Twelfth Knight

4. Death Cry Echo

On Saturday, I wake up and perform my latest ritual of checking my social media for any news about this season of War of Thorns. There’s an interview with Jeremy Xavier, plus a few loglines ambiguously promising a “big twist,” though who knows what that means. Character death? Probably. It’d better not be Cesario. Which reminds me, I just wrote a thread the other day about how male villains always get the most complex redemption arcs compared to women. (Which isn’t to say they don’t still get killed off.)

I tagged Monstress Mag, my favorite female-run pop culture blog, but alas, no likes or retweets from them. Not that I need the attention, but it’d be nice to be taken seriously. Fantasy fiction is already dominated by the opinions of nostalgic fanboys who would rather stan their problematic faves than apply any critical thinking, and while playing Twelfth Knight as Cesario works for that world, my world is a little different. I mean… out in the wilds of social media, wearing my actual face? I need all the intersectional feminism I can get.

I notice that Antonia didn’t like or agree with my tweet, which is… I mean, it’s fine. I don’t need performative likes. I keep scrolling through my timeline, though, and notice that she did like something else.

is it just me or is WoT twt full of people who are wayyyyy too invested? like just watch a different show lol it’s not that hard

Did she… did she just subtweet me?

No, probably not. She wouldn’t do that; plus, all she did was like it, and I should know better than anyone that every War of Thornspost winds up attracting the attention of some Cesario hater or some dude who insists that the female lead, Liliana, is a Mary Sue, which is basically just code for “I don’t like or respect women.” So what if a female character is “unrealistic”? How else do you explain every single male comic book hero? Every “Chosen One” archetype? Honestly, it’s a mystery. That’s probably what Antonia was mad about.

Probably.

In any case, as much as I’d love to stab some pixels in the Twelfth Knight–verse, I have to get up, because it’s almost time to go. The weekends tend to be exhausting right at the start of the year, because the Renaissance Faire is just wrapping up in our region. We have shorter days since we’re minors, but Bash is an early riser. He likes to think of his day as a race with the sun.

“VI,” he bellows with a predictable smack against my bedroom door. “YOU HAVE TEN MINUTES.”

The rest of the morning is lost to the struggle to shove things into my mouth and grab my stuff—boots, belt, handy leather pouch, metal cup for hydrating with peak authenticity, socks, “bloomers” (cough: leggings), chemise, bodice, underskirt, overskirt, hood… oh, and sunscreen, because not everything can be historically accurate—before getting herded into the car by a hysterical Bash.

“Would you relax?” I grumble to him, but he nudges me inside and then nods to Antonia, barking at her to get in the back seat as she comes hurrying up the drive.

Good. That saves me having to acknowledge her. Bash chatters on about play rehearsals and bickers amicably with Antonia over set pieces while I let my brain wash away in a wave of ’80s-inspired alt-rock.

Normally my sense of the real world vanishes the moment I set foot into the world of the Faire, which is a sprawling public park in the middle of nowhere that gets magically transformed into a reproduction of Elizabethan England. Not the aristocratic courts of London or the ill-fated gloom of the Tower, but a joyful imagining of the northern countryside, complete with costumed actors, elaborate painted gables, and decorative thatched roofs on wooden market stalls that stretch as far as the eye can see. It’s like time-traveling to a lost era of bucolic simplicity, but a version where people who look like us actually get to take part rather than being, you know. Colonized.

From the elaborate castle-looking gate, the Faire is a winding labyrinth of whimsy: food stands serving up mead and turkey legs, booths selling fairy wings and elfin ears, tarot readings beside henna tents, a functioning blacksmith, enchanted gardens, Globe-style stages, and endless alleys of artisan stalls. Where else but the tournament of horses can you cheer on two pretend knights in a fake joust without worrying about your precious teen ennui? The Faire is vibrant, colorful, and alive, and most of all, it’s fearless and unapologetic. It’s like a theme park for people who love history and swords.

Bash is the youngest member of the improv cast that performs something called Fakespeare, and he almost always plays an absurdly funny version of a villain. I’m not an actor, but I carry non-alcoholic beverages, chat with guests, sit in on performances (like Bash’s), and cheer when the audience is supposed to cheer. I also have a reputation for being responsible, so if anyone needs someone to handle cash or take tickets, they often turn to me. Whatever I get to do on a Faire day is perfectly fine by me, and for a glorious, sweat-sheened series of late summer weekends, I spend my time playing make-believe and snapping the occasional picture of fantasy costumes for cosplay ideas when it’s time for MagiCon later in the fall.

Today, though, I’m in a definite funk, and for the first time it feels like some of the Faire’s usual magic isn’t working. I can’t alleviate the feeling that something is off, which doesn’t help when I encounter people who aren’t exactly my favorites.

“Anon, Viola!” calls one of the oncoming guild members cheerily. He’s somewhere in his late twenties and his Faire name is Perkin, which is odd considering his actual name is an era-appropriate George. (Another person not worth committing to memory, of which there are many in my thriving social calendar.) “’Tis a lovely morning, is it not?”

“It’s three P.M.,” I mutter in an undertone, positioning a shoulder between his smiling face and my distracted one. He’s always standing just a little bit closer than he needs to be.

“In another beauteous mood, I see. Save a smile for me,” he says with a wink, and thankfully disappears. He’s like that, usually. Just around to taunt me for a couple of minutes before he finally registers that I’d like him to go away.

Later, though, when I’m bringing water for the crossbows, axe-throws, and javelin guilds who are out in the sun without cover (trust me, there’s no point putting a roof over amateurs with javelins) he’s on my case again. “Where’s that smile, Viola?”

I give him one for the express purpose of showing my teeth, and he laughs.

“One of these days someone will have to tame you,” he informs me.

He’s still using that joking tone, but I bristle. The implication feels insidious, particularly when you think about what that kind of language might actually mean. “Tame me?”

Two of the guild members around him snigger, reminding me I’m alone and outnumbered. Suddenly, I feel very aware that nobody I trust is around, so I quickly turn to walk away.

“Whoa, what’s the hurry?”

George reaches out, touches me lightly, and I flinch.

“Frightened of your feelings, Viola?” he teases.

“Let go of me.” I jerk my arm to shove him away, maybe a little too hard. He shrugs, laughs again, and exchanges a glance with the other two, like I’m the one who’s being unreasonable.

“You know we’re just playing, lass.” This time George is using a Scottish accent. He is very good at that, and I have to say, most of the cast does love him. Playful is a good word for him, and I guess other people don’t take issue with his “jokes.”

Like Antonia, for example, who appears from around the corner. I know I should be relieved, but the way she instantly lights up at the sight of George only makes me feel worse. “Oh, hey George,” Antonia says, and he bows.

“M’lady,” he offers with a flourish.

“M’lord,” she replies with the same smile she uses to get extra sriracha from the Thai delivery guy, and then she glances at me. “Everything okay?”

I open my mouth, but George cuts me off. “The lady wounds me, as usual,” he says with a wink. “But we’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

He and Antonia share a laugh, which I experience in jeering slow motion. I can’t really explain what’s boiling over in my chest, but something inside me peels away, like a drop of cold sweat in a bucket I’ll never be able to set down.

The anger rises up again, sharp and acid.

“We’re not friends,” I tell him. “And unless you want me to file a report, you’ll leave me alone.”

“Whoa, Vi,” says Antonia, frowning at me like I’ve maliciously spoiled her fun. “Did something happen, or…?”

“No.” George’s smile is locked in place. “Understood, Vi. My fault. Never know who can take a joke.”

The uneasiness in my chest takes root, blooms, and rots. I turn away quickly, making some excuse about having to go get something for Bash.

“Sorry about her,” Antonia says quietly in my absence. “She’s just like that.”

I’m out of sight by then, but I stop like I just punctured a lung.

“Not a problem, lass,” George replies. “Viola is much famed for her… intemperance.”

“Yeah, you could call it that.” Antonia laughs, and my gut lurches.

“Lucky she has you for a friend,” replies George.

“Oh, stop.” I don’t have to look to know Antonia’s smiling her sriracha smile again. “So, how’ve you guys enjoyed the Faire?”

They continue chatting behind me and I hurry away, pain catching up to me after shock, followed by a sudden queasiness.

She apologized for me?

I’m just like that?

The end of RenFaire season is supposed to be fun. There’s a parade! We toast our success with turkey legs! We pretend to fight each other with swords! We take pictures together and promise to keep in touch, even though after a week it’ll just be dumb memes posted to our Facebook group by an adult man named Kevin! But instead of enjoying myself, I feel numb for the rest of the day, and kind of nauseated. Like I’ve been stabbed in the back, only I have a feeling it wouldn’t sound like that if I tried to explain it out loud. Just like with Matt Das and the rest of our ConQuest group, I’m the troublemaker, and it’s Antonia who knows how to be likable. How to be liked.

Except… why? Why does she do that? It’s not like she hasn’t had guys make the same inappropriate jokes they make to me or call her the same horrible names on the internet. She and I are in the exact same trenches, so why doesn’t she understand that it’s not okay for people to act like I’m something they have a right to control? Smile, Vi, you need to be tamed…

“You okay?” asks Bash when we pile back into my car.

“Yeah.” I swallow and start driving. Antonia doesn’t act like there’s anything wrong. Instead she unplugs my phone and plugs hers in—something that wouldn’t normally bother me, except right now it’s more salt in the wound.

“Cool, sure, go ahead,” I mutter sarcastically.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Eventually we make it home and Bash jumps out, because as always, his social calendar demands that he be somewhere in ten minutes or less. “You can drive me, yeah?” he yells over his shoulder.

“Don’t take too long,” I bellow after him. I need to get out of these bloomers, stat.

“Do you mind taking me home after?” asks Antonia from the back seat. “I don’t feel like walking.”

Oh, cool. “Thrilled to be your chauffeur,” I mutter.

She catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “Okay, what was that?”

“What?”

“My house is, like, a few blocks that way, Vi. If it’s an inconvenience I can walk.”

“So I’m a bitch if I make you walk, is that it?” I ask, feeling my skin prickle with frustration. “Even though I’ve had a super long day and just want to go home and change?”

“Um, you’re not the only one who had a long day.” She frowns.

“Oh, of course, how could I forget.” I can feel my anger slipping out from my control. “You also had the very hard job of soothing all the people I tormented.”

“Wow.” She sits up and opens the car door, shaking her head. “Clearly you’re in a mood today.”

“Wonder why,” I grumble to myself.

She shifts like she’s going to walk away, but then changes her mind, pausing next to my window. “I’m not your enemy, Vi.”

You’re not my ally, either,I think bitterly. The anger flickers again, then sags into something worse.

“I’m just tired,” I tell her. “Frustrated. Stressed.”

“You could try being a little nicer,” she suggests in a playful tone, but all I can hear is the passive-aggressive reminder that she’s sorry. Not to me, of course, but for me. She’s sorry that I’m such an awful person. She’s sorry she can’t change me. She’s sorry that she’s friends with me. “Might take away some of your stress, you know,” she adds, “if you just let people be themselves without threatening to tell on them.”

I open my mouth to say it wasn’t a threat, but then I remember that even if I did tell on George, nothing would happen. He didn’t do anything—that’s the whole point. What did he call it? A joke. Right. The real joke is that it’s not a crime to stand too close or refuse to hear the word no. It’s just… boys being boys. I don’t think I could explain “he makes me uncomfortable” beyond just saying that.

But I’d kind of hoped my best friend wouldn’t require an explanation.

“See you tomorrow?” she says, smiling.

But before I can answer, Bash comes barreling out, shouting to me like I’m the getaway car. “Drive!” he instructs me, giving me an unnecessary shove.

“Sorry, Antonia, I have t—”

“No worries. See you!” she calls to both of us.

I pull out of the driveway and she waves. Apparently everything is fine.

(Everything is fine, isn’t it?)

“So, the knee,” Dr. Barnes says. “It’s a very aggressive tear. ACL, PCL, meniscus, the works. I did my best with what I could repair, but it’s going to take some time before we can really start rehabilitating it.”

I zone out while he says things like six weeks on crutches before I can put weight on it again, eight months typically but more likely twelve for a full recovery, regaining full range of motion may be difficult given the state of the knee when we went in, the good news is I’m young I’m healthy we have the best physical therapy available and there’s no reason the graft shouldn’t take, it’s important to remain optimistic but recovery cannot be rushed, not if I want to regain full use of my knee, not just for football but for normal activities, walking running any form of vigorous exercise, cannot predict what the future will bring but if you put in the work you’ll reap the rewards, Jack are you listening, Jack, I know it’s a lot to take in, your mom and dad are completely behind you we’ve already discussed your PT schedule with Eric and honestly, don’t stress about this, kiddo. Life has a way of working out.

I blink and look from Dr. Barnes to my father.

“Can I still go to practice with the team?” I ask.

Dr. Barnes seems to understand that I’m not asking for a miracle; I’m just asking my coach for my right as captain. As a senior. I’m asking, please, do not take everything away from me, not yet. Not like this, all in one fell swoop.

“Jack,” my mom begins, her expression pained, but my dad shakes his head to stop her.

“Of course,” he tells me, as Dr. Barnes looks at his hands. “Of course.”

“Dude,” says Nick, who comes to visit a few days after my surgery. “You look…”

He glances over the crumbs on my shirt, which are plentiful. I’ve been eating chips on the couch where I sleep and pretty much live, since it’s too hard to get up the stairs to my bedroom on crutches.

“You don’t look great, bro,” he concludes with a charitable grimace.

“I’m fine.” By which I mean a few things: I’m angry as shit, and bitter, too. I don’t know what the hell kind of future I have now. My girlfriend only responds to one out of every three texts, which I think she’s doing on purpose. Vi Reyes already texted me this morning about god even knows what. Homecoming? My one source of joy is that she seems as miserable as I feel. But no matter how much Vi’s life mysteriously sucks, I’ve got my mom talking about possible majors like my football career is over while my dad sends me pages and pages of research about ACL tears like this is just a temporary thing.

Illyria will still give me my shot, he says, as long as I just show them I’m fine. If I want to come back from this, I can simply come back. See it, make it happen, exclamation point! Just visualize yourself as someone who isn’t confined to the couch and hey, it’s that easy! Will yourself upright, Jack, even if every spare motion costs you something! Even if everything you used to be is gone!

But what comes out of my mouth is “Dunno. I’m bored.”

“Ah,” says Nick with a nod, clearly relieved I haven’t offered up something way darker, so I know I said the right thing. And anyway, it’s true. It’s barely been a week and I’m already sick of bingeing shows on Netflix, plus there’s only so much homework a guy can do before he completely unravels. I should be on the field right now, but with football out of the question and Olivia still a mystery, that’s most of my usual activities gone.

“I thought that might be the case,” Nick says. “Where’s your laptop?”

I rummage around for it, spotting it under the sofa. “Here. Better not be porn.”

“No promises.” He smirks at me, pulling up a new browser window and typing something into an unfamiliar log-in page.

“How’s school?” I ask while I’m waiting, because I could at least make the visit worth his time instead of moping.

“It’s okay. Classes are kind of boring,” he says.

“Hard?”

“Sort of. It’s all GEs, so.” He shrugs. “Meh.”

“Meet anyone interesting yet?”

“My roommate’s okay. There’s a few people in my dorm who seem cool. Okay, here we go.” He pauses, hesitating. “Just so you know, it’s—” He breaks off again. “Just don’t tell anyone, okay?”

“It’s porn, isn’t it?” I theatrically sigh, and Nick gives me a look.

“Will you just promise, please?”

“Too late, I’m already live-blogging this conversation,” I say, ham-handedly tapping the screen of my phone.

Nick rolls his eyes. “Right, forgot what a lovely mood you’re in. Look, you remember the postseason I sat out with tendinitis?”

Viscerally. “Yeah.”

“You were busy, and I couldn’t move, obviously, so I found this.” He flips the screen around.

“Twelfth Knight,” I read from the landing page, frowning up at him. “What’s this?”

“A game. Like World of Warcraft or Final Fantasy, but this one’s way better.”

“Uh,” I say, fighting a laugh. “No wonder you don’t want me to tell anyone. Since when are you a geek?”

“Was. Was a geek,” he corrects me, “and only because I had hours of time to fill and nothing to fill it with, much like someone else we currently know.” He pointedly sets the laptop on my lap. “Just trust me, okay? It’s more fun than it sounds.” He shifts to sit on the coffee table so we can both look at the screen. “First you have to create your character.”

I look at him wordlessly. My intended meaning is, approximately: Are you serious?

He arches a brow in reply. This, clearly, means: Like you have somewhere more pressing to be.

Regrettably, he wins this round. I heave another sigh before relenting with “My… character?”

“Yes, your character. Here, click through here.” He points to the screen and I scroll through a gallery of animated figures. “You can be a sorcerer, a mage, any sort of creature—”

I glance at him to see if he’s joking, but he isn’t. As much as I’d like to razz him a little more for this—I mean come on, a creature, seriously?—he’s obviously just trying to make me feel better. The least I can do is take his efforts seriously. “What’s the best?”

“Definitely a knight,” he says quickly. He seems relieved, and I feel a little better already. “It means you have more skills in combat mode or in the different arenas.”

If only I knew what he was talking about. “Arenas?”

“You can either do these crusade things where you try to find relics or win a series of challenges, or you can fight against other players. Kind of like on War of Thorns.”

“You mean that weird TV show?” Vi’s always wearing one of those shirts, so needless to say, I strongly doubt it’s my thing.

“Dude.” Nick glances at me. “You’ve never seen War of Thorns? Add that to the list. We’re watching that next.”

“Seriously?” I groan. With the sheer volume of embarrassing reveals so far, this is some hefty fraternal bonding.

“Seriously.” Nick gives me another look. “Trust me on this.”

Ugh. “Fine,” I sigh, because as much as this show might suck, at least I won’t have to sit alone with my thoughts while it’s playing. “Is it actually good, though?”

“Bro. Yes.” Nick nods vigorously. “I thought it was dumb at first, too, but then I got sucked in while my sister was watching. It’s, like, weird at first, but really good. Here, finish setting up,” he adds, pointing. “You’ll need a username.”

I type in my usual user ID, DUKEORSINO12, and pick Messaline colors for my armor. This feels stupid, but it’s not like I’ve never played video games before. I get plenty of Madden in whenever a new version comes out. “Anything else?”

“Want to play a practice round first?”

“Nah.” How hard can it be?

“My man.” He claps me on the back. “Here, queue up for this arena. It doesn’t have a huge waitlist.”

I expected corny graphics given the old-timey font of the title page, but it’s not so bad. I guess a castle is a castle. “Where are we in the game?”

“We’re in Camelot for now,” he says. “Everything starts here. The really cool battles and stuff are in other realms, like Gaunnes, or Camlann—you’ll see.”

A window pops up in the corner. “What’s that?”

“Oh, someone trying to chat with you.”

“Uhhh…” I’m not into that.

“A lot of the arenas work better if you have an alliance,” he assures me quickly. “You play as a team and then eventually it’s every man for himself.”

“Oh.” I type something back in the chat akin to sure, whatever. “So what happens in the arena?”

“You fight,” he says with a shrug. “You strategize based on the other players. See how here you can tell how much life they have left, or where they have extra skills or relics? This one,” he says, pointing, “has a ton of swordsmanship points, and that one”—he taps another figure with the back of a nail—“has extra brawling skills. You gain talents as you play.”

“Does that one say they have… cooking skills?” I squint at the little plant symbol.

“Herbology. You need that for crusades. Quests, basically,” he explains when I look at him blankly.

“Why?”

“Um, because you have to stay alive while you travel? And not poison yourself.”

“Wait.” That’s wild. “I have to eat in the game?”

“You are your character,” Nick says simply, and I give him yet another look. “It’s weird, I know,” he assures me with a laugh, “but hey, it passes the time. Plus if you play against someone who forgets to fuel up…” He shrugs. “It’s just closer to a real game, that’s all.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I can sort of see how this would feel similar to football. Find your position in the game, live or die by your skillset. Win by having more foresight than the others. Don’t get killed. Don’t do something stupid. Don’t get hurt. Don’t tear your ACL and lose your girlfriend in the same week. For a second, my knight avatar feels like the person I used to be.

Plus, I’ll be honest—I have a tendency to get competitive regardless of circumstances. Doesn’t technically matter the stakes. Our family Scrabble nights got so bad my mom gave all our board games to the babysitter.

“Okay, so how do I fight?” I ask Nick when the screen changes, letting me into the arena we’ve queued up for.

“Probably like shit at first,” he says, “but it gets easier. Got your sword?”

“Uh…” There it is. “Okay.”

“All right,” he says, leaning forward. “Let’s play.”

“You look exhausted,” my physical therapist Eric says, squinting at me. I’m sure I do, given how late I stayed up playing Twelfth Knight yesterday. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Would I lie to you?” I offer sweetly.

“I mean, yeah, probably,” Eric says, but thankfully doesn’t push it. He’s a fairly young guy, one of Dr. Barnes’s former patients who got a degree in kinesiology after playing for Carolina. He’s a few years out of school now, working as a PT assistant under one of Dr. Barnes’s protégés while he completes his doctorate. “Just don’t be stupid, okay? We’ll be able to do more when the swelling goes down. For now, just focus on those stretches I showed you, and—”

“Ice and ibuprofen, I know.”

“Good.” He frowns. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Sure, E. I’m fine.” I’m not, obviously. I can barely stand, let alone walk, and worse than the pain is the guilt. Frank is switching the offense to a pass game while I’m out, putting the receivers to work in my place, but Curio’s still shaky and I feel, I don’t know, sick. Like this is my fault somehow. If I just hadn’t messed with that cornerback, if I hadn’t pissed him off, where would I be? I saw him coming. Why didn’t I do something? I have dreams replaying the impact only bigger, more looming, like getting hit by a truck.

By the time I get back to school, I can barely meet anyone’s eye.

“Hey, Duke,” calls Curio, catching me as I walk through the school’s gates. A banner for the Aloha Dance is draped across the entrance and I suddenly remember I’m going to that.

I think.

“Hey.” I let Curio catch up as we traverse the school, turning the corner around the big gym. Messaline is one of those massive open campuses, so while Curio chatters about something, we pass the library, the freshmen and sophomore English and history departments, the upperclassmen electives hall. It’s a long walk circumnavigating pristine, untouchable landscaping, which seems infinitely longer on crutches.

Luckily Curio’s in no rush, though I don’t really know what to make of him. He’s always been fairly quiet, happy to be in Nick’s shadow. I wonder if he’s looking for some reassurance from me, since this is his last chance to win State, too. But he’s not the one who already lost it.

“Is it true your brother’s going pro at the end of this season?” Curio asks, blessedly interrupting my usual spiral of misery.

“Not sure.” Almost definitely yes. It’s always been Cam’s goal, but that’s between him and his publicist.

“Ah, cool. Bummer, though. I’d like to have seen your Illyria-Auburn showdown.”

I don’t know why, but the panic sinks in again, a little deeper every time. If Dad keeps me off the field all season, will Illyria think I’m not a solid investment? Will they change their minds? Can they change their minds? The terms of my LOI were about behavior, but what about injury? My spot on their roster might get revoked, and if it does, then what? Is there another school that would take me? What if I had to play D2? D3 even? I can’t even process the possibility of not playing football at all.

“Hey,” Curio says, catching the expression on my face. “Look, man, don’t worry about it, I didn’t mean to—”

At that precise moment, I spot Olivia. She’s walking up the hill to the science quad alone, parting ways with one of her cheerleader friends, and before I really know what I’m doing I’m calling out to her, turning in her direction and accidentally driving a crutch into someone’s foot.

“Jesus Christ, Orsino!” comes an unwelcome snarl to my left. “Do you not have eyes? Or is everyone else at this school some kind of inanimate prop to you?”

Oh, good. Vi Reyes.

“Not now, Vi,” I tell her briskly, and she glares up at me from behind a curtain of long black hair. Up close it’s jarring that she’s got such an innocent-looking face, all soft brown eyes and rosy cheeks like a squeaky-clean TV starlet when she’s so clearly cursing me out in her head. We’ve never had any reason to interact before this year, and if her coalition of nerds hadn’t voted her in as my VP, I doubt we ever would have. Fortunately, now I have her in my life to inform me of the emails I didn’t read (the ASB Gmail account gets a lot of spam—I think last year’s president used it for their personal shopping addiction) and the various ways in which I have failed my fiduciary duty as an elected officer, a thing that cannot possibly apply to the concept of student government—and yet, try telling that to Vi.

“You’re right, an apology would probably break your other knee,” she says, glancing briefly at Curio before dismissing him and turning back to me. “Think you can summon the competence to sign off on the budget today?”

“Viola,” I groan. This is the only conceivable way to say her name: as if you are slowly being drained of oxygen. “It’s eight in the morning. Can’t this wait?”

I scan the hill for Olivia, but I’ve lost sight of her now.

“Your devotion to this school is a real marvel,” Vi informs me, before turning away to stalk in the direction Olivia just disappeared.

“She’s… nice,” observes Curio, frowning.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “A real ray of sunshine.”

“Anyway, listen,” he offers, tentative again, “if you need anything—”

“Dude.” I glance at him, wondering how to phrase this. “I’m not, like, dead. You know what I mean?”

He laughs, so mission accomplished. “Right, sorry. See you at practice?” he asks, turning in the direction of what I now realize is his class, but very much not mine.

“Yeah.” The bell rings, and the rapidly vacating campus looms before me like a bad sci-fi shot.

Predictably, my day does not improve.

“Oh, come on. You again?” demands Vi two periods later, spotting me as we turn the corner at the same time outside the English building—which would be fine, if I hadn’t already passed her outside Olivia’s math class. “That’s three times this morning. Are you stalking me?”

“Yes, Viola, I’m stalking you,” I mutter, scanning over her head for a glimpse of Olivia from the interior hallway. “It’s because you’re so nice and friendly.”

“Can you just sign off on the budget?” she snaps, shifting her backpack around and reaching into it. “It’ll take five seconds, and since you’re just standing here—”

At that moment, Olivia comes into view at the opposite end of the hall. “I can’t, Vi, I told you, I’m busy—”

“With what?” she demands. To my complete frustration, she starts following me as I set off after Olivia. “You can talk to your girlfriend anytime, Jack. Like, literally anytime.”

“Just—” I swear under my breath as Olivia slips into the classroom, either not noticing me or pretending not to. “Fine,” I growl, snatching the binder from Vi’s hands and gesturing for her to turn so I can use her shoulder to sign it. “Pen?”

She gives me an eye roll so pronounced I’m worried it’s harming her medically. “Do you not own a pen?”

Losing my temper will not solve this. “You’re right, let’s just sign this later when I’m more prepared—”

“Wow.” She hands me one over her shoulder, glaring at me.

“Great!” I shuffle my crutches, scribbling a signature, and shove it back to her just as she turns. Regrettably our hands touch by accident, forcing an awkward moment that she resolves by growling at me.

“Did you even read it?” she demands.

“Viola,” I sigh, “you have the signature. I’m successfully unburdened of my will to live. What more do you want from me?”

Her eyes narrow. “Um, a modicum of responsibility, perhaps? Possibly an iota of dependability?”

“Great, measurable goals, I’ll work on that for next time.” I turn away, or try to, but she stomps in the opposite direction, reaching for the same door Olivia just walked through.

Hm. Interesting.

“Wait,” I call after Vi, and she throws a glance at me so vicious I feel it like a water balloon to my skin. “Are you in Olivia’s English class?”

“Don’t tell me you want me to pass her a note.” Vi folds her arms across her chest, a tacit suggestion that if I even bother asking, she’ll take it as she’s taken everything else so far today: extremely poorly.

“No, I just—” I fumble for an explanation that doesn’t include my girlfriend maybe wants to dump me. “I thought you were in, like, all AP classes.”

“Uh, I am?” She glares again for good measure. “So is Olivia.”

“Oh.” Right.

“She’s in AP Physics with me. And AP Lit. And AP Calc.” Vi frowns at me. “Did you somehow not know your girlfriend was smart?”

Yes, of course I knew that. Olivia’s always been smart, but Vi’s basically a mutant. The only thing I knew about her prior to elections was that she was deeply, obsessively into school, whereas Olivia has an actual social life. The chance of their academic schedules overlapping seems distinctly fake.

“No, I know, obviously,” I manage to say, “I just—”

“Look, I really don’t have time for this. Get your house in order and leave me out of it, Orsino,” Vi snaps, shoving open the door and stepping into the classroom.

For the briefest instant I catch sight of Olivia, who’s sitting at the desk nearest the door. She looks up, catches my eye, and looks away.

Okay, she’s definitely avoiding me. But why? Is she angry about something I did? Pissed about something I didn’t do? There’s definitely something I don’t know. And while I may not be able to do anything about my knee or my future at Illyria, I should be able to fix this.

See it, make it happen.I’m going to fix this, I promise myself firmly.

And a small voice in me answers: Because I can’t fix anything else.