Page 12 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

“I couldn’t help it!” I fling a hand across my heart. “Éowyn called! I mean, that setup was perfection!”

“You are such a dork,” says Chris affectionately. The last notes of the show play, and then there’s a loud bunch of applause. Chris steers me out of the stables and toward the back door. “I’ll go get your stuff out of your locker; you go to the car. I’ll deal with Len once I drop you off at home.” He plops his keys on top of the takeout container.

“But I’m supposed to meet Jett,” I say, peering over his head. Two Serving Wenches—Lizzy and Mags—walk past us lugging tubs full of dirty plates.

“Nice one, Kit!” says Lizzy. She’s a tall, pretty white girl who plays volleyball and just got voted “Most Likely to Dress like a Librarian for the Rest of her Life” in our senior class. Quiet and bookish in real life, when she’s at the Castle, she trades her cardigans and patterned dresses for a low-cut Wench dress that hugs her curves.

“Epic,” Mags nods, giving me a high five as she walks past. Mags’s parents are from China, and she’s got short black hair and dark eyes. Her piercings and tattoos (which she started getting the minute she turned eighteen) are never covered, as they should be under company policy. “Are you going to be out there every show?”

“I wish,” I say.

“Well, if you figure it out, let me know. I’ve always wanted to fight as a Knight!”

Before I can reply to her, Chris opens the back door.

“Go,” he hisses. “Before anyone else sees you.”

Waving to Mags and Lizzy, I stumble outside, stunned for a moment by the contrast between the loud, smelly Castle and the warm spring night. The moon rises beyond the office buildings in the east, pale yellow, like the moonfaced girls who were so popular in the Middle Ages. When I get to Chris’s car, an ancient tan Volvo that was old when our mom bought it fifteen years ago, I consider myself in the reflection on the window.

Hero? Loser? Knight? My face is sharp and chicken pox scars remain on my long nose. “Striking” is what my grandmother used to say, but that was just polite.

Exhaustion hits me and I have no more time to contemplate my stupid face. As I drop into the passenger seat, my adrenaline crashes. I think of only one thing: Have I just gotten myself fired?

6

HOME IS NOT A CASTLE. IT’S A PEELING-PAINT, ROTTEN-ROOF, split-story ranch on the edge of the freeway. Prime property when my parents bought it fifteen years ago. Before the Fall. The Separation. The End of Times.

Now, we’re the working poor. Mom makes barely enough to pay the mortgage and weeds long ago took over the landscaping. We’re the ones who lower the property value of all those around us.

Chris’s Volvo rattles into the driveway. I glance at the house. No lights on, even though it’s nearly ten at night.

“She’ll be home soon,” says Chris. “Don’t say anything to her until I talk to Len. I’ll head back to the Castle and do some damage control.”

My bones ache and the beginning of a headache eats at my brain. I’ve taken off Chris’s armor, but I’m still in the faux chain mail leggings, tunic, and my boots. I look like I’m ready for yoga at a Marilyn Manson concert.

“I’ll just shower and wait up for you,” I say, grabbing my backpack. There’s a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach, like some part of me knows I really, royally screwed up. But the rest of me is too tired, bruised, and hungry to dwell on it.

Chris waves as he pulls out of the driveway, and his headlights make my shadow huge against the house. Once he’s gone, I look up. Far above us, almost hidden by the light pollution of the suburbs, the stars wink their centuries-old message. I could be seeing light from stars that burned out during the Middle Ages. Light that’s been racing for seven hundred years across the galaxy to shine for a moment on me.

That’s a heavy thought. That we’re just the souls of stars in exile, as Plato says. Or that some girl might be alone on a night seven hundred years from now, waiting for a sign from the universe. And all she’s got is starlight from tonight.

Overwhelmed suddenly by my smallness, I sit down on the driveway. It’s damp from the rain we had earlier, but still warm. Bumpy asphalt rises under my fingers, and I remember the many times my dad would stand out here, slopping driveway sealer on the stones, making a mess that always somehow came out tidy and better looking by the end.

I lean back, resting the takeout container on my stomach, and stare at the stars. They blur together in my vision as I let my eyes go out of focus. As I lie there, I’m still half in the arena, my ears full of the crowd’s shouting. Almost like a long road trip—where you drive all day, and then when you close your eyes to sleep it’s more of the same: road and highway all the way through your dreams. Suddenly, I’m back on my horse, and the lance sits heavily in my hand. Resting the takeout container on the ground, I hop to my feet.

I can’t help it. I grab a stick from the ground, like a seven-year-old fighting imaginary dragons—and yes, I was that kid; I even made a scabbard for my imaginary dragon stick—and brandish it like a sword.

The moves come to me like music rising. Back, forward, and into the other Knight’s guard. It’s a dance, and each step must be placed just so.

I’ve sword fought my way nearly to the mailbox at the end of the driveway when an Audi station wagon drives past the house, music blaring.

“Freak show!” a girl yells as the car races past. She throws a bottle out the window. I leap out of the way as a green long-neck shatters against the mailbox.

I flip them off, but their headlights are just red smears—a Balrog’s whip, my inner nerd chimes in unhelpfully—in the night. I drop the stick, grab the mail and my takeout container, and stomp up the stairs to the front door.

When I’m inside, I fumble around in the dark for a moment, then flick the switch closest to the door.

Nothing.