Twelfth Knight

13. Dual-World Gameplay

DUKEORSINO12:okay so don’t be mad but I signed you up for the asb tournament

DUKEORSINO12:I know for a fact you’re free that day

DUKEORSINO12:and listen, I get that you’re Secretive about all this, but like…

DUKEORSINO12:can I be honest?

DUKEORSINO12:I kind of need this

DUKEORSINO12:okay no, I REALLY need this

DUKEORSINO12:I know that’s lame but look, it’s been a tough year

DUKEORSINO12:I just really need a win, you know?

DUKEORSINO12:and it won’t be the same if you’re not there, so…

DUKEORSINO12:please?

Oh great. Because I can definitely say no to that.

“I told you to come clean” is Bash’s annoying but predictable first response. He’s not actively angry at me, probably because without me he’d have no method of getting to school, but in the realm of fraternal fealty, my debts are seriously racking up. (Luckily I’ve been solidly in the lead for about seventeen years—I’m coasting on a lifetime’s worth of responsible behavior and free rides.) “Didn’t I say this would all come around and bite you eventually?”

“Helpful, Sebastian, thank you—”

“Tell him now,” Bash urges me. “Just tell him that you’re the real Cesario, and that you were only—”

“Only what? Only lying to him this whole time?” I flop backward onto my bed, groaning. “I shouldn’t have agreed to this tournament. And I never should have agreed to do the quest with him. And—”

“Uh, okay, stop,” Bash says, kicking at my ankles until I kick him swiftly back. “Ouch, Viola—”

“I should just change my mind and say no, right? I’ll just say no.” You’d think I’d have figured out a solution before now, given that Jack told me (Vi, girl, apparent idiot) in advance of asking Cesario (boy, virtual knight guru, also me). By the time he informed me that he’d already signed me up, though, it was a little too late to share what I actually think, which is: OH GOD NO, PLEASE DON’T.

“If you change your mind, he’ll just try to persuade the person he thinks is the real Cesario, which is me,” Bash reminds me, as if any part of this has somehow escaped my notice. “And if he’s as persistent as you say he is—”

“He is.” Newly so, which is probably my fault. Would the old Jack Orsino have thought to put together a budget? Or an itemized list of the school’s available equipment? I should have just been satisfied with doing everyone’s jobs for them. It was a simpler time when I could look around at all the incompetence and decide for myself how things should be done. “You’re right, he’d probably try to persuade you in person.” As DukeOrsino12, he’s already all but begged. Something about wanting to move forward with things outside of football, which, damn it, is also my fault. (Could I kindly just shut up?!)

“So,” Bash says, “your options are to come clean—”

“Or. Or.” I sit upright so abruptly I knock into Bash’s shoulder. “Or…?”

“There’s no or,” Bash corrects me. “I didn’t mean to phrase it like there would be multiple options. There’s one option, and it’s—”

“You.” Suddenly, it’s obvious. “I’ll just teach you to play the game like you’re me.”

“What?” Bash squawks, but oh my god, of course.

“You can play for me in the tournament!” I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. “Jack and I will be almost done with the quest by then anyway, so—”

But Bash’s eyes are bulging out of his face with disbelief. Or something way weirder.

“MOM,” he shouts, rising to his feet and bursting from my bedroom.

“Hey! Bash—” That little dick. I wind up chasing him down the stairs, both of us descending to the bottom with a clatter. “I swear to god, if you make a big thing of this—”

Bash comes to a sudden halt, leaving me to crash into his back. I nearly trip over the hallway sideboard, smacking my shin into its wooden leg and letting out a stream of thoughtless curses.

“Oh,” says Bash. “Sorry.”

“You’d better be sorry,” I growl, since I can feel a bruise the size of Pluto forming on my leg. “Have you lost your mind? You can’t just go running to Mommy every time you…”

But then I trail off, because Bash isn’t talking to me. Or to Mom.

“Hey, kids,” says Pastor Ike, half smiling. “Something wrong?”

When I first met Pastor Ike, I thought, okay. All right, fine, so I see the appeal. He’s not my mom’s usual type—i.e., handsome the way television detectives are handsome—but I can see why an unspecified person would like him. He’s got a boyish look to him, a slight slouch and the appearance of someone whose hands touch musical instruments all day, plus a tendency to give a sheepish laugh and a thoughtful pause before he answers most questions. He’s got that dirty blond, gray mixing-in, thoughtlessly half-styled hair that makes him seem approachable and blithely distracted, and obviously I hate him.

Okay, I don’t hate him. I hate the idea of him, though, for obvious reasons. For one thing, he’s currently sitting at the dining table we never use in the chair across from me that nobody ever sits in, totally oblivious to the fact that hosting outsiders for dinner is not something we do in general. (All three of us are somewhere on a spectrum of “unfit for company,” with any attempts at matching silverware or polite niceties hopeless before they’ve begun.)

Also, my mom is much more cheerful these days and it’s incredibly annoying. Not because I want her to be miserable, obviously. It’s just fundamentally weird that whoever she is because of Pastor Ike—okay, Isaac—is someone, um—

“Vi, how’s the pasta? It’s her favorite,” Mom chatters in the same breath, leaning over to Pastor Ike. He gives me a polite smile and then turns a much fonder one to my mom, who is once again babbling.

This would be very cute, obviously, if my mom were the kind of woman who habitually got nervous. But my mother is an ice-cold feminist who thinks most people are stupid and all men are useless. She’s a barely adequate cook and this pasta is essentially baked macaroni and cheese, which Bash and I have at least once a week because Mom has deadlines and can’t slave away inventing new stuff all the time. If having Pastor Ike around means that suddenly our household is beholden to the opinions of a man (Bash doesn’t count), then I don’t think I want it.

“It’s great. I can practically taste the centuries of unpaid domestic labor,” I say, and my mom barks a laugh that says she’s deeply uncomfortable. Pastor Ike gives me a funny look.

“So, anyway,” Bash announces, “Vi and I are having an ethical dilemma.”

“No we’re not,” I say at once, because even if this were open to discussion with someone liable to weaponize psalms, we already have Lola. “Don’t mind him,” I tell Pastor Ike. “He’s deeply imaginative. Borderline delusional.”

“What’s going on?” my mom asks, meticulously arranging a forkful of pasta.

“Nothing,” I say at the same time Bash says, “Vi’s a con artist.”

“I am not a con artist—”

“True, you’re not actually very successful—”

“Does this mean you’re going to tell us why you’ve been staying up half the night every night?” my mom asks, finally dropping her chipper housewife energy and giving me a look that’s pure I have a master’s in journalism, Viola, don’t try me. “Don’t think that just because I haven’t said anything means I haven’t noticed.”

I bristle, because once again, I do not need Pastor Ike to gang up on me along with my mother and brother. “What happened to being trusted to make my own choices?” I demand. “Practicing for an independent adulthood?”

“That’s why I’m not interfering. But I’d like to think that trusting your choices means you’d consider making some healthy ones.” My mom shoots me a warning glance.

“It’s really nothing,” I tell her irritably. “I’m just… I need Bash’s help with something and he doesn’t want to.”

“Help with what?” Mom asks.

“Nothing,” I say when Bash says, “Criminal conspiracy.”

“It’s not conspiracy—”

“At very least I’m an appendage,” he insists over my loud groan.

“I think you mean accomplice—”

“So you admit it!” he trumpets.

“Ahem,”my mom interrupts loudly, at which point we all simultaneously notice that Pastor Ike has his head bent, obscuring a laugh. “Is something funny?” she asks him, sounding… Well. Sounding very brisk and Mom-like.

He coughs. “Yes. Sorry. A bit.”

I’d love to continue being annoyed with him, but he looks properly chagrined, like he really had hoped not to be noticed.

“Please,” my mother grunts. “Enlighten us.”

“It’s just very charming,” Pastor Ike says. “How well you all know each other.”

“We live together,” I point out. Mom gives me a look like Tone, please.

“Well, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” says Pastor Ike. “I meet with plenty of families who sit through dinner without speaking. It’s just very clear that you like each other very much, I suppose.”

“Vi called me an imbecilic clown this morning,” Bash volunteers.

“It’s true,” I confirm. “I did and he is.”

“By choice,” Bash insists.

“You’re both clowns,” says my mother.

Pastor Ike smiles again.

“Stop it,” we say to him in unison.

“See? Cute.” He shrugs, and my mom backhands his arm.

“Don’t call us cute—”

“We’re not cute,” I agree.

“Aesthetically it’s more of a fond antagonism,” contributes Bash.

“Mm,” says Pastor Ike. “Well, in that case, my apologies.”

“Do you have any advice for my sinful children?” asks my mom. “Professionally speaking. As a man of the cloth.”

“Try not to quote a dead white man,” I add. My mom kicks me under the table. “What?”

“Well,” Pastor Ike says, wiping his mouth on his napkin and leaning back in his chair. “Honesty is usually the best policy—”

“Ha,” says Bash, brandishing a fork at me.

“—but,” Pastor Ike continues, “as a society, there is a definite anthropological value assigned to lies. Particularly to avoid pain or insult.”

“Ha-ha,” I inform Bash, adding to Pastor Ike, “Now tell him that loving thy sister involves occasionally doing her one tiny favor.”

“To avoid pain or insult?” Pastor Ike guesses mildly.

“Sure, why not.” I lift another bite of pasta to my mouth while across the table, my mom’s brow furrows.

“Well, ultimately you have no control over anyone but yourself,” Pastor Ike says. “And as a personal doctrine, I tend to believe that you get in this life what you give.”

“You reap what you sow? Very biblical,” I point out.

“It’s fairly ancient wisdom,” Pastor Ike counters. “I don’t think you always get it back right away. Sometimes it takes a long time, a lifetime, to get back what you give to others. In the best case that is love.” He glances at my mom and looks quickly, guiltily, away. “In other cases it is decency, friendship, kindness—”

“Then how do you explain what happened to Jesus?” I ask. (My mom kicks me again.)

“He’s an anomaly,” says Pastor Ike.

“So you’re saying this is a matter of karma?”

“Karma is much more complex than that.” Pastor Ike takes a sip of water, then returns his attention to me. “But ideologically, the concept is there. Nature shows a reliance on balance. For every action, an equal and opposite reaction.”

“What if not everything is just good or bad, decent or indecent, kind or unkind?” I counter. “Ultimately what I want Bash to do is for someone else’s benefit, not mine.”

“Nothing is black and white,” acknowledges Pastor Ike slowly.

“Not even good and evil?”

“No. Most of religion’s flaws are rooted in a false dichotomy.”

“Isn’t that blasphemous?”

“Is it?” he replies. “Does faith have to be blind?”

“As far as I can tell, institutional religion strongly suggests yes.”

“Institutional religion is not faith. We are equipped with consciences, but also free will. We make choices. It’s not unlike your mother,” he says, “teaching you right from wrong, but then leaving you to decide what bedtime is appropriate.”

“Don’t drag me into this,” my mother says instantly.

“So, is every choice purely good or purely evil? No,” continues Pastor Ike. “In complex situations there will be pain in goodness, kindness in selfishness.”

“Okay.” I set down my fork. “So what’s your call, then? Should Bash help me even though it involves a lie that will spare someone else’s pain?”

“Sounds like a question for Bash’s free will,” says Pastor Ike.

“Boooooooo,” announces Bash, who’s been unusually quiet.

“Well. Whatever you two are up to, it had better not be anything illegal,” my mom says. “If either of you get arrested, you’ll have to call Lola and deal with her wrath. That’s the deal.”

“Very effective,” Bash says hastily.

“I look forward to meeting your grandmother,” Pastor Ike remarks, adding to me, “Any advice?”

I shrug. “Don’t ask me. Bash is the nice one.”

“No. Vi’s Lola’s favorite,” Bash says with a vigorous shake of his head.

“Lola loves you both equally,” Mom chides us.

“She yells at me more,” I retort, to which Bash shrugs, because nobody ever yells at him. He’s too naturally delightful. “And she bugs me to smile. And consistently asks about boyfriends I don’t have. But you’re, like, a human man that my mom’s actually dating,” I point out to Pastor Ike, “so that’s already a step in the right direction. Just praise her cooking and you’re golden.”

I don’t realize I’ve given Pastor Ike an honest answer until after I notice him exchanging a look with my mom. The look, whatever it’s intended to mean, is kind of tender. It’s like an entire conversation passes between them in less than a blink. Like a heartbeat of symmetry.

You’d think it might make me feel lonely to know that someone understands something sacred about my mother, but I don’t. I feel profoundly un-empty. Satiated, I guess. Full.

Later, Bash sneaks into my room like we’re still five years old and failing at falling asleep.

“I’ll help you,” he says, getting under the covers while shoving me over to make room. “But only because you were nice to Pastor Ike.”

“Aha!” I shout-whisper triumphantly, “I knew you called him that, too—”

“But you have to promise me it ends here,” Bash adds. “As soon as this tournament is over, you have to stop.”

“First of all, I’m nice to people when I want to be nice,” I say.

“Yes, I’m familiar. You’re like a terrible house cat.”

“And secondly, I know.” I sigh. “I really do mean it, Bash. Just this one thing and then I promise, I’ll tell Jack the truth.”

“The whole truth?” Bash asks, arching a brow.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Yes, I’ll tell him that I’m Cesario and you’re just my useless pawn.”

“Not that.” He tugs my hair. “The other thing.”

“What, about Olivia?”

“No.”

“Okay good, because duh, he already knows—”

He looks at me for a second like he wants to say more, but then doesn’t.

“What else is there?” I demand.

“You’re impossible,” Bash mutters unhelpfully, and steals my pillow. “And why’s your bed comfier than mine?”

“Probably because I actually wash my sheets.”

“Be quiet, I’m sleeping.”

I roll my eyes and then close them, exhausted. It was a long day, not only because I’ve been roped into Jack’s tournament project, but also because we were in the Red Lands today on the latest leg of the quest. This realm partially inspired my ConQuest idea: there is a fairy market and it’s extremely cool, regardless of what the rest of my dumb former group thinks. You have to find the portal and enter a realm filled with tricksy fae magic. After that is Lyonesse, a sea voyage over an ocean of monsters. Every realm gets cooler and more challenging, more exciting, and Jack is more and more intuitive as the days go by. Yesterday, we were attacked by yet another person trying to steal one of our relics (Tristan’s Fail-Not Bow this time, which we’ll need in order to kill the questing beast in Brittany) and Jack didn’t even have to ask what I wanted him to do. And not in the usual obnoxious way, like he no longer thinks he needs any help or that he’s god’s gift to gaming, but because he’s actually thinking about what I need.

People don’t really think about me. I’m not complaining—it’s just a fact. I’m used to being the one responsible for what comes next, what needs to be done, and it’s not very often that people bother taking things off my plate. When I want things, I need to ask for them, which I do, and sure, not always all that nicely, because I know that most people are busy thinking about themselves. Only one person has ever changed their behavior without me having to force them to do it, and to my surprise, it was the duke himself: Jack Orsino.

So this thing he wants, this tournament? I can’t explain it, but I can’t not give it to him.

“Just tell him you like him,” Bash murmurs to me.

Maturely, I pretend to be asleep.

“Orsino.” Dad’s in Coach mode, jaw hinging rapidly around the usual Big Red. “Think you can work with Andrews?”

“Sure.” I rise to my feet, testing a light jog over to the sideline while the defense takes the field. Andrews is pacing, apprehensive. He dropped the last two passes in practice and now he’s in his head. “Catch,” I tell him, throwing a languid spiral.

The ball hits his palms easily, like it was made to rest there. Nothing about this is meant to be strenuous; it’s just a reminder that not everything has the stakes of a fourth down with one minute to go. Sometimes, the best way to build someone back up is to remind them it’s a game.

I test my knee, feeling the usual urge to take off until everything turns to dust behind me.

Yeah, just a game.

“Still feels weird on the field without you,” Andrews comments, tossing the ball back.

I don’t say anything at first. “You’re having a hell of a season,” I remind him eventually.

He shrugs. “So did you when you were my year.”

This is true—I had a better year, statistically speaking—but the implication still stings. I’m proof that one good sophomore year does not a pro career make, which is a depressing reminder that even the quickest knees can take a hit. I’m probably saving his ego.

Can’t say being a cautionary tale feels all that great.

He catches a few more. “I heard one of the other Illyria prospects is out. Suspended for partying or something.”

“Mm.” I can tell he thinks that’s good for me; that even a player recovering from a major injury in their senior year is better than one who’s sure to screw around in college. I feel differently. If Illyria is going to hold up their end of my signing, it doesn’t matter who else disqualifies themselves from my position. I wanted—I still want—to be their choice because I’m the best. Even if that means asking them to gamble on how well I can build myself back up. Even if it means proving something about myself that I’m not entirely sure about.

“Heard from them?” Andrews asks.

No, actually. Not in a long time. “I’m sure they’ll be in touch before the season’s over.”

“Oh, sweet. You’ll be on the field by State, right?”

Eric says no. It’ll be three more weeks of pure stability before I could do football-specific workouts. Mom says no because Eric says no. Dad says we’ll see, I’ve always been special, I practically ran before I could walk.

Frank’s watching me. Waiting for me to do something dumb, I’d guess.

“Yeah, probably.” A lie, but a white one.

“Awesome. Wouldn’t be the same without you.”

I throw another spiral. “You’d be fine.”

He grins. “Sure I would.”

His next throw goes a little to the side, a little low. He’s a receiver—his job is to catch the ball, meaning a certain lack of throwing proficiency is to be expected—so it’s not a big deal, but it occurs to me I’d have to cut low and sideways to catch it. Instead I wave him away, letting the ball go out of bounds. “You’re warm now. Go stretch.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” Andrews jogs away and I pick up the ball again, squinting a little. “Hey, Andrews? Put this away.”

The ball soars and is caught, and I hear a faint but memorable ringing in my ears.

(DUKE, DUKE, DUKE—)

“Good thing you never wanted my position,” says a voice behind me, and I turn to spot Curio approaching from where he’s just been running drills with special teams.

“Nah. My arm’s nothing special.” Not compared to my legs, anyway.

“Doubt that.” Curio sidles up next to me and we both turn to face the field. “Last game of the season, huh?”

“Yeah.” The sun’s going down over the far sideline, behind the hills, which is one of my favorite sights. I know it’s weird, but I really do love the smell of turf; the plastic-y taste of the water from the Gatorade coolers. I love the energizing buzz of the stadium lights turning on, and the incredible, crisp solitude of hearing them shut off.

“You’ll be back,” Curio says. “It doesn’t end here for you.”

His voice sounds a little strange. “You okay?” I ask.

“Hm? Yeah, oh yeah.” His mouth twists in a wistful smile. “Just gonna miss it, that’s all.”

“Could still play in college, right?”

“Not the same way. Not like this.”

“But you got an offer, didn’t you?” From a small school down south, but still.

“Yeah, but I know it’s over.”

“Hey, don’t say that—”

“No, I’m not… I’m not being mopey or anything.” Curio shrugs. “I don’t have an arm to compete at that level. It just happens to be good enough for high school football, and I’m cool with that, honestly I am.” He glances sideways at me. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to thank you.”

“For what? Getting hurt?” I laugh, and he does, too.

“Yeah, that.”

“My pleasure. Happy to fall on that sword for you.”

“No seriously, seriously.” He sobers a little. “Thanks for… I don’t know. Showing me what it looks like to step up, I guess.” He shrugs. “I had three seasons to watch you and Valentine, and I don’t know, it just matters.”

That means a lot, but there’s no way to acknowledge that without making us both uncomfortable.

“You’re right,” I say. “You can’t be a college quarterback. You’re way too nice.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes, knocking his shoulder pads against my arm. “Anyway, you’re more than just your yardage, you know? Just thought someone should tell you that.”

I open my mouth to say something—what that something will be, I have no idea—but then Coach is blowing the whistle, summoning everyone back to the field. Curio kicks off to jog over, but I catch his arm.

“Just enjoy it, okay?” I say in a low tone. “Every second. You guys are good enough to win State, but even if you don’t… don’t waste it.”

What I mean is that you never know how many more seconds you get on that field before someone takes it all away from you. A torn meniscus or a Hail Mary that knocks you out in the last five seconds. A tornado or a flood. Nothing is guaranteed except for now, right now.

“Yeah. Thanks, man.” Curio nods to me and I follow behind him to the team huddle, picking up speed. Eric would say no. Mom would say no. Frank’s not looking.

I run and it feels…

Fine.

“Hands in!” shouts Coach, and nobody even noticed. Nobody saw me. No lightning bolts descended from the sky. No divine smitings. I’m completely unharmed.

I exhale, thinking for the first time: maybe it’s worth it. Maybe right now is worth everything. Maybe it’s worth more than next year or the next four years or a career.

Are you literally an idiot?asks a voice in my head that I’m 95 percent sure belongs to Vi Reyes, but I shake it off, joining the huddle for Coach’s dismissal.

I wait for my dad to go to sleep before slipping outside again, shoes laced.

I just want to see what happens.

I stretch my calves carefully, meticulously. Stretch my quads, do my usual stability exercises, activate my glutes. I take a full twenty minutes to work on everything, warm it all up, my run playlist blaring in my headphones.

I turn and face the end of my street. It’s a cool night—cold enough that I can see my breath—and the swish of my shorts feels insubstantial. Freeing.

The song cuts out briefly to a chime in my ears. A text message.

“From Viola Reyes,” my chipper Siri says before announcing in her monotonous chanting, “Orsino-do-you-have-the-signed-permission-forms-yet-or-are-you-planning-to-wait-until-everyone’s-already-graduated.”

I roll my eyes, ignoring it.

The phone chimes again.

“Also from Viola Reyes,” Siri chirps. “By-the-way-I’m-sorry.”

Hm. Interesting.

“Also from Viola Reyes: Not-about-this-because-you-do-have-a-job.”

Another eye roll. I bounce a little, back and forth on the balls of my feet.

“Also from Viola Reyes: I’m-just-sorry. About-a-lot-of-things.”

That puzzles me. I exhale another foggy breath, then dig my phone out of my pocket. I’m about to text Vi back to ask what the hell she’s talking about when I see a starred message on my phone: an email from Illyria.

Dear Jack,

Hope all is well! Congratulations to Messaline High and Coach Orsino on a perfect season. Best of luck at the East Bay finals next week!

Wanted to check in about your progress. Hoping that we can schedule a time to chat about your readiness on the field in advance of next season. I’m sure you’ve got a lot going on, but possibly sometime before the holidays? Hoping we’ll get a chance to see you at State.

Wait. See me at State?

See me play at State?

I look out over the empty suburban street, a rush of adrenaline in my veins.

It’s not cutting it that close. Besides, Eric’s just being overly cautious. It’s his job.

I could run. I could. If I just had good blockers…

Even one play could be enough to prove a miraculous recovery.

Dad would do it. He’d put me in.

If he could just put me in, I could—

I blink, the beat heavy in my ears.

My heart stutters and pounds.

“Come on,” I whisper to whoever’s listening. The universe, God, whoever.

And then, slowly at first, like something gradually catching flame, I take off down the street.

DUKEORSINO12:okay I know we’re doing corbenic tonight but I really need help with something

DUKEORSINO12:I went for a run, right?

DUKEORSINO12:and it was fine

DUKEORSINO12:not just fine. great

DUKEORSINO12:I feel fucking great

DUKEORSINO12:I’m icing now

DUKEORSINO12:I’m not an idiot

DUKEORSINO12:but I might still have a shot with illyria

DUKEORSINO12:I might still play next year and like

DUKEORSINO12:this changes everything

DUKEORSINO12:EVERYTHING

DUKEORSINO12:if I can get in for even a minute during the postseason

DUKEORSINO12:I could have it all back

DUKEORSINO12:everything I lost, I could have it back and I just

DUKEORSINO12:I sound like a maniac I know but I just really need

I sit back in my chair, exhaling with my hands on my head.

What do I need? I’m not sure how to finish the sentence. Am I looking for someone to stop me? To encourage me? To validate me, set me straight, enable me, what? I already screwed this up once, so do I want someone to tell me no or tell me yes? I know who to go to for one or the other, but neither answer feels completely right.

What do I need?

Someone I trust. Right or wrong, yes or no. Someone who’ll be honest with me, be real with me, whether it’s what I want to hear or not.

And I know exactly who that is.

DUKEORSINO12:sorry hang on there’s something I gotta do

Cesario says something back (uhhhh???) but it’s too late, I’m already dialing.

“Hello?”

“Hi.” I exhale, relieved beyond measure to hear her voice. “Can we… Can we go somewhere? Can I talk to you?”

Vi pauses a second.

Two seconds.

“Yeah,” she says eventually. “Yeah, sure.”