The Life and Medieval Times of Kit Sweetly

by Jamie Pacton

  Len holds up a hand. “Be kind to Kit, everyone. We do have her and her friends to thank for all this press. But please let me be clear. The only Knights who are riding out this week—or ever—are going to be male. This is company policy. As Corporate told me in their email, which I’m happy to share with any of you who are interested, anyone who rides out as a Knight who isn’t supposed to will lose their jobs. Let me say that again. In case you have big plans for this so-called tournament on Friday. Anyone. Who. Rides. Out. As. A. Knight. Who. Is. Not. A. Current. Knight. Or. Squire. Or. Male. Will. Get. Fired. Full stop. No questions asked. We are here to represent the Middle Ages, not stir things up. That’s all. Get back to work.”

  The room erupts in noise, and my name is bounced around the room like a tennis ball made of whispers.

  I bury my face in my hands. Wishing the floor would open up and swallow me. All of my friends are talking at the same time.

  Shit.

  This is bad.

  34

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU DIDN’T TELL US ABOUT THIS, KIT!”

  Mags hisses. Her arms are crossed so tightly across her body it looks like she’s going to tie herself into a knot.

  The room’s nearly empty, but a few people have stayed to listen to what we’re talking about.

  Jett shoots me a sympathetic look as the crowd carries him out the opposite door. He points to his backpack, as if he’s saying “I’ve got to change.” I wave to him. He’ll find me later. And besides, he already knew my terrible secret. And he told me to tell them, so it’s not like he could say anything other than “Told you so” or “Sucks to be you.” Not that he would say such things, but—

  “It’s not a big deal,” Layla starts to say, coming to my defense and interrupting my spiral. I smile at her, but her eyes dart away from mine. They’re narrowed and her jaw twitches slightly. She might be defending me out of habit, but she’s mad too.

  “It is a big deal,” snaps Penny. “Not just the lying, but also the fact that we’re going to get fired if we do this. You all are off to college, but I need this job!”

  “Me too,” says Mags. “And not all of us are off to college. My plan was to work here through the next year while I look for acting jobs in the city.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I was going to figure out a way to stage the tournament without us getting in trouble. I didn’t mean to lie. I just didn’t want us to stop training.”

  “It’s super shitty you didn’t tell us the truth,” says Alex. Their voice has a hard, annoyed edge. “I mean, we would’ve understood. Or tried to help. Do you know how many other activities I’ve said no to in the last two weeks in order to make this happen? I’ve missed so many derby practices, they benched me for the next three games. I know you said we’re in this together, but this just feels like you wanted to do this all on your own.”

  “Yeah,” says Lizzy bitterly. “It’s the Kit Sweetly show. And the Kit Sweetly plan. And Kit Sweetly on the news.”

  “That’s not fair!” I burst out. “I asked you all to join me. I want you to fight with me! This is about all of us.”

  “Sure it is,” says Penny. “That’s why everything’s all about ‘the Girl Knight’ and they only showed your clip on the news.”

  “I can’t help what they showed!” I shout. “And I’m trying to figure out how we can all fight.”

  Alex runs a hand through their hair. “We just don’t like that you lied to us.”

  “And we’re allowed to be a bit mad,” says Layla. “Even though we love you, we can be mad.”

  I let out a frustrated breath. “I just didn’t know what to do, okay? I got the email, but then the online campaign picked up steam. And we were having so much fun training. And I thought I’d figure out some way to make it work.”

  “But you didn’t!” Mags snaps.

  “I didn’t. But we can still do something! Maybe we can ask Len again? Or I can call Bettina back and see if we can all be on the news?”

  “I’m out, Kit,” says Penny. “You know I adore you, but I’m not going to do this if there’s no point.”

  “I’m out too,” Mags adds. “Maybe try not lying to your friends next time before roping them into your schemes.”

  “Sorry, Kit,” says Lizzy. “If they’re all not doing it, I can’t. I need this job too. At least through the summer.”

  That leaves Alex and Layla.

  I look at both of them. “Please?” It comes out way smaller and squeakier than I intend.

  Alex shakes their head and walks out. Their lips are pressed into a thin line, and I can tell they’re keeping back all sorts of things they want to say to me.

  “Layla? Are you in at least? The two of us can ride out together.”

  “Call me later,” says Layla, shaking her head. “I need some time to think. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. At the very least you tell your best friend about things like this. I gotta go, I’m back on admissions tonight.”

  She leaves without a goodbye and I slump to the ground. Hot tears rise behind my eyes. For a minute, I think about texting Jett to tell him what happened. But he’ll hear soon enough, I’m sure.

  I drag myself to my feet and trudge away from the roar of the crowd and the anger of my friends, slouching toward what is certain to be a terrible night in the stables.

  35

  THE HORSE STABLES ARE BEHIND THE CASTLE, FAR ENOUGH away that the animals can’t hear the crowd, and the crowd can’t smell the horses.

  I sit on the concrete stairs at the back of the Castle, smoking the “lucky” cigarette Penny gave me and feeling anything but lucky. My hands shake as I inhale. My anger toward Len and my hollowed-out sadness is finally catching up with me.

  It’s so incredibly, unspeakably awful that only cis men can fight as Knights. But apparently that’s the way it is, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I scroll through my phone as I smoke, doing everything but checking the views on my video. Who cares how many people have seen it and loved it? None of that can change what’s happening at the Castle.

  There’s a new email in my inbox. From the Marquette Scholarship and Financial Aid Office. Maybe the universe will send me just a little bit of good news. Maybe? Is that too much to ask?

  With a drag on my smoke, I click on it.

  Ms. Sweetly,

  Thank you so much for your application for the full-tuition scholarship. Although your grades and activities certainly reflect what we’re looking for, we only have a limited number of allowances and we had more than three hundred applicants this year. It was a very tough choice, but unfortunately, we cannot offer you a full-tuition scholarship at this time. Please feel free to pursue other avenues of financial aid… .

  I swear and close the email. Of course it’s bad news. Of course. Why did I think—

  “Whatcha doing out here, Sweetly?”

  It’s Eric Taylor. The Green Squire, most loathsome of Layla’s suitors and general, all-around terrible dude. He steps past me, going to the bottom of the concrete steps.

  I hold up my half-smoked cigarette. “Duh.”

  “No, I mean, why are you out here instead of in your section? Is the rumor true? Did Len take you off the schedule and move you to the stable? Is that what his little pep talk to us all was about?” Eric sneers.

  “That’s remarkably accurate for a rumor. But it’s only temporary.”

  “Sure it is,” says Eric. He looks down at the plastic trash can full of urine-soaked wood shavings, sand, and straw I’ve dragged down the stairs. “Need some help dumping that?” He nods toward the stable-waste dumpster. I’ve already emptied one can into it since Len tasked me with stable work.

  “I’ve got it,” I hiss. “Why don’t you get inside? I’m sure Dalton needs you to run some errand or clean up some horse crap.”

  “Oh!” says Eric, feigning surprise. “That’s what I needed to tell you. I wanted to show you this!”

  With what can only be described as a triumphant grin, he whi
ps off his Green Squire tunic. Underneath it is Chris’s armor and his extra Red Knight costume.

  Stabbing my cigarette out, I stand up. Since I’m on a higher step than Eric, I’m nearly nose to nose with him. “Why are you wearing that?”

  “Since your dumbass brother fell off his horse, I’m the next Squire in line. I’m the Red Knight until—or should I say if—Chris comes back.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  “Of course it’s fair,” snaps Eric. “I’ve been here nearly as long as you. I’ve gone through the ranks, and now it’s my turn.”

  “What’s not fair is that I—and my friends—never even got a chance to try!”

  “That’s life, Sweetly,” says Eric, shrugging. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get my horse saddled. It’s nearly showtime for the Red Knight.”

  I swear under my breath as he pushes past me. Before he starts up the stairs, he kicks the plastic trash can over, spilling filthy straw and wood chips all over the edge of the stairs.

  “Goddammit, Eric. You’re such an unredeemable douchebag. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

  “That’s for messing up my chances with Layla! Be sure to tell your brother I took his job.”

  “I hope you fall off your horse!”

  “Just like your loser brother did?” he throws back.

  He kicks the trash can one more time as he walks away. It goes bouncing into the parking lot, spilling more filth. It’s a warm spring night, but there’s not a hint of wind. Nothing to sweep the wood chips away or hide Eric’s treachery.

  I’m so angry, tears rise in my eyes. Stupid, ridiculous tears, even when I want to yell. And hit things. Especially things named Eric Taylor.

  I swipe at my tears and get a bunch of sand in my eye.

  Dammit!

  I’m not even halfway done with mucking out the stables, and now I’ve got all this mess to clean up. I grab the broom that’s propping open the back door and stomp down the stairs. Right as I realize what I’ve done, the metal door slams shut behind me. Locking me outside, with no way to get back inside except through the front door.

  Swearing again, I text Jett.

  Kit: COME GET ME? BACK DOOR, BY THE STABLES. I’M LOCKED OUT AND CAN’T GO THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR. PLEASE BRING MY BACKPACK.

  His answer doesn’t come back immediately—he must’ve started the trumpeting to announce the King’s arrival by now—and so I’m stuck out here. Tucking my phone into my bra strap so I don’t miss Jett’s text, I begin the slow, terrible process of refilling the plastic trash can with soiled hay and wood chips. Only this time I don’t have a shovel. Just a broom and piece of cardboard that was shoved beneath the dumpster.

  Revolting.

  Using the cardboard like a makeshift dustpan, I get most of the hay and wood chips off the ground and into the can. Of course, I also manage to get a good portion of the nasty stuff in my hair and down the front of my Wench’s dress.

  Then, I drag the can to the dumpster. It’s filled nearly to the top with horse poop, soggy straw, and who knows what else. Flies buzz around it, and after baking in the sun for the better part of the day, its smell has moved from earthy to downright hazardous.

  “Get in there,” I mutter, as I jam my hip into the trash can and scoot it up my body. It’s surprisingly heavy since the straw is dense with horse waste. I stand on a milk crate so I can lever it in enough to flip it into the dumpster.

  When the trash can rests on the lip of the dumpster, I shove my shoulder under it and tip it over. It tumbles into the dumpster, spilling out its noxious contents.

  I reach in to shake out the rest of the foul stuff inside the can, but as I lift up the container, my phone flies out of my bra strap and goes arcing in with all the mess.

  Of course it does.

  I lunge forward to catch it, but I’m already off balance. With a yell, I land in the dumpster, face-first in a pile of filth.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter.

  Words are not enough to convey my disgust and rage, but the fun’s not done yet. My phone is nowhere to be found, since the contents shifted as I fell. Reaching into the straw, I sift through the wet straw and clumps of manure, hoping my fingers circle the phone.

  Eventually, I find it—now slimy with who knows what—and swear again under my breath.

  Righting myself, I wade through the mess, trying to get close enough to the edge of the dumpster so I can boost myself out. With each step, the straw shifts, making me sink even lower as my weight compacts it.

  This. Is. My. Life.

  How. Very. Not. According. To. Plan.

  “Kit?”

  Jett stands beside the back door, carrying my backpack. He carefully props the door open with a milk crate. The overhead light shines on his black hair, making it sort of gleam in a tremendously gorgeous way.

  For a moment, I consider staying in the dumpster until he goes back inside. But my car keys are in the bag, and I need them to flee home before anyone else can see—or smell—me.

  “I’m over here,” I call out.

  I stash my phone under my armpit as I scramble out of the straw and try to haul myself over the side of the dumpster.

  If looks were lightning, then Jett just got struck. His jaw drops and his eyes bulge in his head. “Do I even want to know what you’re doing in the dumpster?” He offers me a hand. I take it and he helps me over the inside lid.

  “I’m swimming!” I snap as I land on the pavement and shake myself off. “I threw my phone in there, and then wanted to see if I could get it while doing a swan dive.”

  I can’t help the bitchy tone of my voice. It’s been a long, long day. And the last thing I wanted was for Jett to see me neck deep in grime, but there you have it.

  A huge laugh bursts out of him. “I’m sorry,” he says, covering his mouth. “I don’t mean to laugh.”

  “Yeah, ha-ha. It’s hysterical. I know. Stupid Kit jumped in the dumpster. Stupid Kit tried to do something right for everyone at the Castle. Stupid Kit tried to actually get her life on track and get a scholarship, but she failed and now she’s covered head to toe in horse manure—”

  Before I can keep ranting, Jett pulls me into a hug. It’s so sudden, and unexpected, I stop talking.

  “You really don’t want to hug me,” I say, as I nuzzle my face into the hollow of his neck.

  “I really do,” he whispers into my hair. “I’m sorry you’re having a shitty day.”

  I snort, but don’t let go.

  “Well, okay then,” I whisper, hugging him back. My fingers curl into his back and I inhale the scent of him gratefully. “Thank you for bringing my stuff out here.”

  “Anytime. Happy to rescue the Girl Knight.”

  “You didn’t rescue me,” I point out, tilting my head up to look at him. “I could have gotten out of there. You just brought me my—”

  His lips are so close. So full. And so tempting. I lean up, standing on my tiptoes. His hand rests on the small of my back. Some part of my brain screams that I shouldn’t, but I dive across that invisible barrier. My eyes close. I push my mouth against his gently. His lips open under mine—

  “What’re you doing?” He pulls away from me with a jerk.

  Oh no.

  I didn’t just kiss Jett.

  Did I?

  Yes. I did.

  And apparently he hated it if the wide-eyed look he’s giving me is any indication.

  Any shred of hope I had for Jett and me evaporates under that look.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, covering my mouth with my hand. “I didn’t mean to and you were so close, and I’ve had a bad day and I just thought …”

  “We can’t, Kit,” says Jett. “It can’t happen between us. Not like—well, it just can’t. I’ve got to get back inside. Here’s your stuff.”

  He practically flings my backpack at me as he steps away. I glimpse the stunned look on his face, and then he’s gone without a look back.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.
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  Today is just a shit day. I’ve lost any chance of the tournament, my friends are furious at me, I’m literally covered in manure, and Jett just fled from my kiss.

  Leaving the empty trash can by the dumpster, I walk to Chris’s car. I’m done. Totally, completely done with this day. This week. This job. Everything.

  Ugh.

  36

  I MAKE IT HOME WITHOUT INCIDENT, WHICH IS SAYING SOMETHING given the day I’ve had. As I turn into the driveway, I keep thinking about Jett’s lips on mine. Warm, soft, maybe a bit hungry. Was I wrong in thinking he was kissing me back? Even just a little bit? But I suppose none of that matters since he clearly wasn’t into it.

  “He doesn’t date Serving Wenches,” I mutter to myself, remembering his words from last week. “Or best friends.”

  Time to go have a good cry over that in the shower.

  “Hey!” I yell to Chris as I walk up the stairs. “I’m home!”

  He’s sprawled on the couch, asleep with the TV blaring in the background. Tiptoeing over to him, I pick up the remote and click it off.

  “I was watching that,” he says sleepily.

  “Were you though?”

  “Why do you smell like horses?”

  “Long story,” I say. “Get some sleep. I’ll tell you more in the morning. Do you need anything?”

  “Nuh-uh. Mom stopped by and brought me lunch. She’s on a double, so she’ll be home late.”

  “Okay. I’m going to shower and do some computer stuff. Holler if you need me.”

  Chris’s eyes are already closed and he’s snoring lightly. I pull up the small blanket resting on his feet so it covers him up to the chin. For a moment, I pause, considering how very small and fragile my normally tough brother looks.

  Then, without stopping for anything else, I head to my bathroom and scrub my hair and body until the hot water runs out.

  AFTER THE SHOWER, I SIT DOWN AT THE KITCHEN TABLE AND open my laptop. I kind of towel-dried my hair, but water still drips down the back of my neck, soaking my ratty T-shirt. My stomach rumbles, but I ignore it in favor of the cup of tea steaming on the table beside me. Plucking the tea bag out with my fingers, I squeeze it, and then try to lob the bag into the trash. It soars across the kitchen and then misses by like a foot, smashing into the edge of the kitchen counter and exploding. Tea leaves and other fragments of who-knows-what fly across the kitchen.