Twelfth Knight

3. Critical Existence Failure

Antonia’s calling before I pull into my house’s driveway. I consider not answering—I’m still furious, especially after Matt Das decided I owed him a date—but then I think better of it. It’s not Antonia’s fault that acknowledging my ideas is such a Sisyphean task.

“Hello?” I sigh.

“Look, you just have to let them warm up to it, that’s all,” she says in her soothing, pacifist middle-child voice. “It’s not personal. They just like what they like, that’s all.”

“It’s just such a boys’ club,” I mutter. “I hate it.”

“Can you blame them? You always take my side over theirs, too. Maybe they think we’re the ones who exclude them. Two sides to every story, right?”

Oh, Antonia. Innocent little Antonia. “I take your side because you’re actually capable of intelligent thought.”

“Well, whatever. I think your quest sounds cool,” she assures me. “And they’ll come around eventually.”

I exhale, leaning back as I shut the car off. “How long is eventually?”

“Not long. A couple of months, maybe.”

“God.” I shut my eyes. “I just don’t get what their issue is. I mean… I played their game, I did what they wanted—hell, I’m better at it than basically all of them—”

“Well, that’s kind of the problem, don’t you think?” Antonia says patiently. “You have to let them win sometimes, Vi. It’s a matter of keeping the peace.”

“Um, no it’s not,” I say, a little annoyed now. It’s not like she’s new to RPGs or fandom. It’s not this one specific group of boys that I’m bitchily terrorizing. It’s completely systemic. “Why should I have to shrink myself down so they can feel big? Doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s not ideal, but it works,” she points out. “You catch more flies with honey.”

“I have absolutely no use for flies.”

“You know what I mean.”

I still don’t agree, but whatever. No point arguing with her when it’s definitely not her fault.

“Also,” she adds, “Matt was kind of upset when he came back in.”

I snort in response. “So?”

“So, what’d you say to him? He was only trying to be nice.”

I can feel my hackles rising. “Did he tell you what he said to me?”

“No. He didn’t say anything.”

“Good.” At least he had the decency to not be a dick about me in front of other people, though that seems like a very small mercy at the moment.

“So what happened?” she presses.

“Ugh. Nothing. He asked me out.”

“And you said…?”

“No, obviously.”

“Vi!” Antonia sounds scandalized.

“What?”

“Come on, Matt’s nice. And he obviously likes you.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So that’s a reason to go out with someone?”

“I mean, yeah, why not? You obviously have things in common.”

“By that logic, I should date you.”

“We’d be very cute and weird together,” Antonia blithely agrees, “but stop dodging the point. You can’t be so picky.”

“I’m not picky. I just don’t want to pick him.”

“Well, whatever. Matt or no Matt, you can’t be surprised when the guys are dicks to you.”

I bristle again. “So you’re saying I deserved this?”

“Of course not. I’m just saying you’re kind of unnecessarily hostile with everyone. Like, did you have to death-stare Danny Kim every time he asked a question?”

Uhh yes, definitely. “I’m considerably less hostile than I could be, actually.” God, imagine if I actually said everything that went through my mind. “And they were stupid questions.”

“There’s no such thing as a stupid question,” she recites. (Her mom is a teacher.)

“Any question you could answer with five seconds of deductive thought is a stupid question, but okay,” I reply.

“Clearly my point is sinking in beautifully,” Antonia sighs, and best friend or no best friend, it becomes extremely apparent that I need a break from this conversation. I need a break from this whole night, honestly, because thinking about it only makes me angrier.

“Also, apparently Jack Orsino might have torn his ACL,” Antonia adds, but I definitely don’t care about Jack Orsino. I get enough of him in my daily life without unnecessary medical reports from the cult of self-enamored jocks, plus he owes me a signed budget report. And at least 10 percent of my sanity back.

“Look, I’m tired,” I tell Antonia. “I’m just gonna go to bed.”

“What? It’s, like, barely ten—”

“Long week, I guess. And we’ve got an early day tomorrow.” Antonia, Bash, and I all volunteer at our local Renaissance Faire and to no one’s surprise, I’m the driver.

“Sure.” She sighs. “Just… promise you’ll give it some time, Vi? Don’t give up on them yet, just… give them a little while to see that they’re wrong. Okay?”

“Okay.” Yeah right. There’s no way I’m showing up at another ConQuest Friday after the hellscape I just sat through, but she doesn’t need to know that. I’ll just make excuses for a few weeks until she finally takes the hint or gives up.

“Okay. You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m good. See you tomorrow.”

“Okay, bye.” We hang up and I take another breath, throwing the car door open and dragging myself to the front door.

Our neighborhood is one of those painfully homogenous suburbs—you know, the kind in movies about middle-aged men who cheat on their wives. We live in a duplex that’s so close to the house next door that I can look over and see the neighbor’s Yorkie yapping at me from where he’s perched on top of the couch.

“Nice to see you, too,” I inform him, unlocking the door and letting myself inside to find that someone’s home, although it’s not my mom, since her spot in the driveway is vacant. This is not very surprising, as Mom’s never home on Friday nights.

Do you ever think about how fortunate you are to be born in a time of indoor plumbing and polio vaccines? Well, my mother is fortunate to live in a time of online dating. She is very, very good at dating, with specific mastery over the realm of casual relationships. She is not very good at marriage; I don’t have firsthand proof of this, since apparently she and my father did not reach that stage before she got pregnant with Bash and me, but seeing as she’s never been with anyone long enough for us to know them, I pretty much take her word for it.

You’re probably thinking oh, sad, your mother must have some terrible flaw that keeps the men away, HOW TRAGIC. Everyone’s worst fear is ending up alone (unless you’re my grandmother, Lola, whose worst fear is my mother never knowing the joy of being one man’s personal hype crew for the rest of her life) but what’s the actual sense in that? As far as I can tell, most marriages are just a man purchasing his own housekeeper, cook, nanny, and life coach, all for the low, low price of two months’ salary toward a diamond ring.

The truth is my mother’s gotten plenty of offers. She’s been proposed to so many times I’ve genuinely stopped keeping track. I do think my mother would make a fantastic husband—going to work all day and coming home to a home-cooked meal and a clean house does seem like a wonderful daydream, so I can totally see why The Men are so very cross about feminism—but the role of wife is not her speed. She and I don’t really do submission; we’re tough and critical, and that’s not everybody’s cup of tea.

But like I said, my mom is very good at dating, which is technically part of her job. She’s a freelance writer who found some success a couple of years ago with an online magazine called The Doe, a feminist e-publication that produces a mix of overhyped clickbait, listicles, and political think-pieces. Mom, hilariously enough, writes a popular dating advice column, so normally she spends her evenings using The Apps to “find love,” or something close enough to write about it.

Since it’s not my mom that’s home, that leaves my twin brother Sebastian, who bounds down the stairs the moment I toe my shoes off. “Finally,” he says, gesturing frantically for the keys to the car, which he swore he didn’t need tonight. “Last-minute change of plans,” he explains when I toss them to him. “We’re doing a brass thing at IHOP.”

Bash is a drama kid and a band kid, which are both extremely insular ecosystems that mean I have no idea what he’s talking about 90 percent of the time, but he’s useful to have around if you’re trying to brainstorm a ConQuest character. We also both enjoy hand-to-hand combat, though he won’t spar with me anymore. He claims I gave him a nosebleed; I think the air was just dry.

“Have fun,” I offer wearily, shouldering my way past him, and he stops me.

“They didn’t go for it, huh?” he says, sympathizing with a grimace. He and I are both olive-skinned and dark-eyed with the same heart-shaped faces and almost-black hair, leading people to comment how alike we are until they get to know us. He has Mom’s temperament, I have her view of the world, and somehow that makes us polar opposites. Most people guess that one of us takes after our dad, but that’s pretty much unknowable. We’ve never seen much of him outside of spare visits when he’s in town.

“Nope,” I say.

“Idiots.” Bash has this way of tilting his head while smiling that’s very soothing. (He was allegedly a very easy baby while I was… not.) “You’ll get ’em next time.”

“In, like, a hit-man way?” I ask optimistically.

“If you want. I believe in you.” He grins.

“They are actually idiots, though,” I grumble.

“I mean, obviously. I cowrote it, so, you know.” He shrugs. “I know this.”

“Cowrote is a stretch.” Bash isn’t much of a writer. He’s more of a “let’s do something else now, I’m bored” kind of person. He’s not happy unless he’s making people laugh, which is why even though my mom thinks being an actor is a maniacal career choice, she can’t really blame him. His personality leaves very little room for alternate pursuits, and for what it’s worth, he is wildly talented.

“Well, whatever. They suck.”

“Thanks,” I exhale. I appreciate the simplicity of Bash’s approach. “Have fun.”

“Want to come?” He jingles the keys at me.

“Nah.” I have plans with my ideal company: myself. “See you later.”

“Don’t burn the house down,” he calls after me as I make my way up the stairs, flipping on the lights in my bedroom. It’s a little messy, like usual. Clothes on the floor, which I kick aside. The War of Thorns poster from last year’s MagiCon is on the wall next to my shelves with the complete War of Thorns paperback collection (I have the UK special edition hardcovers, too—the covers are to die for). Not that I’m obsessed with one fandom, of course. I’ve got plenty of science fiction and fantasy books littering my room, plus my graphic novels, ConQuest guides, RenFaire memorabilia… I’m kind of a functional hoarder, I guess. My prized possession sits above my desk: the Empire Lost poster signed by the director himself, for which I waited in line for nearly fourteen hours (I’m a sucker for a space opera). And then of course there’s my laptop, which is essentially a treasure trove of everything that matters to me.

I sit down, open the screen, and pull out my noise-canceling headphones. I’m going to do exactly what I’ve done most nights since the school year started. I don’t know if it’s just because it’s senior year or something, but I swear, I’m more stressed out than ever. School’s a lot, but it’s not just that. It’s something, I don’t know, existential. An itch, like maybe the people and things going on around me don’t feel right. Or that it’s me who doesn’t fit.

The sound of Twelfth Knight starting up is so soothing that I might as well be one of Pavlov’s dogs.

The lore for the game is that after King Arthur dies, his relics get scattered around eleven realms. The remaining knights have to prevent the world from descending into eldritch chaos as Camelot comes under siege by a corrupt aspiring tyrant: the mysterious Black Knight. You can choose to play as a sorcerer, enchantress, barbarian, creature, Arthurian knight, assassin for the Black Knight… you name it. I pick Arthurian knight, because duh. Swords, mostly.

I select my character and queue up for combat mode. Boys seriously think that girls only want romance and ballgowns and puppies, which is proof they don’t understand the first thing about actually being a girl. I play this game because in the real world, I’m stressed. Or angry—and don’t I have good reason to be?

When I first started playing MMORPGs, I used to use a headset. I don’t anymore. You know why? Because when boys hear a girl’s voice, they either come for you unnecessarily, thinking you’ll be easy prey, or they think everything you say is flirting. Being nice to a geek while being visibly female is the kiss of death. Do you know how many times I’ve gotten vulgar messages or explicit pictures? And if I say no, do you know how many times I’ve been called a bitch?

Not that all guys are awful, but the awful ones are impossible to escape. And certainly impossible to tell at first glance. Which is why I play under the username Cesario—and my character? You guessed it: modeled after Cesario on War of Thorns. Tough, capable. Muscular, sharp. The best blade in any given arena and the most tactical person in the field. Quads the size of pillars. A man with everything the boys want to be and have and do, and guess what? Everything I want, too, because believe it or not, not every girl wants to be a princess or a healer or some big-chested daydream who only plays to lose. I may like girly things on occasion, but I’m not just here for people to look at. I don’t want to be considered beautiful without being seen as capable, too.

It’s not that I don’t feel at home in my body. Periods and awkward growth spurts aside, I don’t have a problem with the form I take. But if I looked like Cesario in real life, I’d have no reason not to be QuestMaster for the game I designed. Nobody would question my competency. No one would think they deserved a date with me just because they did one nice thing. Jack Orsino wouldn’t be able to waltz around school like he owns it just because everyone forgives his every personality flaw whenever he smiles or catches a ball. And most of all, Antonia wouldn’t be able to say things like “it’s not personal” whenever the boys gang up on me. I wish it were personal! I wish they could hate me for normal reasons, like my personality, instead of just looking at me and seeing long hair and boobs and deciding that’s enough to validate all of their presumptions.

So of course I’m angry. I’m angry all the time. From the betrayals of my government to the hypocrisies of my peers, it seems like the awfulness never rests and neither can I. No matter how many combat advantages I give Astrea Starscream, she’ll never be taken seriously. No matter how smart I am or how hard I work, my acceptance is always conditional. And it’s not just me—I don’t know how any girl can exist in the world without being perpetually furious.

But once I sign on as Cesario, my chat is instantly filled with dudes who want me to queue up for their battle campaigns, so in at least one place, I’m valuable. In at least one world, I’m safe.

yo, finally. u down to clown on gm0n33

bro shut up I called cesario for morholt

I beat that like two months ago,I type back.

UHH YA hence calling u for morholt

See? When I’m Cesario I’m trusted. Admired, even. I’m still me, but without any harassment in the chat or attempts to mansplain the things I care about. They don’t have to know who I am. They just know I’m a dude, and that’s enough for them.

u can’t just call him I need a partner

nd that’s my problem y???

Boys, honestly.

hey losers,I type back, rolling my eyes. who says I can’t do it all?

“I told you this would happen,” my mom says from the kitchen, talking to my father in a voice I’m not meant to hear from where I’m currently couchbound in the living room. “I told you, nobody’s body is meant for this. This was bound to happen to one of the boys eventually.”

I stare at the ceiling. I’m not surprised she’s here, exactly. She no longer lives here, but they’ve embraced that celebrity “co-parenting” strategy that means my brother and I come first. I guess having 50 percent of your children down for the count is reason enough to stay the weekend.

“You know what Dr. Barnes used to say about Jack.” Mom’s voice continues. “He’s too fast for his body, it can’t keep up with him. He’s been lucky so far, but—”

“What do you want me to do? He’ll rest. He’ll heal.” My dad sounds certain, though he always sounds certain. He’s a “fake it ’til you make it” kind of guy.

“I looked it up, Sam, it could be over a year of recovering from surgery, plus rehab—”

I flinch. Do your thing, ibuprofen. Come through.

“Are you kidding me?” My mom’s voice is sharp in response to whatever my dad just said. “Sam. This is your son. You saw how hard he went down!”

“Duke knows how to take care of himself—”

“Don’t call him that,” she snaps. “And you want him in a wheelchair by the time he’s forty? How many of your old teammates are suffering now? How many have had their personalities completely rewritten by head trauma, or worse—”

My mom is not a football fan, as she tells us constantly. She’s a fan of my dad and his program, but she harbors not-so-secret hopes that the NFL will eventually fall apart. There’s something insidious about it, she says, all those white owners and Black players. Dance for us, entertain us, but without the social activism of the NBA.

That she herself is white is not really a matter of relevance—“It’s the optics,” she says. Mom is a doctor of optics, being a school board administrator whose job is to make what’s untenable about public school education look like diversity and progress. She works for the next county over, which includes the school my father would have played for if he hadn’t had such a killer arm. It has some economic discrepancies, unlike here, which is predominantly middle class and white.

“This is his life, Ellen,” my dad says, his voice rising. “I never forced him. He’s the one who chose to play, he’s the one who signed with Illyria—”

“And what choice does he have, Sam? It was either be like you and love what you love, or never get a minute of your time!”

I reach for my phone, tuning them out. There’s a couple of new messages from Nick, saying he’ll be back to hang out next weekend after my surgery. One from my brother Cam, complaining about school and telling me I’ll be fine. One from Curio, with a link to a local news article about how the Padua cornerback is suspended from their next game—not that it makes a difference to me or my knee. One from Olivia, though when I open it, I realize she just “loved” my last message saying goodnight. No actual response. Hm.

Olivia’s been weird lately. More than just lately, come to think of it. She went to New York with her cousins for a month in July, and I haven’t seen much of her since school started a couple of weeks ago. Probably my fault; even without the two-a-days for football, I haven’t had much free time.

Guess I’ve got plenty of it now.

I ignore the blip in my chest, tapping her name in my favorites list.

“Jack?”

She answers, light streaming in from where she’s sunbathing in her backyard. I miss her viscerally, out of the blue, like a strike of lightning. The way she smells like vanilla and salty air; like the bonfire last summer where I first talked to her. “Hey. You busy?”

“Kinda. Girls’ day.” She shows me her younger sisters, both still in elementary school. Then she gives me a weird smile, like maybe she’s worried or something, or distracted. “How are you feeling?”

I’ll just say it: Olivia is absolutely gorgeous. That dark hair that fades in places to gold, tan skin, eyes to match… she’s like a daydream brought to life. It’s pretty cliché, the football star with the cheerleader, but nobody looking at her could possibly blame me. She’s not the vamped-up prom queen archetype, you know? She’s different. Interesting, funny, sweet.

“I’m fine,” I tell her. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re going to be fine.” She does the same thing again, that wobbly, elsewhere smile just as my parents’ voices get louder from the kitchen.

“Want me to come over?” I offer, suddenly desperate to leave my house. “I could bring you guys some lemonade. Or whatever’s suitable for girls’ day.” Admittedly, I have no idea. My mom isn’t the pampered type compared to Olivia’s mom, who always smells like the lobby of an expensive hotel.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” she says absently.

“I can rest anywhere,” I assure her.

“Mm.” She glances over her shoulder. “Well, my parents aren’t home. They’re at brunch with Teita.” Her grandmother, who’s like her mother, only fancier.

“Oh.” Olivia’s family has fairly strict rules. “Well, that’s fine. I just haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Mm,” she says again, shading her eyes.

Is she mad at me? Maybe.

“I know things have been weird between us lately,” I say, and she exhales like she took a swift hit.

“You do?”

“Come on, Liv. I’m not totally oblivious.” She gets up, probably to move out of her sisters’ earshot. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Well…” She grimaces. “I mean, yeah, mostly.”

“Okay,” I laugh. “Super convincing, go on.”

“Well, I just—”

She hesitates again, and I realize she’s probably waiting for an apology.

“Maybe I should talk first,” I tell her. “Because I do feel like it’s my fault.”

“You do?”

“I mean, of course. I’m never here for you.” This was the primary complaint between my mom and my dad: the lack of time. “Maybe me being injured is a good thing for us.” Silver lining, right? “I’ll be a lot more available now,” I remind her, feeling slightly better about that prospect, “so maybe we can—”

“I think we should take a break,” Olivia blurts out.

“—get back on track,” I finish, and pause. “Wait, what? Because I got hurt?”

“What? Jack,” she says, aghast. “Of course not!”

“But—” I blink, and then my entire world shifts.

Again.

“It’s just… my parents, you know, they’ve never liked the thought of me dating,” Olivia says with a wince, which isn’t new information, exactly. Her parents are very conservative and strict in a way I’ve never understood, but I never got the feeling it was a problem.

“You want to go on a break because your parents don’t like me?” That doesn’t make sense. Everyone likes me. Even people who don’t like me kind of like me. The Hadids certainly seemed to, so at what point did this start to matter to her? Am I supposed to win them over now, too?

Because I could do that. “What if I came over later? I could bring your mom flowers or something, or pretend I understand doctor stuff—”

“No, no,” she says quickly. “It’s just… never mind. It was just a thought. You know what I mean? Just… it doesn’t matter.” She shakes her head. “Forget it.”

“Olivia.” She can’t be serious. “I can’t just forget this—”

“I’m just stressed,” she says quickly. “School’s been really overwhelming, and you know, my family, college stuff…” She trails off. “But obviously I still care about you—”

“You care about me?” I echo. I told her I loved her almost nine months ago and she said it back, though it suddenly occurs to me that she hasn’t said it lately. “Loving” a text message isn’t the same thing as “I love you.”

Whoa. How much have I missed, exactly?

“No, Jack, I’m—” She exhales, frustrated. “I love you, of course I do. And I always will, I swear, I just… it’s just a bit weird, you know, with everything—”

Just then, my phone buzzes, nearly dropping from my hand. “Olivia, I don’t—” It buzzes again as I fumble to clear the message from the screen. “Sorry, hang on, I just—”

“Look, I’ll let you go, okay? I’m sorry. I know you’ve got a lot going on, plus Leya needs my help with something. We’ll talk later, promise,” Olivia assures me, and then, before I can stop her, she’s gone.

I stare at the blank screen, cursing it in silence. Particularly once I see who the texts are from.

we really need to touch base on the plans for the aloha dance,says Vi Reyes. the social committee needs to know their budget

Nobody gives a shit about this dance, but try telling that to Vi Reyes. She’s kind of like the character in a movie who takes off her glasses and shakes out her hair to reveal she’s been—gasp!—pretty the whole time, only she doesn’t wear glasses and I’ve seen her hair down. Her overall vibe is the headmistress of a Victorian school for misbehaving orphans.

But arguing with her won’t solve anything, so I take a breath. Several breaths.

good morning sunshine,I reply. perhaps you might have heard I’m somewhat heroically debilitated at the moment? still waiting on the flowers btw

why,she replies, are you dead

Before I can answer, she messages me again.

do you need your knees in order to sign off on a budget

I roll my eyes.

please do not injure yourself with concern for me,I say. I don’t know how I could live with the guilt

also,I add, just get ryan to be the second signature

The checking account for ASB (meaning Associate Student Body—something about Vi makes everything devolve into high-powered acronyms, like I’m suddenly some kind of Wall Street drone) requires two signatures from three possible people: the president, vice president, or treasurer. Vi could easily bother someone who isn’t me about this, but I honestly think she does it to annoy me. I’m one of her relaxing hobbies, like needlepoint or listening to smooth jazz.

ryan,she replies, is an idiot

interesting,I reply, unable to stop myself from adding, so does this mean I’m not an idiot?

She starts typing and I instantly regret saying anything.

you’re PRESIDENT jack honestly if you’re not going to take this seriously I don’t even know why you’re here

all I’m asking for is ONE SIGNATURE

pretend it’s an autograph

presumably you love that

Oh my god. Nobody can win a fight with Vi Reyes. I’m about to toss my phone away and give up on the day altogether when I get a text from Olivia.

I’m sorry, Jack, but I think I just need some time

Ironic, I think with a grimace, considering time is just about the only thing I have left.