by Jamie Pacton
Bettina gives me a knowing look. “We’re almost out of time, but I wanted to ask you, Kit, what are you trying to prove with all this?”
I shift in my chair. “Erm … Well, at first, I didn’t think I was going to be able to change or prove anything—I was just helping my brother out. But, as I was fighting, I realized I liked it. I wanted to show kids they can do anything, regardless of gender identity. So, yes, it might be symbolic. But what better way to smash the patriarchy than with a lance and sword?”
Bettina laughs, a lilting, gentle sound that’s refined and warm. “Indeed. One small step for women, one giant step for Wenches.”
That strikes me as so funny, I give a bark of laughter. Then immediately cover my mouth as the awkward noise rings out around the TV studio. To fill that space, I plunge ahead.
“So, yes, Bettina, and all of Chicagoland, if you want to see more of the Girl Knight and my friends, because there are quite a few of us who’ve been training—you can check out some of those training videos on our website—you should definitely reserve seats at the Castle this Friday night. We’re having a tournament at the seven thirty show, and it’s going to be something totally new and totally amazing!”
“You heard it here first,” says Bettina to the camera. “Thanks again to Kit Sweetly for joining us, and stay tuned, folks. After the break, we learn all about how to make French pastries for breakfast. Yum!”
As the lights fade, Bettina turns to me. “That went great! You’re a natural.”
“I wouldn’t say that, but thank you. Hope you can make it to the Castle on Friday.”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m headed to New York then, but good luck! Keep on smashing through those walls. You’re going to do great things.”
She shakes my hand and then makeup people swarm around her. Isabel, the assistant from earlier, comes up to my chair. “Time to move it. Next segment starts in three minutes. Do you want to stay for the rest of the show?”
I really, really do want to stay, but I also need to get home. I’m nowhere near ready for the calc test I’ll have to make up, and I need to study, though Mom’s letting me miss the whole day of school because we weren’t sure how long I’d be in the studio.
“I can’t. Can you get me home? I think we can beat rush hour if we hurry.”
“Not likely,” says Isabel. “I have to stay here until the end of the show, but I’ll radio the driver to meet you out front. You were great out there!”
“Thank you!” I call out as she strides away, talking into her walkie-talkie.
I hustle out of my chair as Bettina moves away from me and into a stage that’s set up like a kitchen.
As I’m walking out the door, Isabel hurries back to me. “Hey, Kit. My six-year-old niece just saw the clip before school. Can you leave some tickets for us up front for Friday’s seven thirty show?”
“Absolutely! What name should I put it under?”
Isabel smiles at me, dropping her super-serious work face for just a moment. “Put it under Sofia, Future Girl Knight in Training.”
“I’d like nothing better. Tell Sofia my friends and I will see her Friday.”
Isabel waves as she walks away, and I have to pinch myself as I take the elevator down to street level.
What we’re trying to do feels much more real now that I’ve announced the plan to the greater Chicagoland area. If only I could figure out how to actually pull the tournament off. Or tell my friends that things aren’t going quite as smoothly as they seem.
If this was a small hole to start, by going on the news I’ve just dug myself the foundation of a house. Or maybe something grimmer that will bury me when it all collapses.
I’ve got to make this tournament happen. Despite what Corporate or Len says, we’ve got to fight.
I write out a text message to the group chat.
Kit: Hey, all! News segment went great. I think we’re going to get a lot of people to the Castle from it.
I send that, then type out a quick message after it.
Kit: I’ve got to talk to you all about something else though …
My fingers hover over Send as the driver pulls up.
I delete the second message once I’m in the car.
It’s only Monday. I’ve got the better part of a week to figure this out. No reason to worry my friends too soon, right?
The car pulls away from the TV studio, headed into a snarl of morning traffic that’s almost as thick as the knot of worry and dread in my stomach.
30
WHEN I FINALLY GET HOME, THE SUN IS FULLY UP, AND there are a bunch of messages on my phone. Layla, Layla, Layla, Jett, Mom, Chris, and Len.
Oh, saints and lady knights help me. If Len’s already seen the clip, I’m in trouble.
But, I’ll deal with that later. First things first: breakfast.
Something in the kitchen smells. Bad. Like rotting eggs on a sardine sandwich that’s been left in a gym locker for too long. I sniff around for a minute, and then I see the Cooler of Doom by the back door. It’s open just a crack and the smell coming from it should be illegal. I slam it shut, open the back sliding-door, and drag the cooler onto the deck. File under “to be dealt with later.” Part of me, the girl-who’s-kinda-Internet-famous-and-is-making-money-from-her-website part, wants to chuck the cooler out. But the other part of me, the more sensible, hungrier, my-mother’s-daughter part, can’t do that. When you’ve had nothing for a long time, it’s hard to get rid of anything. That’s why you see run-down houses with tires, old swing sets, broken down appliances, and cars piled out front. Not because people are too lazy to get rid of them, but because they know what it is to be desperately poor and needing to cling to every last scrap of things they have. Rusted and nasty though they may be.
In the Middle Ages people didn’t throw much of anything away either because they had so little. Everything was used, reused, and then used again. Especially for peasants, but even for kings and queens. Certainly some of them had diamonds and jewels to spare, but clothing was expensive, and things got reused. We live in a time when Duchess Kate can’t even wear the same dress twice without incurring the scorn of the tabloids. Imagine what they would have said about Queen Elizabeth the First’s pit stains or lead-eaten skin.
Before the impulse to daydream all day about everything medieval totally hijacks me, I start another pot of coffee, make some toast, and go online. Jett’s already posted my video from Good Morning, Chicago! on our website, and it’s getting lots of likes and comments. One of those comments is from user KingLenTheBold.
I roll my eyes, willing myself to read his take on my interview.
“KingLenTheBold: There is no surprise at the castle on Friday. Come for a normal show. Can’t wait to see you there!”
Annoyed at Len’s attempt to save face, I consider replying. Doing so is basically a declaration of war with Len. Which should go over great with him. But maybe he’s still not heard from Corporate about the whole thing. Plus, I don’t want people thinking I was lying about Friday. Ironic though that is, since I’m totally lying about Friday.
I shoot off a reply before I have time to talk myself out of it.
“Girl Knight: Don’t be so modest, Len! The surprise is going to be incredible! See you all there! xo, Kit!”
I could sit here, reading comments all day and replying, but that can’t be healthy. Somehow, I force myself to close my laptop. My toast pops up, and I slather cream cheese and jelly on it. It’s been so long since we had food like this in the house, I lick the spoon clean. My pile of homework stares at me. If I leave now, I could just barely make it to school in time for the calc test. I don’t want to, but it’s the right thing to do. But apparently, I’m making a habit of not doing the right thing lately. So, instead of homework and school, I watch some TV and then take a short nap on the couch. An hour later, Jett calls.
The phone is in my hand and I start to pick up, but I let it ring and ring until voicemail takes it. I want to talk to him. Desperately. But I
also can’t add whatever I’m feeling for Jett right now to the soup of feelings inside me. And his voice would be just the thing to tip me over the edge and make me confess everything.
I text back.
Kit: Leaving the house to get Chris. Talk to you tonight?
We’re getting together for training tonight at Layla’s.
Jett: You were great this morning! See you tonight.
What?
Is this a friend kissy face? Or a hey-let-me-be-your-boyfriend one? Or a mistake?
My heart rate speeds up, helped by the enormous cup of coffee I’m chugging. I’m nosediving into the worst kind of teen-girl-wonders-does-he-really-mean-it spiral when two more texts come in in rapid succession.
Jett: Sorry! Meant to send this.
Okay.
Glad that’s cleared up. Stupid texting.
I send a smiley face back and then put my phone into my backpack. It’s not even 9:00 a.m., and I’ve nearly had three heart attacks already.
CHRIS IS DRESSED AND WAITING FOR ME IN A WHEELCHAIR WHEN I get to the hospital. He slow claps as I walk into the room.
“Well, you did it,” he says with a wry smile.
“Did what?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant as I gather up his clothes and the LEGO Sears Tower and put them into the grocery bag I brought.
Chris reaches for the bag and rests it gingerly on his lap. “You broke the secret code of the Castle on national TV.”
“Oh please.” I roll my eyes. “Nobody is going to care about that little interview. Maybe it will bring a few more people in, but that’s it.”
“You’re going to get fired for real, Kit.”
I very well might. But it was worth it. If going on the news is what it takes to get my friends and me into the arena, I’d do it all over again.
“I doubt that.”
Chris shakes his head. “You didn’t hear Len’s call to Mom.”
At that I drop onto the bed. “Shit. Len called Mom?”
“I could hear it through the phone. He’s pissed. Saying you’ve gone too far and there’s nothing he can do to stop what’s going to happen.”
“He’s bluffing. I’ll talk to him during my next shift on Wednesday.”
Chris nods, looking tired. “We’ll see. I’ll try to come in with you to help talk to him. I’ve got to get my shifts sorted out anyway.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” I say, as I wheel Chris out of the room. We stop at the nurse’s desk so he can sign some papers, and then I push him out to the car. On the way home, he leans against the window, eyes closed, clutching his ribs. He looks so tired, and a little bit broken. And I’m not sure how the Girl Knight can fix that.
THE LAST TIME I SAW CHRIS LOOKING THAT WORN-OUT WAS the morning Dad left the first time. We were twelve and fourteen. By then, Chris and I were used to the fights, but this one felt different. It had more texture than the usual ones over stupid things like how to load the dishwasher or Mom not paying enough attention to Dad. This fight had sharp edges. It was barbed like a harpoon, and as they went through the house yelling at each other and throwing things, I could almost feel their relationship shredding with each new insult.
“Get in the car!” Dad shouted at Chris and me once Mom had stormed out of the house, headed to yet another shift at her crappy job.
“Where are we going?” I grabbed the bag I always kept packed because I once saw this show about a mom and dad getting divorced, and the mom took the kids without any warning and they had none of their stuff. My bag was stuffed with snacks, clothes, books, and a few photos.
“Just get in the car,” said Dad, yanking my arm and pulling me roughly toward the door. He wasn’t normally a hitting dad. But I could smell the alcohol on his breath.
“We’re not going anywhere with you,” said Chris, grabbing Dad’s hand. He pried it loose from my arm, and I shook off Dad’s grip. Chris was in the trenches of the teenage years, and his thin face had a smattering of acne spread across it like freckles. But he’d grown a lot in the last few months, and he stood as tall as Dad.
“GET. IN. THE. CAR.” Dad’s eyes were bloodshot.
“Make us,” said Chris. “You’re drunk and will probably kill us all.”
“Plus, we don’t want to go with you anywhere,” I added. Chris and I had talked about this at length, and both of us agreed that staying with Mom was the better choice.
“I’ll be goddamned if my children are going to tell me what I can and can’t do,” said Dad. He opened the door. “If I leave, I’m not coming back.”
“Fine with us,” said Chris.
“You’re a shitty kid, you know that?” said Dad, stumbling up to Chris. “After all I did for you? This is how you treat me?”
It was a tired refrain. Something Dad said to Chris every time he got blazing drunk.
Chris shoved Dad away. When Dad found his footing, he stumbled back at Chris. Without thinking, I put myself between them.
Meaning I took the full brunt of the fist Dad swung in Chris’s direction.
It knocked me down, my cheek stinging powerfully. Tears rose into my eyes.
Dad looked stunned. “Kit-Kat,” he said, his voice just a whisper. He knelt down beside me and reached out a hand for my face. I shoved it away.
“I’m so sorry, Kit. That wasn’t meant for you. You got in the way.”
“You shouldn’t be trying to punch Chris, either,” I growled through my tears. Sobs broke my voice into clumsy chunks.
Chris grabbed the back of Dad’s shirt and pulled him away from me. “Get out of here. Now.”
I scrambled to my feet and stood beside Chris. “Yeah, get out. We don’t want you here.”
Dad’s face fell. “Fine,” he said. All the fight drained from him. “But never say I didn’t try to give you a better life.”
When his car had pulled out of the driveway and gone swerving down the street, Chris turned without a word and went to the freezer. He brought me a half-eaten bag of frozen peas. I pushed it to my cheek and let the cold seep in, hoping it could numb all the way to my heart. Chris sat down on the bottom step of the split-level staircase and let out a shaky breath. I slumped down beside him and leaned into his shoulder.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said to me. “We’ve got each other.”
Exhaustion, sadness, and the remains of his anger played across his face, like cloud shadows shifting across the ground on a windy day.
I nodded, as tears ran down my face. At least we had each other.
A few days later, Dad came back. And this time he stuck around for more than three years. None of us ever mentioned that fight again. But when I look back on it, I can see the man Chris became in the boy he was.
But now I know he’s worried because he can’t work any longer. And what’s Mom going to do? And how can we find Dad so the divorce can go through? And everything else in between. Reaching over, I squeeze his shoulder.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say softly. “We’ve got each other.”
He shoots me a tired, grateful smile.
DESPITE THE DOCTOR’S WORRY THAT CHRIS’S KNEE IS MESSED up, he makes it from the car to the front door without too much trouble.
I help him hobble up the front stairs, and then we’re standing on the landing.
“Upstairs or down?” I point at his room on the lower level and the kitchen and other rooms upstairs. “I made you a bed on the couch if you want to be closer to the fridge.”
“Let’s go up,” said Chris.
Our feet move over the spot where we sat together on the stairs so many years ago. With each step, Chris winces. I help him to the couch and get him settled. I hand him the remote, and he flicks on the TV, scrolling through the channels until he lands on reruns of The Venture Bros. I laugh along with him for a few minutes, grateful that he doesn’t want to talk about work or his injuries or my TV appearance.
I don’t remember when I fell asleep, but suddenly, my phone alarm is going off, and it’s 3:30 p.m.<
br />
I’ve slept through the better part of the day.
Shit, shit, shit. I’ve got to be at training in half an hour. The TV is still on, but Chris is asleep on the couch. I jump off, grabbing my phone, so I can text Mom to get Chris’s medicine.
“Kit?” Chris calls from the living room. “You leaving, Sis?” Pain medication makes his voice drowsy.
“Just going to Layla’s. I’ll be back with dinner and your meds in a few hours.”
“Fight well, Girl Knight,” he says in a drowsy voice.
“As always,” I reply with a smile.
31
EVERYONE’S ALREADY THERE BY THE TIME I GET TO LAYLA’S house. Alex and Layla are on horses, galloping around the paddock and shouting medieval insults at each other. Penny and Mags (whose hair is purple at the ends today) practice a set of on-ground sword-fighting moves. Mags is surprisingly light on her feet, and she keeps jumping out of the way of Penny’s jabs like she’s skipping rope. Near the barn, Lizzy’s working on a complex slide-out-of-the-saddle-and-roll-to-your-feet move, with the help of Layla’s oldest, most patient horse. Jett films it all, standing to the side in his leather jacket.
“Hey,” I say, punching him lightly on the arm. Because that’s easier than giving him a hug like I want to do. “How goes the documentary?”
He lowers the camera and smiles at me. “It’s mostly done. I edited in the news report today during free period. Now, I just have to add in the tournament footage from this Friday and we’ll be set.”
I stare at my shoes, trying not to hear the excited shouts and laughter of my fellow Knights.
I have to tell him.
“Yeah … about that tournament. I’m not so sure it’s going to happen.”
Jett’s eyebrows quirk. “What’re you talking about? You just told everyone in Chicago to come. I thought you had permission for all this?”
“Sort of? Kind of not really?” As I did with Chris, I explain to Jett what the Castle people said about our tournament not being “on brand.”