The Life and Medieval Times of Kit Sweetly

by Jamie Pacton

  “Won’t you miss living here?”

  “Sure,” Mom says. “But when the divorce finalizes, that means we’re free of your dad, and your financial aid should be higher because it’ll pull from my income only. Plus, I want you and Chris to have your own lives. I want you to get out of here. See the world. Figure out who you are and what you want without worrying about me. And who knows, maybe getting rid of this place will help me move on to new things. I still have dreams too, you know.”

  Of course I knew that on some abstract level, but it’s strange to think about my mom with dreams that don’t involve Chris and me.

  But I don’t say all that. “What do you want to do?”

  Mom bites her bottom lip for a moment. “I always wanted to be a writer. And go to Asia. And go to college. I had you and Chris so young, I never got to do any of those things. But now, I’m thinking that since my baby girl is leaving the house, it’s time for me to try some new things.”

  She points to a book of travel essays under the bills. “This is about a woman who left home after a brutal divorce. And now she lives all over the world, making friends, trying out new things, and really taking a slow approach to travel.”

  I flip the book over and skim the back copy. “Please don’t leave us just yet. I’m not sure I can make it through my freshman year without you around.”

  Mom smiles at me, her tired, worn-out smile looking a bit less run down. “Of course not. It’ll take me a year to save enough money for my plans, but getting this house off our hands will be a huge first step.”

  I take a deep breath. I guess I’d never thought about this house not being ours. Or about Mom not being in it. But everything she says makes sense. And if she does this, then maybe I can use the money from my promotion to knighthood just for school. “If this is what you really want, go for it,” I say. “Have you told Chris?”

  “Not yet, but I will soon. And your father should be coming around in the next few days. He’s supposed to bring me the papers to finalize things.”

  “What changed his mind?”

  Mom shrugs. “Not sure. But I’m so glad he did.”

  “Me too, Mom.”

  AFTER MY TALK WITH MOM, I HEAD BACK TO MY ROOM. There’s still a pile of homework to do, but I can’t face it. It’s still spring break for the next three days, and some part of me feels like I better spend as much time as possible relaxing in my room before this house is no longer ours.

  My phone dings that I’ve got a new email, and I pop it open.

  It’s from the Castle email address where I sent my idea for the contest.

  My heart goes zooming around my chest. This could be good or bad. Depending on what they think. Steeling myself, I click on it.

  Ms. Sweetly,

  Thank you for your refreshing suggestion about how to change things at the Castle. Although we appreciate your idea, we don’t feel that this sort of radical change really fits with the Castle branding. As such, we’ll have to pass on your idea at this time.

  We do appreciate all your hard work at the Castle and without Wenches like you, we couldn’t do what we do.

  Best,

  The Castle Committee for Guest Engagement.

  I read it again. And then again.

  Oh no. No, no, no, no.

  I feel like I’ve just been shoved off a very tall building. One I was so excited to get to the top of, and then whoosh. All the air is gone from my lungs and I’m tumbling head over heels toward the ground.

  How could they say no?

  I gnaw on a fingernail as I read the email again.

  Everything I was working for depended on the Castle committee saying yes. And for them to send such a perfunctory “nope” and then try to compliment me for wenching?

  Infuriating. And not how this story is supposed to go!

  Especially not now that I’ve told everyone we’re riding in the show a week from tomorrow.

  How am I going to tell them we have to cancel? That all their hard work is for nothing? That the Castle doesn’t really care about them, but hey, “thanks for wenching!”

  I don’t know where to hurl my anger, so I pick up a book and fling it at the wall.

  It tumbles into a sword, which somehow manages to both clatter to the ground and knock over like half the photos on my dresser.

  “GAHHHHH!” I scream, giving voice to the maelstrom of feelings inside me. This is so fucking wrong. And my friends are going to be so upset.

  And it’s all my fault.

  “You okay in there, Kit?” Mom pops her head in through my doorway.

  I take a deep breath. “I’m fine. Just frustrated by a math problem. It’s no big deal.”

  She gives me a disbelieving look, but lets it go. “Okay, I’m headed to the bank. Please try not to Hulk-smash the house while I’m gone.”

  I laugh at that. Mom’s a die-hard Marvel fan.

  “I’ll keep it together,” I tell her. “Good luck at the bank.”

  “Thanks, Kit-Kat. See you later.”

  Once she’s gone, I read the Castle email again. Some of my anger has dissipated, and I see now that this doesn’t have to be the end of everything. What my friends and I are doing has momentum already. It doesn’t need the Castle’s blessing.

  “Ask forgiveness, not permission,” I say as I move the email to my Deleted folder. If this does all blow up spectacularly, I’ll take the blame. But in the meantime, I don’t want to dash my friends’ hopes. And I certainly don’t want to end the dialogue with Corporate on the note of “great job wenching.”

  Rather than write back, I’m going to show them how wrong they are. We’ll have the tournament. We’ll kick ass as Knights. And we’ll fill every seat in that house. How’s that for a reply? Sometimes the fake sword is mightier than the pen.

  That just leaves the problem of what to tell my friends. If I tell them the truth, some of them might walk away from the tournament. Or they might be mad that we’ve proceeded this far only to have things fall apart.

  Maybe I just don’t tell them and try to figure out a solution between now and next Friday.

  Deciding that if anyone asks, I’ll just say: If we can fill the seats, then who’s to argue with that?

  Sounds good. Though a seed of guilt stirs in my stomach at the thought of lying to my friends. But a little lie is better than the ugly truth in this case.

  Once the email is deleted, I upload two videos of our training sessions to the Girl Knight website. One is us actually doing some things right, and then one’s all bloopers and Alex, Mags, and Lizzy cracking up as they try to stay on their horses while wearing armor. Orders are pouring in for T-shirts and stickers, and we’re getting lots of people taking our interactive quizzes.

  The Girl Knight and her band of other Knights will ride at the Castle next Friday. We will fill all the seats. And even if Corporate doesn’t like the idea now, they’ll be hard-pressed to argue with our popularity and our skills.

  At least that’s what I hope.

  18

  I RIDE TO WORK WITH LAYLA ON FRIDAY NIGHT. SOMEHOW A week has already passed since I took Chris’s place as the Red Knight last Friday. I wasn’t scheduled for any shifts during the week, and although I’ve been grateful to avoid Len, I’m in desperate need of some cash.

  Today’s training session was the toughest yet for all of us. I’m glad I had some training before, but I feel for the others. Chris drilled us on hand-to-hand fighting for over two hours. Alex and Penny managed to stay on their horses and catch all the rings with the lances we’d made out of garden rakes. And Lizzy brought cupcakes to celebrate the fact that my video is up to half a million views. Our other videos are also picking up steam, and we’ve had some coverage from online news outlets.

  “How you doing?” asks Layla as we walk toward Len’s office.

  I’ve still not told her about the Castle group rejecting my ideas, and anxiety about that makes it feel like there’s an electric current under my skin. I let out a deep breath. B
est to stick to the safe sources of anxiety that she knows all about. At least until I have a better plan in place.

  “I’m dreading talking to Len,” I admit. “This could all fall apart if he fires me tonight. What will I tell the others then?”

  “You’ve got this, Sweetly. You’re the famous Girl Knight. No man can get you down.”

  “Damn right,” I say.

  It comes out way more bravely than I feel. Which is fine. Faking it is what we do at the Castle.

  Layla gives my elbow a squeeze. “Good luck.”

  “If you don’t see me in fifteen minutes, send help.”

  “Half a million views and counting,” says Layla bracingly. “You’ve got leverage.”

  I think of the comments from my website as I walk into the room. Most of them are from girls all over the country. A few people have even posted videos of their daughters dressed up in knight costumes doing their own Éowyn “I am no man” moments.

  The girl who inspired all that is not afraid of facing her boss, even if he also happens to be her uncle.

  My confidence wavers as I push open the door to Len’s office.

  “Well, if it isn’t ‘the Girl Knight.’” Len’s voice drips sarcasm like my mom’s car leaks oil. “Take a seat.” Len strolls to the printer and picks up a piece of paper.

  I clear my throat and sit down. Plunging ahead before he can start a tirade seems like a solid move. “You’re mad at me. I get that. But if I could—”

  “I’m not mad,” says Len. “Actually I want to thank you.”

  “You’re joking.” My voice is wary.

  “What do you think this is?” He drops the piece of paper on the table in front of me.

  Lists of names in neat columns line the page. “It looks like next week’s bookings?”

  “Exactly. Do you see how many are there?”

  “A lot?”

  “Three times our normal. It seems you’ve really tapped into the feminist zeitgeist.”

  “Female empowerment and gender equality are human rights, not ‘zeitgeist.’” I swig some coffee and make a face at him.

  “Whatever. Semantics.” Len grabs the paper and points to a column on the far side. “All the Girl Scout troops in the greater Chicago area are coming to the Castle in the next month.”

  “That’s great!” I still can’t believe he’s not yelling. “But I heard the Castle is closing.”

  “Nope. I needed an idea to bring more people in, and you’ve delivered one. Do you know that every time someone likes or shares your video, Corporate gets an email?”

  I smile to myself at Layla’s brilliance. But if my idea is bringing people in, why did Corporate say no? Has Len not heard about that and he’s just seeing the numbers of guests add up? The Castle is a big enough company that they may not have talked to each other about this yet.

  “So, they’re getting lots of emails?”

  “They’ve gotten more than a half million emails and they keep coming in… .” Len sits back and folds his hands over his stomach. “It’s a brilliant stunt you pulled.”

  “Does this mean I get to fight again?”

  Len barks out a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. Company policy isn’t going to change.”

  “Despite me single-handedly bringing in all this business?” I lean forward and grip the edge of his desk.

  “Be glad you’re not getting fired.”

  The worry I’ve been carrying around like armor lightens a bit. I fall back in the chair. “It’s not fair that you won’t let me fight. I put on a good show out there!” I can’t keep the bitterness from my voice.

  I don’t tell him that I’ve already started training a handful of other Knights. And that we’re going through with things, no matter what he says. If he’d bothered to watch the videos on my website, he’d know that. It’s not my job to do his research for him.

  The preshow trumpet sounds, signaling to us that it’s time to begin the grand medieval game all over again. We both stand up.

  “Maybe you can be a Queen someday,” says Len, settling his crown on his head. “Just imagine, Kit. When I retire, all this will be yours.” He gestures grandly at his run-down office, taking in the chipped paint on the walls and the dingy tapestries covering the cinder blocks.

  “Thanks but no. I’ve got other plans. Are we done?” I stand up. “I’ve got a long night of wenching ahead of me.”

  “One more thing,” says Len. “Did you see this?”

  He turns his computer screen around. On it is a video of a local newscaster interviewing members of a kids’ show featuring animatronic dragons. They’re all theater types, and I lean closer to the screen, searching for familiar faces from the Castle. The reporter walks through a set, dwarfed by pink and blue dragons.

  I spot my dad immediately. He wears a regrettable green bandanna that’s about as rock-and-roll as my Wench’s uniform. His electric guitar—one that once belonged to his and Len’s dad—is strapped over his chest. He plays a few riffs as the newscaster looks on in feigned delight.

  I guess the church thing didn’t work out. Maybe this is why he agreed to the divorce with Mom. Because he needs the money from the sale of the house.

  “Oh my god.” I sink back into the chair, half-mortified that my dad still thinks he’s rock-and-roll and half-relieved that he’s still alive. “I thought he pawned that guitar.”

  “Me too,” says Len. A scowl crosses his face. I wouldn’t want to be in the same zip code when Len finally confronts my dad about stealing the guitar from his living room.

  “Are you going to his show?” I ask, looking again at the dates the dragon show is in town.

  “Not even if you paid me,” says Len. He takes a small copper flask out from his desk drawer and takes a long sip. “But if you see him hanging around here, let me know. I don’t want him bothering you and Chris.”

  It’s an unusually paternal sentiment that brings tears to my eyes. Which is way more emotion than I can deal with before a double shift.

  “Whatever you say, boss.” I knock my paper coffee cup against his flask. Now’s not the time to tell him about my conversation with Mom and the divorce. And that’s none of his business anyway.

  He starts to say more, but I stand up and hurry out the door before we can discuss my fame, my father, or my feelings any further.

  19

  MY SECTION IS FULL TONIGHT. BETWEEN THE FRAT BOYS demanding more pitchers of beer while ogling my cleavage and the soccer moms asking for gluten-free versions of everything, I’ve been pretty much jogging since the first trumpet blast. I’m working in the Red Knight’s cheering section as usual, and every time Chris strikes a blow or wins a favor, I holler along with my customers. He throws a rose into our section and shoots me a grin as he rides away.

  All of me wishes I was out there riding with him and the other Knights, not hauling a bin of turkey scraps up slippery concrete stairs. I pause in the hallway between the arena and the kitchen, trying to catch my breath. Sweat soaks my armpits, leaving half-moons on my dress.

  Eddy Jackson and four of his buddies—two enormous linebacker types and two very fit-looking women—are in my section again tonight. They’re sitting in the front row, right beside the arena floor. As I’m bringing them a plate of turkey legs (their fourth serving since dinner started), Eddy holds his phone up and shines the light on my face.

  “I knew it! You’re Kit Sweetly! The Girl Knight!”

  I blink in the glare from the phone but shoot him a wry smile. “In the flesh. Though tonight I’m just a Serving Wench.”

  “You all need to see her video!” says Eddy, pulling it up on his phone. “This is the girl I was telling you about.” His friends lean in closer, watching as I vanquish Dalton (all of them groan as my mace makes contact) and then deliver my “I am no man!” line.

  “Why aren’t you out there tonight?” asks one of the women. Her long dark hair is twisted into a high ponytail, and she looks vaguely familiar. “I’d love to see somethi
ng other than dudes beating each other up when Eddy drags us here.”

  “You know you love the food!” Eddy teases, raising his mug of ale at her and grinning.

  The woman rolls her eyes. “That’s got to be it.”

  He laughs and reaches for another turkey leg. “I love the food. Makes me feel alive to eat turkey legs in a communal setting. Like I’m part of something greater. Some Viking shit or something.”

  I blink, trying not to laugh. Absolutely nothing comes to mind in reply to that statement. The food at the Castle is mass-produced and it hasn’t changed in like a decade. But to each their own.

  “Ignore this barbarian,” says the woman. She slaps Eddy’s shoulder affectionately. There’s a loud cheer from the section as Chris almost unhorses the Blue Knight.

  I cheer with them, watching Chris move through the on-ground fighting routine he’s been teaching us all week. He’s slower than usual, and his steps are off. Like he’s distracted. I must’ve been mirroring him because I feel a hand on my shoulder as I mimic a sword thrust.

  “When are you out there again?” Eddy calls over the noise.

  I shake my head and lean in close enough so he can hear me. “Sadly, that fight the other night might be my one and only.”

  “They’re not going to let you fight again?”

  “Company policy is that only cis men can be Knights.” I make a face. “The other night I snuck in and took my brother’s place.” I point toward Chris.

  “That’s some bullshit,” says the dark-haired woman beside him.

  “Tell me about it,” I reply. “Especially since reservations are up by like two hundred percent thanks to me. I’ve got an online petition going around and my video’s gotten a lot of attention. My friends and I are training, and we’re determined to stage our own tournament next Friday.”

  A tournament that’s already been vetoed by Corporate. Not that my friends know that yet. Or that I’m going to tell them anytime soon.