Page 56 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, kicking myself for bringing up bad memories.

“It’s nothing to be sorry over,” says Jett’s mom with a sad smile. “They were wonderful people, but it was their time.”

Silence stretches between us, and I turn another page. Upstairs, more footsteps pound around.

“What’s your project about?” I ask as I come to a particularly beautiful page. Colorful statues resting on the top of spectacular onion-domed buildings look on as children ride winged horses through the snow.

Jett’s mom takes a sip of tea. “I’m still figuring that out, but I know I want to use books like this to talk about how sometimes things aren’t ideal, but you find a way; you get creative, and you have a network of people to help you.”

It’s a little bit like what I’ve learned from my time as the Girl Knight. Which is—of course—way less important than people bonding together to share literature and stories in an authoritarian culture where such things are tightly regulated. But still. Take the lessons where you can.

Before I can ask any more questions, two of Jett’s younger brothers race down the stairs and swarm the plate of grilled cheese.

“Hi, Kit!” shouts Feliks, an energetic third grader with a gap where his front teeth should be.

Jett’s other brother, Marc, a fourth grader, doesn’t look up from the book he’s reading as he sits down at the table.

I wave and take the oozy half of grilled cheese Feliks offers me. Jett’s mom hands out napkins, while Feliks and Marc eat apple slices and burp the alphabet.

“Charming family I have, I know,” says Jett, coming down the stairs holding his youngest brother, two-year-old Aarav, who’s clearly just woken up from a nap. His curly dark hair is plastered to his forehead and he hides his face on Jett’s shoulder when I wave to him.

Jett hands Aarav to his mom, who’s wisely covered her book of stories with a plastic bag. The baby nuzzles into his mom, and she sings to him softly in Russian while she hands out juice boxes.

Jett grabs a plate. “We’re eating outside,” he calls out as he jumps into the scramble for grilled cheese. He emerges with two full triangles and one half-eaten one.

“Sorry,” he says, appraising the half-eaten one.

“No worries,” I say, through a mouthful of sandwich. I grab two cups of lemonade and follow him outside.

When he closes the sliding door behind me, the noise of the house recedes. We sit side by side at a picnic table. It’s suddenly, awkwardly, hugely not quiet in the way that it can be only in the suburbs on a weekend in the spring. Meaning there are lawn mowers going, some music from a garage down the way, and the shouts of kids playing down the street.

Jett doesn’t say anything.

I don’t say anything.

I take a bite of grilled cheese, savoring its buttery, melty goodness.

“So, you’re not allowed to ask me about how the Girl Knight and Friends documentary is going. Because it’s top secret for now,” Jett finally says through a mouthful of sandwich.

“Chris might never ride again,” I blurt out at the same moment. My voice is thick with snot and unshed tears.

“Oh, Kit.” Jett pulls me into a side hug. “I’m sorry.”

“I mean, not riding isn’t the worst thing ever. I know that. But I’m so angry. Do you know why he was so distracted and fell?”

Before I can stop myself, the story about meeting my dad, and him trying to apologize to Chris, and what he said to me comes out in a rush.

Jett sits there for a moment, processing things.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. For a moment, it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him about everything else—the Castle saying no and how I’m lying to everyone; the tournament I’ve somehow got to make work so I can become a Knight and pay for college; my mom’s money troubles; the divorce; Chris’s hospital bills—but I just stay quiet.

“What’re you going to do?”

I shrug. “I’m not going to see him again. I don’t want him in my life.”

“What do you want from him?” Jett drops his arm from my shoulder, like he’s just realized it’s there.

I take a shaky breath. I’ve been asking myself the same question all day.