The Life and Medieval Times of Kit Sweetly

by Jamie Pacton

  Jett hands Aarav to his mom, who’s wisely covered her book of stories with a plastic bag. The baby nuzzles into his mom, and she sings to him softly in Russian while she hands out juice boxes.

  Jett grabs a plate. “We’re eating outside,” he calls out as he jumps into the scramble for grilled cheese. He emerges with two full triangles and one half-eaten one.

  “Sorry,” he says, appraising the half-eaten one.

  “No worries,” I say, through a mouthful of sandwich. I grab two cups of lemonade and follow him outside.

  When he closes the sliding door behind me, the noise of the house recedes. We sit side by side at a picnic table. It’s suddenly, awkwardly, hugely not quiet in the way that it can be only in the suburbs on a weekend in the spring. Meaning there are lawn mowers going, some music from a garage down the way, and the shouts of kids playing down the street.

  Jett doesn’t say anything.

  I don’t say anything.

  I take a bite of grilled cheese, savoring its buttery, melty goodness.

  “So, you’re not allowed to ask me about how the Girl Knight and Friends documentary is going. Because it’s top secret for now,” Jett finally says through a mouthful of sandwich.

  “Chris might never ride again,” I blurt out at the same moment. My voice is thick with snot and unshed tears.

  “Oh, Kit.” Jett pulls me into a side hug. “I’m sorry.”

  “I mean, not riding isn’t the worst thing ever. I know that. But I’m so angry. Do you know why he was so distracted and fell?”

  Before I can stop myself, the story about meeting my dad, and him trying to apologize to Chris, and what he said to me comes out in a rush.

  Jett sits there for a moment, processing things.

  I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. For a moment, it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him about everything else—the Castle saying no and how I’m lying to everyone; the tournament I’ve somehow got to make work so I can become a Knight and pay for college; my mom’s money troubles; the divorce; Chris’s hospital bills—but I just stay quiet.

  “What’re you going to do?”

  I shrug. “I’m not going to see him again. I don’t want him in my life.”

  “What do you want from him?” Jett drops his arm from my shoulder, like he’s just realized it’s there.

  I take a shaky breath. I’ve been asking myself the same question all day.

  “What I want is a dad who does more than pop into our lives when it’s convenient for him.”

  “I’m sorry,” says Jett. “I think I lucked out in the dad department, so I can only imagine how hard this is for you.”

  His dad is at the library right now, but he’s the best kind of dad. Interested, reliable, funny. Comes to kids’ soccer games and does stuff like offer to take Jett on trips to India, so Jett can fulfill his dream of volunteering at schools there. I would be lucky to have a dad half as good as Jett’s.

  “It’s okay.” I finish my grilled cheese. “I think the trick with my dad is to not let the past overwhelm me too much. Keep looking ahead. He’s been gone so long, it’s not hard to imagine a future without him.”

  “That’s a good plan.” Jett nods and stands up. “Want me to drive you home?”

  I take his offered hand and get up too. “Can you drop me off at the Castle so I can pick up Chris’s car? I’ve got to go to the laundromat. Our washer’s broken again.”

  My hand stays in Jett’s for a moment, but then he drops it like it’s crawling with medieval vermin. He looks like he wants to say more. Or hug me again. But we settle for a silence that’s clammy and uncomfortable in a wet-bathing-suit-when-you-get-out-of-the-pool kind of way.

  26

  I’M ALMOST RELIEVED WHEN JETT DROPS ME OFF AT THE Castle. Almost. But I’m also a little bit sad, because it’s starting to feel like there’s so much we need to say to each other. But there’s not much I can do about that. At least not right now.

  I fish Chris’s key from under his right tire and pray his ancient Volvo will start. He locks the door as a formality, since both back windows are covered in clear plastic and duct tape. Mercifully, the car starts on the first try, and I manage to stall out only twice on the way home. As I pull into my driveway, I half expect to hear Chris hammering away in the blacksmith shop out back.

  But no. Birds sing and cars race by on the freeway, making a low, steady hum in the background, but my house is quiet.

  It’s so quiet, it almost feels like a funeral home with its empty stillness. I move through the house, opening drapes, clicking on light switches, and gathering laundry. I take the last few bills out of the jar on the table, hoping it will be enough for all the loads. Then I head downstairs to Chris’s room.

  Since Chris’s room is in the lower half of our split-level, only small slivers of afternoon light make it through his grimy windows. I flick the light on, looking for dirty laundry to gather up. My eyes land on a LEGO model of the Sears Tower (well, now the Willis Tower, but it’ll always be the Sears Tower to us here in Chicago) on top of Chris’s bookshelf. I haven’t been in his room in a while, and I didn’t realize he still had this.

  I pick it up carefully, blowing the dust off it.

  It’s something I bought for him a few years ago, after he and I took the train into downtown without telling Mom. As we walked the concrete corridors of Michigan Avenue, Chris brimmed with plans for the buildings he would design.

  “Mine will be as tall as these,” he gushed, pointing up at the skyscrapers. “But I want them to look like the gorgeous buildings in Singapore or Dubai. To achieve that, I’ll have to …”

  He went on and on, sharing his dreams and plans.

  We went to the top of the Sears Tower and the Hancock Building. The views of Lake Michigan captivated me, but Chris was fascinated by how the buildings were held together. He told me—in exacting and excruciating detail—about the type of steel used, how long it took to construct each building, how much concrete was required, how many feet of wiring the buildings contained, and much, much more that can only be filed under the category of “shit Chris cares about and Kit spaces out on.”

  But I knew he loved it. And that his dream was as tall as those buildings piercing the sky. So, I saved up money from babysitting jobs and my first shifts at the Castle and bought him this LEGO Sears Tower building set. Clearly, he was too old for LEGOs, but that didn’t matter.

  “It’s so you can have something to look at when you forget what you want out of life,” I said, handing it to him.

  He laughed and began building immediately, like he used to on the rare occasions when he got LEGOs as a kid.

  A few hours later, it was built, and he hugged me. “It’s perfect, Kit. Thanks.”

  Now, it gathers dust on his shelf. Forgotten, pushed aside. Like so many other dreams.

  A lump rises in my throat as I start to put it back, knowing there’s nothing I can do to help him this time.

  But, no. That’s not thinking like the Girl Knight. The Girl Knight takes action. I carry the LEGO Sears Tower upstairs and set it by my bag. If—and admittedly, this is a very big if—I can manage not to break it, then Chris can see it while he recovers in the hospital. Maybe it will inspire him to pursue a new dream.

  Or maybe it will just be some dumb LEGO, but it’s worth a shot.

  When I get to my room, I raise my blinds and flop onto the bed. Above my bed, my poster with “KIT’S BIG PLAN” mocks me with its assertion that the world can be ordered, that it’s tidy and plannable.

  But life isn’t like that, is it?

  There are accidents, and mistakes, and brothers who fall off horses, and absent dads who reappear. And boys who should be kissed, no matter that it’s not a smart idea or against the rules.

  As I stare up at the bullet points on the poster board, I feel them closing in around me. They were supposed to be ordering points. Compasses to move me forward. But now they feel more like bars, holding me back.

  Have I
trapped myself behind all the walls of my own plan?

  But another voice whispers somewhere inside me, my mother’s voice: “Kit, if you don’t have a plan, life will just sweep you along in its current. That’s what happened to me. I got swept away and never found my footing. You can chart your own course and steer your own way.”

  I’m not even sure what the way looks like anymore, and so I stand up and rip down the poster with “KIT’S BIG PLAN” written on it.

  I can’t quite bring myself to throw it away, but I don’t want it staring at me either. Shoving it under my bed, I leave my room.

  There are things to do. Tomorrow I can revise my big plan. Today I need to do the laundry, visit Chris, and do my homework.

  I gather the laundry and the Sears Tower and head back out to the Volvo. A weary Lady Knight, leaving home again, for another day of questing with the most ordinary of dragons.

  27

  THE WASH BASKET LAUNDROMAT GLOWS LIKE A BEACON in the gloom of the afternoon. Rain falls in a steady, soft patter as I run from Chris’s car to the entrance. There’s only one other guy inside, a huge, bearded dude. He looks like the Mountain from Game of Thrones’s overgrown son. He takes up two chairs and the edge of a third. Part of me knows I should be sketched out, being all alone in here with him, but mostly I’m just tired. And needing to get back to the hospital with clean clothes for Mom.

  I prop the door open and haul my hamper, two trash bags full of towels, and then a few bags of Mom’s and Chris’s laundry through the door. The bell jingles as I walk in, and the dude looks up from the copy of Powerlifting Elite he’s reading.

  “Need some help?” he calls out. He starts to stand, but I shake my head.

  “I’ve got it.” I lug the hamper toward the nearest machine and go back for the bags.

  All the dryers are full, humming away with what I can only presume is an avalanche of laundry from the Mountain Jr.

  I fill washers one through ten and then trudge to the industrial washers at the back, stuffing a bunch of towels into one and then filling the other with the remaining laundry. As I cram the last few washcloths in and get the cycle started, I imagine how the Girl Knight would stand up to someone like the Mountain. She’d have to be fast. And get the first strike in and then dart away. Strategy, like higher ground or using natural elements, would—

  Oh, lady knights, help me.

  The Mountain Jr.’s got a knife.

  I freeze behind the washers, clutching my container of cheap laundry detergent to my chest as well as my phone. The enormous man holds a knife as long as my arm. It’s triangle-shaped and looks like it’s from one of those kitchen sets that people used to sell door-to-door. From here the metal looks dull, but the point is sharp. Surreptitiously, I click Video and then Record on my phone, in case the police need evidence or something when they find my body. The man doesn’t look at me as he rests the knife on top of the small table beside him.

  My heart plays a wild burst of fanfare. I try not to panic. Is the Girl Knight going to end up dead in a laundromat? If it comes down to it, will I be able to defend myself with this flimsy blue jug of laundry soap?

  Held in suspension by the two thoughts, I stand there. The guy doesn’t look at me as he rummages around in his backpack. I calculate the number of steps to the door.

  He makes a satisfied noise as he pulls a block of white cheese from his bag.

  A. Block. Of. Cheese.

  Who brings a block of cheese to a laundromat?

  I burst out laughing.

  The dude looks up and smiles sheepishly. He carves a neat little piece of cheese from the side of the block and holds it out. “Want some?”

  I shake my head, trying to still my racing heart. “I … um … just ate a bunch of grilled cheese. Thanks.”

  He smiles and goes back to carving off blocks of cheese and reading his powerlifting magazine. I go back to my chair and slump into it. Once my fingers have stopped shaking, I open the Layla-Alex-Mags-Lizzy-Jett-Penny text chain I’ve had going since we started training together.

  Kit to the Knights for Days Group Text: Y’all. OMG. I’m at the laundromat with the Mountain Jr., and he’s eating cheese with a carving knife. WTF???

  I send them the video. Replies come back a few moments later.

  Jett: Um …

  Layla: OMG. Who does that?

  Alex: I’m dying. You okay?

  Kit: Alive, but so bored. Laundry is going, so I have time to kill. (And watch this guy eat cheese.)

  Jett: Do your homework.

  Kit: Thanks, Mom, but it’s only Saturday. I’ll get it done tomorrow. Plus, I left it at home. I think I’m gonna practice some Knight moves, just to throw the cheese-eater off.

  Jett: Don’t do anything until I get there. I’ll bring my video camera and film it for the sake of the documentary.

  Layla: I’m on my way too. Which laundromat are you at?

  Kit: The Wash Basket by my house.

  Mags: Knight training at the laundromat? I’m in.

  Alex: Me too. Though I’ve only got a few hours before I have to work.

  Penny: I’m going to the hospital to visit Chris, so I can’t make it. But send me videos!

  Lizzy: Boo! I’m at my grandma’s in Wisconsin. Can’t make it. Send me pics too!

  My washers are done, and the Mountain Jr. is loading his laundry into his car by the time Jett, Layla, Alex, and Mags arrive. Jett has his camera, and Layla carries an armful of pool noodles.

  “Safer than practice swords,” she says with a smile. “And less likely to get the police called on us.”

  “You’re a genius,” I say, holding the door open for her.

  Once we’ve switched my laundry over to dryers and Alex has handed out granola bars because they’re the friend who always shows up with snacks, I explain to them the training setup I’ve been planning.

  “Okay, so I think we need to work on both our ground routines and some of the jousting.” I point to the bank of washers running through the middle of the laundromat. “We can pretend that’s the tilt, and then we can come at each other across it with the pool noodles.”

  “Please tell me we get to use those laundry carts as horses,” says Mags with a wicked grin. She points to the two metal carts sitting near our chairs. They’re the kind with four small wheels, a large metal basket, and then two poles with a third across the top for hanging laundry. Decidedly meant for low-impact situations, not jousting.

  “We’re absolutely using those.” I return her grin. “Want to start with the jousting or the floor routine?”

  Alex grabs a green pool noodle. “Floor routine. En garde, Girl Knight!”

  I grab a pink pool noodle. Darting around the Wash Basket, Alex and I go through the steps Chris taught us. Forward, back, forward again. I lunge into Alex’s guard, and then they do a forward roll out of the way. On the other side of the laundromat, Layla and Mags spar in a similar routine using blue pool noodles. Jett films it all, sometimes on one side of the room and sometimes on the other. He even climbs onto the bank of washers to get a bird’s-eye view of the action.

  After nearly twenty minutes of ground fighting, we’re all panting and our pool noodles dangle limply from our hands. Alex hands out water bottles, and we slump together on the hard plastic chairs, catching our breath.

  “That was amazing,” Jett exclaims as he reviews the footage. “I think you’re all getting much better!”

  “We better be,” says Layla. “The tournament is less than a week away. We’ve got to be flawless.”

  “I’m so stoked,” says Mags. “I invited my boyfriend and my parents. I think Lizzy told me her grandma and a few of her cousins are coming.”

  “Yeah, my parents will be there too,” adds Alex. “They haven’t been to the Castle in a few years, but as soon as I told them I was fighting, they bought tickets.”

  Just hearing my friends speak of the tournament sends a flutter of butterflies into my throat. I should correct them. Tell them this
is far from a sure thing. But they all look so happy going over the moves and talking about the costumes. I don’t want to take that from them. Plus, I can still figure this out. There’s got to be a way to convince Len to let us fight.

  “So, um, did you know jousting is the official sport of Maryland?” I say, changing the subject in what’s got to be the least subtle way possible. “Yeah. Since the 1960s. Apparently it was huge in colonial times and they still have tournaments. Both men and women—they call them Knights and Maids—ride out.”

  Alex rolls their eyes at the “Knights and Maids” bit, but otherwise everyone is startled by my revelation.

  “That’s a fairly amazing fun fact,” says Jett. “I don’t even think our state has an official sport.”

  “I’ve been doing research for the interview on Monday,” I admit. “In case I get asked a bunch of questions about jousting.”

  “What’s happening Monday?” asks Mags, shooting me a look. “You going to tell someone at school this?”

  Shit. I’d forgotten that I’ve not yet told them about going on Good Morning, Chicago! Layla’s eyebrows are practically in her hair, and I feel especially bad about not telling her. Quickly, I explain what’s happening and how I met Bettina.

  “That’s going to be epic,” says Alex. “I wish I could stay home and watch. But I can’t because I’ve got a photography club meeting and a math test in the morning.”

  “You have a test the day after spring break?” I rack my brain trying to figure out what math class they might be talking about, since we have a ton of the same classes.

  “We have a test,” says Jett. “Remember that math homework I keep nagging you about?”

  I groan. A memory of our calc teacher saying something about a test rises in my mind. “I’m gonna miss it. I have to do this news segment.”

  “She’ll let you make it up,” says Layla. “Don’t even worry about it. We’ll tell her what you’re doing.”

  “You all are the best, you know that, right?” I smile gratefully at my circle of friends.