by Jamie Pacton
“Whatcha thinking about?” says Layla, stopping as she opens the back door.
I hadn’t realized that I was staring out over the yard, lost in my memories.
I shrug. “The first time I came here.”
Layla laughs. “Oh yeah. That was the sleepover when you first rode a horse, and then we had the roller-skating party in the basement and ate so many Cheetos we almost threw up!”
Layla’s basement has an indoor pool, a roller rink, three bedrooms, and a home theater. It’s preposterous and miraculous.
“I’d forgotten about the Cheetos,” I say, smiling. We’ve had so many sleepovers, and I’ve spent most of them in some sort of “stunned poor girl who’s slack-jawed at how rich people live” frame of mind.
“Let’s go,” says Layla. “I’ve got a good evening planned.”
Layla’s room is like a mini-apartment. She has a separate sitting area with couches and a big-screen TV; her own bathroom with a waterfall shower and whirlpool tub; and a closet that’s as big as my bedroom. Total stereotypical rich girl’s room, except it’s messy as hell, since she won’t let the cleaning staff into it, and she’s decorated it with her own art. Dragons, elves, horses, robots, cartoon characters, and caricatures cover the walls and ceiling. In one corner a drop cloth protects the carpet. She’s working on a mural that looks like it’s out of the pages of a book about Japan.
“Oh my God, this is gorgeous,” I say, walking over to the painting. There’s a giant swath of cherry blossom trees, mountains, and temples. Pencil outlines of Hokusai-like waves and then kids in jeans and T-shirts who look like people we go to school with are below the trees.
“I’m having fun with that one. Did you see this yet?”
Layla goes to her closet and flicks on the light. A huge mural of Roller Derby girls with manga-style faces fills one wall. “I’ve started going to some of the matches lately and had to draw it.” Her fingers linger on a pretty girl with short pink hair.
“Nice,” I say, stepping back to admire. Her talent really is unbelievable, and the years of art lessons have only refined her style. What will make her famous, however, is her sense of humor in the art. There are little playful touches throughout the murals. “When I make a million dollars, I’ll hire you to paint the inside of my house like this.”
“I’ll do it for free. Anytime.” She blows me a kiss.
She’s been offering to paint my bedroom for years, but I think a huge mural might kill my mom. Plus, it means that Layla would have to see the inside of my house. Which I’ve managed to not have her do since my dad left and things got really tough.
“Movie and phase one?” I ask. “I need to use your Internet to look up stuff about going viral. Ours at home is acting up again.”
It’s a little lie. Not a big deal between friends, right?
Layla nods. “I was thinking A Knight’s Tale.”
“Perfect.” I plug my phone in, since it’s nearly dead again, and Layla turns on the movie.
Although we’ve seen A Knight’s Tale dozens of times, it’s endlessly impeccable in all its cheesiness.
We sing along to all the songs—like Queen’s “We Will Rock You” at the beginning—which are super anachronistic and that’s why it’s funny. The plot is dorky and yet painfully familiar. Poor peasant Heath Ledger wants to change his stars, so he fakes his way into being a knight. But he’s handsome and pretty good at jousting, so he fights, gets a princess—who’s both fierce and fickle, like they almost wanted to make her a feminist but couldn’t quite get there, and dressed like she’s ready for a rave in 1497—and then lo! Heath is knighted for real. Also, it features Chaucer, who spends the movie dressed like he’s going to an Ibiza beach festival, and the always sinister glower of Rufus Sewell.
I love it so much, as does Layla.
Basic takeaways here: You can change your stars, ensemble casts are the best, and all of life should be set to as many Queen songs as possible.
As we watch, I skim articles about going viral. According to them, “going viral” generally means your content spreads across the Internet and social media superfast. To be officially viral, it’s got to touch millions of people in a few days. Kind of like the Black Death did in medieval Europe, but—thankfully—without the Hieronymus Bosch horror-scape.
“So, according to this, we need like five million views in three days to technically be considered viral,” I say to Layla. “Though there is disagreement. Generally, I think if we could get a million views of the video and then really get people talking about it, we’d see some change. I mean, look at this story.”
I show her an article about a teen guy who worked at Target. Somebody thought he was cute, so they took his picture and posted it on Twitter, and by the end of the day he had three hundred thousand new followers. His fame exploded from there.
Layla shrugs. “He’s okay, but Internet-sensation hot? I don’t think so.”
“He got onto Ellen for this photo.”
She shakes her head. “People are weird. So, how do we make you the next Alex from Target?”
I read another list: “According to this we need to ‘have quality content’—done—’know our audience and pair with influencers …’”
Layla laughs. “Do we know any influencers who care about the Castle?”
“Eddy Jackson?” I say, thinking about our favorite big tipper. “Maybe some of his friends will tweet something out?”
“Fair point. I’ll write him down and see if we can figure out how to contact him. What about others? Know any history professors or famous feminists? Besides Jett’s mom, who’s not even a little bit famous. Or on Twitter—I already asked. Do you think we can get Roxane Gay to retweet your video?”
“Oh sure, no problem. I’ll just call her.”
“It could happen,” protests Layla. “Might as well try.”
“We can try. But what we really need is like an army of a hundred thousand teens in on this. And moms. And Girl Scout troops. And people with little kids. We need them coming to the Castle to cheer us on for the statement it makes. And we need this to be bigger than me. I’m just a white girl from the suburbs. Maybe my privilege makes it easier for me to say this isn’t fair, but we need to show people that this is about more than just me doing a man’s job. It’s about getting rid of gender restrictions altogether.”
Layla chews on her pencil for a moment. “Agree. But how to convey that message?”
“Maybe in addition to Jett filming the training, we shoot bios of the other new Knights? Just to help people understand why changes at the Castle matter on both a general level and a personal one.”
“That’s a good plan. What else do we need to do?”
I skim another article. “It recommends we make interactive content too.”
“We can do that,” says Layla. She starts furiously clicking away on her laptop. “Open your Twitter for me.”
I haven’t even looked at my Twitter or Instagram in all this. But when I click on it on my phone, Layla whistles.
“You may only have—” she checks the views on the video, “sixty-five thousand views, but somebody found your social media. Look. They linked it to the video.”
My jaw drops. “That can’t be real.”
In one day, my Twitter has jumped from like three hundred followers (all friends, family, and people at school) to two thousand. And my Instagram is even higher.
Suddenly, I’m feeling a bit unsure about this whole thing. Like overexposed. Or too famous in a not-famous way. I let out a shaky breath.
“Breathe,” says Layla, offering me a bottle of water. “This is good and we can use it.”
Taking a few sips of water, I calm down.
“You’re right,” I say. “Okay, let’s link these accounts to the website and the petition. And let’s also drop a hint about the tournament.”
“I’m on it. Did you send your ideas to Corporate yet?”
I swear. “Knew I forgot something. I’ll do it now.�
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As Layla clicks around, linking things to websites and my social media, I pull the crumpled flyer from my pocket. So much depends on the Castle seeing why this could be a good idea. It doesn’t matter if we go totally viral if they aren’t on board to make it all possible.
I write a long email, explaining why gender restrictions at the Castle are limiting and how we can change things for the better, and then I explain why this is more reflective of the Middle Ages. After all that, I link to my video, website, and the petition. Finally, I propose the tournament as the time for us new Knights to showcase our talent and skills.
With a deep breath and a prayer to the badass ladies of the Middle Ages, I hit Send.
The movie ended a while ago, and while she was waiting for me, Layla has painted a Godzilla monster onto one of her Kyoto temples. We decide to go get some pizza and stop by the Castle.
“Maybe we can run into Jett,” I say. “I’ve still got his backpack.”
“And how did you happen to come by that?” Layla says with a smirk.
I tell her quickly about Jett’s and my day in Milwaukee and getting into Marquette. After an appropriate amount of squealing about MU, she shoots me a look.
“And you have no interest in Jett?” she asks as we walk through her house. “None at all?”
I duck my head, smiling. “That thought is not allowed. Not now, not ever. He’s a friend. Nothing more.”
Layla stops in the entrance hall, that project-to-get-started-on gleam in her eyes. “Uh-huh.”
I grab her arm. “Do not—I repeat—do not try to set us up.”
A smile flickers across her face. “Of course not! I’d never think of setting you up with someone who’s smart, obviously adores you, makes you laugh, and is absolutely gorgeous. Why in the world would I want that for my best friend?”
“Just leave it alone,” I beg. “Tell me about your love life. Have you gotten rid of Eric yet?”
“He persists,” she says. “But I’m taking your advice. Sort of.” A mischievous look crosses her face and she holds up her phone. “He just invited me to the Castle’s Ninja after-party tonight, and I think we should go.”
Last year, the big bosses at the Castle’s parent company mandated that we have “Family Dinner” once a month. It’s supposed to be a time for us all to eat, drink, and be merry. No alcohol, no sex with coworkers, just good, honest medieval-style “Castle Family” fun.
Welp.
You can imagine how long that lasted.
Now, Len lets us have one super-top-secret Ninja afterparty every month instead of “Family Dinner.” The invitations go out half an hour before the event. You can bring outside guests if you’re discreet. You can bring booze, but you better have a designated driver. And you’re not allowed to post pics on social media.
What happens at Ninja after-party stays there. Unless it doesn’t. Which also happens with all the hookups and drama that the party encourages. So far, Corporate hasn’t found out about the parties yet. And since Len’s band plays at the party, his normally rigid stance on rules bends when he can jam all night on his guitar.
I usually avoid the Ninja after-parties, because what’s fouler than your uncle pretending he’s hipster Kid Rock? And my dad is a recovering alcoholic, so I don’t drink that much, and I have the Big Plan, which could be messed up if someone takes pictures of me drinking.
But this could also be the perfect chance to enact phase two: Convince Others to Join Us!
I glance at my phone. It’s after ten now, and the show should be wrapping up soon.
Layla grips my arm. “Please, please, please can we go?”
With a long-suffering sigh, I nod, and she grabs her keys. Together we walk out of her house and into the night.
The only sounds outside Layla’s house are the fountain burbling in the gardens, about a million crickets, and classical music from her parents’ open window. The house is so big, I had no idea Layla’s parents were even home, so it’s almost comforting to hear the music and know someone else is here.
But the whole thing is kind of lonely.
As I clamber into Layla’s Jeep, I put forward my conditions: “I’ll be the designated driver, but no dancing to Len’s music—even if you are drunk, you can’t do it—and no making out with Eric.”
“I promise,” says Layla. “I’ll drive on the way over. Buckle up.” She grins and then backs out of her driveway like she’s auditioning for a spot in Formula 1 racing.
Once I’ve stopped hanging on to the Jeep’s roll bars for dear life, I text Jett.
Kit: Phase one is going well! We’re going to the Ninja after-party to recruit people. You going to be there?
I try to keep the desperate note of pleading out of my voice, while trying to ignore the kangaroos that lurch around my stomach when I think about Jett pulling up to the Castle on his motorcycle, in his stupid leather jacket, looking all hot.
And then my mind flicks to an image of the two of us, drinking warm beer out of plastic cups on the roof, snuggled under a blanket beneath the stars.
Goddammit. Kit.
Unbreakable. Rules.
Jett is totally off-limits.
And he doesn’t think of you like that. If he did, he’d have given you a hint or clue or something.
While I’m spiraling, he replies.
Jett: Already on my way home, but I’ll try to get back there before too long.
I take myself in hand with a third person–style pep talk: You, Kit Sweetly, are the master of your own destiny. You’ll change your stars. You’ll make it to Marquette, go to law school, make millions of dollars, and buy your mom a house like Layla’s.
But you won’t make a move on Jett. Not now. Not ever.
Taking a deep breath, I text back.
Kit: No worries. If you’re already headed home, no need to come back out. Have a good night!
I shove my phone into my purse after that, not wanting to see his reply.
“Everything okay?” asks Layla. “Jett going to be there?”
“He’s already almost home,” I say. “So, it’s just you and me. Don’t abandon me for the sake of Eric.”
“Never,” says Layla as we pull into the Castle parking lot.
13
THE PARKING LOT IS EMPTY EXCEPT FOR STAFF CARS. WE go around the back to the employee entrance. Two busboys in medieval-style vests and linen shirts puff on a joint behind the dumpster. I know them by sight, but I don’t know their names.
“Kit!” they say in unison as we approach. One bows to me and flourishes his giant feathered hat. “Welcome, liberator of the fairer sex here at the Castle.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I say under my breath.
“Told you you’re famous,” says Layla, poking me in the arm.
Penny, a trans Serving Wench in her early twenties, comes outside at that moment. She’s got a pack of Camels in her hand, and her red lipstick and pale skin are flawless under the streetlights. She’s Chris’s BFF and she’s worked with us as long as I can remember.
“Can I get one of those?” I ask.
“Sure you want to do that?” asks Penny as she re-twists her long black hair into a knot at the back of her neck. “A Knight needs to be in top physical condition.”
She wrinkles her nose, mimicking one of Len’s speeches when he caught Chris, her, and a bunch of the other Knights and Wenches having a poker game and smoking cigars during an after-party.
“Shut up, Wench,” I say affectionately.
She grins and holds out the pack. Layla and I both take one and light up using Penny’s lighter. I have a rule with cigarettes: Don’t smoke them at home or at school, in the car, or at Layla’s house. But I crack as soon as I get to work. I grew up hating the smell of smoke, thanks to being the child of smokers, but smoking is practically a rite of passage at the restaurant. The first week I worked here, I came outside during my break for some fresh air. There was a circle of servers sitting on filthy milk crates, puffing on smokes
and bitching about their jobs. I stood outside the circle for a few seconds before pulling up my own crate and bumming a cigarette. It was the start of my social smoking habit and an instant in with the Castle staff.
I missed my nightly cigarette last night, and so I take it slow tonight. Nicotine dances through my bloodstream as I inhale deeply, pulling in the smoke and enjoying the burn all the way down. I know this is bad for me, but it’s also a part of life at the Castle. Especially among us drudges.
Penny, Layla, and I chat about tonight’s show as we smoke—it was a rough one, apparently. Len was in fine form but Princess Jessica kissed the Green Knight on the floor, which makes me worry about whether Chris saw it or not.
Penny sees my look and nods. “Yeah. Chris was there when it happened. Jess made a big show of passing him by to give Green a favor and a kiss. He handled it well, but I wouldn’t bet on them not getting into another fight before the party’s over.”
“Poor Chris,” says Layla. “He deserves better.”
I’ve always secretly wished Layla would date my brother. She certainly was all about that when we were kids, but I’ve not heard her mention it in years.
“He’ll find someone better,” says Penny, pushing her boobs up higher so they’re practically spilling out of her dress. “Even if I have to set him up with someone myself. Also, did he tell you that Len said I could try out to be a Knight if and only if I ride out as a man?”
Layla and I both make noises of disgust.
“Unbelievable!” I say. “That’s so unfair.”
Penny nods. “Chris told him off for sure, but Len’s unrelenting. So, fuck that. Unless of course you can get him to change the rules. I ride as the woman I am or not at all.”
“Damn right,” says Layla.
“I’m definitely working on it,” I say. “Any chance you’d be interested in training with us this week? We’re meeting at Layla’s house on Monday at two p.m.”
“I’m in,” says Penny. “Anything to make this place less medieval.”
She laughs, but there’s a hard, determined glint in her eye as she stomps out her cigarette.