The Life and Medieval Times of Kit Sweetly

by Jamie Pacton

  “We are,” says Alex. They pick up an unbent pool noodle from the pile. “Now, enough talking. We’ve still got the place to ourselves. Let’s joust. Mags, will you push me?”

  Alex rolls one of the laundry carts to the far end of the laundromat and climbs in. Layla gets into the other. I push her to the opposite end of the bank of washers. Both Layla and Alex kneel in the carts, pool noodles out.

  “READY, SET, JOUST!” Jett yells. His camera’s on and he balances on a chair as he films.

  I push Layla’s cart hard, running behind it and trying to steer so she’s close enough to hit Alex over the washers but not so close we crash into them. She holds one of the cart’s poles to steady herself and balances the pool noodle with the other.

  They’re closer, closer, closer. And crash!

  Well, okay. Not crash. Because pool noodles sound more like Rice Krispies crackling than lances shattering when they hit each other.

  But still, we make contact.

  “AGAIN!” Alex shouts, grinning. Their cart is at the far end of the room now.

  “One more time, then it’s my turn,” Mags says, as she turns the cart around. “You’re heavier than you look.”

  Alex turns around and bops Mags with their pool noodle. “Agreed, my fair Knight.”

  Mags grabs a nearby noodle and whacks Alex with it. While they have a spontaneous sword–pool noodle fight, Layla trades places with me in the cart.

  “It’s super fun, Kit; you’ve got to try it.”

  I take the yellow pool noodle from her and climb in. The metal of the basket digs into my knees, so I end up squatting. Alex and Mags get back to their starting position.

  “READY, SET, JOUST!” Jett shouts.

  Layla thrusts the cart along the side of the washers. I can feel every wiggle of the squeaky wheel on the front left side of the cart. Alex looms closer, their pool noodle brandished. I lean forward ever so slightly, ready to knock the noodle out of their hands.

  Almost to them. Almost. Almost …

  “Ahhhhh!” I yell, right as we make contact. I manage to knock the noodle out of Alex’s hand, but somehow, I’m pitched too far forward. Startled by my scream, Layla loses her grip on the cart and it slams into the washers. I fly out and land on my belly across two of them.

  “Kit!” Jett yells, putting his camera down as he runs toward me. “Are you okay?”

  I roll over trying to catch my breath. “I’m okay,” I say through the laughter bubbling up inside me. Tears stream down my face. “That was so fun. Let’s do it again.”

  Layla punches me lightly on the arm. “Don’t scare me like that. After Chris’s injury, I’m not sure I can handle seeing another Sweetly flying through the air.”

  I wipe my eyes, suddenly a little less amused. “Fair point. But I’m fine. You want another turn?”

  With a grin, Layla climbs back into the basket and Mags takes Alex’s place.

  We joust for another ten rounds before a tired-looking mother comes in with her two toddlers, shooting us dirty looks.

  Still laughing, my friends and I load my laundry into bags. Layla and Jett gather all the pool noodles—stuffing a bunch of the broken ones into a trash can, which is sure to baffle someone when they come in to do laundry later.

  “Good luck with the interview,” Layla says, giving me a hug as we leave. “Call me the minute it’s done.”

  “I’ll be watching,” says Jett. “Just imagine you’re talking to me, so you’re not nervous.”

  I wave to him, Layla, Alex, and Mags. I’m not sure I deserve friends as good as these, especially since I’m still lying to them. But, damn, I’m grateful to have them.

  28

  CHRIS IS AWAKE WHEN I GET TO THE HOSPITAL ON SATURDAY night. Mom heads to the bathroom to shower as soon as I hand her a bundle of clean clothes.

  “I have a problem,” I announce when the bathroom door clicks shut behind Mom and the water turns on.

  Chris raises an eyebrow and struggles to sit up. “What is the problem?”

  “Don’t move, you lout,” I say affectionately as I arrange the pillows behind his head and lift the bed. “Your bones are broken.”

  “But never my spirit,” he rasps weakly. He grins and some of part of the worry nesting inside me settles.

  It’s a line from the Red Knight’s script at the Castle. Something we’ve practiced a hundred times. If Chris can make jokes, maybe all this isn’t so bad after all.

  “One problem of many is that I don’t know how I’ll do this without you. Who’s going to convince the other current Knights to help us?” I pull the giant, pleather-covered armchair over to the side of his bed.

  “We’ll figure that out.” Chris gives me a crooked smile. “How has the Knight squad been managing without me? What phase of the plan are you at?”

  “Phase three, I think?” I exhale sharply. Then, in a rush, I tell Chris everything about our training in the laundromat, meeting Eddy, and going on the news with Bettina.

  “Viking Eddy!” says Chris, with another smile. “Did you know he once paid a server to bring him twenty turkey legs and he ate all of them during the course of one show?”

  “He had twelve when I waited on him last.”

  Chris shakes his head. “That guy. He’s a legend among the Knights. Even Dalton likes him. We have a board in the Knights’ locker room that has a collection of his greatest feats.”

  “You have a board? What is it, like classic locker room stuff? Tell me you don’t do that patriarchal nastiness.”

  “Nah,” says Chris, blushing. “It’s record holders like Eddy Jackson—most turkey legs eaten in one sitting. And then people to watch out for, like Viviane, this rich, middle-aged lady who would do creepy stuff like throw panties into the arena. She’s the record holder for kissing the most Knights. She’d sneak up on us during a photo.”

  “Ewwww. That’s harassment and not okay for anyone to do. Ever.”

  “Exactly,” says Chris. “She’s been banned from the Castle, but we get lots of people who do similar stuff.”

  My blood steams to think about it. Chris sees the look on my face and nods.

  “Yeah, I’m hoping that the changes you’re making will help with things like that too. But back to our board. It’s not all bad. Like I said, Eddy’s on there. And then there’s Owen, this little kid who came to every show for an entire month, as part of his Make-A-Wish program.” Chris’s voice trails off and I can’t bring myself to ask what happened to Owen.

  “That’s a lot of ground to cover on one board.”

  Chris yawns as he nods. “I’ll show you when you’re a Knight.”

  “Hey, I brought you something.” I pull the still-intact-through-some-miracle LEGO Sears Tower from my bag.

  Chris reaches out for it, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “You’re so weird. What did you bring this for?”

  “It’s a reminder of your dreams, stupid. Remember you want to be an architect?”

  “Your eloquence is dazzling,” says Chris, smiling. “But thank you. I’d almost forgotten about this.”

  “It’s here to remind you that you can do other stuff, you know, after the Castle. Even if you don’t get to ride again.”

  “I know that,” says Chris softly. He sets the LEGO tower on the bedside table again. “So, it seems like things are going well with the Knights and you’re going on the news. But something else is wrong. I can tell. Spill. What’s the problem?”

  The truth is on the tip of my tongue, but saying it out loud is hard. Even harder than I thought. What if Chris tells Penny? And she tells the others? What if they all just back out because the Castle said no? But this is Chris. He’ll keep my secret.

  I exhale sharply. “Well, I’m lying to my friends and also I have no idea how to set up this tournament that’s not supposed to happen.” I give him the broad-strokes version of how the Castle rejected my idea. His eyes widen as he realizes just how deeply I’ve dug the hole for myself.

  Before Chris can
reply, a nurse bustles in to give him his pain meds, and Mom comes out of the bathroom, toweling off her hair.

  “So, we have to take Chris home tonight,” says Mom, holding up her phone.

  “Tonight?” My voice is too loud for the small room, and the nurse shoots me a look. “Why? He’s still barely put back together.”

  A desperate look crosses Mom’s face. “I’ve been on the phone with the insurance company all day, and they’ve just sent me an email about costs and coverage. We can’t afford to linger. With our terrible insurance, a stay like this costs hundreds of dollars a day. And with the huge deductible, we’re just going deeper into debt the longer Chris stays here.”

  She looks at the nurse, as if there were an answer there.

  “I know, honey,” says the nurse, checking the machines that monitor Chris’s heartbeat and vitals. “It’s a broken system. Wish there was something I could do for you all.”

  “Let Chris stay another night,” I say as the nurse leaves. “My website is making money. Not much, but enough to pay the deductible at least so far. We can use it to let him stay one more night.”

  “Kit, no,” says Chris. “That’s your money for college. Go clean out my account. Or just let me go home. I’m fine. Really.” He tries to swing his legs around the bed, but collapses into Mom’s arms before he can fully stand up.

  “Rest, you ridiculous man,” I say, smiling at them both. I’m so happy I can help out, I could do a cartwheel. Right there in the hospital room. “I’ll get the money. Mom, you make the arrangements. I’m sure I’ll get a scholarship; and, I’ll have plenty of time to make up the rest of the money from working this summer.”

  “Are you okay going home alone? I’ll stay until the morning, but I have to get back to work tomorrow.” A frown of worry crosses Mom’s forehead. I can almost hear her counting up the number of shifts she’s missed and worrying about what her boss will say.

  As I hug Chris goodbye, he whispers to me. “You have to tell the others, Kit. They’ll help you think of something, but they should know.”

  I know he’s right, but that doesn’t mean telling them is going to be any easier.

  29

  I SPEND SUNDAY DOING HOMEWORK AND WATCHING THE views of my video grow (over a million!). Mom comes home around dinnertime and we eat ramen and look through an apartment-rental website, trying to find a new place to live once our house is sold. I fall asleep to dreams of fighting, telling lies, and driving a cart through a laundromat that turns into a labyrinth.

  As promised, a car pulls up outside my house at 4:30 a.m. on Monday morning. Except it’s not a car. It’s more like a baby Batmobile, with its shiny chrome and sleek lines. My reflection and the first hints of sunrise blink back at me from the mirrored windows. One unrolls as I approach. I clutch my coffee and try to comb the bedhead out of my hair.

  “Kit Sweetly?” asks a bright-eyed young woman with flawless brown skin, perfect hair, and an expensive-looking blouse.

  I nod and cover a huge yawn with my hand. I was up late texting with Layla, who is perhaps more excited than I am about this morning show appearance. I still didn’t manage to tell her the truth about the tournament, but that’s because I’m hoping today’s news appearance will convince Corporate to let us fight. When we finally said good night, it was after one o’clock in the morning. I barely heard my alarm go off half an hour ago. Mom was already up, and now she stands at the door.

  The Batmobile door opens and the lovely, put-together woman gestures me inside. “I’m Isabel. Junior production assistant for Channel 6. I’ll get you downtown and to the set.”

  “Hi.” Waving to Mom, I settle into a posh leather seat beside Isabel. “Thanks for picking me up.”

  “Bettina was very clear that you’d need a ride,” she says. “Is that what you’re wearing on the air?” She looks down at my jean jacket, faded red-and-white polka-dotted sundress and less-than-clean blue canvas sneakers—really the nicest things I could muster without asking Layla for something.

  “Erm, no. This is just my Minnie Mouse costume,” I joke, trying to smile.

  Isabel smiles a tiny bit. “It’s cute, but you look very girlish… . I was under the impression you’re famous for doing something only boys do?”

  I quirk an eyebrow at her. It’s far too early for feminism lessons, but I can’t just let that assumption alone. “I can wear dresses and still do things like fight as a Knight. That’s kind of the point.”

  “True,” says Isabel, with a wry smile. She gestures to her outfit. “I guess it’s easy to forget that in this job where I have to dress like talk-show Barbie every day.”

  I laugh. She’s funnier than I’d have expected someone with a perfect updo to be. Which shows again how appearance can wrongly skew expectations. “So, what do I do on the show?” I ask as I take a long sip of coffee.

  “You’re going to be Bettina’s first guest. She’ll ask you a series of questions and then roll your video …”

  She keeps talking about the upcoming show, and I space out a bit. My coffee hasn’t taken hold, and I’m fighting to stay awake. The driver steers us onto the highway, and we head into the city, merging into the early-morning traffic. As suburban houses, parks, stores, and billboards race past in a blur, I suddenly have the strongest feeling that I’m a guest in someone else’s life.

  I mean, a little more than a week ago—was it really only a week from this past Friday?—I fought in Chris’s place. Now, I’m rolling toward Chicago in a car with its own minibar so I can be on TV.

  What. Even. Is. My. Life?

  And how does this all fit in with being the Girl Knight?

  I snap a picture of myself in the car and text it to the Knights group text.

  Kit: Fingers crossed I don’t barf.

  Most of them are still asleep, but I feel better knowing they’re rooting for me.

  Finishing my coffee, I lean my head against the window. Surely talking to people on camera is easier than riding a horse while wearing pounds of armor and carrying a lance?

  Right?

  BETTINA LOOKS EVEN MORE BEAUTIFUL THIS MORNING THAN she did at the Castle. Her skin glows beneath the lights, and her hair looks like it’s never been out of place in her life. She wears a tailored white-and-blue dress that sort of shimmers as she moves. Next to her, I look like a scabby teenager who’s fled a picnic hosted by a gang of fashion school rejects. Or something like that.

  But she smiles when she sees me, putting me more at ease than I’ve felt since the car pulled up at my house.

  “Kit!” She kisses both my cheeks and beams at me. “It’s so good to see you again.”

  A witty reply isn’t forthcoming, so I just smile back. “Thanks. I’m really excited to be here!”

  And I am. Now that I’m actually here and people from hair and makeup surround me, a fizz of excitement rises. This is a HUGE part of phase three—getting the word out there— and I can’t wait for other people to hear about what we want to change at the Castle. Of course, this exposure means Len could see it, but it’s not like I didn’t warn him I was going to do something to change his mind. Plus, my friends are counting on me.

  Ooof. That gives me a sick feeling in my stomach. They’re counting on me and I’m lying to them.

  Before I can reflect on my missteps as a friend or what I’m going to say, the lights go on, the music for Good Morning, Chicago! fills the studio, and Bettina smiles for the camera.

  “Sit up straight,” she hisses through her teeth as she holds her smile.

  I sit up as straight as I can, shoving all negative thoughts away and remembering the times my grandma would poke me in the back with her cane and yell at me for slouching. A producer counts us down.

  Three, two, one …

  And, showtime!

  “Good morning, Chicago!” says Bettina enthusiastically. “We’re so glad you’ve joined us. This morning, I’m having coffee with a very special teenager. Folks, I’d like you to meet Kit Sweetly, Chicago’s ver
y own Girl Knight!”

  The camera turns to me, and I give a little wave. Inside, my stomach churns, the coffee I just finished a slurry.

  Please don’t barf, please don’t barf, please don’t barf.

  “Hello, Bettina, hello, Chicago!” I manage to get out. My voice sounds strained. Like I’m choking on something.

  “Kit, why don’t you tell us what it’s like to work at the Castle?”

  I shift a bit in my chair, and then smile. “Well, I’ve been working there for almost three years. We’re kind of like a family. A great big medieval-modern family. Actually, a whole lot of my real family works there. My uncle is my boss. My brother is—or was—a Knight there. Or maybe he still is? He’s in the hospital right now. And my two best friends work there. And all the other Wenches, Squires, Pages, Knights, and Royalty are really close.”

  Bettina makes a funny little noise and wrinkles her nose. “Did you say wenches?” The word sounds like something that gives you food poisoning when she says it.

  I grin. “Yep. That’s my official title. Really, I’m a server. Though I’m hoping for a promotion to Knight soon.”

  “Speaking of that.” Bettina smoothly transitions as a producer holds up six fingers for time. “You’re doing more than hoping, aren’t you? Folks, just last week, Kit fought in her brother’s place and gave the crowd a real show! Let’s take a look at her clip.”

  She turns to the large video screen behind us, and my YouTube video comes on. It’s been edited so it’s a montage of me riding, fighting the Green Knight, and then whipping off my helmet and making my declaration.

  When it’s done, Bettina claps. “Well, that certainly was invigorating. As you can see, folks at home, Kit’s video has been watched and shared more than a million times. She’s even got a website, right?”

  “That’s right,” I say. “It’s www.thegirlknight.com. You can sign my petition to tell the Castle to get rid of gender restrictions for knighthood and other jobs. Right now, it’s company policy that only cis men can be Knights, and that’s absurd. People across the gender spectrum are now astronauts, soldiers, presidents, and more. To say only men can ride a horse at a dinner theater? C’mon.”