by Jamie Pacton
Typical Kit luck.
Sighing, I stand up. My body aches from all the stable cleaning. It takes only a few minutes to wipe up the soggy tea leaves, but it feels like a monumental chore because each swipe of the broom and then paper towel reveals more layers of dirt. We’re all working so much that the kitchen hasn’t been properly cleaned in months. Starting over in a shiny new apartment is looking more appealing. Mom might be on to something here.
I can’t help myself. Cleaning up the tea leaves turns into scrubbing the counters, mopping the floor, and wiping out the refrigerator. When all that’s done, and my tea is most certainly cold, I sit back down at the table.
My email has been dinging since I got home—I saw one from the local community college and a few random ones from bloggers asking for interviews—but my phone’s nearly dead and still drying from the disinfectant I keep slathering all over it.
Some part of me wants to leave those emails unopened forever. Because if they’re bad news, then it’s not real until I read it, right? But if they’re good news? Or just neutral news? Then it’s silly for me not to open them. Plus, I could really, really use some good news today.
Taking a deep breath and putting my courage in the sticking place, as Lady Macbeth advises, I open my email.
The first is from the community college Chris goes to. It’s short and to the point.
Ms. Sweetly,
Congratulations! After careful review of your materials, we are pleased to offer you a full scholarship for your two years of study here. This covers all tuition and a stipend for books and materials. Please reply at your earliest convenience to indicate your acceptance.
Well.
That’s good news. And bad news.
I didn’t tell anyone—not Mom, not Chris, not Layla, not Jett—that I applied to the community college as a backup. It felt like a betrayal of my plans to even turn in the application, but the scholarship chance also was too good to pass up.
But now that I have it—and don’t have a scholarship for Marquette—I almost don’t want it. Which is terrible and entitled and I know it.
But I want a school by Lake Michigan. And a new city. And all the adventures waiting for me there.
Deciding not to decide immediately, I drink the rest of my tea in one gulp and click on my website.
Oh no.
Somehow the trolls and legions of men’s rights activists (eye roll forever) have found my video.
They’ve filled up the comments section with their vitriol. If only this were the Middle Ages, when people would bury their contempt in complex visual allegories like drawing pictures of knights fighting snails (which is a surprisingly common image in illuminated medieval manuscripts). Those pictures—while expressing some strong sentiments by comparing social climbers to slimy garden pests—probably didn’t have quite the same impact as a Twitter mob or attacks in comment sections like we have today.
My hands tremble as I scroll downward. What is wrong with people?
The comments on my video go on and on. Disgusting, lewd, angry, outraged. They want to attack me, my body, my friends, and our mission to make things fair at the Castle.
Of course, interspersed with all this awfulness are positive comments, but even a lot of the ones from before have been bombarded by trolls. It’s like I must’ve ended up on some anti-feminist message board, and everyone decided to pile on.
I skim comment after comment, getting sicker and sicker to my stomach.
Biting my bottom lip as I read, I take deep, steadying breaths. I want to hide. Suddenly, having people know my name makes me vulnerable and scared.
I want to reply to each and every nasty comment, excoriating them. I want to take the video down. I want to throw the computer across the room.
I can almost hear what Mom would say to me if she knew: “This is why you don’t put yourself out there, Kit. Why you keep your head low and focus on what you’re supposed to be doing, not striving for something that’s so far outside your reach.”
Which is exactly the kind of talk that made me want to fight as a Knight in the first place. Tell me I can’t and then watch me do it. It’s also what makes me want to find a way—any way—to go to Marquette over the community college.
“But maybe you should choose your battles,” Mom would say. “Your work might not be safe anymore for you and you’ve got a free ride at another school. Take it. Don’t make my same mistakes, blah, blah, blah …”
I close the laptop as I hear Mom’s key in the door. Not wanting to deal with her in real life, I hurry down the hall to my room, shut the door, and hide under the covers.
Jett texts me when I’m already in bed.
Jett: You feeling any better?
It’s sweet of him to ask. To check on me. To pretend like nothing happened between us. To make me forget the fact that none of my other friends—not even Layla—have texted or reached out tonight.
But the thought of Jett, with his lips that need to be kissed and his being a good friend and wanting to make me feel better, just makes me feel worse. I don’t want to talk to him when my head’s full of all those ugly, hateful comments. And I don’t want to try to sort through what it meant that I kissed him and he ran.
So, I turn off my phone. And stay under the covers. Fairly certain I may never leave my bed again.
37
THURSDAY MORNING DAWNS SUNNY, BRIGHT, AND FULL OF birds singing about how great their lives are.
Just kidding.
Who knows what the birds are singing about? Not me. But I’m pretty sure it’s not about how great things are because, like humans, birds’ lives tend to follow the nasty, brutish, and short model.
I grab my phone off the nightstand and pull my covers back over my head. Still nothing from Layla, Alex, Lizzy, Mags, or Penny.
Opening our Knights group text, I type a quick message.
Kit: Morning friends! I’m sorry again I didn’t tell you about what Corporate said. Maybe we can still get together to train? I don’t know if you’ll be there, but I’ll be at Layla’s at 3:30 like we planned.
Mags: Can’t make it.
Layla: Yeah, we have to cancel. My mom’s taking me shopping after school.
What? Her mom is never home at that time of day. And Layla hates shopping with her mom because they always end up in what she calls “fossilized old rich lady boutiques.”
A pang goes through me. I knew my friends were mad, but this feels really, really, really mad.
Kit: Okay. Maybe not today. See you all at work tomorrow. And sorry again. xx.
Nobody else replies. All of which is too crushing to think about without some coffee in me. I can’t face school and seeing my friends’ anger, so despite the fact that I missed Monday too, I decide to skip school today. What’s the point of being a senior if you can’t ditch days here and there?
I know skipping school is the coward’s way out, but I just feel battered from every side.
I mean, I’ve worked so hard for the chance of knighthood. But what have I gotten from it? Demotion, death threats, and a great big heap of nothing. Who even cares if all these kids are hoping to see the Girl Knight? Suddenly, the whole thing feels stupid, foolish, and unnecessary. Maybe I should just get a job at the mall or something. It would be easy, cut-and-dried, and seriously without the heroic quest aspects. Likely too I’d be able to keep my head down and make enough money for the start of school.
I imagine working at the mall. Folding shirts, peddling facial creams, or flipping burgers at the food court. Each new job makes me cringe worse than the one before.
Also, if I’m being honest, I’d miss the smell of the Castle, the friends I have there, the whisper of anticipation when the lights go out, the roar of the crowd as the Knights ride in. I love it as much as I did the first time I saw the show, and that’s enough to make me want to make it better and fairer for everyone. But the question is how? How do I convince my friends to stop being mad? How do I get them to ride out like we planned
?
Answers aren’t hiding under my covers, but maybe they lie at the bottom of a mug of coffee.
I get out of bed. Last night, my dreams were full of scaly green trolls chasing me through some sort of eerie medieval London-type space, yelling about how they wanted to kill me. My stomach is basically eating itself, and all of yesterday’s mess sits heavy on my mind. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and pull on a pair of jeans from the laundry bag. They’re wrinkled, but they smell clean at least. A vintage Rainbow Brite T-shirt and my boots complete the outfit. Time for caffeine.
Mom’s door is still closed, her snores steady as a lawn mower. I’m not ready to face her yet, so I close my door softly and tiptoe past hers. Coffee is already made, and I pour myself a huge cup.
In the living room, the TV is on super loud and Chris is laughing. I poke my head in there.
“What, in God’s name, are you watching?”
On the TV, two dogs are getting married in a swanky church. Women in designer dresses beam at the dogs, and then the two dogs start licking each other.
“I don’t know!” Chris gasps, clutching his injured ribs as he laughs. Tears stream from his eyes. “But these two dogs talk, and they’re like married now, and they’re super fancy …”
Beside Chris sits a bottle of pain meds, a cup of coffee, and an empty bag of chips. He’s almost at the end of the prescription. It lifts my spirits a bit to see him cheerfully stoned and watching kids’ TV.
I plop down on the couch beside him and pluck a few uneaten chips from between the couch cushions. Because it’s that kind of day.
“How are you feeling?” I ask after a few minutes of watching the convoluted puppy plot spin out of control. Wrapping my hands around my coffee, I take a long gulp. It’s terrible after the flavored chips, but I need it for thinking.
“Great,” says Chris. “I can barely feel my ribs, and I think I’ll be able to shower today.”
“Thank God,” I mumble. “No offense, bro, but you’re not looking your best.”
Chris makes a face and throws a chip at me. I bat it away and it flies back toward him.
“Hey!” Chris looks away from the TV and scrunches his face as if he’s trying to remember something. “Why were you so stinky yesterday?”
He looks so concerned that I can’t help it. The entire story comes pouring out of me. Starting with Len’s speech to everyone, my friends’ anger, my demotion to lower stable hand, and falling into the dumpster. I leave out kissing Jett, because there are some things you don’t tell your brother. No matter how cool he is.
“I can’t believe Len did that,” says Chris. “Do you want me to call Penny? I’m sure she’s not really mad.”
“I’ll figure it out. You just rest. Get better.”
Chris exhales sharply and then grips his ribs. “I hate being hurt like this. I feel like every minute I’m sitting here, someone else is out there angling for my job.”
“Well.” I raise one eyebrow. “I’m angling for your job.”
Chris laughs at that. I don’t tell him about Eric riding out in his armor last night. As we sit there, watching the ridiculous show, one of the nasty comments someone left about my video keeps coming back to me: Why should anyone care about you becoming a Knight? Does it really matter in the grand scheme of things?
Before I can think of a good answer to that, Chris drops his phone and groans as he reaches for it. I grab it from him and glance at the screen. It’s open to contacts.
There are dozens of girls in the phone.
“Who are all these people?” I ask, moving my finger over Amy, Jenny R., Jenny S., Penny, Sophie, Madeline. “I recognize some of the names from the Castle, but not all of them.”
A blush appears on Chris’s cheeks. “Well, being the Red Knight has its perks.”
“Are you seriously getting numbers at work?”
“You have no idea,” he says, laughing. “You know after the show, when the guests come up to us for pictures? I’ve had drunk women try to get me to sign their bras; they grab my butt when we take pictures—”
“Again, harassment and super not okay.”
“Agreed. Most of the Knights just ignore it, but some of us actually say something about it. Even without all that, at least once a night someone gives me a phone number.”
“And you put them in your phone?”
Chris shakes his head. “Not all of them. But I’m talking to a few of those girls.”
“The secret love life of the Red Knight,” I say with a smile. “Teach me your moves, oh wise one.”
“Oh, I’ve got moves,” he says. “But I will certainly not teach you them. How are things going with Jett?”
“Does everyone know about that?”
“Well. Not everyone. But Penny texted me last night, saying that she saw you two kissing behind the dumpsters—”
“We weren’t behind the dumpsters,” I say. I can hear the petulance in my voice. “And it was just a kiss. No big deal.”
“Uh-huh,” says Chris. He points at the TV. “You should take a lesson from these dogs. The heart wants what the heart wants. You just have to be brave enough to admit it.”
I throw a pillow at him. “I’m not taking love-life advice from Chihuahuas or from you. Do you need anything?”
“Donuts,” says Chris. “I’d do a handstand for some donuts right now.”
“Done.”
I wave to him as I hurry out of the house.
WHEN I GET HOME WITH THE DONUTS AND COFFEE, MOM’S walking to the bus stop at the end of the road.
I roll my window down and wave. “Hey, stranger! Want a ride to work?”
She stops by the window and gives me a tired smile. “Hi, hon. It’s okay. The bus will be here soon. Plus, I’ve got a book.”
Mom once told me that riding the bus is one of her quiet moments during the day. When she can just sit, read a book, and not worry too much about anything other than getting from point A to B. Every time I ride the bus, somebody’s yelling or masturbating or trying to sell me something, but if it works for her, who am I to argue?
“Okay. Have a good day. When you get home, maybe we can talk. I’ve … um … I’ve got lots to tell you.”
Mom smiles. “College news? Work stuff?”
“All of the above.”
“I’ll be on a double tonight, so let’s talk tomorrow. Oh, and your brother was talking about going somewhere. Can you take him after school? Just don’t let him do too much. He’s got to rest.”
No need to tell her I’m skipping today. It’ll just stress her out.
“Will do. Want a donut?”
“God, yes.” I hand her a donut and a coffee.
“Have a good day,” I say. “See you tonight.”
She blows me a kiss and takes a huge bite. “You too! Oh, and Kit, thank you for stepping up and taking on so much. I know our family isn’t perfect, but we’re here for each other. That’s really all that matters.”
She walks away before I can say anything, but all the things I’m not telling her sit heavy on my heart as she disappears up the street.
“I BROUGHT DONUTS!” I CALL AS I COME UP THE STAIRS. CHRIS isn’t in the living room, and his blankets and stuff are cleaned up from the couch.
Putting the donuts down on the kitchen table, my eyes fall onto a stack of papers. “Divorce Decree” is stamped across the top page. A note with a lawyer’s office name and address is stuck to the top page as well. “Get this signed by your ex ASAP,” it says in scrawled handwriting.
I flip through the rest of the pages. I knew something was wrong! Dad seemed ready to sign the papers at the hospital, but then he just vanished. Clearly, he’s not as put together as he tried to make it seem. And this feels like all those times he’d disappeared before. Mom must not have found Dad again, and clearly, she’s not made it to the theater where his dragon show is being held. Maybe I can at least fix this part of our lives a little bit.
Grabbing the papers, I wander through the hou
se. Chris is nowhere to be found. Finally, I go out to the shed behind the house.
Chris stands in front of his forge, lining up pieces of metal into rows. He moves slowly, as if every step hurts. On the table by the door sits the enormous chain mail shirt he’s been working on.
“What are you doing?” I push the door of the shop open with a loud thunk.
Chris looks up and his eyes catch the morning light. The bruises from his fall still haven’t quite healed, and his whole face looks grayish purple.
“I’ve got to work,” he says, taking a strained breath. He starts up a blowtorch and lowers his welding glasses. “If I can’t work at the Castle, I’ve got to be able to make some money. This order was due last week.” He gestures toward the shirt.
“No way, dude!” I step around the table and turn off the nozzle for the blowtorch. “You just got out of the hospital. You can’t be working out here. If you need to do something, go study.”
Chris lifts up his welding visor. “I’m done with all my homework. It’s not like it’s that hard. It’s just intro physics, calculus, and my literature classes.”
“Fine, Mr. I’m-So-Smart. But I would recommend you don’t operate blowtorches while on painkillers. If you need something to do, come with me to yell at Dad. Apparently, he’s still not signed these divorce papers.” I wave them in Chris’s direction. “Maybe we can find him and get them signed so Mom doesn’t have to worry about it. And so I can worry about something other than failing at knighthood. At least once they’re divorced, I won’t have to report his income when it comes to financial aid for school.”
That makes Chris put down all his blacksmithing tools and pay attention. “Can I finally confront him for ruining our lives?”
“I’m leaning more toward berating him for being a selfish asshole, but you’ve got the basic theme.”