Page 8 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

“He’s a troll. But you can’t let them get to you. You’ll find a better girlfriend. You’re incredible.”

Chris looks up at me, and for a moment, he looks much older than nineteen. Dark circles ring his eyes and his body slumps into the wall.

“I don’t know about incredible. All I am right now is exhausted,” he admits. “Between this job, the one at the coffee shop, the Uber driving, plus school, and now Jessica, I don’t have much left in me.”

“Have you been sleeping?”

He shakes his head. “Maybe an hour or two every night for the past week. My anxiety’s been terrible and I just lay there awake, trying to see a way ahead for all of us.”

“You’re going to hurt yourself if you fight out there tonight,” I say. “Make you a deal: You do the initial scenes where you have to ride around and play the games, I’ll do the fighting scenes.”

Chris looks at me, and a yawn splits his face. He knows how badly I want to be a Knight. And how much we could use the money. “Len tell you no again?”

I nod and make a face. “Company policy, blah, blah, blah …”

“He’s a dinosaur,” says Chris. He gives me a lopsided grin. “You remember the moves? How to use the jousting pole to catch the rings? All the fighting stances? Think you could do it?”

I nod, excitement coiling in my belly. Chris and I have gone through the moves so many times, I could do them in my sleep. He’s a few inches taller than me and definitely buffer, but with all the pads and armor on, it won’t be too noticeable.

“Then, fuck it. You can do the entire show,” says Chris. “Ride out in the helmet for the whole thing.”

Except for my curls, our hair is about the same length and same shade of reddish brown. And since my boobs are reluctant A cups at best, that won’t be a deal breaker.

“This could work. But how do we make the switch?”

Approximately half the cast and crew linger in the stable, waiting for their cues. Most of them keep looking at Chris, like they hope he’ll come at Dalton again. Dalton sits astride his horse, head turned forward. He wears a rose that Jessica tucked into his tunic when she stopped kissing him.

Chris grabs a walkie-talkie from a passing stagehand and radios Len: “Hey boss, my face is looking like a bunch of grapes that fell down a flight of steps. You okay if I fight this one with my helmet on?”

“I don’t care how you do it,” growls Len. “But you better be on that horse and in the arena by your cue.”

“Done,” says Chris, grinning at me as he hands back the radio. “Follow me. We don’t have much time.”

CHRIS GIVES ME A HUNDRED DIFFERENT PIECES OF ADVICE AS we step out of the main stable and run toward the Knights’ dressing room.

I try to take it in: Don’t get into the Blue Knight’s guard; be sure to fall when the Yellow Knight grabs a mace in the third round of the tournament; sit still on the horse, but be commanding; and, above all, tonight’s the Green Knight’s turn to win the tournament, so you have to let him.

Chris scowls as he says the last bit.

“I can beat him if you want,” I say, popping my head out of the dressing room door. Chris watches, back turned, for stray performers, but no one lingers in this area.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Message received,” I say, my mind already racing with ways I can bring the Green Knight down.

I trade my dress for a long tunic and faux chain mail leggings; then, I pull my super anachronistic Converse—the same ones I Wench in—over my Maleficent socks and attach holders for the jousting pole to them. Next comes the breastplate, shield, scabbard, and chain mail hood. Thankfully, it’s made out of spandex and has a hole in the back for my hair to flow out of, since flowing hair on Knights is a big part of the Castle’s brand. Last comes the metal helmet, which pinches my cheeks and narrows my vision.

“How do I look?” I ask as I step out of the dressing room. The armor weighs like nine thousand pounds and sits awkwardly. Surely anyone can see I’m not Chris from a mile away.

Chris smears some saddle grease in my hair, smoothing the curls, and then he paints some under each of my eyes like I’m a football player. It smells like leather and stinky feet all at once.

“What’s that for?”

“You’re prettier than me. I’m just trying to make it less obvious.”

“Can you tell I’m not you?”

“You’re going to do great,” says Chris, sidestepping the question. He hands me a sword and pats me on the back. “Now go find Shadowfax, and get out there.”