The Life and Medieval Times of Kit Sweetly

by Jamie Pacton

  “Feel free to tell others,” adds Layla. “The more people we get to join our crusade, the more likely we are to succeed.”

  “Your crusade?” Penny lifts one perfectly arched eyebrow.

  I blush. “Well, maybe not crusade. But we have a plan.”

  “A four-phase Kit Sweetly plan,” Layla adds.

  “Ahhhh,” says Penny. “I love a good Kit Sweetly plan. You sure it can work?”

  “I’m sure we’re going to try,” I say. “Chris thinks we can be ready before the Corporate folks get here.”

  “As always, I’m impressed by your initiative, ladies,” says Penny with an exaggerated curtsy. “I’m going to try to find Chris and make sure he’s behaving himself. See you in there.”

  We wave to her as she disappears through the Castle door.

  “Chris would go out with you,” I say to Layla. “You know that, right?”

  “He was my eighth-grade crush, Kit.” Layla waves her hand through the smoke she’s just exhaled. “Much as I love him like a brother, I don’t think about him like that. When I move to New York, I’ll find someone more serious there.”

  “Fair enough,” I say. “Let’s get this after-party over with already.”

  We both flick out our cigarettes.

  “It’s going to be fun,” Layla says, checking her lipstick in her handheld mirror.

  “Your words, not mine.” I smooth down my hair and brace myself for what’s on the other side of the door.

  14

  DANCE MUSIC PUMPS OUT OF LOUDSPEAKERS IN THE GREAT Hall. The Castle bar is supposed to be closed, but two bartenders stand behind it, pouring liquor into five-gallon buckets to make punch.

  “Are they stealing booze?” I knew people drank at these parties, but I can’t imagine Len just giving cocktails away.

  “Nah. It’s from the bottles everybody brings. If we want to drink, we either have to pay or give a bottle.” Layla opens up her bag, revealing three mostly full liquor bottles. One is brown rum, another is raspberry vodka, and the third is a lurid shade of blue. “My parents left these in the cabana after a party last month. They’ll never miss them.”

  As she threads her way over to the bar, a pair of hands grabs me, spins me around, and pulls me into a hug.

  Alex, the Castle’s resident photographer, squeezes the life out of me. Tonight, their short brown hair is swept to one side, and their rainbow-rimmed glasses stand out brightly against their light brown skin.

  “I can’t breathe,” I gasp, giving Alex a quick hug back.

  Alex started working at the Castle around the time Layla and I did. We’ve been work buddies for years, but never as good of friends as I know we could’ve been because Alex is always super busy. They’re valedictorian of our senior class, president of two photography clubs (school and city), and blocker on our local Roller Derby team (nickname Tyrannosaurus Lex).

  Alex grins and drains their cup. “You were a marvel! Sheer poetry on horseback. Let me get you a drink.”

  They drag me to the bar where Layla’s trading the liquor bottles for a jewel-encrusted cup of punch.

  Alex pushes a full cup into my hands.

  “I’m the driver.” I shake my head. “I’ll just get a bottle of water.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” says Alex. “We’re celebrating you tonight! Right, folks?”

  A group of other Wenches, Pages, and female Castle workers standing by the bar raise their glasses and shout, “THREE CHEERS FOR KIT!”

  I look over at Layla, who’s chugging her first drink. She smiles and raises her cup. “Go for it! We can always get an Uber back to my house.”

  I know I have rules, plans, and I shouldn’t. But it’s delicious to bask in the praise of my friends. To forget about my worries for a moment and just unwind. Light blue liquor sloshes out of the cup I take from Alex. It smells like something that should be dripping from a car.

  I raise my glass: “To a new era at the Castle!”

  “Hear! Hear!” Layla and Alex shout.

  As we drink, I tell Alex about our training schedule during spring break.

  They check their phone for a moment and then smile. “I can make it. And I will. Even if it means moving around a few things.”

  I snort. Alex is the only person I know who makes more lists than me. Serious evidence we’d be good friends if either of us had any free time.

  Layla, Alex, and I clink glasses. We tell a few other people about the training, including Lizzy and Mags, the Wenches I ran into after my first fight as the Red Knight.

  “Are you sure Len is cool with this?” asks Mags, glancing up at the stage where Len’s band is setting up. Tonight the tips of her hair are fire-engine red, and she’s wearing a Ramones tank top, so all her tattoos are on display.

  I shrug. “If we can get more guests to the Castle, he’ll have to be cool with it.”

  It’s not quite a lie, but it’s a far cry from the truth too.

  The blue punch goes down smooth, and before I’m done with it, Layla drags me to the dance floor. The electronic dance music has been replaced by Len’s shitty band pounding out Pearl Jam, but who cares. As long as Len doesn’t stop the performance to yell at me, I’m good. And right now, he’s so into channeling early ’90s Eddie Vedder, he wouldn’t notice me unless I unplugged his guitar.

  One cup of punch becomes three somehow, and the dance floor begins to spin. My skin’s too tight for my body.

  “I’m going to sit down,” I call out to Layla.

  She’s dancing hip to hip with a lovely pink-haired girl who’s one of Alex’s Roller Derby friends and who looks suspiciously like the painting on Layla’s closet wall. Layla’s always dated both boys and girls, and I wonder how long she and Ms. Pink Hair have known each other.

  The way they move together gives me all sorts of feelings. Including a deep desire to talk to Jett about breaking the Unbreakable Rules.

  “I’ll be over in a minute,” Layla calls.

  “You stay here,” I say. “She’s way prettier than Eric.”

  “Agreed!” Layla grins and jerks her head toward the back of the Great Hall. “Plus Eric seems pretty busy.”

  I glance over my shoulder. Eric’s wrapped around a girl dressed in a knockoff Daenerys Targaryen dress and platinum wig.

  “Superfan!” I shout. “Perfect for him!”

  I don’t know our very own Mother of Dragons’ real name, but she’s at the Castle at least three times a week. Sometimes she even poses for pictures with the guests. She’s not supposed to do that, and Layla’s theory is that she thinks she’ll get a job eventually if she keeps showing up. “You sure you’re not torn up about losing him?”

  Layla rolls her eyes. “I’ll heal in time.”

  The pink-haired girl pulls her closer and they disappear into the crowd. I step away and move toward the back of the room, heading toward the exit. I need air, fast.

  I go the long way to avoid Eric’s make-out fest and end up winding my way past the display cases that hold weapons and other medieval knickknacks. There’s a booth in one corner and Dalton, the Green Knight, calls out from the shadows as I pass.

  “Nice work, Sweetly.” His voice is rough with alcohol. With the hood of his jacket up, he looks a teeny bit like Strider the Ranger in The Lord of the Rings, and an unexpected pang of warmth toward him shoots through me.

  For a minute I think he’s congratulating me on riding out as the Red Knight, which is so unexpected I stop in my tracks. “Um, thanks. You did a good job too.”

  “I’m not applauding you,” Dalton sneers. “You’re worthless as a Knight and that was just a lucky shot.”

  He stumbles to his feet, drunk and most un-Strider-like. My warm feeling evaporates.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m congratulating you for getting the entire Castle in trouble. Thanks to you, we’re under review. I heard Len talking with one of the bosses before tonight’s show.”

  “That’s bullshit.” I refuse to believe
it. The alcohol makes my head fuzzy, but even so I can see how ridiculous the idea is. “They wouldn’t close us down just because I fought once.”

  “You’re precious.” Dalton lurches toward me and I sidestep him. “It’s not all about you. Don’t you follow the stock market? This place has been going downhill for years. Fewer and fewer people come to our shows. That’s why they’re desperately pandering for ideas to salvage this dump. Trust me, they’re going to close down the whole company within the year. And your little stunt has put us more on Corporate’s radar. They’re coming here in two weeks—on Friday the thirteenth, of course—to see if we should be shut down immediately. I don’t need this job, but I bet your brother doesn’t feel the same way.”

  I lunge at Dalton, but the booze makes me slow, and I trip over my feet and stumble into the wall. “Don’t talk about my brother! I’ll smash your face this time.”

  “Such a lady,” declares a South Side of Chicago–accented voice behind me.

  I spin around. Jessica stands a few feet away, dressed in jeans and a sparkly tank top. She’s got two Big Gulp cups of punch in her hands.

  “What do you want?” I repeat the question I threw at Dalton moments ago. Apparently drinking too much makes me slow and dries up my wit.

  Jessica sets the glasses down and mock curtsies. “Nothing more than to see the great Kit Sweetly in action.” She can’t even keep a straight face as she says it, and Dalton cracks up.

  To think that I ever thought this girl was cool. When she and Chris first started dating, she taught me how to do a fishtail braid and we would all watch movies together. I cringe to admit that I looked up to her at one point.

  “I never said I was a lady! And you’re wrong about this place, Dalton. It won’t close. There’s too much love for the Castle to shut these doors.”

  It’s hardly a mic drop, but before they can reply, I storm away. Their laughter follows me outside. A warm breeze lifts my hair as I step into a smokers’ circle on the lawn behind the Castle. A handful of Serving Wenches, cooks, a few Squires, and some of the other Castle underlings drink from clear plastic cups, laughing and telling filthy jokes. An orange five-gallon cooler sits on a rusted chair, its fading high school track team logo a testament to better times. More Castle staff stand around the door, putting back punch like it’s water. I pour a drink from the cooler—electric red with a smell like nail polish remover—and bum a cigarette. Not too many people have noticed me yet, and, needing a moment alone, I step away from the group and smoke at the edge of the parking lot.

  I love this little family of weirdos, and it cannot all go away. It’s too perfect. Too magical. Too much mine. We cannot lose the Castle.

  I inhale deeply, trying to calm my anger at Dalton, and throw back the cup of punch. It burns its way into my gut, but I don’t care. This could be our last Ninja afterparty. Drinking too much, like smoking, comes with the restaurant territory. It’s half escape, half desperate grasping at an elusive greater-grander something that’s far away from grubby milk crates and crappy shifts. With a belly full of booze, life is dance clubs and beaches on the Mediterranean and—

  The roar of a motorcycle cuts into the alcohol-frosted tumble of my thoughts, slicing them in half. The noise grows louder as Jett pulls up on the Triumph, looking cool as goddamn Brad Pitt. He waves at me as he backs the bike into a parking space. My perfidious heart bungee jumps into my stomach, and I take another steadying drag of my smoke.

  Sure, I’m glad he’s here. Why wouldn’t I want my other best friend to hang out with me at a super-wild party when I’m already more than half drunk?

  Steady, Sweetly. You can do this. Be cool.

  It’s basically a slow-motion movie star scene as Jett walks toward me in his vintage black leather jacket, jeans, and motorcycle boots. One of the other Serving Wenches wolf whistles, and he grins, his teeth flashing white against the gorgeous brown of his skin. A shock of hair falls into his eyes and he sort of shakes it out. Which would make me gag if anyone else did it, but on him, it looks natural.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he says, stopping beside me. He nudges me with his shoulder. “Also, you’re staring.”

  “Just admiring your entrance,” I say, in what has to be the world’s worst attempt at being cool.

  “Really?” There’s a note of skepticism in Jett’s voice. He reaches for my cup and takes a long swig of the punch. He makes a face as it goes down.

  “Really,” I say, failing to keep a quaver out of my voice. For fuck’s sake. I sound like my junior high self, trying to talk to a cute boy. Ridiculous. I stomp out my cigarette and look away. “You practically had all the Serving Wenches begging for your number.”

  “Ahhh,” he says. “I’m not really into dating Serving Wenches.”

  There it is. The truth laid bare between us. I’m slowly falling hard for Jett and he’s nowhere near into me.

  “Of course not,” I say, giving him a little shove. “That would be preposterous.”

  He nods quickly. “Totally. How’s phase one going?”

  “Done and we’re on to phase two. Recruitment! Alex, Penny, Mags, Lizzy, and a few others are in. Can you start filming on Monday?”

  “I’m watching my brothers for part of the day since they’re off school. But I’ll make it work.”

  He looks at me through what can only be described as a fringe of eyelashes.

  He’s so close I can see the eyelash stuck to his cheekbone. I go to brush it off, but my stupid drunk self somehow stumbles into him. And then my arm is around his waist.

  He catches me as I fall and helps me stand up. “You okay?”

  Our faces are inches apart. All I’d have to do is lean in a little closer. And then we might be kissing.

  Or he might run away screaming because I’ve totally broken an Unbreakable Rule.

  The noise of the party and the cheers of the Serving Wenches and cooks break into our bubble.

  I pull away hastily. “Totally fine. You had an eyelash on your cheek.”

  Jett laughs. “Most graceful eyelash removal ever.”

  “Shut up,” I say, finding my footing again. Both literally and in the shifting landscape that is my friendship with Jett. I just have to remember that for him, everything is the same. Nothing is shifting. And he’s not into me like that. The thought of us kissing would probably horrify him or something.

  I slam the rest of the punch and look away.

  “Want to get out of here?” asks Jett.

  “Don’t you want to go inside?”

  “Do you?”

  Inside means seeing Dalton and Jessica or running into Len and having him lecture me about my debut as a Knight. My head’s starting to hurt, and I can’t stomach the idea of more booze. Plus, some part of me knows I need to sort through about a dozen things, starting with the news that the Castle might be closing and ending with the fact that I almost just kissed my best friend.

  “Not particularly. Can you take me back to Layla’s? I’m spending the night there tonight. You can stay too if you want.”

  Jett offers me his arm and we walk to his bike. I text Layla to meet us at her house, and Jett hands me the extra helmet he keeps on the back of his seat.

  “Hang on,” he says as he fires up the bike.

  I wrap my arms around his waist and snuggle my head into the hollow between his shoulder blades. Tonight, Jett smells like well-worn leather and lavender soap.

  Stupid, sexy best friend.

  15

  THE SUN STABS AT ME AS I ROLL OVER ON SUNDAY morning. Jett and I lie together in a tangle of blankets on the pullout couch in Layla’s pool cabana. I’m wearing the pajamas I packed for my sleepover. Jett is shirtless but wearing jeans and socks.

  I sit up, and a groan escapes my lips. The blue-and-red punch broke my brain, and I’ll never be the same again.

  “Good morning.” Jett smiles a sweet, sleepy smile as he rolls over to look at me.

  I mumble a good morning and go back to contemplat
ing the insides of my eyelids.

  The night comes back to me in snatches. We took a ride on Jett’s bike; made it back to Layla’s; she and her pink-haired friend joined us soon after that; there was dancing, swimming, and then …

  Oh my God. My eyes fly open and I turn gently onto my side.

  “Did I throw up on your motorcycle?”

  Jett sits up. I try not to look at his flat stomach or the ridges of his shoulder muscles. How does a guy whose main hobbies include watching documentaries and playing the trumpet get shoulders like that? And what would it feel like to run my fingers over them?

  “And my shirt. After we went swimming, you were insistent we should go for a ride.”

  “But then I barfed.”

  “Then you barfed,” confirms Jett. “And I helped you get to bed.”

  I bury my face in my hands. Kill me now.

  “Is that all you remember?” he asks.

  “Did anything else happen?” I say through my fingers.

  Please tell me it didn’t. Please tell me I didn’t make more of a fool of myself.

  “That’s pretty much it.” His voice is tinged with the teeniest bit of something that could be disappointment but is more likely amusement.

  That’s a small mercy. Thank you, Kit, for not throwing yourself at Jett and ruining everything. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Jett says with an easy smile. “It was a good night.”

  “Before I barfed on your bike.”

  Jett smiles. “Before you barfed on my bike.”

  Please bury me now.

  I pull my hand away. “I’ll clean it up.

  Is Layla here?”

  “I took care of it already. And she’s in the house.”

  “Alone?”

  Jett shrugs. “I doubt it.”

  I’m certain I would remember this, but I have to ask. “Did we do … anything else? Like things that would go against the Unbreakable Rules?”

  Jett pauses before he speaks, as if he’s trying to decide how to answer. Finally he says in a goofy British accent: “I can assure you, my lady, our virginities—and our vows—are still well intact.”