by Jamie Pacton
I mostly believe him.
“Good for you,” I snarl. The words come out fiercer than I’d expected, but I don’t regret them. “But we don’t want anything from you.”
“I went by the house the other night and saw how it is. And it’s probably my fault that Chris fell last night. He was so worked up about our fight.”
“Don’t give yourself so much credit.” I grab a handful of creamers out of the metal basket on the table and begin dumping them into my coffee. When I’m done with that, I tip the sugar container over and let a white river of sweetness pour in.
I make eye contact with my dad as I do so, as if I’m daring him to lecture me on sweets. He looks like he wants to say something but shakes his head. I stop pouring the sugar and stir.
“I know I messed up, Kit-Kat,” he says. He runs a hand through his hair and shifts his eyes to the side. For one moment, he’s the dad who used to take me out to breakfast and who taught me to ride a bike. He’s the dad who whisked Chris and me off to “adventures” every Sunday so Mom could sleep in. He’s the dad who sang us songs and made up riddles for us to solve.
“Don’t call me that,” I say softly.
Chris needs me to be strong. Mom needs me to be strong. Neither of them need to know Dad is here. And the last thing I need is to get emotional about my dumpster fire father.
I take a sip of the coffee. Sweet Baby Jesus. It’s like drinking cake.
“Courtney then,” he says. “It’s a more grown-up name for sure.”
“Just Kit.” My voice is forceful, and I look away from him.
Silence stretches between us. I should get up and deliver Mom her coffee. I should yell at my dad. Instead, I just drink more coffee, waiting for him to say something else.
“I’m going to sit here until Len comes,” he finally says. “I called him and told him I’d be here. To return the guitar. He wanted to meet in a public place.”
“So he doesn’t kill you,” I mutter. “Smart man.”
“Yeah. How’s school going? You looked perfectly in charge at the Castle last night.”
He must’ve seen me delivering turkey legs and beers.
“I’m a Wench, Lars. Nothing to be ‘perfectly in charge’ of there.”
“I meant in your video. The one where you rode out as a Knight.”
Something in me stumbles. I can’t believe he saw that. Did he feel proud of me while he watched? I push the thoughts way down. Nothing but pain waits for me there.
“You don’t get to ask me about school. And you don’t get to ask me about that video. My life is pretty much off the table for your opinions.”
“I’m sorry, Kit. I didn’t mean for it to go this way.” He strums a note when he says it, making the doctor at the next table look up from the chart he’s reading.
Why can’t my dad be like that guy? Professional, competent, and put together. Someone who goes forth into the world every day to save lives and help people, not play some hokey soundtrack for a robot dragon show. Literally, a tape recorder could do his job.
Almost as if he’s reading my mind, he pulls a newspaper clipping from his pocket. “My show’s in town and doing really well.” He points to the top of the page, where his face is barely visible above the wing of a baby dragon. “That’s Lillyheimer, and that’s Starzy.” He points to pictures of each dragon.
The coffee is perking me up and anger rushes in, knocking over nostalgia and sadness like dominos. “I’m not a child anymore, Lars. And I don’t care about your robot dragons. Chris is in the hospital, most likely because of you. Mom is broke because you took everything from her. So, forgive me if I don’t want to sit here, shooting the shit about the kids’ show you’re doing.”
He looks stunned for a minute and then holds up his hands. “Fair, fair. You can be angry. I understand that.”
His trying to rationalize and empathize with my anger makes me want to pelt him with creamers. I take a steadying breath. “I’m leaving.” I scowl as I grab both coffees. “Don’t come up to Chris’s room and don’t bother Mom. Unless you’re ready to sign the divorce papers already.”
He pulls a folded pile of papers out of his inside jacket pocket. “I’ve got them right here. Tell her I’m down here. And Len has my phone number, in case you want to chat someday. But you don’t have to call. Tell Chris I’m sorry. And that I love him.”
He sounds so much like that dad I used to know. The dad I loved once. The dad who was my friend and hero, who I’d gift with handfuls of flowers and funny drawings.
“Goddamn you, Lars. You don’t get to just come back and pretend like things are fine between us. I thought you knew that by now.” My voice is thick with unshed tears.
“I love you too, Kit,” he calls as I walk away.
I don’t turn around this time. He loves the idea of the child I was. And I love the notion of the father he was before he left.
But all that’s gone now.
24
MOM REACHES GRATEFULLY FOR THE COFFEE WHEN I get back to the room. Chris is awake, and a breakfast tray sits on a table over his lap.
“Morning, Girl Knight,” he says with a lopsided smile. “I guess you’ll have to take my place for good now.”
Mom shoots me a look. “Don’t even think about it. I’ll break your legs myself to keep you out of that arena. In fact, I’m voting that both of you get jobs at the library effective immediately.”
Chris and I both laugh. “Message received, though I think that you’ll find Kit’s in quite high demand lately. Show her.”
Mom narrows her eyes. “What’ve you done now?”
I finish my coffee, sucking up the sweet, crystalline sludge from the bottom. “Well … remember when I fought in Chris’s place last week? After that, Layla and I made this website, and it’s pretty much gone viral… .”
I open my phone and press Play on the video. Mom holds her coffee in both hands as she watches. One hand flies to her mouth as I whip off my helmet, but she keeps smiling as the video finishes.
I can’t help myself as I let out a little cheer.
“Read the comments,” Chris says. He takes a small sip of apple juice and makes a face. He looks at me and nods toward the coffee. “Anything left in there?”
Mom hands him her coffee, her eyes not leaving the screen. She scrolls down, reading the comments.
Chris takes a sip and makes a face. “Too bitter,” he moans, handing it back. He tries to eat more toast, but his eyes get droopy as he sits there, and he’s soon back asleep. Mom holds a finger to her lips as she reads.
“Kit, there are thousands of comments here,” she says. Wonder fills her voice.
“I know,” I say. “And that means Corporate is getting tons of emails.”
“But you can’t fight,” says Mom. “What happens if you get hurt?” She nods toward Chris.
“I won’t get hurt. I promise.”
She shakes her head again. “You can’t guarantee that.”
I take another peek at Chris. He’s still asleep. I lean toward Mom and whisper the thing that I’ve told no one, ever. “I’m better than him. I won’t get hurt.”
Mom gives me a wry smile. “Confidence is good, but arrogance will break a leg.”
I’ve heard her say it a hundred times, but the meaning is so much clearer now that Chris lies in bed, with his body pinned together.
“We’ll see what happens,” I say, and smile at her. “The Castle probably won’t even let me fight.”
Is this a lie or the truth? This is the land of pure moral grayness, as it’s hard to tell, since it’s true they won’t let me fight. But it’s false because I’m absolutely going out there again.
“But you’re going to try, aren’t you?” Her eyes meet mine.
“I’m going to try. The gender restrictions at the Castle are awful. And me, Layla, Penny, and a few others are really getting better at the Knight routines. We have a chance to make things fair.”
“Kit—” Mom takes a deep breath. I imagine she’s
regretting all those times she read me books about the women’s movement. But her reply surprises me. “Okay, fine. I’m proud of you. I really am. And I think what you’re doing is incredibly cool. Just promise me you’ll be careful. We can’t afford another five-thousand-dollar deductible. And my heart can’t handle seeing another one of my children in the hospital.”
I go over to her and wrap my arms around her. “Thanks, Mom. And I’ll be careful. And, um, speaking of all this. Could you sign something for me?”
“What is it?” The tone of her voice is wary.
“Just a permission slip for me to be on the news.”
“Kit!”
Her voice wakes Chris.
“What’s going on?” he says, dazedly.
“Nothing. Go back to sleep,” I say softly.
“Kit,” my mom hisses more quietly once Chris is asleep again. “You’re going on the news?”
Quickly I tell her about Eddy and Bettina, and then I show her the email I got last night. “It’s on Monday, so we have to reply soon.”
“Well, thank goodness tomorrow’s Sunday so you have time to get your homework done. And they’re picking you up,” says Mom. “Which is perfect, since I have to work a morning shift and don’t want to fight traffic. But you’re going to miss the first day after spring break, and that won’t look good.”
“Mom. I’m like a month away from graduation. Missing one day will be fine. And this exposure could be what actually makes Len and the Castle listen to us!”
“Doing this will make Len mad and it will help you?”
Mom and Len have what you might call a complicated relationship. One mostly based on mutual dislike.
“Yes to both.”
“Fine,” she says with a smile. “You can do it. Give me that form.”
She signs it digitally, which I guess in retrospect I could’ve done. But it feels good to be honest with someone about this whole thing.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say. “You’re the best.”
She gives me a small hug. “Oh, by the way, did you see your father downstairs? He was supposed to bring the signed divorce papers by the house last night, but I told him we were here. He texted to say he’d bring them over sometime around this time.”
“He was there when I left,” I admit. “But I’m not sure he’s still there. He didn’t look great.”
Mom swears and grabs her purse. “Sit with Chris until I get back?”
“I’ll be here,” I say, grabbing the remote and changing the channel from baseball replays to a show on the History Channel about the Knights Templar.
Mom blows me a kiss as she hurries out the door.
25
NOT LONG AFTER THAT, I’M READING ON MY PHONE AS I walk through the lobby doors toward the bus stop. Dad was long gone (of course, he was), and Mom has sent me home to get her fresh clothes and do some laundry. The air is warm and hints at the summer yet to come. Part of me wants to see if I can find Dad, lurking somewhere around the hospital, but I don’t. Why pour salt in that wound? Plus, Mom will sort out how to get the divorce papers from him. Somehow.
Layla’s sent me fourteen texts since yesterday. I write her back, telling her all about Chris’s injuries and recovery plan.
Her reply comes in immediately.
Layla: So, remember how I was supposed to check on the website clicks and money coming in after Eddy and co boosted it?
Kit: Yes …
Layla: You’re up to a million hits and we’ve made three thousand dollars so far.
Kit: SHUT UP!
Layla: Not even lying. I’ll go over it with you later. Are you working tonight?
Kit: Nope. I’ve got to catch up on homework for the next few days. My next shift is on Wednesday.
Layla: Okay, I’m off tonight too. Text me if you want to hang out.
She texts a smiley face back, and I’m about to put my phone away, but Jett’s face appears on my screen.
“How’s Chris?” Jett asks when I pick up.
“Awake, alive, and telling me I should take his place as the Red Knight.”
“Glad to hear it,” says Jett. I can practically hear him grinning. “Can I come get you? My mom is making fancy grilled cheese.”
The bus pulls up as he says it, but it’s already crowded. It belches stinky smoke, and somehow the thought of riding the bus to my empty house, with its cooler full of melting ice and disgusting food, is just too much for me right now.
“I could eat grilled cheese.”
“Be there soon,” says Jett.
He pulls up in his mom’s minivan fifteen minutes later and honks twice, and I open the passenger door. “Thanks for the ride,” I say, pulling the door closed behind me. “Nice wheels.”
“Dad’s taking the bike out, so I got stuck with the van again.”
“Well, I appreciate the chance not to barf on your bike. Again.”
A pained look crosses his face. “You have a terrible sense of humor,” he says, and smiles. “You know that, right?”
“That’s what friends are for.” I laugh.
Which is apparently our new motto, and a great big fat lie.
JETT’S MOM LOOKS NOTHING LIKE MINE. WHEREAS MY MOM looks tired and crumpled, like a tissue that’s been used up and thrown away, Jett’s mom is still glamorous. She was a model before she went to college, and she’s tall and thin, and her hair always looks like she’s just come from a Brazilian blowout. Even when she’s wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and a cardigan with holes in the elbows.
She sits at their kitchen counter, a cup of tea in one hand and a book in the other.
“Hello, Kit,” she says as I walk in. She puts her book down and comes over to kiss me on both my cheeks, which makes her that much more glamorous and European. “I hope you are hungry.” She gestures to a plate piled high with grilled cheeses. White cheese flecked with herbs and peppers oozes out of them.
My stomach rumbles, reminding me I’ve not had more than coffee and cold pancakes today.
Jett takes my backpack and puts it on the living room couch.
“Be right back,” he says, taking the stairs two at a time. From upstairs there’s the thump of a kid jumping out of a bunk bed and then a bunch of feet pounding around.
Jett’s mom glances upstairs and smiles. She looks just like Jett when she does that. “‘Let’s have lots of kids,’ I said to my husband. ‘I want a houseful of naughty boys.’”
“Be careful what you wish for?” I say, smiling back.
“Always,” she says. “Come here. I want you to see this.”
I sit down next to her and she pushes the book she’s reading toward me. It’s as large as a coffee-table book and ragged at the edges. Pieces of paper are shoved into it, and they stick out of the top, bottom, and side. I open it and run my fingers over the handwritten Russian words. Kids in red and blue bell-shaped coats, Easter eggs, farm animals, and many other drawings cover the pages.
“What is this?”
“It’s a book of stories,” says Jett’s mom. She pushes her glasses up her nose and runs her hand over a page, caressing it lovingly. “In Russia, when I was growing up, there were not very many books. My mother would take me to the booksellers near Gorky Park. We would read what was there and then pass them on; but there were more kids who wanted to read than there were books. So we would share. My mother, like so many others, would copy stories into books like this. We’d pass these books around and draw pictures in them. This one came to me via a friend in Europe. Her mother gave it to her. I’m going to document it as part of a larger project I’m working on.”
“It’s so pretty.” I turn another page. “What’s this story about?”
“That is a fairy tale, about two children who find a house made of plums—”
“‘Hansel and Gretel’?”
“Something like that,” says Jett’s mom. She reads a few lines in Russian, the words lilting off her tongue. When she stops, I turn another page.
“Is it hard to be awa
y from your family?” I say as I look at all the handwritten stories and pictures.
Jett doesn’t talk about the Russian side of his family. All I know is his mother went to Australia on a student visa and met his dad there, and they moved to America before Jett was born.
“There are not many of them left,” she says, wrapping both hands around her cup of tea. “My mother died when I was your age, and my father passed away when I was a university student.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, kicking myself for bringing up bad memories.
“It’s nothing to be sorry over,” says Jett’s mom with a sad smile. “They were wonderful people, but it was their time.”
Silence stretches between us, and I turn another page. Upstairs, more footsteps pound around.
“What’s your project about?” I ask as I come to a particularly beautiful page. Colorful statues resting on the top of spectacular onion-domed buildings look on as children ride winged horses through the snow.
Jett’s mom takes a sip of tea. “I’m still figuring that out, but I know I want to use books like this to talk about how sometimes things aren’t ideal, but you find a way; you get creative, and you have a network of people to help you.”
It’s a little bit like what I’ve learned from my time as the Girl Knight. Which is—of course—way less important than people bonding together to share literature and stories in an authoritarian culture where such things are tightly regulated. But still. Take the lessons where you can.
Before I can ask any more questions, two of Jett’s younger brothers race down the stairs and swarm the plate of grilled cheese.
“Hi, Kit!” shouts Feliks, an energetic third grader with a gap where his front teeth should be.
Jett’s other brother, Marc, a fourth grader, doesn’t look up from the book he’s reading as he sits down at the table.
I wave and take the oozy half of grilled cheese Feliks offers me. Jett’s mom hands out napkins, while Feliks and Marc eat apple slices and burp the alphabet.
“Charming family I have, I know,” says Jett, coming down the stairs holding his youngest brother, two-year-old Aarav, who’s clearly just woken up from a nap. His curly dark hair is plastered to his forehead and he hides his face on Jett’s shoulder when I wave to him.