Page 21 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

We’re the only people inside the chapel. There’s a guest book on a carved stand that looks like it’s straight out of the set of Game of Thrones. I flip through it, skimming the entries. Pages and pages of names, scrawled prayers, and hopes; the whispers of people’s secret hearts. How many feet have crossed over these stones in the last six hundred years? The air’s charged, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something. Or someone. Like it’s missing the girl-saint who stopped inside its walls, her boots muddy, her hair chopped off, her heart full of mystery or madness.

I can’t stop touching things. I run my fingers along the cool stone walls, dipping them into the uneven places in the rock. I sit in one of the rickety chairs. I stand on my tiptoes and touch the tapestry fabric. The iron sconces have rounded points on the end, and I press the edge of my finger into one. It almost hurts.

It all feels genuine in the way that history doesn’t at the Castle. It’s uncomfortable, imperfect, and it makes sense that real lives could’ve existed in a place like this. Somewhere sacred and strange and utterly out of place in the rush and bustle of an urban college campus.

“They have Mass here every day,” Jett says, reading a sign near the back of the chapel. He’s stopped filming. “Do you want to stay?”

I shake my head. “The awe of history is good enough for me,” I say. “Let’s go see her.”

Near the front of the church is a statue of Joan of Arc. It’s small, like she was, and her pageboy haircut is rendered with painful, awkward accuracy. I’m not tall, but I tower over her. With the exception of the sword at her side and her armor, she looks like an eighth grader going to get her braces adjusted.

I rest my hand on her arm, trying to channel some of her bravery, spirit, and belief in her own mission. What must it be like to have that sort of clarity in your own life as a teenager? I mean, I have my Big Plan. And my lists. But it’s not quite so unswerving as an edict from saints and divine powers.

“She must’ve been badass to see in battle,” says Jett.

“Actually, she never fought in battle,” says a voice from the front of the chapel.

A woman wearing an Easter egg–patterned sweatshirt, mom jeans, and a name tag with “Volunteer” on it steps out from a hidden door of what must be the sacristy. “Joan was present at many battles,” the woman continues in a tour-guide voice. “But she didn’t fight in any herself. It’s one of her legends. Like this chapel. We’re fairly certain she never set foot in here.”

“What do you mean?” I make a face. “This is the Joan of Arc chapel.”

The woman laughs, like she’s heard a thousand other people say the same thing. “It’s called that, dear, but it’s not true. This chapel is from the southeast of France. Joan was in the north. The windows were put in during the thirties, and the tapestries are reproductions from a rich donor. Everything in here is from somewhere else—the altar is from centuries after Joan, and the statues in the back from a bombed church in Italy—that’s why they have no arms.”

“You mean it’s all a fake?”

I kind of can’t breathe, and the dust motes now look tawdry, as does all the other stuff scattered about the chapel.

“It makes people believe,” says the woman. She shrugs. “And Joan was real. Those are the important parts.”

“But, just to be clear, this chapel really has nothing to do with Joan at all?” My voice has a frantic edge, and I can see Jett biting his bottom lip. I wonder if he found this out already during his research.

The woman tugs at the bottom of her sweatshirt and looks at Joan’s statue. “I wish it did. I really do, honey. But it’s only a story.”

I slump into a chair and bury my head into my hands. Stupid, unasked-for tears fill my eyes. The chapel is really no better than the Castle. A fake, a fraud, an approximation attraction that’s playing at being real.

“Would you all like to know more about the history of the chapel?” asks the woman. Her voice sounds worried as she looks at me. “There’s real medieval graffiti right over here… .”

Jett puts an arm around my shoulders. “We’re okay, thanks.” His arm is warm, real, and not super-fucking disappointing like everything else. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve got one more surprise.”

I swipe my hand across my face and stand up. As we leave, I don’t even look at Joan’s statue. All my reverence from the moment before is gone. Replaced by the cold, hard facts. Craptastic Reality 1, Mystery of History 0.

Maybe Marquette isn’t so great after all.

Jett keeps his arm around me as we walk to the car. A traitorous sob bursts from me as we walk.

“What’s up?” His eyebrows come together.

“It’s all just so fake and frustrating, and I don’t know …”

My emotions from last night are still catching up. I’m crying for stupid things like a fridge that can’t keep food cold. A job where I’m allowed to serve beer to frat boys but not ride a horse. And the lingering suspicion that my Big Plan is as fake and foolish as a chapel brought stone by stone from France to trick people.

Jett hugs me until I’m done crying.

“Sorry,” I say, swiping my hand across my wet eyes and snotty nose because I’m classy like that. “I’m just … overwhelmed …”

“One more surprise,” he says again, a smile tugging at the edge of his eyes. “Promise you’ll feel better …”

WE DRIVE THROUGH DOWNTOWN, HEADING EAST PAST skyscrapers toward Lake Michigan. It’s a bright, breezy spring day, and dozens of sailboats dot the horizon. The metal wings on the Milwaukee Art Museum are closed because it’s so windy, making it look like a giant tropical flower that’s sleeping. There’s something else in the sky too—kites. Hundreds of them soar above Veterans Park, a wide expanse of grass, willow trees, and picnic spots beside the harbor. As we get out of the car, the clanking of sail rigging and the screech of seagulls sound like a nautical symphony.