“Courtney Love Sweetly!”
I cringe as my full name—the unfortunate by-product of my parents’ love of ’90s grunge music, too many drugs, and their desire to have a different last name than either of their families—comes charging at me down the hallway. Mom stomps into the kitchen in her bare feet, her face nearly pink. The cheap prepaid cell phone in her hand trembles. Did I mention that the reason we all still have cell phones is because they’re essential to life? I mean, you can always swipe an extra roll of TP from a public bathroom, but you can’t always use someone else’s phone. It’s Poverty 101.
Mom drops the phone on the table. “That was Len.” Her voice is very precise. Each word measured and furious.
I exhale sharply. There’s no way this can be good. “Yeah? How is he? He had a good show to—”
“Kit. Don’t pretend like you don’t know what he said. He told me you fought! As a Knight. Where’s your brother and how could he let this happen?”
“It’s not Chris’s fault, Mom! I wanted to fight. And I’m good at it. I won! Did Len tell you that?”
“He told me you got your ass handed to you! And that he’s probably going to have to fire you because of company policy. Apparently somebody made a video of it, and it’s all over the Internet. His boss called him, raging. You might’ve lost not just your job but also your brother’s and uncle’s.”
My stomach churns at the thought. But a part of me is righteous and insistent.
“But, Mom, it’s not fair! They should get rid of the gender restrictions at the Castle! To just let guys fight is outdated at best and illegal at worst.”
My mom lets out a slow breath through her teeth.
“This isn’t some political march or history lesson, Kit. Take a stand where it matters. This is real life, and we don’t have enough insurance to cover you if something happens. Our deductible is five thousand dollars! What happens when you break your leg?”
I can’t think of anything to say to that. “I’m not going to break my leg.” I hate how petulant my voice sounds. “I’m really good at it.”
“I don’t care if you’re the world champion of jousting at some crappy theme restaurant! You’re not going to fight again.
And you’re grounded.”
“It’s not crappy, Mom.” I stomp my foot, which doesn’t help my position as not actually a toddler. “You can’t ground me! I need electricity to do my homework. I have to go to Layla’s.”
Mom makes a frustrated noise and picks up the lighter from the table. She quit smoking a while ago, but she still needs something to do with her hands when she’s upset.
“Fine,” she says at last. She flicks the lighter on and off. “You can go to Layla’s tomorrow afternoon and spend the night. But don’t leave the house before that. And I want the yard mowed. And call your uncle and figure this out. Beg him for your job back if you have to.”
She stomps off to bed without saying good night, and tears fill my eyes as I slump at the table. I ask for so little; I want so little. And most of the time when I go for something I want, I get punished. It’s not Mom’s fault. She’s trying to keep me alive and in one piece, but I think she’s wrong. Busting up the gender restrictions at the Castle could be a big deal. And it is important. Not just because I want to fight, but also because I’m sure there are tons of other people there who want to work in roles outside those prescribed by their gender.
But what can I do about it?
I turn the question over and over in my mind, certain there’s an answer. But it feels too big to tackle from where I’m sitting—in the dark of my kitchen, with what’s got to be a rejection letter from my dream college in hand.
As I try to figure out a way to make things better at the Castle, a text comes in, lighting up the small screen of my phone.
Layla: CHECK THIS OUT!
8
A PICTURE, DRAWN IN HER QUICK, MANGA STYLE, FILLS MY screen. It’s me, in full armor, sitting astride my horse. Underneath the picture is a caption: KIT OF THE CASTLE VANQUISHES HER FOES!
It’s so ridiculously perfect it makes me laugh. Which does wonders for breaking up the heaviness of my thoughts. I text her back immediately.
Kit: I LOVE IT!
Layla: There’s more where that came from. Stay tuned.
Something moves in my brain. The merest shadow of an idea. Before I can nail it down, more texts come in.
Layla: How are you feeling?
Kit: Sore, tired, exhilarated. Also my mom is pissed.
Layla: You were badass out there!
Kit: I loved it. Do you think I’ll get fired?
Layla: Len’s mad, but don’t worry about it. Talk to him before your next shift. I’m sure it’ll be fine.
Kit: How was waiting tables?
Layla: I made $300 in tips!
Kit: Bless you, Eddy Jackson?
Layla: The man is a saint, and also, I’ve never seen anyone eat so much turkey.
Eddy holds the current Castle record of most turkey legs ordered by one person.
Kit: He’s a legend.
Layla: I’ll bring your half of the tips tomorrow.
Kit: Those are yours, keep them.
Layla: We agreed to split them. And I don’t need them, so no worries.
Layla’s mom is a brain surgeon and her dad is CEO of an international corporation. Her house is like a museum, and she gets $800 a month in allowance. So, no, she doesn’t need the tips. But I don’t like to tell her how poor I really am.
Kit: Cool. Can I come over tomorrow afternoon and spend the night?
Spending the night at Layla’s is like what I imagine it feels like to sleep in a luxury hotel. With the addition of my kickass best friend.
Layla: YES! Good (k)night!
Kit: ’Night (and totally see what you did there).
I’m smiling by the time I pocket my phone. Mom’s door is closed and Chris still isn’t home. I grab a candle, throw out the remains of the takeout—just bones and some bread crusts—and take my letter from Marquette and my phone into my room.
Kicking aside a pile of dirty clothes, I set the candle on my bedside table. It flickers, casting looming shadows. One of my walls is taken up by a screen-printed reproduction of part of the famous medieval tapestry The Lady and the Unicorn. I found it in a thrift store, complete with troubling stains in the upper right corner and a set of cigarette burns where the unicorn’s eyes should be. On the other wall, framing my window, are two bookshelves overflowing with fantasy novels and history books. A photo of Layla, Jett, and me from the Castle sits on my dresser, and the rest of the room is a riot of knockoff medieval stuff. My bras hang from a concrete knight that’s supposed to be a lawn ornament. I got him at a yard sale for a dollar. I’ve put plastic films on my windows, so they look like stained glass. A stuffed dragon sits on top of one of the bookshelves, a present from my dad long ago. Two reproduction swords that I bought at a Renaissance faire lean against my desk.
Above my desk is a collage I’ve been adding to for years. “Fierce Ladies of the Middle Ages,” it says in bold letters. I got the idea from some list I saw online, and I’ve been doing research on these women ever since. Now, they hang in my room like some odd family tree or something.