Page 18 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

I think my wall of medieval ladies would be proud.

The number of views keeps jumping as I watch.

It’s only been up for an hour, but it’s already been viewed more than four thousand times. And the number keeps climbing.

Holy shit.

That’s a lot of people watching my video.

That’s a lot of people who could be watching at the Castle in real life.

That’s a lot of people who I should tell the Castle Corporate Group about.

Where is that flyer?

Using the light from my phone, I find my backpack. My wenching dress is shoved into it. I fish the flyer out of the pocket.

“Email us your thoughts, plans, dreams, and schemes,” it says.

And I suddenly know exactly what I need to do.

I scrawl notes into my bullet journal until my phone’s low-battery light flashes at me. Before I go to sleep, I click back to my video one more time.

Six thousand views and still climbing.

This might actually work.

9

SEVEN FORTY-FIVE SATURDAY MORNING. I WAKE UP SORE and with a head full of foggy dreams. In them, I was a cartoon character, fighting in the arena … and then someone buried me in the ground.

Ground.

Right.

Grounded.

I roll out of bed and get myself dressed in yard-work clothes. Scrubby T-shirt, jeans with holes in the knees, and torn sneakers.

As I brush my teeth, I space out, thinking about being grounded.

Mom’s punishment reminds me of a part of the Middle Ages that’s always sat badly with me. Lots of women were basically grounded back then. Unless they had the moxie (and fists) of the Wife of Bath, travel beyond a small sphere was limited.

Other women, though, were grounded in a more literal sense. Like scary Edgar Allan Poe bury-you-alive style. These unfortunate souls were anchoresses, nuns whose primary duty in life was to “anchor” the convent or church community they lived in. And where do you put an anchor? At the bottom of things. So, these women were walled into a small cell below the ground. The cell had a few openings that looked onto street level: one for delivering food and water, another for hearing the prayers of the faithful, and (hopefully) at least one for getting rid of waste.

But that was it. That was their life for years and years. Subsisting on whatever crusts of sunshine and fresh air made their way through the cracks. Shivering in winter, baking in summer. Peering out at the bustle of the street and imagining all the what-ifs had their lives gone differently.

I’m not that grounded, and it’s disingenuous to say so. But it does make me think.

The chime of the doorbell startles me out of my teeth-brushing history-fanatic space out.

Mom’s door is open and her bed empty as I pass. I heard her leave for her early-morning shift hours ago. Guilt stabs at my belly as I think of our fight. We’ll make up later—we always do—but fighting with her makes me sick because everything she does is to help Chris and me get ahead. Hence the reason why one of the bullets on my Big Plan is taking care of Mom.

I fling open the front door and my mouth falls open when I see Jett standing there. His hair’s wet and slicked back. His skinny jeans, black T-shirt, leather jacket, and Doc Martens make him look like a movie star.

“Stop being so cool before nine in the morning,” I say, and groan.

“I’m amazingly cool,” he says, moving aside and pointing to the rusty red minivan in the driveway. Jett’s the oldest of four boys, all of whom are usually crammed into the van.