Page 20 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

“Pinky swear?” He holds out a finger.

I curl mine around his. “Pinky swear. Also, I haven’t done this since I was like nine.”

And I love the way our fingers fit together.

Jett laughs, unhooks his finger from mine, and finishes his donuts. “You know what you need?”

“A day of yard work at my mother’s insistence?”

Jett shakes his head. His brown eyes glow in the morning light. Goddammit, he’s gorgeous. “Road trip. To Marquette. Now. It’ll be like a pilgrimage. And you can open your letter there.”

“I can’t. I’m grounded.”

“And I’ve got to be back for my shift at the Castle tonight. You’ll be home with more than enough time to mow the lawn. I promise.”

I think again of all the women in the Middle Ages, especially of the Wife of Bath. Bold, brave, saucy, and spirited. Traveling to pilgrimage sites was kind of her thing. Exactly the kind of woman I want to be. Minus the six husbands and all that.

“Let’s go.”

We leave the donut shop before I have time to pilfer the bathroom for supplies, but that’s okay for now. Pilgrimage awaits.

10

MARQUETTE IS IN MILWAUKEE, A LITTLE OVER AN HOUR and a half away from my house. Driving into the city always takes my breath away. Lake Michigan sits in the east, an endless stretch of sapphire to the horizon. Then, skyscrapers, smokestacks, and the steeples of the city’s many churches and breweries stab at the clouds.

We find parking a few blocks from campus and stroll along the street. It’s mostly empty and quiet this morning. A homeless guy pushes a shopping cart past us. Jett puts a five-dollar bill into his outstretched hand. The guy thanks him with an elaborate blessing. It’s too much, but Jett just smiles and waves as we walk away. Only a few students stroll (or stagger) across campus. It’s Saturday morning after all. Even still, I wish I had changed. Most of the early-morning students have expensive bags and wear North Face pullovers. It’s almost like a uniform.

“I’d never fit in here,” I say as we walk.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Jett. “You’re brilliant, hardworking, and nice. You’ll be fine.” He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. I squeeze back and then drop his hand.

Without meaning to, we’ve moved toward the center of campus. There’s a terraced garden where a riot of tulips and other flowers bloom. At the center of the garden sits a small, medieval stone chapel. It looks impossibly out of place among the nineteenth-century ivy-covered brick buildings and the more modern shapes of the Engineering Hall and the Wehr Life Sciences Building.

“St. Joan of Arc Chapel,” I say, a little awestruck. I’ve seen pictures of it, but I’ve never been here. My heart kicks inside my chest as I think about teenage Joan of Arc, standing here, just like me, looking for some direction.

I’m not religious, but I do love connecting to the past. And this is about as real as it gets.

We take a couple of selfies in front of the chapel.

“Did you know some rich lady brought this chapel over here stone by stone?” says Jett. “I did a bunch of research last night.”

“Bless your little nerd heart,” I say. “Can you imagine that, though? Stone by stone?”

“She actually brought a whole château over, so this was literally a drop in the stone-by-stone bucket.”

Rich people. SMH.

“This is like Disneyland for history geeks,” I say, pushing on the wooden door. It’s surprisingly heavy—as I suppose doors had to be back in the days of Viking raids and Inquisitions—and Jett and I step into the shadowy nave.

It’s so perfect it’s almost a cliché.

Dust motes dance in slivers of sunlight that filter through the row of arched windows. Threadbare tapestries cover the walls and wagon-wheel wooden chandeliers dangle from the star-shaped ceiling. Behind us an armless Christ figure hangs above the door, flanked by carved cherubs. An altar stone sits at the front of the chapel, solid beneath the distracting whimsy of the round stained glass window above it. Blue, red, yellow, and black pieces of glass paint a picture of life as it might have been in Joan’s time.

This is what I imagine parts of Paris must look like. I close my eyes for a moment, pretending I’m in Notre Dame. Living a tiny part of the dream I’ve had for so long.

“Wow,” says Jett under his breath. He’s filming on his phone as we walk.

“Yeah,” I whisper, trying to take it all in.