Page 62 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

“I know that,” says Chris softly. He sets the LEGO tower on the bedside table again. “So, it seems like things are going well with the Knights and you’re going on the news. But something else is wrong. I can tell. Spill. What’s the problem?”

The truth is on the tip of my tongue, but saying it out loud is hard. Even harder than I thought. What if Chris tells Penny? And she tells the others? What if they all just back out because the Castle said no? But this is Chris. He’ll keep my secret.

I exhale sharply. “Well, I’m lying to my friends and also I have no idea how to set up this tournament that’s not supposed to happen.” I give him the broad-strokes version of how the Castle rejected my idea. His eyes widen as he realizes just how deeply I’ve dug the hole for myself.

Before Chris can reply, a nurse bustles in to give him his pain meds, and Mom comes out of the bathroom, toweling off her hair.

“So, we have to take Chris home tonight,” says Mom, holding up her phone.

“Tonight?” My voice is too loud for the small room, and the nurse shoots me a look. “Why? He’s still barely put back together.”

A desperate look crosses Mom’s face. “I’ve been on the phone with the insurance company all day, and they’ve just sent me an email about costs and coverage. We can’t afford to linger. With our terrible insurance, a stay like this costs hundreds of dollars a day. And with the huge deductible, we’re just going deeper into debt the longer Chris stays here.”

She looks at the nurse, as if there were an answer there.

“I know, honey,” says the nurse, checking the machines that monitor Chris’s heartbeat and vitals. “It’s a broken system. Wish there was something I could do for you all.”

“Let Chris stay another night,” I say as the nurse leaves. “My website is making money. Not much, but enough to pay the deductible at least so far. We can use it to let him stay one more night.”

“Kit, no,” says Chris. “That’s your money for college. Go clean out my account. Or just let me go home. I’m fine. Really.” He tries to swing his legs around the bed, but collapses into Mom’s arms before he can fully stand up.

“Rest, you ridiculous man,” I say, smiling at them both. I’m so happy I can help out, I could do a cartwheel. Right there in the hospital room. “I’ll get the money. Mom, you make the arrangements. I’m sure I’ll get a scholarship; and, I’ll have plenty of time to make up the rest of the money from working this summer.”

“Are you okay going home alone? I’ll stay until the morning, but I have to get back to work tomorrow.” A frown of worry crosses Mom’s forehead. I can almost hear her counting up the number of shifts she’s missed and worrying about what her boss will say.

As I hug Chris goodbye, he whispers to me. “You have to tell the others, Kit. They’ll help you think of something, but they should know.”

I know he’s right, but that doesn’t mean telling them is going to be any easier.

29

I SPEND SUNDAY DOING HOMEWORK AND WATCHING THE views of my video grow (over a million!). Mom comes home around dinnertime and we eat ramen and look through an apartment-rental website, trying to find a new place to live once our house is sold. I fall asleep to dreams of fighting, telling lies, and driving a cart through a laundromat that turns into a labyrinth.

As promised, a car pulls up outside my house at 4:30 a.m. on Monday morning. Except it’s not a car. It’s more like a baby Batmobile, with its shiny chrome and sleek lines. My reflection and the first hints of sunrise blink back at me from the mirrored windows. One unrolls as I approach. I clutch my coffee and try to comb the bedhead out of my hair.

“Kit Sweetly?” asks a bright-eyed young woman with flawless brown skin, perfect hair, and an expensive-looking blouse.

I nod and cover a huge yawn with my hand. I was up late texting with Layla, who is perhaps more excited than I am about this morning show appearance. I still didn’t manage to tell her the truth about the tournament, but that’s because I’m hoping today’s news appearance will convince Corporate to let us fight. When we finally said good night, it was after one o’clock in the morning. I barely heard my alarm go off half an hour ago. Mom was already up, and now she stands at the door.

The Batmobile door opens and the lovely, put-together woman gestures me inside. “I’m Isabel. Junior production assistant for Channel 6. I’ll get you downtown and to the set.”

“Hi.” Waving to Mom, I settle into a posh leather seat beside Isabel. “Thanks for picking me up.”

“Bettina was very clear that you’d need a ride,” she says. “Is that what you’re wearing on the air?” She looks down at my jean jacket, faded red-and-white polka-dotted sundress and less-than-clean blue canvas sneakers—really the nicest things I could muster without asking Layla for something.

“Erm, no. This is just my Minnie Mouse costume,” I joke, trying to smile.

Isabel smiles a tiny bit. “It’s cute, but you look very girlish… . I was under the impression you’re famous for doing something only boys do?”

I quirk an eyebrow at her. It’s far too early for feminism lessons, but I can’t just let that assumption alone. “I can wear dresses and still do things like fight as a Knight. That’s kind of the point.”

“True,” says Isabel, with a wry smile. She gestures to her outfit. “I guess it’s easy to forget that in this job where I have to dress like talk-show Barbie every day.”

I laugh. She’s funnier than I’d have expected someone with a perfect updo to be. Which shows again how appearance can wrongly skew expectations. “So, what do I do on the show?” I ask as I take a long sip of coffee.

“You’re going to be Bettina’s first guest. She’ll ask you a series of questions and then roll your video …”

She keeps talking about the upcoming show, and I space out a bit. My coffee hasn’t taken hold, and I’m fighting to stay awake. The driver steers us onto the highway, and we head into the city, merging into the early-morning traffic. As suburban houses, parks, stores, and billboards race past in a blur, I suddenly have the strongest feeling that I’m a guest in someone else’s life.