Page 26 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

“Ha! Not even. Look at that!” She points to a sheet of paper on the dashboard.

I texted Layla my whole plan last night. She’s typed it up and printed it out, so we now have a master copy. I pick up the sheet and read over the plan again.

KIT’S PLAN FOR THE CASTLE

• PHASE 1: Make my video viral + connect a website, merchandise, history lessons to it. Somehow? Get Layla’s help with this. Also, submit plan to Castle contest and push on it with online pressure.

• PHASE 2: Convince others to join me. Get Chris to help me train them as Knights!

• PHASE 3: Set up a tournament with current Knights so new Knights can show off skills.

• PHASE 4: When Castle execs are here, run the tournament and SHOW them what a good idea this is and how many people it can bring in.

“This looks great,” I say. “But why are you literally vibrating with excitement?”

“Phase One has started!” Layla shoves her iPad at me. It’s open to a website—www.thegirlknight.com—that declares in bold letters: THE GIRL KNIGHT WILL FIGHT ANOTHER DAY!

My face stares back at me in cartoon form, and then the video of my fight is below it.

“Read that.” Layla jabs a finger at the text below the video.

“Last night, the one and only Girl Knight, KIT SWEETLY, fought a brave battle against the medieval notion that only men should fight at the Castle! What kind of message does that send to our kids? Folks, we live in the day of female American Ninja Warriors and women generals. Surely we can reflect this in the Castle’s arena!

“We know there weren’t many female fighters in the Middle Ages—though there were some!—but at the risk of being anachronistic, we implore you: Sign our petition! Tell the Castle it’s time for a change. LET KIT FIGHT!”

Layla beams at me. “We’ve gotten almost a thousand signatures already. And it’s really taking off. I’m going to make T-shirts and posters. You need to come up with some good stuff about badass medieval women for us to put on the site.”

I’m stunned. Like in a good way, but also in an ice cream–headache kind of way. Because my vague notion of phase 1 now looks so shiny and professional.

“I love this. You’re the best! And perhaps the fastest. I can’t believe you’ve done this already.”

Layla’s creativity is legendary, and she’s always leaping into projects. It gives me whiplash sometimes, but in the best possible way.

“We’re going to change things, trust me. I can’t wait to start training!” exclaims Layla.

“Even though you won’t be here in a few months?”

My heart aches at the thought of not seeing Layla every day, but I push that thought way down.

With a wave to Chris, who’s dressed in his Knight’s gear and leaving the house, Layla backs out of my driveway. “I don’t necessarily want to fight. But I want the chance to consider it as an option. That’s what this is all about.”

Absolutely.

“I’m not even sure I still have a job,” I admit as I buckle my seat belt. Layla floors it and flings us around a corner.

“Worry about that tomorrow,” she says. “Tonight, we have work to do!”

As we drive, I fill her in on Jett’s contribution to the plan. We both agree that a documentary-style film about our journey to knighthood will help things tremendously.

Before long we’re turning into her driveway. Her house sits at the end of a tree-lined corridor, and you can’t even see it from the road. The house itself is a four-story Tudor that looks like it should’ve been featured on some Real Housewives of Chicago show. Horses graze in the field behind her house—that’s how Layla got into working at the Castle, through her love of horses. It’s only luck that her parents sent her to the public school in my district and not one of the many private schools that kids who live in houses like hers go to.

She parks in the driveway, which is so wide it could probably hold a private plane, and we go around the back. Her yard is terraced—the outdoor pool and cabana are closest to the house, then the tennis and basketball courts, and then the gardens, lawn, and fields below it. She grew up here, so the sheer opulence of the place doesn’t faze her. But I still gawk every time I visit. Even after nearly a decade of friendship.

When I first met Layla, we were both in third grade. I lived in a mobile home in the middle of a trailer park that had seen better days. The first time I spent the night at her house, I cried when my mom picked me up.

Mom looked over at me, tears in her eyes too, and handed me a tissue. “You okay, Kit-Kat?”

I nodded and wiped my sniffly nose. “I just wish we lived in a place like that.”