not going to fight again.

  And you’re grounded.”

  “It’s not crappy, Mom.” I stomp my foot, which doesn’t help my position as not actually a toddler. “You can’t ground me! I need electricity to do my homework. I have to go to Layla’s.”

  Mom makes a frustrated noise and picks up the lighter from the table. She quit smoking a while ago, but she still needs something to do with her hands when she’s upset.

  “Fine,” she says at last. She flicks the lighter on and off. “You can go to Layla’s tomorrow afternoon and spend the night. But don’t leave the house before that. And I want the yard mowed. And call your uncle and figure this out. Beg him for your job back if you have to.”

  She stomps off to bed without saying good night, and tears fill my eyes as I slump at the table. I ask for so little; I want so little. And most of the time when I go for something I want, I get punished. It’s not Mom’s fault. She’s trying to keep me alive and in one piece, but I think she’s wrong. Busting up the gender restrictions at the Castle could be a big deal. And it is important. Not just because I want to fight, but also because I’m sure there are tons of other people there who want to work in roles outside those prescribed by their gender.

  But what can I do about it?

  I turn the question over and over in my mind, certain there’s an answer. But it feels too big to tackle from where I’m sitting—in the dark of my kitchen, with what’s got to be a rejection letter from my dream college in hand.

  As I try to figure out a way to make things better at the Castle, a text comes in, lighting up the small screen of my phone.

  Layla: CHECK THIS OUT!

  8

  A PICTURE, DRAWN IN HER QUICK, MANGA STYLE, FILLS MY screen. It’s me, in full armor, sitting astride my horse. Underneath the picture is a caption: KIT OF THE CASTLE VANQUISHES HER FOES!

  It’s so ridiculously perfect it makes me laugh. Which does wonders for breaking up the heaviness of my thoughts. I text her back immediately.

  Kit: I LOVE IT!

  Layla: There’s more where that came from. Stay tuned.

  Something moves in my brain. The merest shadow of an idea. Before I can nail it down, more texts come in.

  Layla: How are you feeling?

  Kit: Sore, tired, exhilarated. Also my mom is pissed.

  Layla: You were badass out there!

  Kit: I loved it. Do you think I’ll get fired?

  Layla: Len’s mad, but don’t worry about it. Talk to him before your next shift. I’m sure it’ll be fine.

  Kit: How was waiting tables?

  Layla: I made $300 in tips!

  Kit: Bless you, Eddy Jackson?

  Layla: The man is a saint, and also, I’ve never seen anyone eat so much turkey.

  Eddy holds the current Castle record of most turkey legs ordered by one person.

  Kit: He’s a legend.

  Layla: I’ll bring your half of the tips tomorrow.

  Kit: Those are yours, keep them.

  Layla: We agreed to split them. And I don’t need them, so no worries.

  Layla’s mom is a brain surgeon and her dad is CEO of an international corporation. Her house is like a museum, and she gets $800 a month in allowance. So, no, she doesn’t need the tips. But I don’t like to tell her how poor I really am.

  Kit: Cool. Can I come over tomorrow afternoon and spend the night?

  Spending the night at Layla’s is like what I imagine it feels like to sleep in a luxury hotel. With the addition of my kickass best friend.

  Layla: YES! Good (k)night!

  Kit: ’Night (and totally see what you did there).

  I’m smiling by the time I pocket my phone. Mom’s door is closed and Chris still isn’t home. I grab a candle, throw out the remains of the takeout—just bones and some bread crusts—and take my letter from Marquette and my phone into my room.

  Kicking aside a pile of dirty clothes, I set the candle on my bedside table. It flickers, casting looming shadows. One of my walls is taken up by a screen-printed reproduction of part of the famous medieval tapestry The Lady and the Unicorn. I found it in a thrift store, complete with troubling stains in the upper right corner and a set of cigarette burns where the unicorn’s eyes should be. On the other wall, framing my window, are two
bookshelves overflowing with fantasy novels and history books. A photo of Layla, Jett, and me from the Castle sits on my dresser, and the rest of the room is a riot of knockoff medieval stuff. My bras hang from a concrete knight that’s supposed to be a lawn ornament. I got him at a yard sale for a dollar. I’ve put plastic films on my windows, so they look like stained glass. A stuffed dragon sits on top of one of the bookshelves, a present from my dad long ago. Two reproduction swords that I bought at a Renaissance faire lean against my desk.

  Above my desk is a collage I’ve been adding to for years. “Fierce Ladies of the Middle Ages,” it says in bold letters. I got the idea from some list I saw online, and I’ve been doing research on these women ever since. Now, they hang in my room like some odd family tree or something.

  There are the famous ones most people have heard of: Lagertha (thank you, Vikings the show for cosplay inspiration for days); Joan of Arc; Boudicca.

  And then there are hosts of other woman who did remarkable things, but who most people don’t know about: Matilda of Canossa, an Italian countess who battled for 30 years against kings. Caterina Sforza, another Italian woman who said, “If I must lose because I am a woman, I want to lose like a man.” Sichelgaita of Salerno, a Norman woman who commanded sieges. Khawlah bint al-Azwar, sister to a Muslim commander during the Islamic conquest who led a troop of women against the Byzantine army (oh! to go back in time to that battle!). And so many others. Each of them brave. Fierce. And heroic.

  “What should I do?” I ask the faces that stare back at me.

  They’re silent, as always, so I turn away from my favorite ladies and toward what hangs on the other wall above my bed. It’s a giant sheet of poster board with “KIT’S BIG PLAN” written at the top in gigantic letters. Big plan, big letters. I can’t help it. I’m a planner, literalist, and sucker for a pun. Beneath the title are ten tidy bullet points and rules for living that will get me from where I’m at to where I want to be. It’s half bucket list and half dammit-universe-I-will-wrestle-my-destiny-from-your-cold-unfeeling-hands.

  As I do every night before I get into bed, I recite the bullet points. To remind myself of the direction I’m heading and what I have to do to get there.

  First point:

  • Get a better job, preferably KNIGHT!, to save money for college.

  Chris tells me that some Knights can make close to $50,000 a year, which is more than I need, but even just working a few shifts a week as a Knight would net me more than the tips I make as a Wench. You’d think wenching at a place like the Castle, with the sheer number of guests we have, would bring in a lot of tips, but most guests leave small tips because they’ve paid so much for admission and then blown the rest of their money on souvenirs and beer.

  Next point:

  • Get into a great college to study history. Options: Stanford, Yale, UPenn, Harvard, Marquette.

  Marquette sits out there alone, like the last fragile leaf on a tree before the autumn wind comes along. I glance at the letter on my nightstand. I can’t open it and risk marking through that last hope. Not tonight.

  After the college plan, the bullet points get more abstract:

  • Study in Paris—so much history! Musée de Cluny! The Louvre! Notre Dame! (A whole bunch of hearts and exclamation points follow this one, and hopefully it will be repaired by the time I get there).

  • Get into law school, join fancy law firm, take care of Mom… .

  I can’t read the rest of the bullet points after that like I usually do because instead of getting closer to the first one, after my stunt at the Castle tonight, I’ll probably have to start over and get a new job.

  Not part of my plan at all.

  After brushing my teeth, I crawl into bed, ignoring the Big Plan. My bones ache as I settle onto the pillow. Another text comes in as I’m falling asleep.

  Jett: You okay?

  Kit: Erm … I got grounded. And I got my letter from Marquette… .

  Jett: Well?

  Kit: Well what?

  Jett: Did you get in?

  Kit: I didn’t open it. I’m preparing myself for a rejection.

  Jett: KIT!

  Kit: JETT!

  Jett: What if it’s not a rejection?

  Kit: I’m not ready to take that leap of faith just yet.

  Jett sends me a GIF of a squirrel leaping from one branch to the next. I reply with one of a dog trying to jump over a kiddie pool, failing miserably, and landing in the water.

  Jett: Ye of little faith.

  I can almost hear the teasing tone in his voice.

  Kit: Promise I’ll open it tomorrow. Just can’t handle any more drama tonight.

  Jett: You get in trouble for fighting as a Knight?

  Kit: To be discussed later.

  Jett: Call you tomorrow. Oh, and did you see this?

  He sends a link that takes me to a YouTube video. It’s titled Kickass Girl Knight Takes On the Castle!

  My heart speeds up as I recognize myself in the arena. This is definitely not flying under the radar.

  Kit: Did you have anything to do with this?

  Because of course he did, since Jett’s planning on studying filmmaking in college and he’s seen like a million documentaries. This video also looks like it was shot from the royal box.

  Jett: Maybe.

  Kit: I can’t decide if I’m mad or delighted.

  Jett: Sleep on it. Tell me what you think in the morning.

  I risk one heart emoji and promise I’ll watch it tonight. After I say good night to Jett and blow out the candle, I click on the video.

  It starts with my “I am no man” moment, then has a bunch of clips from the show. I watch it three times in a row, still not quite believing it’s me on the screen.

  It’s fierce, badass, and fun.

  I think my wall of medieval ladies would be proud.

  The number of views keeps jumping as I watch.

  It’s only been up for an hour, but it’s already been viewed more than four thousand times. And the number keeps climbing.

  Holy shit.

  That’s a lot of people watching my video.

  That’s a lot of people who could be watching at the Castle in real life.

  That’s a lot of people who I should tell the Castle Corporate Group about.

  Where is that flyer?

  Using the light from my phone, I find my backpack. My wenching dress is shoved into it. I fish the flyer out of the pocket.

  “Email us your thoughts, plans, dreams, and schemes,” it says.

  And I suddenly know exactly what I need to do.

  I scrawl notes into my bullet journal until my phone’s low-battery light flashes at me. Before I go to sleep, I click back to my video one more time.

  Six thousand views and still climbing.

  This might actually work.

  9

  SEVEN FORTY-FIVE SATURDAY MORNING. I WAKE UP SORE and with a head full of foggy dreams. In them, I was a cartoon character, fighting in the arena … and then someone buried me in the ground.

  Ground.

  Right.

  Grounded.

  I roll out of bed and get myself dressed in yard-work clothes. Scrubby T-shirt, jeans with holes in the knees, and torn sneakers.

  As I brush my teeth, I space out, thinking about being grounded.

  Mom’s punishment reminds me of a part of the Middle Ages that’s always sat badly with me. Lots of women were basically grounded back then. Unless they had the moxie (and fists) of the Wife of Bath, travel beyond a small sphere was limited.

  Other women, though, were grounded in a more literal sense. Like scary Edgar Allan Poe bury-you-alive style. These unfortunate souls were anchoresses, nuns whose primary duty in life was to “anchor” the convent or church community they lived in. And where do you put an anchor? At the bottom of things. So, these women were walled into a small cell below the ground. The cell had a few openings that looked onto street level: one for delivering food and water, another for hearing the
prayers of the faithful, and (hopefully) at least one for getting rid of waste.

  But that was it. That was their life for years and years. Subsisting on whatever crusts of sunshine and fresh air made their way through the cracks. Shivering in winter, baking in summer. Peering out at the bustle of the street and imagining all the what-ifs had their lives gone differently.

  I’m not that grounded, and it’s disingenuous to say so. But it does make me think.

  The chime of the doorbell startles me out of my teeth-brushing history-fanatic space out.

  Mom’s door is open and her bed empty as I pass. I heard her leave for her early-morning shift hours ago. Guilt stabs at my belly as I think of our fight. We’ll make up later—we always do—but fighting with her makes me sick because everything she does is to help Chris and me get ahead. Hence the reason why one of the bullets on my Big Plan is taking care of Mom.

  I fling open the front door and my mouth falls open when I see Jett standing there. His hair’s wet and slicked back. His skinny jeans, black T-shirt, leather jacket, and Doc Martens make him look like a movie star.

  “Stop being so cool before nine in the morning,” I say, and groan.

  “I’m amazingly cool,” he says, moving aside and pointing to the rusty red minivan in the driveway. Jett’s the oldest of four boys, all of whom are usually crammed into the van.

  “No motorcycle today?” I try to smooth out the nest that is my hair.

  Usually Jett drives a vintage black Triumph. He saved up a year’s earnings at the Castle, bought a broken-down bike, and fixed it. His dad told him if he could fix it, he could drive it. But only around town. And he’s not supposed to have passengers, but his parents make an exception for me because I’m sort of like family.

  “Super cool ride, I know.” He grins. “You had breakfast yet? I thought we could go out for celebration coffee and donuts. You’re over ten thousand views this morning.”

  “I cherish you,” I mutter, my voice still full of sleep. My only other breakfast option is stale Pop Tarts or something from the cooler of doom. “But I’m grounded.”