Page 47 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

Layla’s eyebrows shoot up. “Pancakes? Is that some bizarre code for realizing your true feelings for each other?”

A laugh bursts out of me. “No. Dork. It’s a code for breakfast. Of the griddled, hotcake variety. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“Uh-huh.” Layla doesn’t look convinced. But she doesn’t push it. “I’ll leave you be for now, but something is odd with him. Trust me, I can tell.”

“Let’s move on,” I say, stretching my neck. I’m exhausted all of a sudden and acutely aware of how badly I stink of grease and beer. “Do you still have our emergency kits in your car?”

The emergency kits came about our freshman year, after I got my period unexpectedly while wearing white shorts. I’d changed into a pair of leggings Layla had in her bag, and the crisis was averted, but after that, we’d started keeping an emergency change of clothes and toiletries in our lockers and Layla’s car.

“Right here,” says Layla, holding up a plastic shopping bag and my backpack, which she must’ve retrieved from the employee lockers. A pair of my jeans and a T-shirt poke out of the top of the shopping bag.

“Love you. Thanks.” I take both gratefully.

“Go change.” She shoos me away with her hand and makes a face. “I’ve got something to show you when you smell less like a medieval frat house.”

When I come back from the bathroom, Layla’s staring at her phone with a smug smile on her face.

“What’s up?” I pull on a fuzzy blue cardigan and sit down beside her. I scrubbed my face under the cold water, and my cheeks still sting. Most of my makeup is gone, but I don’t care.

“Look at your website! Thanks to Eddy and his buddies tweeting the video out, you’re now trending. Several news outlets have picked up the story.” Layla holds out her phone. “And you just hit eight hundred thousand views of the video. I can’t wait to check the income streams from all this when I get home tonight!”

I scoff. “Apparently, all my fame is just bringing more dollars into the Castle’s coffers.” Quickly, I explain to her about Len’s spreadsheets and the “feminist zeitgeist” he thinks he’s cashing in on. “But I’m still determined to have the tournament next week. We’ve been working too hard to not do it. Plus, Chris would want us to keep going.”

“It’s going to be epic,” says Layla. “Though you’ll have to train us more if Chris is out of commission.”

I should tell her that the Castle has already rejected my idea. I shouldn’t keep something like that from my best friend in the world. The words are on the tip of my tongue, right as Layla’s phone rings.

“Hi, Maura,” she says. “I’ll be over here if you need me,” she mouths, pointing to the far corner of the room. I wave to her and chug some of my coffee.

As I scroll through Twitter on my phone, strategies for training the others fill my head. We’ll have to really map out the entire routine. And figure out how to get uniforms and gear. And convince the other Knights to let us fight, something that I was counting on Chris to help with. Maybe I can talk to Austin about it later.

Even as all these thoughts tumble through my mind, some other part of me wonders: How can I even be thinking of fighting again when Chris is lying in a hospital bed, knocked out? Why would I risk any of us getting hurt for the sake of a silly, fake tournament?

But it’s not that silly, is it? It’s serious, and adventurous, and something both Chris and I love. Which is why it’s not fair that only he gets a chance to do it. Although the Castle has formally rejected my idea, I can’t give up now. There are literally thousands of people excited about the changes we want to make. And getting rid of these arbitrary gender restrictions is the right thing. And it could have an impact far beyond me or Chris or any of the rest of us.

Digging through my dirty clothes, I find Bettina’s card in my pocket.

I shoot off a quick email:

Hi, Bettina,

Great to meet you tonight, and tell Eddy thanks again for tweeting out my video and helping me into the arena. My brother is still in surgery, but I’m hoping he’ll be okay.

I’m writing to take you up on your offer to be on Good Morning, Chicago! I’d love to talk about what we’re doing at the Castle and why it matters. What day would be a good one for you?

Thanks so much,

Kit Sweetly

Her reply comes back before I finish my coffee.

Hi, Kit,

I was just thinking about you, and I’m so glad you reached out. How does Monday morning sound? I’ll send a car for you so you don’t have to fight traffic. Send me your address and please have a parent sign the attached parental consent form. See you on Monday morning, and all my best to your brother. Eddy and I are rooting for him!

Warmest regards,

Bettina