The Life and Medieval Times of Kit Sweetly

by Jamie Pacton

  “Today is a good day,” I agree.

  Above us the kites sail through the spring sky, and I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be. Something in me has a sense that this is what the Big Plan is all about. Having the freedom to rest in the sunshine on a beautiful day and look up at the sky with delight. Being in a city that’s so big, I can’t even imagine all the stories unfolding within it. All of a sudden, I want to move here and go to Marquette so badly it’s like an ache. This is the life I want, and dammit, I’ll find a way to earn the money I need to make this happen.

  11

  IT’S LATE AFTERNOON BY THE TIME JETT DROPS ME OFF AT home. He’s going straight to the Castle for his shift. On the way home, I explained the rough outline of the plan I came up with last night, and Jett was perfectly encouraging and curious. As per what an amazing-hot-smart-funny-best-friend-who-I’m-decidedly-not-starting-to-crush-on should be.

  “Thank you for today.” I open the door, wanting to hug him or something, but feeling uncharacteristically shy.

  “Any time. Seriously. And if you go to Marquette, I’ll be up there all the time to hang out by the lake with you. You know that, right?”

  He smiles at me and I have a sudden vision of us having many more afternoons like the Kite Festival one. Except maybe with more kissing.

  “I’d like that,” I manage, trying to hide my flushed cheeks.

  Jett’s already been accepted to a filmmaking program at the school where his parents teach. Between their tuition discount and his academic scholarships, he won’t end up paying a cent for college.

  Lucky.

  “Oh, hey, wait,” he says as I open the car door.

  He reaches behind the seat, grabs his backpack, and shoves it into my hands. I unzip it: Four more sandwiches, two boxes of granola bars, some oranges, and a chocolate bar as big as my forearm rest inside.

  “End-of-the-world supplies?” I ask, trying to smile through my now-redder cheeks.

  Jett looks away. “My brothers are zealous sandwich makers. And I just figured you might want them.”

  He figured I might need these supplies more than he does, is what he doesn’t say. Which isn’t wrong. But it’s the closest we’ve come to acknowledging the fact that my house is still dark and I eat like I’m not getting a next meal. I want to hand the backpack back to him, but I can’t. Throwing away food or passing it up when it’s free goes against every survival instinct I have.

  “You can give me the bag back tomorrow or whenever we see each other next,” says Jett. “Since we don’t have school this week, it’s not a big deal.”

  This food is a huge deal. But I’m not going to cry about it. Not until he’s pulled away at least.

  “Thanks,” I say at last. I’ll leave Mom some of the food on the table as a peace offering.

  There’s a moment of uncomfortable silence. Jett runs his hands through his hair. “Is there anything I can do to help with phase one of the plan?” he says at last.

  I think for a moment. “Maybe you can be our official filmmaker?”

  “I could totally do that!” Excitement fills his voice. “I’m thinking we do a bit of backstory, then film the training sessions, and then interview people at the Castle.” A gleam lights Jett’s eyes. I can practically see his brain boiling over with ideas.

  “I love it,” I say. “I’ll let you know more when we have a few more people recruited.”

  “This is going to be amazing,” says Jett. “Talk to you later!”

  “Have fun in the Dark Ages!”

  “As you wish, m’lady,” says Jett with an over-the-top smoldery-Westley-from-The Princess Bride-type stare.

  Stupid sexy, funny best friend.

  As Jett drives off, the sound of banging and hammering rings out behind the house. That sound can only mean that Chris is in his blacksmithing shed, working on something. The grass is shorter now, like it’s had a shaggy haircut, and our nonmotorized push mower leans against the garage. Bless him; he mowed the lawn for me.

  Taking out two of the sandwiches as a thank-you gift, I go around the house. The shed door is open, and Chris stands behind a homemade wooden table, wrapping wire around a long metal pole. His hair sits on top of his head in a messy man bun, and he’s got headphones on.

  The nice thing about doing blacksmithing as a hobby is that it’s mostly electricity-free, and you can use recycled materials. Chris’s thing is being a sustainable metalworker, so he goes around town picking up scrap steel and aluminum and bending, twisting, and forcing it into the shape of medieval armor. It’s decidedly niche but also pays well among certain Renaissance Faire types on eBay.

  “How’s it going?” I say, tapping him on the shoulder. He jumps about a foot and there’s a rattle as he drops the metal pole.

  “Jesus, Kit. Warn a guy next time.” He smiles and takes off his headphones. There’s sweat on his upper lip, and even on this breezy spring day, it’s boiling in the shed. He nods toward the pile of silver rings at the end of the table. “Five thousand down, just fifteen thousand more to go.”

  “Are you making chain mail for an elephant?” I unwrap one of the sandwiches and hold it out to him. He takes a bite without using his hands since they’re covered in giant gloves.

  “It’s for a knee-length shirt,” he says through a mouthful of peanut butter. “I’m doing all the rings at once. It’s a rush order for an event out in California. Hoping to get a bunch of it done before work tonight.”

  Making chain mail is a tedious process. You have to wind a length of wire around a long pole, snip it off with wire cutters into small rings, tighten the rings with pliers as you attach them to each other, and then fashion it all together into a shirt.

  “Can I help?”

  “A hundred fifty links to a row.” Chris nods toward a pair of pliers and some gloves as he devours both sandwiches.

  Pulling on the gloves, I start pinching the rings together into a long line.

  “Thanks for mowing the grass. Mom would’ve killed me if it wasn’t done.”

  “No need to thank me. Thank you for taking my shift last night. What did you do today?”

  I tell him about going to Milwaukee with Jett, leaving out the disappointment of the Joan of Arc chapel being fake but lingering on kites and my MU acceptance.

  He drops his pliers. “Kit! Way to bury the lede!”

  “What?” I try to make my voice sound like I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I can’t stop the smile that spreads over my face.

  “You got in! That’s wonderful news!” He punches my shoulder lightly. “How do you feel about it?”

  I punch him back. “Ugh. I’m super excited. And super worried about how we’re going to pay for it if I don’t get some of those scholarships. And super nervous. And super positive that I need to make more money this summer to save up. And super—”

  “When do you find out about scholarships?”

  I take a steadying breath, trying to calm the anxiety that creeps through my chest as I think about Marquette. “They didn’t say for sure, but it should be soon.”

  Chris takes up his pliers again. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

  “Speaking of figuring things out, how did the talk with Len go?” I keep pinching rings together, my hands already aching.

  Chris makes a dismissive noise, not looking up. “I don’t think you’re going to get fired. But Len’s pissed and he says you need to go talk to him before your next shift.”

  At least that’s not for a few more days.

  I sigh. I’d almost forgotten about the stress of the Castle during today’s perfect afternoon. “I’ll work it out with him. But I’m angry too. I did a good job yesterday! And the crowd loved it. I should be able to fight as a Knight. I’d go through the Squire training and everything. I just want the chance.”

  “I know you do. But I don’t see how we can make it work.”

  “Ahhhh, but I have a plan.”

  Chris side eyes me. “A Kit Sweet
ly Official Plan?”

  “You know it. And I need your help. Do you think you could train me and a few other people next week? It’s spring break, so we have lots of time.”

  “Train you as Knights? In a week?” Chris shakes out his hand and begins on another row. “It takes a lot longer than a week for us current Knights to learn a new routine. And most of us have been doing this for years.”

  “You don’t have to teach us everything,” I say quickly. “But we need to show Len and the Corporate folks that we can fight. And ride. And use a lance to catch rings.”

  “Who do you have in mind for it?”

  I shrug. “Me, Layla, and whoever else wants a chance. I’m going to ask around at the Castle and see. I bet there’s a ton of people just waiting to throw off the dominant patriarchal hegemony.”

  Jett’s mom’s words feel clunky in my mouth, but I like the authority they lend to my mission.

  Chris doesn’t even blink at my twenty-dollar words. “What’s the end goal? Some kind of tournament? You going to tie up the other Knights and take their places?”

  “Yes to the tournament, and I’m hoping you can help with the other Knights. Convince them to let us have a chance. We don’t need to take their places, we just want to fight alongside them.”

  “You’re really serious about this?”

  “Serious as the threat of plague in seventeenth-century Venice.”

  Chris wipes sweat off his forehead and grins. “I’ll help you. Though you know not all the other Knights are as cringingly dude-bro as Dalton. Some of them are actually nice guys.”

  Although he’s not good friends with the Blue or Yellow Knights, Chris has been buddies with the Purple Knight, a laid-back Black guy named Austin, for a long time. In fact, Layla, Jett, and I spent the better part of last summer with Chris, Austin, and a few other Castle folks at Austin’s family’s lake house.

  “I know,” I admit. “But that doesn’t mean the other Knights besides you and Austin will be happy to give us a chance.”

  “True. And you’re right that you deserve a chance. It was good to see you out there, and you really did kill it. It was all I could do to not yell ‘That’s my kid sister!’”

  “You’re adorable. Have you seen the video?”

  I pull out my phone and we watch it together. It’s now up to fifty thousand views. Chris claps when I knock out the Green Knight.

  “It’s my favorite moment ever. Totally badass. And you should’ve heard how mad Dalton was after the show. But do you really think you can make it go viral?”

  I bite my bottom lip. “Maybe? I really think that with Layla’s and Jett’s help we have a chance. And if we do that, then maybe the Castle will feel enough pressure to let me be a Knight this summer. And then I can make enough money to save for Marquette and help Mom out.”

  “Don’t worry about Mom,” says Chris. “I’ve got it handled on the home front.”

  I arch an eyebrow at him. “You know she’s not been paying the mortgage, right?”

  Chris drops the pliers again. “What’re you talking about?”

  “I saw a notice last night. Third warning or something. She owes almost four thousand dollars.”

  “Impossible. She uses her checks from the office job for that. And I give her money for it every month.”

  “I’m not sure why she’s behind. I just know what I saw.”

  A worried look crosses Chris’s face. “I’ll talk to her. I’m sure it’s just a mistake.”

  “Let me know what you find out.”

  He nods, thinking. It could be no big deal, or it could be a huge deal. We both know this. Although Mom’s been better lately, her impulse buys have landed us in financial trouble before. The month after my dad left, she spent three months of tips on a spontaneous trip for all of us to Cancún. We didn’t end up going because there was no money left to pay for hotels and food when we got there, so she ended up losing all the money she’d paid for airfare.

  We work in silence until my phone buzzes.

  Layla: Ready for me to pick you up?

  Kit: Give me half an hour.

  I say goodbye to Chris, who’s closing up shop so he can get ready for his shift tonight, and hurry inside. I dump the contents of Jett’s backpack out on the table and hope Mom will find the food. Then I take a freezing-cold shower, throw some clothes and my homework into Jett’s backpack, and wait outside for Layla.

  12

  LAYLA PULLS UP EXACTLY THIRTY MINUTES LATER. HER purple Jeep is sparkly clean like it’s just been washed and she’s got the top down and the doors off.

  When I get in the car she’s practically vibrating with excitement. “Kit, Kit, Kit, Kit, Kit!”

  “What’s up with you?” I say, giggling at Layla’s infectious energy. Even though I’m still worried about Mom, unpaid bills, and everything else in between, it’s impossible not to smile when Layla’s like this. “Too many Red Bulls?”

  “Ha! Not even. Look at that!” She points to a sheet of paper on the dashboard.

  I texted Layla my whole plan last night. She’s typed it up and printed it out, so we now have a master copy. I pick up the sheet and read over the plan again.

  KIT’S PLAN FOR THE CASTLE

  • PHASE 1: Make my video viral + connect a website, merchandise, history lessons to it. Somehow? Get Layla’s help with this. Also, submit plan to Castle contest and push on it with online pressure.

  • PHASE 2: Convince others to join me. Get Chris to help me train them as Knights!

  • PHASE 3: Set up a tournament with current Knights so new Knights can show off skills.

  • PHASE 4: When Castle execs are here, run the tournament and SHOW them what a good idea this is and how many people it can bring in.

  “This looks great,” I say. “But why are you literally vibrating with excitement?”

  “Phase One has started!” Layla shoves her iPad at me. It’s open to a website—www.thegirlknight.com—that declares in bold letters: THE GIRL KNIGHT WILL FIGHT ANOTHER DAY!

  My face stares back at me in cartoon form, and then the video of my fight is below it.

  “Read that.” Layla jabs a finger at the text below the video.

  “Last night, the one and only Girl Knight, KIT SWEETLY, fought a brave battle against the medieval notion that only men should fight at the Castle! What kind of message does that send to our kids? Folks, we live in the day of female American Ninja Warriors and women generals. Surely we can reflect this in the Castle’s arena!

  “We know there weren’t many female fighters in the Middle Ages—though there were some!—but at the risk of being anachronistic, we implore you: Sign our petition! Tell the Castle it’s time for a change. LET KIT FIGHT!”

  Layla beams at me. “We’ve gotten almost a thousand signatures already. And it’s really taking off. I’m going to make T-shirts and posters. You need to come up with some good stuff about badass medieval women for us to put on the site.”

  I’m stunned. Like in a good way, but also in an ice cream–headache kind of way. Because my vague notion of phase 1 now looks so shiny and professional.

  “I love this. You’re the best! And perhaps the fastest. I can’t believe you’ve done this already.”

  Layla’s creativity is legendary, and she’s always leaping into projects. It gives me whiplash sometimes, but in the best possible way.

  “We’re going to change things, trust me. I can’t wait to start training!” exclaims Layla.

  “Even though you won’t be here in a few months?”

  My heart aches at the thought of not seeing Layla every day, but I push that thought way down.

  With a wave to Chris, who’s dressed in his Knight’s gear and leaving the house, Layla backs out of my driveway. “I don’t necessarily want to fight. But I want the chance to consider it as an option. That’s what this is all about.”

  Absolutely.

  “I’m not even sure I still have a job,” I admit as I buckle my seat belt. Layla floors
it and flings us around a corner.

  “Worry about that tomorrow,” she says. “Tonight, we have work to do!”

  As we drive, I fill her in on Jett’s contribution to the plan. We both agree that a documentary-style film about our journey to knighthood will help things tremendously.

  Before long we’re turning into her driveway. Her house sits at the end of a tree-lined corridor, and you can’t even see it from the road. The house itself is a four-story Tudor that looks like it should’ve been featured on some Real Housewives of Chicago show. Horses graze in the field behind her house—that’s how Layla got into working at the Castle, through her love of horses. It’s only luck that her parents sent her to the public school in my district and not one of the many private schools that kids who live in houses like hers go to.

  She parks in the driveway, which is so wide it could probably hold a private plane, and we go around the back. Her yard is terraced—the outdoor pool and cabana are closest to the house, then the tennis and basketball courts, and then the gardens, lawn, and fields below it. She grew up here, so the sheer opulence of the place doesn’t faze her. But I still gawk every time I visit. Even after nearly a decade of friendship.

  When I first met Layla, we were both in third grade. I lived in a mobile home in the middle of a trailer park that had seen better days. The first time I spent the night at her house, I cried when my mom picked me up.

  Mom looked over at me, tears in her eyes too, and handed me a tissue. “You okay, Kit-Kat?”

  I nodded and wiped my sniffly nose. “I just wish we lived in a place like that.”

  “Me too,” Mom had said. “But life is different for everybody. We’ve got enough.”

  I went home that day—at eight years old—and wrote out my first version of the Big Plan. Item number one was “Buy a Nice House.”

  I left the list on my bed, so my mom could see it. If she did, she never said anything, but a few months later, right around my ninth birthday, my dad inherited some money from his grandfather. My parents used part of that money to buy the split-level house we still live in today. It’s not paid off, but the first time I walked into it, I felt like a queen, entering her castle.