Page 65 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

It’s only Monday. I’ve got the better part of a week to figure this out. No reason to worry my friends too soon, right?

The car pulls away from the TV studio, headed into a snarl of morning traffic that’s almost as thick as the knot of worry and dread in my stomach.

30

WHEN I FINALLY GET HOME, THE SUN IS FULLY UP, AND there are a bunch of messages on my phone. Layla, Layla, Layla, Jett, Mom, Chris, and Len.

Oh, saints and lady knights help me. If Len’s already seen the clip, I’m in trouble.

But, I’ll deal with that later. First things first: breakfast.

Something in the kitchen smells. Bad. Like rotting eggs on a sardine sandwich that’s been left in a gym locker for too long. I sniff around for a minute, and then I see the Cooler of Doom by the back door. It’s open just a crack and the smell coming from it should be illegal. I slam it shut, open the back sliding-door, and drag the cooler onto the deck. File under “to be dealt with later.” Part of me, the girl-who’s-kinda-Internet-famous-and-is-making-money-from-her-website part, wants to chuck the cooler out. But the other part of me, the more sensible, hungrier, my-mother’s-daughter part, can’t do that. When you’ve had nothing for a long time, it’s hard to get rid of anything. That’s why you see run-down houses with tires, old swing sets, broken down appliances, and cars piled out front. Not because people are too lazy to get rid of them, but because they know what it is to be desperately poor and needing to cling to every last scrap of things they have. Rusted and nasty though they may be.

In the Middle Ages people didn’t throw much of anything away either because they had so little. Everything was used, reused, and then used again. Especially for peasants, but even for kings and queens. Certainly some of them had diamonds and jewels to spare, but clothing was expensive, and things got reused. We live in a time when Duchess Kate can’t even wear the same dress twice without incurring the scorn of the tabloids. Imagine what they would have said about Queen Elizabeth the First’s pit stains or lead-eaten skin.

Before the impulse to daydream all day about everything medieval totally hijacks me, I start another pot of coffee, make some toast, and go online. Jett’s already posted my video from Good Morning, Chicago! on our website, and it’s getting lots of likes and comments. One of those comments is from user KingLenTheBold.

I roll my eyes, willing myself to read his take on my interview.

“KingLenTheBold: There is no surprise at the castle on Friday. Come for a normal show. Can’t wait to see you there!”

Annoyed at Len’s attempt to save face, I consider replying. Doing so is basically a declaration of war with Len. Which should go over great with him. But maybe he’s still not heard from Corporate about the whole thing. Plus, I don’t want people thinking I was lying about Friday. Ironic though that is, since I’m totally lying about Friday.

I shoot off a reply before I have time to talk myself out of it.

“Girl Knight: Don’t be so modest, Len! The surprise is going to be incredible! See you all there! xo, Kit!”

I could sit here, reading comments all day and replying, but that can’t be healthy. Somehow, I force myself to close my laptop. My toast pops up, and I slather cream cheese and jelly on it. It’s been so long since we had food like this in the house, I lick the spoon clean. My pile of homework stares at me. If I leave now, I could just barely make it to school in time for the calc test. I don’t want to, but it’s the right thing to do. But apparently, I’m making a habit of not doing the right thing lately. So, instead of homework and school, I watch some TV and then take a short nap on the couch. An hour later, Jett calls.

The phone is in my hand and I start to pick up, but I let it ring and ring until voicemail takes it. I want to talk to him. Desperately. But I also can’t add whatever I’m feeling for Jett right now to the soup of feelings inside me. And his voice would be just the thing to tip me over the edge and make me confess everything.

I text back.

Kit: Leaving the house to get Chris. Talk to you tonight?

We’re getting together for training tonight at Layla’s.

Jett: You were great this morning! See you tonight.

What?

Is this a friend kissy face? Or a hey-let-me-be-your-boyfriend one? Or a mistake?

My heart rate speeds up, helped by the enormous cup of coffee I’m chugging. I’m nosediving into the worst kind of teen-girl-wonders-does-he-really-mean-it spiral when two more texts come in in rapid succession.

Jett: Sorry! Meant to send this.

Okay.

Glad that’s cleared up. Stupid texting.

I send a smiley face back and then put my phone into my backpack. It’s not even 9:00 a.m., and I’ve nearly had three heart attacks already.

CHRIS IS DRESSED AND WAITING FOR ME IN A WHEELCHAIR WHEN I get to the hospital. He slow claps as I walk into the room.

“Well, you did it,” he says with a wry smile.

“Did what?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant as I gather up his clothes and the LEGO Sears Tower and put them into the grocery bag I brought.