The Life and Medieval Times of Kit Sweetly

by Jamie Pacton

  “Do you think it’ll really change things?” Eddy asks.

  “I’m hoping it’ll at least make things more fair. We want to remove gender restrictions for all the jobs around here. And I want to work as a Knight so I can pay for school.”

  “Well, I’m on your side,” says the woman. “What was that website?”

  Eddy clicks around on his phone. “I’ll send it to you. Here, Kit, take a selfie with us.”

  He holds out his phone and I lean in. The other people in his group lean in too, and all of us smile.

  “That’s great,” says Eddy. “Uploading to Twitter now with your video and tagging you all.”

  “Thanks for your support,” I say. “Hope you can make it next Friday.”

  “You know we wouldn’t miss it!” says Eddy. “Whoa, shit! Watch out!”

  In the arena, Chris’s horse veers wildly toward us. For a moment it looks like he’s about to run it into the mesh surrounding the crowd. But he pulls up at the last minute.

  I shoot him a look. Our eyes meet.

  “Are you okay?” I mouth.

  He nods slightly, then smiles and waves to the crowd.

  I’ll have to talk to him after the show, but that’s still a long way off.

  “Need anything else before I go get more beer?” I ask Eddy and his friends as I pick up the empty pitchers in front of them.

  They shake their heads, but the dark-haired woman puts a hand on my arm.

  “I’m Bettina Vasquez with Good Morning, Chicago! I love stories like this, and I’d be happy to have you on the show sometime.” She hands me her card.

  Ahhh, that’s why she looks familiar.

  “I’d love that.” I tuck the card into my pocket. “I’ll email you.”

  She waves to me as I trudge up the concrete stairs away from their party.

  I’m on my way back to the kitchen, wiping sweat from my forehead with what I thought was a clean napkin, when I see Jett. He’s reading something on his phone and carrying his backpack.

  He’s not seen me yet, and I’d love for him not to see me covered in this mess of a wenching dress. For a moment, I contemplate ducking behind the curtain that separates the arena from the hallway, but that’s the coward’s way out. Besides, he told me I’m beautiful all the time. And I’m not trying to impress him.

  Yeah. Right.

  I swipe at the globule of turkey grease running down the bridge of my nose and clear my throat. “Not staying for the fanfare?” I blurt out as Jett passes me.

  It’s a stupid thing to say, but it works. Jett stops walking and looks up from his phone. The fanfare is the part at the end of the show where he and the other musicians play a trumpeting end to the tournament.

  He shoots me an easy smile. “Hey, friend. I’m ducking out early because my little brothers are sick, and the sitter can’t reach my parents.”

  He shrugs. Such a good big brother.

  I almost make a joke about barfing, but mercifully restrain myself. “That’s right,” I say, remembering a snippet of last night’s text conversation. “They’re downtown seeing Hamilton, right?”

  “Lucky them,” mutters Jett, making a face. “Next time they get tickets, you and I are tagging along somehow, some way.”

  “I second that plan.”

  His eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles at me. “How’s your night going?”

  Sweet lady knights who’ve come before me. Please, grant me the strength not to kiss this boy. Right here. Right now. “All good here. Eddy Jackson’s in my section with his buddies. They all just shared my video on their Twitter accounts.”

  “Love that guy,” says Jett. “There’s your influencer part of the plan in motion.”

  “Indeed. Hey, want to get late-night-after-show breakfast once you check in at home?”

  Jett nods. “And you can tell me what Len said. And how you managed not to get fired.”

  “Achhhh! You won’t believe it!” I say, grabbing his shirtsleeve playfully, like I always do. This time, though, when my hand brushes his wrist, something inside me lurches in the space between my ribs and my spine. I imagine it’s how Harry Potter must’ve felt when he touched that first Portkey.

  I drop my hand, and Jett’s eyes find mine.

  “That bad?” he asks, making an unreadable face. He looks a little stunned, like he’s just gotten Portkeyed too.

  Before I can reply, a thunderous, terrified scream—the sound of more than a hundred people yelling in shock all at once—swells from the arena behind us.

  20

  JETT AND I BOTH DASH TOWARD THE NEAREST DOOR. There’s not supposed to be a scream-worthy moment this late in the show. This is the wrap-up. Time for cheers and more beers. Almost time to trumpet the exit of the King.

  But that’s not what we’re hearing.

  The crowd is on its feet, and I can’t see much as we push back into the arena. Murmurs, concerned voices, and the sounds of little kids crying fill the air.

  “I better get my money back,” says someone waspishly as we pass. “If this show doesn’t go on, I’m leaving a nasty review.”

  I send a death glare over my shoulder, but I can’t make out who said it. There are people standing on the concrete stairs, trying to get a better view.

  “Excuse me, pardon us, Castle staff coming through,” Jett says as we weave around the crowds.

  We’re three steps from the edge of the arena when I understand what’s happened.

  “Oh no,” I whisper in a strangled voice.

  A riderless horse stands in front of my section. It wears the colors of the Red Knight. But I can’t see Chris anywhere.

  In the front row, Bettina grips Eddy’s arm, both of them peering into the arena. One of the frat boys next to us looks down at the arena, his beer halfway to his mouth.

  “Is he dead, bro?” he asks the guy standing next to him.

  “Is who dead?” Jett asks, spinning toward the frat dude. “What happened?”

  The frat boys point toward the arena right as the riderless horse moves aside.

  Now we have a clear view.

  The Red Knight lies on his back. Not moving. Completely still. His helmet is in the dirt a few feet away and his leg is twisted underneath him.

  A scream tears out of my throat. My feet somehow move down the last three stairs, and I’m at the front of the arena.

  From here, I can see the blood soaking Chris’s white undershirt. His forehead is slick with it. He still doesn’t move, but there’s a flurry of activity in the arena that some part of my brain processes: A group of Castle medics runs out onto the pitch, their boots throwing up sand. Chris’s horse whinnies nervously. The Red Squire catches the horse’s reins and runs a hand over its flanks. The Green, Blue, and Yellow Knights huddle together at the far end of the arena. The Purple Knight, Chris’s friend Austin, has thrown off his helmet and is running across the arena toward Chris.

  From two sections over, I catch sight of Penny with her hands over her mouth. Layla’s pushing her way through the crowds on my left, calling out my name.

  “Help me, Jett!” I scream as I tear at the netting that separates the guests from the arena. It tangles around my hands maddeningly, as if it can sense how frantic I am to get to Chris. I can’t let my brother die three feet away from me while I’m snarled like a fish in some cheap netting.

  Eddy and Jett are by my side at once. Both of them lift the netting, freeing me. I clamber over the low wall and land in the sand of the arena. Jett’s a second behind me, but I’m already running toward Chris. Pushing my way into the circle of medics, I kneel in the filthy sand beside him. My hands fly to the wound on his head, trying to stop the blood.

  “Don’t touch him,” snaps one of the medics. “That cut is deep.”

  “What happened?” I insist. “Why isn’t he moving? Somebody help him!”

  “Back up,” says one of the medics, as he pushes my hands away and gently holds gauze over the wound. “He’s unconscious and he’s likely
broken something after that fall.”

  “This is my brother,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Len yelling orders. A line of Pages carrying heraldic banners runs onto the field. They surround Chris, me, and the medics, blocking us from the crowd’s view.

  The medics gently lift Chris onto a stretcher. I step back. Jett’s right behind me. For a moment, I lean into his chest. Grateful for his presence and his solidness. We follow the medics out of the arena.

  Len’s voice comes over the loudspeaker once we clear the doors: “Just a little spill, folks. Let the show go on!”

  Let the show go on?

  As I climb into the back of the ambulance with Chris, I’m seriously tempted to run back into the Castle and murder Len. So much for his protective paternal feelings.

  21

  PENNY, LAYLA, ALEX, MAGS, AND AUSTIN ARRIVE AT ST. Thomas Hospital as soon as their shifts end. Jett followed the ambulance here, and now he sits in one of the waiting room chairs. His left leg bounces and he keeps looking between his phone and me, like he’s unsure how to best help. A few of the other Squires and Wenches cluster at one end of the waiting room, pouring coffee and getting stuff from the vending machines. Len sent a sympathetic text but said he can’t make it over until later. Chris’s ex, Princess Jessica, wipes tears from her eyes and gives me a small wave. I shoot her a poisonous look. Everyone’s still in their Castle uniforms, and a middle-aged couple keeps glancing at us curiously.

  As we all gather, I’m reminded of the fact that sick people in the Middle Ages flocked to saints’ shrines, like St. Thomas Becket’s in the Canterbury Cathedral. Although we’re in a hospital named after that saint, I’m incredibly grateful we’re not living in the age of medieval medicine, with its focus on the humors, examining urine for answers to everything, and its barber surgeons who—

  “Kit,” says Layla, planting herself in the middle of the track I’ve been pacing through the waiting room and pulling me into a hug. I sink into her, letting all the anxiety and fear for Chris that’s been building up in me lighten for just a moment.

  “Any word yet?” Worry makes deep lines in her face. “Is he okay?”

  My voice is shaky when I reply. “He’s still in surgery. The doctor said he broke at least two ribs, fractured his arm, and needs stitches on his head.”

  “Where’s your mom?” Penny asks, sizing up the waiting room. She adds her arms to Layla’s, holding me up. I take a deep breath.

  “She hasn’t returned my calls yet, so her phone must be off. I could call the diner—”

  “Or I could go pick her up,” Jett replies, standing up quickly. He sounds relieved to be doing something to help. “I have to get home soon to relieve the sitter, but I can drop your mom off first.”

  I nod, wiping my leaking eyes on the Castle napkin I find in my pocket. “Tell her it’s urgent.”

  I’m hoping it’s not urgent, and that Chris will be back to his old self any moment now, but my mom should be here.

  “Be back soon,” says Jett, giving me a small, sad smile as he leaves.

  I follow Layla to a row of chairs and sink down next to her. Alex, Penny, and Mags sit beside us.

  “You hanging in there, Girl Knight?” Alex asks. “Anything we can do to help?”

  They hand me a cup of coffee, which I accept with a grateful smile.

  “You’re doing enough by being here, thank you all.”

  “He’s going to be okay,” says Penny. She squeezes my knee. “He’s a tough old thing. Did he ever tell you about that time we tried snowboarding in Colorado?”

  She then launches into a hilarious story about her, Chris, and some other friends failing miserably at snowboarding during the spring break trip they took a few years ago. I’ve heard it before, but I hang on her every word. Loving the picture of Chris she paints and deeply appreciating the distraction.

  After the story is over, Penny gets up. “I’m going to go change clothes and find a sandwich or something, but text me if you get any more news.”

  Alex and Mags go with her, promising to bring us back provisions.

  Layla raises her eyebrows once we’re alone again. “So did something happen between you and Jett? Something you’ve not told me about? Because it’s super weird between the two of you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s just worried for Chris.”

  “Are you sure there’s no secret date plans?” She pokes me lightly and I have to smile. In the midst of all this stress, this is exactly the lightness I need.

  “Well, we were going to go for pancakes before all this, so that’s pretty exciting.”

  Layla’s eyebrows shoot up. “Pancakes? Is that some bizarre code for realizing your true feelings for each other?”

  A laugh bursts out of me. “No. Dork. It’s a code for breakfast. Of the griddled, hotcake variety. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  “Uh-huh.” Layla doesn’t look convinced. But she doesn’t push it. “I’ll leave you be for now, but something is odd with him. Trust me, I can tell.”

  “Let’s move on,” I say, stretching my neck. I’m exhausted all of a sudden and acutely aware of how badly I stink of grease and beer. “Do you still have our emergency kits in your car?”

  The emergency kits came about our freshman year, after I got my period unexpectedly while wearing white shorts. I’d changed into a pair of leggings Layla had in her bag, and the crisis was averted, but after that, we’d started keeping an emergency change of clothes and toiletries in our lockers and Layla’s car.

  “Right here,” says Layla, holding up a plastic shopping bag and my backpack, which she must’ve retrieved from the employee lockers. A pair of my jeans and a T-shirt poke out of the top of the shopping bag.

  “Love you. Thanks.” I take both gratefully.

  “Go change.” She shoos me away with her hand and makes a face. “I’ve got something to show you when you smell less like a medieval frat house.”

  When I come back from the bathroom, Layla’s staring at her phone with a smug smile on her face.

  “What’s up?” I pull on a fuzzy blue cardigan and sit down beside her. I scrubbed my face under the cold water, and my cheeks still sting. Most of my makeup is gone, but I don’t care.

  “Look at your website! Thanks to Eddy and his buddies tweeting the video out, you’re now trending. Several news outlets have picked up the story.” Layla holds out her phone. “And you just hit eight hundred thousand views of the video. I can’t wait to check the income streams from all this when I get home tonight!”

  I scoff. “Apparently, all my fame is just bringing more dollars into the Castle’s coffers.” Quickly, I explain to her about Len’s spreadsheets and the “feminist zeitgeist” he thinks he’s cashing in on. “But I’m still determined to have the tournament next week. We’ve been working too hard to not do it. Plus, Chris would want us to keep going.”

  “It’s going to be epic,” says Layla. “Though you’ll have to train us more if Chris is out of commission.”

  I should tell her that the Castle has already rejected my idea. I shouldn’t keep something like that from my best friend in the world. The words are on the tip of my tongue, right as Layla’s phone rings.

  “Hi, Maura,” she says. “I’ll be over here if you need me,” she mouths, pointing to the far corner of the room. I wave to her and chug some of my coffee.

  As I scroll through Twitter on my phone, strategies for training the others fill my head. We’ll have to really map out the entire routine. And figure out how to get uniforms and gear. And convince the other Knights to let us fight, something that I was counting on Chris to help with. Maybe I can talk to Austin about it later.

  Even as all these thoughts tumble through my mind, some other part of me wonders: How can I even be thinking of fighting again when Chris is lying in a hospital bed, knocked out? Why would I risk any of us getting hurt for the sake of a silly, fake tournament?

>   But it’s not that silly, is it? It’s serious, and adventurous, and something both Chris and I love. Which is why it’s not fair that only he gets a chance to do it. Although the Castle has formally rejected my idea, I can’t give up now. There are literally thousands of people excited about the changes we want to make. And getting rid of these arbitrary gender restrictions is the right thing. And it could have an impact far beyond me or Chris or any of the rest of us.

  Digging through my dirty clothes, I find Bettina’s card in my pocket.

  I shoot off a quick email:

  Hi, Bettina,

  Great to meet you tonight, and tell Eddy thanks again for tweeting out my video and helping me into the arena. My brother is still in surgery, but I’m hoping he’ll be okay.

  I’m writing to take you up on your offer to be on Good Morning, Chicago! I’d love to talk about what we’re doing at the Castle and why it matters. What day would be a good one for you?

  Thanks so much,

  Kit Sweetly

  Her reply comes back before I finish my coffee.

  Hi, Kit,

  I was just thinking about you, and I’m so glad you reached out. How does Monday morning sound? I’ll send a car for you so you don’t have to fight traffic. Send me your address and please have a parent sign the attached parental consent form. See you on Monday morning, and all my best to your brother. Eddy and I are rooting for him!

  Warmest regards,

  Bettina

  Before I can really process her email, Mom rushes into the waiting room.

  22

  MOM’S FINGERS DIG INTO MY BACK AS SHE HUGS ME.

  “What happened?” She glances around the lobby. A fat glob of syrup stains her yellow uniform and she smells like cigarettes. Her voice strains as she looks around, as if she might find Chris out here somewhere, among all the Castle staff. “Is he okay?”

  I hug her, clinging like I haven’t in a very, very long time. “I don’t know,” I whisper.

  Something about being held by my mother breaks me. I desperately want Chris to be fine, but I don’t know if he will be. Fear hollows out my insides like someone scooping the guts out of a Halloween pumpkin.