From the stands, I hear Chris yelling, “Cheater!”
The crowd is half boos and half cheers, and I can’t tell if they’re on my side or not. But I don’t care. In acting there are cues and maybe a bit of improvisation. But, in a fight, there’s only action and reaction. And I’m done just reacting.
My shoulder throbs as I skitter out of Green’s path and swing the mace at him. He’s supposed to block it with his sword, but I aim lower, winging the end of it between his legs. It’s a dirty move, but certainly one a medieval warrior, desperate for any advantage, would’ve used. I make certain to cover the move with my shield as I do it, however, so the audience just sees the mace hit Dalton’s leg, and then his fall.
With a cry of pain, Dalton crumbles, clutching his groin. His sword falls out of his hand and then he flops onto his back.
I step a booted foot onto his chest and raise my arms. Triumph.
The crowd goes wild, and I turn to the royal box. Len’s mouth hangs open, and he knows something is wrong.
We. Don’t. Go. Off. Script.
It’s rule number one at the Castle.
But I’ve broken like a hundred others tonight, so why not one more?
The MC tries to bring things back. “AND SO IT SEEMS THAT THE BEST MAN WON TONIGHT!”
I remove my foot from the Green Knight and stride toward the royal box. In that moment, I’m Éowyn in The Lord of the Rings as she faced the King of the Ringwraiths. I tear the helmet from my head. My hair’s probably standing up in every direction, but I don’t care. I grin and raise my arms.
“I AM NO MAN!” I yell. It’s my favorite line in all of The Lord of the Rings, and I deliver it perfectly.
In the royal box, Jessica scowls, Len’s mouth is a thin line of fury, and Jett’s dropped all pretense of staying in character and is clapping for me.
“Get it, KIT!” he yells.
The MC stammers, his usual narration cut short by what’s happened. But, professional that he is, he picks right back up. “LADIES AND GENTLEMAN, MAY I PRESENT OUR VERY FIRST EVER FEMALE KNIGHT, KIT OF THE CASTLE!”
I bow to the King and then to the crowd. They’re stunned at first and then a loud hoot splits the arena. Layla rescues me with her classic ear-shattering whistle, the one she perfected when we were kids.
As if awakened from a spell, the crowd loses it. They’re on their feet, stomping, cheering, and throwing their colorful scarves and cheering cloths into the arena. Eddy Jackson and his buddies are whooping and raising their pitchers of beer in my direction.
Dalton’s gotten to his feet and he stands with Eric, his Squire, shooting me death looks. I want to stay there and bask in the crowd’s praise, but Len looks like he’s ready to fire me then and there. I grab Shadowfax’s reins from my Squire and swing myself into the saddle. With one last wave and a bow, I gallop out of the arena.
CHRIS WAITS FOR ME BACKSTAGE, A TAKEOUT CONTAINER IN his hands and a grin on his face. There’s a roar from the arena signaling that more of the Knights have appeared to finish up the show.
I slide off Shadowfax as a groom takes the reins. Adrenaline pumps through me. I want to dance and barf at the same time.
“That was amazing!” I say, gripping Chris’s arms. “You never told me how FUN it is to be out there. Or how good the crowd feels!”
He grins at me ruefully. “You were supposed to leave your helmet on.”
“I couldn’t help it!” I fling a hand across my heart. “Éowyn called! I mean, that setup was perfection!”
“You are such a dork,” says Chris affectionately. The last notes of the show play, and then there’s a loud bunch of applause. Chris steers me out of the stables and toward the back door. “I’ll go get your stuff out of your locker; you go to the car. I’ll deal with Len once I drop you off at home.” He plops his keys on top of the takeout container.
“But I’m supposed to meet Jett,” I say, peering over his head. Two Serving Wenches—Lizzy and Mags—walk past us lugging tubs full of dirty plates.
“Nice one, Kit!” says Lizzy. She’s a tall, pretty white girl who plays volleyball and just got voted “Most Likely to Dress like a Librarian for the Rest of her Life” in our senior class. Quiet and bookish in real life, when she’s at the Castle, she trades her cardigans and patterned dresses for a low-cut Wench dress that hugs her curves.
“Epic,” Mags nods, giving me a high five as she walks past. Mags’s parents are from China, and she’s got short black hair and dark eyes. Her piercings and tattoos (which she started getting the minute she turned eighteen) are never covered, as they should be under company policy. “Are you going to be out there every show?”
“I wish,” I say.
“Well, if you figure it out, let me know. I’ve always wanted to fight as a Knight!”
Before I can reply to her, Chris opens the back door.
“Go,” he hisses. “Before anyone else sees you.”
Waving to Mags and Lizzy, I stumble outside, stunned for a moment by the contrast between the loud, smelly Castle and the warm spring night. The moon rises beyond the office buildings in the east, pale yellow, like the moonfaced girls who were so popular in the Middle Ages. When I get to Chris’s car, an ancient tan Volvo that was old when our mom bought it fifteen years ago, I consider myself in the reflection on the window.
Hero? Loser? Knight? My face is sharp and chicken pox scars remain on my long nose. “Striking” is what my grandmother used to say, but that was just polite.
Exhaustion hits me and I have no more time to contemplate my stupid face. As I drop into the passenger seat, my adrenaline crashes. I think of only one thing: Have I just gotten myself fired?
6
HOME IS NOT A CASTLE. IT’S A PEELING-PAINT, ROTTEN-ROOF, split-story ranch on the edge of the freeway. Prime property when my parents bought it fifteen years ago. Before the Fall. The Separation. The End of Times.
Now, we’re the working poor. Mom makes barely enough to pay the mortgage and weeds long ago took over the landscaping. We’re the ones who lower the property value of all those around us.
Chris’s Volvo rattles into the driveway. I glance at the house. No lights on, even though it’s nearly ten at night.
“She’ll be home soon,” says Chris. “Don’t say anything to her until I talk to Len. I’ll head back to the Castle and do some damage control.”
My bones ache and the beginning of a headache eats at my brain. I’ve taken off Chris’s armor, but I’m still in the faux chain mail leggings, tunic, and my boots. I look like I’m ready for yoga at a Marilyn Manson concert.
“I’ll just shower and wait up for you,” I say, grabbing my backpack. There’s a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach, like some part of me knows I really, royally screwed up. But the rest of me is too tired, bruised, and hungry to dwell on it.
Chris waves as he pulls out of the driveway, and his headlights make my shadow huge against the house. Once he’s gone, I look up. Far above us, almost hidden by the light pollution of the suburbs, the stars wink their centuries-old message. I could be seeing light from stars that burned out during the Middle Ages. Light that’s been racing for seven hundred years across the galaxy to shine for a moment on me.