Page 31 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

“I’m definitely working on it,” I say. “Any chance you’d be interested in training with us this week? We’re meeting at Layla’s house on Monday at two p.m.”

“I’m in,” says Penny. “Anything to make this place less medieval.”

She laughs, but there’s a hard, determined glint in her eye as she stomps out her cigarette.

“Feel free to tell others,” adds Layla. “The more people we get to join our crusade, the more likely we are to succeed.”

“Your crusade?” Penny lifts one perfectly arched eyebrow.

I blush. “Well, maybe not crusade. But we have a plan.”

“A four-phase Kit Sweetly plan,” Layla adds.

“Ahhhh,” says Penny. “I love a good Kit Sweetly plan. You sure it can work?”

“I’m sure we’re going to try,” I say. “Chris thinks we can be ready before the Corporate folks get here.”

“As always, I’m impressed by your initiative, ladies,” says Penny with an exaggerated curtsy. “I’m going to try to find Chris and make sure he’s behaving himself. See you in there.”

We wave to her as she disappears through the Castle door.

“Chris would go out with you,” I say to Layla. “You know that, right?”

“He was my eighth-grade crush, Kit.” Layla waves her hand through the smoke she’s just exhaled. “Much as I love him like a brother, I don’t think about him like that. When I move to New York, I’ll find someone more serious there.”

“Fair enough,” I say. “Let’s get this after-party over with already.”

We both flick out our cigarettes.

“It’s going to be fun,” Layla says, checking her lipstick in her handheld mirror.

“Your words, not mine.” I smooth down my hair and brace myself for what’s on the other side of the door.

14

DANCE MUSIC PUMPS OUT OF LOUDSPEAKERS IN THE GREAT Hall. The Castle bar is supposed to be closed, but two bartenders stand behind it, pouring liquor into five-gallon buckets to make punch.

“Are they stealing booze?” I knew people drank at these parties, but I can’t imagine Len just giving cocktails away.

“Nah. It’s from the bottles everybody brings. If we want to drink, we either have to pay or give a bottle.” Layla opens up her bag, revealing three mostly full liquor bottles. One is brown rum, another is raspberry vodka, and the third is a lurid shade of blue. “My parents left these in the cabana after a party last month. They’ll never miss them.”

As she threads her way over to the bar, a pair of hands grabs me, spins me around, and pulls me into a hug.

Alex, the Castle’s resident photographer, squeezes the life out of me. Tonight, their short brown hair is swept to one side, and their rainbow-rimmed glasses stand out brightly against their light brown skin.

“I can’t breathe,” I gasp, giving Alex a quick hug back.

Alex started working at the Castle around the time Layla and I did. We’ve been work buddies for years, but never as good of friends as I know we could’ve been because Alex is always super busy. They’re valedictorian of our senior class, president of two photography clubs (school and city), and blocker on our local Roller Derby team (nickname Tyrannosaurus Lex).

Alex grins and drains their cup. “You were a marvel! Sheer poetry on horseback. Let me get you a drink.”

They drag me to the bar where Layla’s trading the liquor bottles for a jewel-encrusted cup of punch.

Alex pushes a full cup into my hands.

“I’m the driver.” I shake my head. “I’ll just get a bottle of water.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Alex. “We’re celebrating you tonight! Right, folks?”