Twelfth Knight

7. Heroes Prefer Swords

After DukeOrsino12 signs off, I remain locked in place, staring at the screen until it finally fades out and goes black.

Since it seems necessary to say: I really don’t know what just happened. I have no idea why I brought up Nick Valentine. Stress? Temporary insanity? Probably my stupid fight with Antonia, actually, which is embarrassing and annoying. Or maybe my complete shock that Jack Orsino has a non-idiotic opinion about my favorite TV show. Admittedly, that never happens. The show’s message boards are full of sci-fi dudebros who think girls only lust for villains because they’re hot and we’re dumb. God forbid you try to convince one of them that finding Cesario’s storyline interesting isn’t the same thing as siding with actual fascists! (Trust me, it won’t work.)

Still, I can’t believe I actually told Jack Orsino I was Bash. Did I get possessed by a demon or something? Normally I’m not this stupid—but in fairness to me, it’s not like there was a better answer. There’s no way I’m going to blow my cover, first of all. I’d never tell anyone in the game that I’m a girl. It’s already the one place where a bunch of dudes don’t try to “well, actually” me ten times a day. My character in the game is well known and respected. I can’t risk throwing that away just because I was overtaken by a stroke of total derangement.

Besides, I panicked, okay? He’s right that he could have just looked up whatever name I gave him on our ASB rosters (it would be the first time he ever looked at one, so how’s that for irony?) which means that making up a name wasn’t going to work. Plus, it’s not like he and Bash are ever going to interact in real life. I know for a fact they have no classes together, and last I checked, Jack Orsino doesn’t harbor any fantasies about performing in the spring musical. Nor would he want anyone knowing he plays fantasy RPGs in secret, right? Pretty sure that even if Nick Valentine did tell him that all this stuff existed, that kind of thing is strictly prohibited by the Jock Code of Oppressive Masculinity and Organized Sports.

So, fine. It’s fine. I’ll just… not sign on for a few days. No big deal.

It’s fine.

I push my chair back, feeling that weird amalgam of things that only happens when you’ve stayed up way too late and the whole world feels kind of fake, like maybe nothing else exists outside of you and your thoughts. Normally I like this time of night for the solitude, but then I remember that Antonia’s not my friend right now. Or maybe anymore.

An old, familiar rage flares up in my chest. The same anger I usually feel about people who aren’t Antonia. Despite what Jack Orsino thinks, I don’t actually need to be liked. What I want is to be respected, and the truth that Antonia doesn’t want to face is that she very much isn’t.

Which is of course an awful thing to think about someone who was, up until a few hours ago, my best friend.

Another familiar feeling beats against my chest, only this one is older, more tired: I know I’m not a nice person. Contrary to what Kayla or Jack Orsino or Antonia thinks, I really don’t need anyone to tell me that. I already know there’s something wrong with me; I know there’s a reason people don’t like me. Lots of reasons.

But secretly, I would like someone to see me for what I am and choose me anyway.

Or at the very least, not suddenly decide I’m no longer worth being friends with just because I wouldn’t go on a pity date with Matt Das, or because I don’t want to sit around a table with a bunch of arrogant, ignorant boys just to watch myself get buried under their opinions.

The anger comes back, sort of. A fizzling form of it, like flat soda. I feel tired, down to my bones, so I pull aside the covers and go to sleep, figuring I’ll deal with DukeOrsino12 (and his more annoying alter ego) tomorrow.

I generally hope not to be accosted by people first thing in the morning, but of course sportsball superstar Jack Orsino doesn’t let a little thing like human decency stand in the way of his personal needs.

“Well?” he demands, clopping after me on his crutches like a Clydesdale.

“Well what?” I mutter over my shoulder, fumbling to remind myself of one very important thing: He doesn’t know who you are. Your identity is safe. So keep it that way.

It’s weird to actually look someone in the face when you were just seeing them as a knight avatar a few hours ago. The pixelated version of him kind of summarizes the basics—he’s tall, sort of leanly muscled, with a drop fade that’s been growing back in over the last couple of weeks—but it misses, you know, the little stuff. The shape of his face. The patchy stubble below his cheeks that he really needs to shave. The lashes that look almost feminine, which currently frame a set of seriously bloodshot eyes.

God, he looks awful, which is honestly for the best. Nobody should look like him, it’s indecent. Redistribution is necessary, like a wealth tax for bone structure.

“You look like shit,” he remarks, inspecting me with a frown.

Oh good, a nice moment of synchronicity. “Sublime,” I reply, resuming my path to class. “And with that, the day begins—”

“Hang on.” He fumbles after me. “So did you talk to her?”

“Who?” I ask, just to torment him.

He rolls his eyes. “Come on. We had a deal.”

“Fine.” I pause long enough to face him. “She’s trying to focus on school.”

One brow shoots up. “Seriously?”

“She’s got a tough course load.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard, but—” He grits his teeth. “That’s all you got?”

“What more do you want?” I counter irritably. “Is it really that shocking to you that someone might need a break from you? Maybe Olivia’s tired of having to be your accessory all the time, or maybe she just—”

“She’s not my accessory.” To my surprise he looks… wounded. I expected him to play it off like he’d do under any other circumstances—My job is to stand here and look pretty, for instance, which was a total groan—but he flinches. “Is that really what she thinks?”

It’s kind of unnerving how upset he looks.

“No, I just—” I break off, grimacing. “Actually, she only had nice things to say about you,” I admit with a grumble. “Not that I agree with any of them.”

He blinks. “She did?”

“Yeah. So don’t worry about it. It’s nothing you did wrong.”

“Vi, come on.” I turn to leave again and he lurches after me. “It can’t just be that.”

“Why not? She’s got her own life. Maybe she just doesn’t want to have to think about you right now.”

Something about his tone changes. “Is that what you think relationships are? An obligation?”

Okay, this is turning into a weird lecture that I don’t have time for. “Just… deal with your angst on your own time, Orsino. Okay? I talked to her. I held up my end of the bargain.”

“Did you?” he asks, scrutinizing me beneath a furrowed brow.

Ugh. UGH. Other people are infuriating. If Jack and Olivia can’t talk to each other, why is that my problem?

Only… I hate to admit it, but I guess he’s right. Technically speaking, I didn’t hold up my end, because even I was left wondering what her real reason was. She seems fundamentally weird around him from what I’ve seen, so I guess if he really cares about her, I can’t blame him for wondering why she’d suddenly change.

“Fine,” I exhale, “I’ll ask her again. But you’ve gotta give me some time,” I warn him, “because if I keep bringing it up, I’m just going to sound like a weird, obsessed stalker.”

“Deal.” He nods vigorously.

“And don’t forget, the homecoming committee’s your problem now,” I add.

“Chill, Viola,” he says, “I’ve got it.”

He’s unbearable. “You do know that telling girls to ‘chill’ is a famously bad call, right?”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Vi,” he says in one of his falsely cheerful voices. “You’re not just any girl. You’re a fun little tyrant.”

“Oh good, now I’m definitely willing to help you,” I grumble as I turn to leave. “Very convincing—”

“Dictatorship really works for you as a look,” he calls after me.

“Walking away now,” I shout back, shaking my head and almost bumping into Antonia, who barely looks at me.

Well. I guess that’s that, then.

For the next couple of days I make a point not to sign in to Twelfth Knight, even though my fingers itch to play and the rest of me itches, too, I guess for something to think about that isn’t the looming MagiCon weekend. Not that my not wanting to think about it has any effect on those around me.

“You haven’t worked on your costume in a while,” my mother remarks, startling me from where I’m reading one of the new Empire Lost novels on the couch.

“What?” I say, because I was busy being elsewhere in the cosmos.

“Your costume. I haven’t seen you work on it in a bit.”

“Oh.” She means my cosplay for MagiCon. Last year I went as a character from a graphic novel I like (basically a haunted harlequin doll) but this year Antonia and I were going as our ConQuest original characters, Astrea Starscream and Larissa Highbrow.

Obviously I don’t really see the point anymore. “Yeah, well. It’s good enough.”

“Good enough?” my mom echoes, arching a brow, because rabid perfectionism is another one of the areas where she and I have more overlap than Bash.

“It’s not like anyone will recognize me anyway. It’s an OC.” Original characters are never recognizable for obvious reasons, though it’d be twice as cool to end up in one of the fan blogs while dressed as something that isn’t part of a Disney-fied franchise. And if I got featured in the Monstress Mag blog…?

But that probably wouldn’t happen anyway.

“Hmm,” my mother says, which is a terrible sign. A lecture is coming, so I swing myself upright and go full preemptive strike.

“You look nice,” I point out with a note of suspicion, gesturing to her dress and heels. “Someone new?”

“Actually, no.” Mom fusses with an earring, and I realize she’s still lingering here for a reason.

“Mom, are you… early?”

“What? No. Yes,” she says. “Barely. I don’t know.”

“What?” Did I mention this woman dates for a living? Babbling isn’t something I usually see her do.

“Well, I just… I guess I started getting ready too early. A little early, I mean. Accidentally.” She glances conspicuously away.

“Mom, I’m not judging you.” She looks awkward, like she doesn’t know where to put her hands, which is kind of hilarious. “This is the same guy?”

“Yes.” She pauses. “Sort of a milestone, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Six months.”

“Whoa.” That’s a long time for her. Not that she hasn’t had stretches of romance here and there, sometimes up to a year or so, but nothing recent. She smiles at me distractedly, glancing more next to me than anything else.

“Well, it’s probably time to tell him you have kids,” I say.

“He knows. I—” She stops. “I already used that one.”

It’s one of her “bye-byes,” aka reasons to get out of relationships. Nearly always works on men, though it’s kind of a panromantic buzzkill as far as I can tell. “When’d you use it?”

“Months ago. Right away.”

“Is he one of those creeps who insists that you’re meant for each other?” She gets a lot of weird emails. And even weirder things in her DMs, some of which are funny and others of which are gross.

“No. Not at all, actually.” She glances at me. “But you’re changing the subject, anak.”

“Me?” I protest innocently. “Never.”

“You’re fighting with Antonia,” she says, sitting next to me. “You thought you could slip that by me?”

“It ran its course, Mom. That’s all.” My mother and I are alike in this. We’re independent and tough-minded, firm on our principles, maybe sometimes to the point where we cut people out of our lives because they cost us more energy than they’re worth. We don’t need someone to talk to, or someone to hang out with. We like our own company just fine.

“Mm,” says my mom. A neutral tone of disapproval, which is… unexpected.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mom’s phone buzzes and she glances down at the screen, a faint but unmissable smile floating absently over her signature berry-red lips.

“Nothing.” She clicks off the screen and rises to her feet, leaning forward to kiss my forehead. “Don’t stay up too late, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I mean it.” She taps my book. “You have all day to read tomorrow.”

“Uh, no I don’t? I’m in like a hundred AP classes, Mom.”

“Well, all the more reason to get your rest.” She walks around the couch while I flop back onto it, returning my attention to the page. Then she pauses, falling to a halt with a little crease of thought between her brows. “Vi.”

“Hm?”

“You don’t have to be alone,” she says, and part of me goes rigid.

“What?”

“It’s nice that you’re so independent. I love that you’re so content by yourself. But Vi, maybe it’s worth not burning bridges once in a while,” she says, and I slowly lower the book to stare at her.

“Excuse me?”

“Would it be so bad?” she presses me. “Compromising sometimes? Letting other people win?”

“What?” Has she been smoking something? My mother would never, ever tell me to roll over and let someone else win. She’s a champion grudge-holder, a master of having the last word. The first thing she taught me was how to clap back when someone comes for me—so yeah, to say this is coming out of nowhere is an understatement.

“I just think maybe you’ll be missing out on some things, hija, if you never—”

“This from my ‘never let anyone change you’ mother?” I demand. “What happened to ‘know what you stand for’ and ‘never let anyone make you feel small’? Suddenly I should just throw that out the window and worry about ending up alone?”

“I didn’t say that.” She bristles. “Of course I don’t mean that, I’m just—”

“Maybe your new boyfriend’s made you soft,” I accuse her, and she takes a deep breath, which annoys me. It means I’m annoying her, which is the worst thing to feel, since it’s not like I don’t get plenty of that in all the other areas of my life.

“Maybe,” she says slowly, “I’ve been so busy trying to make sure you didn’t make any of my mistakes that I forgot to teach you something about what’s important in life. Because it’s not just about winning battles, Vi. It’s not about being harder or softer than other people. It’s not about being better, or being stronger, or being right. Certainly not if the cost is your chance to feel love and acceptance.”

“God, are you dating a yoga instructor?” I scoff.

“I know that the fact that I write so casually about dating makes it look like I don’t consider it important. But I only have that column because it matters so universally, and you know why? Because the only thing in this life that actually matters is how we’re connected to each other,” she says. “There’s nothing else you get to keep or take with you except the relationships you have. The way you love, the love you give, that matters.”

I open my book and pointedly focus on it.

“Think about it.” She gives me a wistful look that I’m very focused on not seeing. “Okay. Night, anak. I love you.”

I say nothing, not looking up from the same paragraph I’m pretending to read until she’s gone.

Immediately, though, I get a rush of filial guilt: What if something happens to her and the last conversation we have is that one? God, I’d be revisited every night like Scrooge with his Christmas ghosts. I take out my cell phone and type love you, just to make sure there’s no chance of paranormal haunting.

I know,she says, so I return my attention to my book.

And I have absolutely no idea what I’m reading.

Ugh. Now I’m all twitchy and worked up. I rise to my feet, prowling around the living room.

what are you doing?I text Bash.

No answer.

Two minutes. Four.

Ten.

Okay, screw this. I storm up the stairs and reach for my laptop, furious with myself.

The whole point is my convictions, right? That’s what I’m fighting with Antonia about. Me! And my right to be myself! A self that includes my anger, which is spilling over at the moment into something else that makes me want to cry.

I log in to Twelfth Knight thinking he probably won’t be there anyway.

Yeah, no, he definitely isn’t here. It’s Saturday night, he’s probably—

DUKEORSINO12:where’ve you been???

I exhale sharply.

(Part of me, a very small part, feels a little nudge of reassurance at knowing someone was waiting for me. I squash it dead.)

C354R10:does it matter? if you want to play, let’s play

C354R10:this isn’t about real life, remember?

C354R10:we’re not here to chat

There’s no movement for a second, and then he starts typing.

DUKEORSINO12:good talk chief

God. Of course he’s one of those.

DUKEORSINO12:so what’s this about the camelot quest?

Ah. That, on the other hand, is interesting. I roll out my neck, ignoring my phone when Bash finally deigns to answer my message.

C354R10:k, so you know how the crusades are PvE

DUKEORSINO12:?

Of course he doesn’t.

C354R10:sry forgot you’re a literal noob

DUKEORSINO12:do people really still say that

C354R10:only ironically. or when it applies

DUKEORSINO12:aye aye captain

C354R10:stop

C354R10:anyway the quests are player versus environment, PvE, meaning that if you want to go on one of the game’s crusades, you play against computer-controlled enemies, NPCs. combat realms are PvP, or player versus player. you versus me for example

DUKEORSINO12:ok, and???

C354R10:the camelot quest is both. which means that we play the crusade against NPCs, but we can also get attacked by other players who know we’re trying to win

DUKEORSINO12:fair enough

DUKEORSINO12:and what are we questing for

C354R10:do you know the lore of the game?

Pause to roll my eyes at myself.

C354R10:nvm of course you don’t

C354R10:the quest is to collect every relic from every realm. the holy grail and excalibur are the hardest—they’re not on the map,you have to find them. and the whole time other players can see which relics you’re carrying and try to steal them, so you have to not die

DUKEORSINO12:sounds impossible

C354R10:it is

Famously so. Only a handful of people have ever beaten the Camelot Quest and they’re all pro gamers with sponsorships.

Man, I wish I could get paid to play video games. Unfortunately, if you think gaming casually is bad, you should hear the way boys talk about female players at tournaments—it really brings out the ugly sides of some already questionable personalities.

DUKEORSINO12:cool. I can do impossible

Unsurprising that he’d think so. Equally unsurprising that he’s wrong; odds are he’s arrogant enough to get himself killed in the first quest realm, or the first time he got targeted by a competing player. Unless, that is, he’s smart enough to—

DUKEORSINO12:have you done it before?

DUKEORSINO12:/can you teach me how

Huh. That is a surprise.

I sit back in my chair, trying not to be impressed until I remember that oh yeah, he thinks I’m Cesario. He thinks I’m a dude. This is exactly the kind of thing that doesn’t get said when people already know you’re a girl. Instead, people (boys) usually assume they can teach you something.

One of many benefits to Jack Orsino not knowing who I really am, since there’s no way he’d ask me this in real life. About anything.

I consider it, chewing my lip, then shrug.

C354R10:I’ve never done it myself but yes

C354R10:I could help you

I’ve done most of the crusades that make up the Camelot Quest. After I stopped playing as myself, I played a lot of PvE alone until I figured out I could compete against other players as Cesario.

DUKEORSINO12:why haven’t you done it yourself??

Cue grimace.

C354R10:you need a team

It’s one of the most annoying things about this game. Some of the levels require another person just to pass. Even if you win combat rounds, someone else has to collect the relic. I’m not sure what the point is, but it’s very ConQuest-y in that way, where it’s almost impossible to do alone.

DUKEORSINO12:I get that

Of course he does. Mr. Team Sports himself.

DUKEORSINO12:so are we a team?

Not wanting to fall into the same trap as last time, I actually consider this before I answer. On the one hand, if Jack Orsino is incapable of anything, it’s pulling his own weight. On the other, I have always wanted to try to win this quest. I already have a couple of the most valuable relics, and if you don’t actively use them, you lose them.

Not to be a hoarder of digital weaponry, but anything that hard-won is something you want to keep.

C354R10:sure

C354R10:as long as you’re not a total disaster

C354R10:/don’t get us killed in the first realm

DUKEORSINO12:I learn fast

DUKEORSINO12:and how would I get us killed???

Poor sweet summer child.

Don’t worry about it,I type back. You’ll see.

I’m still up when Bash gets home, barking something about cast drama. I’m also up when my mom gets home, though I’ve very cleverly blocked out the glow from my laptop screen with a towel rolled up against my bedroom door. I eventually go to sleep only to be woken in the morning by a text message, which I half-consciously reply to, and then knock out again until almost noon.

Then I open my eyes to Bash standing over me and startle awake.

“Oi,” he says. “Olivia’s here.”

I respond with something like “mlmph?” and he shrugs.

“She’s downstairs but Mom’s working. Should I send her up here?”

“Why?”

“Because our mother is working,” Bash enunciates (shouts) in my ear.

“I meant why is she here, idiot,” I reply, shoving him away. “Did she say?”

He shrugs again. “You’re supposed to be working on your project, I gather.”

“What?”

“PRO-JECT,” he says.

This is going nowhere. “Look, just… stall,” I say, stumbling to my feet to kick a pile of dirty clothes into my closet. “I’ll, um—”

“Brush your teeth,” Bash advises sagely.

“Right. Yeah. So just—”

“Bring the charm? You got it.” Then he’s out the door.

According to my phone, the message I stupidly replied to was me agreeing to work on our scene this morning instead of tomorrow afternoon, since apparently Olivia has something-something Popular Girl Activities to do. I brush my teeth and throw on a bra under my T-shirt; everything else she can deal with.

“—and here is the dragon’s lair,” Bash says loudly, presumably to indicate that I should have myself pulled together by now, which I have. “Here we go. One maiden, safely delivered. No promises as to what happens after this.”

Olivia laughs and shrugs her backpack off her shoulder, giving me a small wave that’s almost shy, if I could suspect her of any shyness. “Thanks for being flexible,” she says.

“No problem.” I kick a mismatched shoe under my desk. “You can just set stuff on my bed if you want. My desk is…” Covered in fabric swatches, books, my laptop. Weekend Vi is a whole other beast. “Sort of otherwise occupied.”

“No worries.” She swings a leg beneath her and perches on my bed like a fawn. “What’d you do last night?”

“Oh, you know me, lots of plans,” I tell her. “The same thing I do every night.”

“Try to take over the world?” she prompts, and I laugh.

“Wait, did you just—”

“Pinky and the Brain,” she confirms while I dig through my school bag for my copy of the script. “It’s my cousin’s favorite way to annoy me when I ask her what we’re doing.”

“Cousin?” I echo.

“Yeah, older. Her family lives in Jordan but she’s at Columbia now.”

“Oh, that’s cool. That’s on my list of dream schools,” I admit, gesturing to a postcard of New York that I keep tacked up above my desk.

“Mine too.” Olivia looks dreamily away. “I love New York. It’s so… vibrant, you know? There’s this—”

“Don’t say energy!” I groan.

She laughs. “There is, though. There’s a flow.”

“Wow,” I say, shaking my head. “Wooooow. You sound like a New Yorker already.”

“Oof. I wish I were interesting enough.” She glances around my room, eyeing the books on my shelves. “What exactly is ConQuest?” she asks me before I can conjure up something polite and uninformed about how I’m sure she’s plenty interesting. “Like, I know what it is,” she adds, “I just don’t really get it, you know?”

Part of me braces for the conversation getting weird. I tried to explain the concept of ConQuest to my grandma once, but she thought it sounded like witchcraft. (Once Lola thinks a thing is witchcraft it’s hard to convince her that it isn’t.)

“It’s a role-playing game,” I say. “You design a character and then… be them, basically.”

“Just… be them?” she echoes.

“Well, there’s an adventure of some kind. A task, or a quest. But you make decisions that you think your character would make.”

“Sort of like a choose-your-own-adventure thing?”

“Yeah, sort of, except there’s no prompts or anything. You can just do whatever you want.” I flop onto my bed. “No rules. Anything you want to do, you can do. Within the constraints of the game, anyway.”

“That’s cool.” She gets up and peers at the spines, then runs her finger along one of the bindings. I thought she just brought it up to be nice, but then she says something again, surprising me while I’m fumbling through my scene annotations. “I think I’d be afraid to just… let go like that,” Olivia admits, more to my bookshelf than to me. “It’s almost easier to just do whatever people want me to do.”

“Is it?” I ask, and she looks at me, a little startled.

“Well… maybe not,” she admits, looking sheepish. “But I think I’d be embarrassed to do something wrong. Or say something dumb.”

“Why? Boys never worry about all the dumb things they say and do, trust me,” I mutter, and she laughs.

“Maybe you could teach me sometime.” She sits gingerly next to me. “If you wanted.”

“It’s kind of better in a group.” At the very least, you need another player and a QuestMaster, which I obviously don’t have.

“Oh. Yeah, I guess I can see that.” Olivia plays with a loose thread on my duvet, quiet for a minute, and I realize that maybe she wasn’t just being polite.

“We could try a sample game to start with,” I offer, and she looks up, brightening a little. “You’d just have to pick a character.”

“And my character can be… anyone?” Olivia asks.

“Anyone. Anything,” I add. “Any mythological creature, any lore, as long as you define their skills and weaknesses.”

“So I could be like…” She considers it. “A shark-headed gnome?”

I burst out laughing. “Okay, not what my guess would have been,” I admit when she grins, “but yeah, you technically could—”

“What’s your character?” she asks me.

Oh. Hm. I know she seems genuine, but it’s still kind of geeky to admit. “I’ve had a few over the years.”

“Who’s your favorite?”

“My current character, probably. Astrea Starscream.” I walk over to my desk and hold up the costume, or the parts of it that are finished. “She’s an assassin seeking revenge. The usual stuff.”

“Ooh, jealous.” She skips to her feet to touch the fabric. “Did you make this?”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “It’s not done.”

“It’s so cool. You can sew?”

“I learned for this, specifically,” I admit with a laugh. “Same reason I learned to fight.”

“Fight?”

“Muay Thai. Not seriously, just for fun. But with sewing I have an actual skill in the event of a zombie apocalypse.”

“Oh my god, you’re right.” Olivia groans. “I should start learning to weave, stat.”

“Maybe spin?” I suggest. “Though I don’t know where we’ll get the wool once manufacturing is no longer on the table.”

“See, these are the real concerns! You know Volio, on the football team?” I obviously don’t, but I nod anyway. “He was trying to talk to me about the apocalypse the other day,” she says, making a face. “Thinks he’s got it figured out.”

“Let me guess, he thinks you need a big strong man to protect you?”

“Guns,” she says simply.

“What’s with boys and guns? So phallic,” I point out, and she laughs.

“I know, right? He’s been… a lot, recently.” She sits back on my bed with a sigh. “Apparently some of the guys on the team have decided that ‘on a break’ is just a one-way street to single.”

It crosses my mind that this is a good time to get some information for Jack, but I’m not in a hurry. I kind of need him to stay on the hook for long enough that Kayla permanently redirects her pestering, and anyway, this isn’t about him.

“That sucks,” I say, resuming my seat next to Olivia, who glances at me with an intense look of… something.

“You know what? It does suck,” she says firmly. “And I can’t really talk about it because everyone just thinks I’m bragging or something.”

“Why, because boys like you? That’s not a secret,” I assure her. “I did have to rescue you from the clutches of a thousand pubescent Romeos.”

“It was hardly a thousand,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “And that’s the thing—they don’t know me. Jack did. Does,” she corrects herself quickly. Too quickly. She’s got a real talent for watching what she says out loud. “But the rest of them just see a cheerleading uniform and some, I don’t know, expertly applied mascara—”

“Couple of other things, too,” I remark with an arched brow, but rather than blush, she blurts out a laugh.

“Right, yeah, even better. Why do boys even like boobs? They’re pointless.”

“Not for the apocalypse babies. Or the dying man at the end of Grapes of Wrath.”

“You’re really cynical,” she observes.

“What? I brought up babies!”

“No, I mean… first the romance thing, then you instantly leapt to the apocalypse.” She’s smiling. “Is it super dark inside your head?”

“I consider other outcomes, too. It’s just best to be prepared for every possible scenario,” I assure her.

“Ah,” she says. “Makes sense.”

There’s a lull in conversation, so I turn my attention back to the script.

“Maybe that’s it,” Olivia says unexpectedly. “The thing I can’t do.”

“Hm?” I look up with a frown.

“You’re… imaginative. Creative.” She looks over at my ConQuest books again. “I just keep thinking how I’d need to watch someone else play, to find out what another person would do first. I can’t really imagine myself doing something on my own, you know? Figuring it out for myself like that.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. And there’s plenty of ways to watch other people play first. There’s videos on YouTube, or—” Just then, a thought occurs to me. “Or you could watch the live game at MagiCon.”

“What?” She blinks.

“MagiCon. It’s a sci-fi and fantasy convention. I go every year with—” Not important. “I volunteer every year. I could probably get you a spot.” Particularly since I happen to know that one’s available. “Won’t cost you any money, and we could probably slip out to watch parts of the game if you wanted.”

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to see what those conventions are like.” She considers it. “Would I need a costume?”

“It’s more fun with a costume, yeah. But if you don’t want to—”

“No, I want to. I love dressing up.”

“I could lend you one of my old ones, if you wanted,” I offer. “Or I have the costume I usually wear to RenFaire—”

“Oh my god, you mean like a dress with a corset?”

“Yeah,” I say, laughing at the wide-eyed expression on her face. “We can look for one later, if you want. After we, you know”—I hold up my script—“run lines.”

“Oh, right.” She sighs. “Sorry, I got all worked up thinking about corsets.”

“You know, you can’t possibly be bad at ConQuest,” I inform her. “You’re perfectly good at being Juliet, and she’s not you, right? She’s basically just a horny teen who doesn’t care what anyone thinks so long as she can bang Romeo.”

“Okay, I know you’re baiting me on purpose,” she sighs, to which I provide her an innocent shrug, “but you’re not wrong, I guess. She genuinely does not care what her family thinks, so I guess that’s worth keeping in mind.”

Part of me perks up at this tiny sliver of new information: her family? I’m guessing that little slip has something to do with her break with Jack. Before I can ask her about it, though, she’s nudging me.

“Come on. Your line,” she reminds me. “The sooner we have this memorized, the sooner we can do costumes.”

“Okay, fair enough,” I say quickly, because we may not agree about romance, but we’re definitely on the same page about that.

It was mostly by luck that I happened to be signed on last night when Cesario showed up.

(There’s no way I’m calling Bash Reyes by his username. Or by his real name, for that matter. Too weird, even in my own head.)

I had initially planned to be out with my teammates after the away game, but something… didn’t feel right. Maybe it was the fact that Curio’s now being lauded for his arm, or that Andrews is a surprisingly proficient receiver. Or that we’re now 5–0 without my help.

“Coach Orsino might never have known to take advantage of his passing game if his son hadn’t taken such a hard injury to his right knee,” declared the local sports broadcaster at the away game on Friday. “What might have been a struggle for the season has proven a surprise success, making Jack Orsino’s torn ACL a blessing in disguise for the Messaline offense.”

Yeah. A blessing. That’s what I was thinking, too.

I have to give Curio credit for still trying to include me in all team decisions at practice, even though we both know that watching me hobble around is a hell of a bummer for everyone else. Volio’s not quite so gracious; whenever someone talks to me, he glances at me with a little divot of confusion on his face, like I’m some kind of plant growing in the background. Funny how easily he thinks he can just slip into my place like I never existed, until I remember that oh yeah, he can. He’s in my position now, literally, and he doesn’t owe me anything. What doesn’t get thrown in by Curio has Volio’s name on it now, not mine. So yeah, if I were him I’d probably consider me a ghost, too. I’ve seen him watching Olivia like she’s his for the taking, and maybe she is.

I have no idea anymore, so I made my excuses and stayed home.

“How’s your PT going?” is Dad’s idea of casual small talk.

“Fine.” It’s still mostly stretches.

“You’ll be back on the field soon, kid. Promise.”

“Yeah.” That’s what I told Illyria, too, when I disclosed my ACL tear. It’s what I tell my mom before she gives me that sad little look of “sure, honey” that I know she doesn’t actually mean. I’ve seen her cover her face with her hands when my brother Cam takes a hard sack and I know, resentfully, that she’s grateful I can’t treat my body like a punching bag anymore. Not because I don’t want to, but because it won’t let me. Because for the first time, I’m fragile and vulnerable; because if I try it, I might break.

The truth is my knee, my leg, all of it… nothing feels like it used to. I feel trapped in my body, watching parts of me shrink down or swell up while I wait for things to hurt less, or work better. I know it’s only been a few weeks, but I’m not used to having to think about the way my knee bends or how to put weight on it. All of that used to come naturally. Not anymore.

Which is why this so-called Camelot Quest is the perfect distraction. It may not be the state championship I was promised, but it makes the game feel way more real, which is fun. Or an escape. And who cares about the difference anymore.

C354R10:okay so the first realm is orkney, as in gawain

C354R10:and there’s a trick to this realm

DUKEORSINO12:aside from not getting killed by the black knight??

C354R10:right yeah aside from that, which is true of all realms

C354R10:according to legend gawain’s power triples by noon but fades as the sun sets

DUKEORSINO12:meaning…?

C354R10:you have to take advantage of your character’s strengths. and watch out for mages or sorcerers who can conjure an artificial night. or knights who have casting skills

This is stupid, right? Part of me feels like I should point out that this is stupid.

But I get it, having rules. Only a certain number of players on the field. Only some eligible receivers. Football’s like chess, where each piece has a role, and it makes sense to me that magic—even weird computer game magic—has rules, too.

C354R10:the usual rules still apply to casting, fyi. it takes a lot to summon an eclipse like that but strategically it could be worth it

C354R10:magic has a cost, blah blah

DUKEORSINO12:oh, so it’s like the centauri on WoT

This is quite possibly the dorkiest thing I’ve ever said, but watching War of Thorns has made physics seem a lot easier. “Magic has a cost” is always being thrown around on the show, and put within context, all of Newton’s laws suddenly seemed a lot less random.

C354R10:yeah except unlike the centauri you just die

DUKEORSINO12:lol bummer

I’m about to type in another question about Orkney when Cesario rapidly cuts in.

C354R10:I forgot you’re watching WoT. are you caught up yet?

DUKEORSINO12:almost. I’ve got one more episode to go

I’m totally not going to be one of those freaks who’s obsessed with this show, but…

DUKEORSINO12:is it just me or is it total bullshit that the ice queen got overthrown

Cesario types back, stops, then types.

C354R10:I can’t believe I’m saying this but

C354R10:you’ve never been more right

I stifle a laugh.

DUKEORSINO12:at first I really didn’t think I was going to like her

DUKEORSINO12:but by the end I thought she was metal as hell

DUKEORSINO12:it totally sucks that that other dude betrayed her

C354R10:do you ever call any of the characters by their names

DUKEORSINO12:general punchy face

C354R10:he really does have a punchable face doesn’t he

DUKEORSINO12:100000%

C354R10:you wouldn’t believe how many people think calliope deserved to get overthrown

DUKEORSINO12:what?!

C354R10:oh yeah, it’s wild

C354R10:apparently siding with her is the same as condoning genocide

DUKEORSINO12:what?? it’s just a show

C354R10:tell that to the rodrigo-worshipping fanboys

DUKEORSINO12:ugh speaking of rodrigo is he ever going to tell star tattoo girl how he feels about her or what

C354R10:you REALLY need to learn their names

DUKEORSINO12:I’ll add it to my busy schedule

C354R10:and you also really need to catch up

C354R10:because I can’t even begin to list the rodrigo-liliana problems this season

C354R10:top of the list would be: they’re boring

DUKEORSINO12:lol

DUKEORSINO12:“ya basic”

C354R10:!! for real though!!

C354R10:he’s always trying to make her be “moral” and it’s exhausting

DUKEORSINO12:tbh my question is why she’d even want to be with rodrigo when cesario’s right there

Once again Cesario says something, then hesitates.

C354R10:I mean, not that I’m biased but ya

Not very chatty, Cesario.

DUKEORSINO12:so, orkney?????

C354R10:right

C354R10:yes

C354R10:orkney

The entrance to Orkney is a tiny, quaint village, beyond which turns out to be a pretty cool forest. I don’t know much about how game design works, but this one seems impressive. And you can actually interact with the setting in the game, which makes it better. And, I assume, harder to execute.

Once again: whatever nerd designed this game is really good at what they do.

Before I have a chance to ask Cesario what we’re looking for, the sun suddenly dims. The scenery swirls around us, the trees becoming gothic, haunted versions of themselves as a message displays on the screen.

AN ENEMY ATTACKS!

From the creepy haunted trees emerges some kind of sorcerer, which isn’t a dopey Magician’s Assistant type of avatar or an old dude with a long beard, but instead a chiseled, muscular character with a symbol like a bolt of lightning. I draw my sword, but the sorcerer turns directly to Cesario.

ATTACK!the screen shrieks at us again, which is… honestly? Kind of unhelpful. I’ve never had to wonder if I was under attack and I certainly think I can figure it out now.

Cesario’s health bar dims to a golden, mustardy yellow, and so does mine. This must be that power-diminishing spell he was telling me about, which explains the darkness.

Cesario pulls out a normal broadsword, beginning to fight head-on. I’ve run plays like this before, where there’s two people facing one off. It’s best to force your opponent into the middle, so I hit the sorcerer from the side, hoping to shift him. From there, Cesario and I can both try to attack from either side of his periphery, catching him off guard.

Luckily Cesario is quick to notice what I’m doing. He repositions himself and fakes high at the same time I go low. I manage a critical hit to the sorcerer, whose green bar wavers and dims. I’m about to turn outside when Cesario beats me to it—again—and manages another critical hit, this time bringing the green bar to yellow. He must determine that to be effective enough for a riskier gamble, because he uses his limited powers to cast something; it’s a skill I don’t have yet. Somehow a patch of light opens up, and despite a momentary dip into red for Cesario, our power bars glow brightly, unmistakably green.

We pull the same move again, both attacking the sorcerer, who retreats.

ENEMY RETREATS!the screen informs us. (Duh, we noticed.)

DUKEORSINO12:was that the game?

DUKEORSINO12:the environment or whatever?

C354R10:no

C354R10:that was

But before he can finish telling me what just happened, the screen opens up on a long, elaborate scroll.

brAVE KNIGHT, YOUR VALOUR PRECEDES YOU!

WOULD YOU LIKE TO BEGIN THE CAMELOT QUEST?

Is it weird that I’m excited? I hit Yes, and my knight avatar bends one knee. Cesario’s does the same.

VERY WELL,says the scroll, rolling itself up and contributing two more icons over our avatars’ heads: a castle and a sword, both glowing, which I’m guessing will be visible to everyone else in the game.

THEN MAY YOU FIND THE TREASURE YOU SEEK.