Page 76 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

Any shred of hope I had for Jett and me evaporates under that look.

“I’m sorry,” I say, covering my mouth with my hand. “I didn’t mean to and you were so close, and I’ve had a bad day and I just thought …”

“We can’t, Kit,” says Jett. “It can’t happen between us. Not like—well, it just can’t. I’ve got to get back inside. Here’s your stuff.”

He practically flings my backpack at me as he steps away. I glimpse the stunned look on his face, and then he’s gone without a look back.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Today is just a shit day. I’ve lost any chance of the tournament, my friends are furious at me, I’m literally covered in manure, and Jett just fled from my kiss.

Leaving the empty trash can by the dumpster, I walk to Chris’s car. I’m done. Totally, completely done with this day. This week. This job. Everything.

Ugh.

36

I MAKE IT HOME WITHOUT INCIDENT, WHICH IS SAYING SOMETHING given the day I’ve had. As I turn into the driveway, I keep thinking about Jett’s lips on mine. Warm, soft, maybe a bit hungry. Was I wrong in thinking he was kissing me back? Even just a little bit? But I suppose none of that matters since he clearly wasn’t into it.

“He doesn’t date Serving Wenches,” I mutter to myself, remembering his words from last week. “Or best friends.”

Time to go have a good cry over that in the shower.

“Hey!” I yell to Chris as I walk up the stairs. “I’m home!”

He’s sprawled on the couch, asleep with the TV blaring in the background. Tiptoeing over to him, I pick up the remote and click it off.

“I was watching that,” he says sleepily.

“Were you though?”

“Why do you smell like horses?”

“Long story,” I say. “Get some sleep. I’ll tell you more in the morning. Do you need anything?”

“Nuh-uh. Mom stopped by and brought me lunch. She’s on a double, so she’ll be home late.”

“Okay. I’m going to shower and do some computer stuff. Holler if you need me.”

Chris’s eyes are already closed and he’s snoring lightly. I pull up the small blanket resting on his feet so it covers him up to the chin. For a moment, I pause, considering how very small and fragile my normally tough brother looks.

Then, without stopping for anything else, I head to my bathroom and scrub my hair and body until the hot water runs out.

AFTER THE SHOWER, I SIT DOWN AT THE KITCHEN TABLE AND open my laptop. I kind of towel-dried my hair, but water still drips down the back of my neck, soaking my ratty T-shirt. My stomach rumbles, but I ignore it in favor of the cup of tea steaming on the table beside me. Plucking the tea bag out with my fingers, I squeeze it, and then try to lob the bag into the trash. It soars across the kitchen and then misses by like a foot, smashing into the edge of the kitchen counter and exploding. Tea leaves and other fragments of who-knows-what fly across the kitchen.

Typical Kit luck.

Sighing, I stand up. My body aches from all the stable cleaning. It takes only a few minutes to wipe up the soggy tea leaves, but it feels like a monumental chore because each swipe of the broom and then paper towel reveals more layers of dirt. We’re all working so much that the kitchen hasn’t been properly cleaned in months. Starting over in a shiny new apartment is looking more appealing. Mom might be on to something here.

I can’t help myself. Cleaning up the tea leaves turns into scrubbing the counters, mopping the floor, and wiping out the refrigerator. When all that’s done, and my tea is most certainly cold, I sit back down at the table.

My email has been dinging since I got home—I saw one from the local community college and a few random ones from bloggers asking for interviews—but my phone’s nearly dead and still drying from the disinfectant I keep slathering all over it.

Some part of me wants to leave those emails unopened forever. Because if they’re bad news, then it’s not real until I read it, right? But if they’re good news? Or just neutral news? Then it’s silly for me not to open them. Plus, I could really, really use some good news today.

Taking a deep breath and putting my courage in the sticking place, as Lady Macbeth advises, I open my email.

The first is from the community college Chris goes to. It’s short and to the point.