Page 42 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

My confidence wavers as I push open the door to Len’s office.

“Well, if it isn’t ‘the Girl Knight.’” Len’s voice drips sarcasm like my mom’s car leaks oil. “Take a seat.” Len strolls to the printer and picks up a piece of paper.

I clear my throat and sit down. Plunging ahead before he can start a tirade seems like a solid move. “You’re mad at me. I get that. But if I could—”

“I’m not mad,” says Len. “Actually I want to thank you.”

“You’re joking.” My voice is wary.

“What do you think this is?” He drops the piece of paper on the table in front of me.

Lists of names in neat columns line the page. “It looks like next week’s bookings?”

“Exactly. Do you see how many are there?”

“A lot?”

“Three times our normal. It seems you’ve really tapped into the feminist zeitgeist.”

“Female empowerment and gender equality are human rights, not ‘zeitgeist.’” I swig some coffee and make a face at him.

“Whatever. Semantics.” Len grabs the paper and points to a column on the far side. “All the Girl Scout troops in the greater Chicago area are coming to the Castle in the next month.”

“That’s great!” I still can’t believe he’s not yelling. “But I heard the Castle is closing.”

“Nope. I needed an idea to bring more people in, and you’ve delivered one. Do you know that every time someone likes or shares your video, Corporate gets an email?”

I smile to myself at Layla’s brilliance. But if my idea is bringing people in, why did Corporate say no? Has Len not heard about that and he’s just seeing the numbers of guests add up? The Castle is a big enough company that they may not have talked to each other about this yet.

“So, they’re getting lots of emails?”

“They’ve gotten more than a half million emails and they keep coming in… .” Len sits back and folds his hands over his stomach. “It’s a brilliant stunt you pulled.”

“Does this mean I get to fight again?”

Len barks out a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. Company policy isn’t going to change.”

“Despite me single-handedly bringing in all this business?” I lean forward and grip the edge of his desk.

“Be glad you’re not getting fired.”

The worry I’ve been carrying around like armor lightens a bit. I fall back in the chair. “It’s not fair that you won’t let me fight. I put on a good show out there!” I can’t keep the bitterness from my voice.

I don’t tell him that I’ve already started training a handful of other Knights. And that we’re going through with things, no matter what he says. If he’d bothered to watch the videos on my website, he’d know that. It’s not my job to do his research for him.

The preshow trumpet sounds, signaling to us that it’s time to begin the grand medieval game all over again. We both stand up.

“Maybe you can be a Queen someday,” says Len, settling his crown on his head. “Just imagine, Kit. When I retire, all this will be yours.” He gestures grandly at his run-down office, taking in the chipped paint on the walls and the dingy tapestries covering the cinder blocks.

“Thanks but no. I’ve got other plans. Are we done?” I stand up. “I’ve got a long night of wenching ahead of me.”

“One more thing,” says Len. “Did you see this?”

He turns his computer screen around. On it is a video of a local newscaster interviewing members of a kids’ show featuring animatronic dragons. They’re all theater types, and I lean closer to the screen, searching for familiar faces from the Castle. The reporter walks through a set, dwarfed by pink and blue dragons.

I spot my dad immediately. He wears a regrettable green bandanna that’s about as rock-and-roll as my Wench’s uniform. His electric guitar—one that once belonged to his and Len’s dad—is strapped over his chest. He plays a few riffs as the newscaster looks on in feigned delight.

I guess the church thing didn’t work out. Maybe this is why he agreed to the divorce with Mom. Because he needs the money from the sale of the house.