Exclusive: Alexene Farol Follmuth's ‘Twelfth Knight’ Excerpt is the Shakespeare Retelling of Our Dreams

Listen, the words "Shakespeare retelling" can only mean one thing: that what you're about to read will be one of the your new favorite new books. It's been proven time and time again, especially when it comes to rom-coms. And considering the track record that Alexene Farol Follmuth, AKA Olivie Blake, has on our bookshelves, this is basically a match made in heaven.

Cosmopolitan has an exclusive new look at Alexene's Twelfth Knight which brings Shakespeare's Twelfth Night to life as we follow Vi as she plays as her masculine alter ego in a MMORPG, the only place that she feels like she can truly be herself especially without all the usual misogyny that comes with being a girl in the gaming world. But of course, something unexpected happens when she plays with newly injured jock, Jack Orsino.

Let's just say those late-night gaming sessions get very real, very quickly. Ready to find out more about Vi's journey? Here's some more info from our friends at Tor Teen so you can prepare before it comes out on May 28, 2024:

From the New York Times bestselling author of The Atlas Six (under the penname Olivie Blake) comes Twelfth Knight, a new charming YA rom-com and coming of age story about taking up space in the world and learning what it means to let others in.

Viola Reyes is annoyed.

Her painstakingly crafted tabletop game campaign was shot down, her best friend is suggesting she try being more “likable,” and her school's star running back Jack Orsino is the most lackadaisical Student Body President she’s ever seen, which makes her job as VP that much harder. Vi’s favorite escape from the world is the MMORPG Twelfth Knight, but online spaces aren’t exactly kind to girls like her—girls who are extremely competent and have the swagger to prove it. So Vi creates a masculine alter ego, choosing to play as a knight named Cesario to create a safe haven for herself.

But when a football injury leads Jack Orsino to the world of Twelfth Knight, Vi is alarmed to discover their online alter egos—Cesario and Duke Orsino—are surprisingly well-matched. As the long nights of game-play turn into discussions about life and love, Vi and Jack soon realize they’ve become more than just weapon-wielding characters in an online game. But Vi has been concealing her true identity from Jack, and Jack might just be falling for her offline…

You don't have to roll for an investigation check to see if you can read the book ASAP. In fact, you can check out an exclusive excerpt below. Just make sure to pre-order Twelfth Knight and some of Alexene's other books while you're at it!

An Excerpt From Twelfth Knight
By Alexene Farol Follmuth

Chapter Two

Player vs. Player

Jack

My girlfriend Olivia’s cheerleader-sanctioned curls fall into her eyes, so she doesn’t see me wink when I make my way back onto the field for our next possession. Her friends do; they giggle and nudge her, but by the time she looks up I’m already manifesting myself in thePadua end zone. You gotta see it, Coach says. See it, make it happen. Success is not an accident. I’ve got scrolls of his wisdom in my head that play out like flashes on a neon marquee. Champions are half intention, half work.

“Just get the ball to Duke” was Coach’s last instruction to Curio.

This’ll be a draw, meant to look like a passing play. A bit of mis-direction, just in case Padua’s figured out a thing or two about the way I play this game—not that I expect them to stop me. It’s one thing to read the field and another thing to control it. I line up directly behind Curio, with junior hotshot Malcolm Volio on my left and sophomore receiver Andrews on my right.

Curio drops back, scanning the field as Andrews positions him-self for what looks like an intended catch, and then Curio turns and delivers the ball to me. I make it through the blockade of guards, centers, and tackles, and boom. The field is wide open.

The same cornerback from earlier realizes he’s fallen for the trap.He changes directions, so I veer toward the visitors’ sideline, narrowly missing an oncoming tackle. It pushes me farther out thanI’d like, nearly running me off the field, but I meticulously tight-rope the sideline. It’s funny how you can know a field after so many times running it, reading it reflexively beneath your feet. I know in my bones when I cross that first-down mark; ten yards, then twenty, then thirty. By now the crowd is screaming, the visiting side booing loudly from my left to mix with the chants of my name to my right, and I can’t help a smile.

The end zone is in sight by the time the cornerback finally reaches me like an arrow, shouldering me out of my narrow strip of safety. He shoves into me once, leaving me struggling for a few more yards, then a second time, ramming into my torso. I nearly crash into one of Padua’s cheerleaders, catching myself just before I pitch headfirst into their entire offensive line.

I’m forced out of bounds before I can reach the end zone, which leaves the cornerback looking smug as hell. Doesn’t matter; I still got us within ten yards of a touchdown, meaning at worst we’ll get a field goal, breaking the tie. I just hope we do it quickly—there’s still time to put more points on the board, and I want to be the one to do it.

It only occurs to me as I’m jogging back for the next play that I just ran about eighty yards. Impressive on its own, but better yet:record-breaking. I hear a few of the Messaline alums cheering and glance over, spotting Nick Valentine, our former QB and my best friend. He’s holding up a poster that says “DUKE ORSINO” and a picture of a goat, as in GOAT: Greatest of All Time. Most career yards in Messaline history.

Not a big deal, I tell myself, but then I spot my dad on the side-line, chewing his usual stick of Big Red and typing something quickly into his phone. He gives me a thumbs-up, stoic as ever, even though I know for a fact he just texted my brother Cam.

Yeah, okay. I won’t lie, this feels pretty good.

“Hell of a run,” says Curio when I take my spot for the slant.“Feel like going again?”

“And take all the glory? You try for once,” I say. He rolls his eyes and calls for a passing play, so this one isn’t intended for me.

Curio’s throw isn’t perfect, not that I get a full glimpse of what hap-pens. The Padua cornerback is covering me now, probably instructed to do whatever it takes to keep me out of the end zone. Understand-able, but he’s starting to piss me off. He shoves me, pointlessly, and I shove back.

His response, unpleasant by the looks of it, is inaudible over the sound of our band playing the Messaline “charge” chant. I line up near Volio again, buzzing with annoyance, and catch his sidelong glance at me.

“You good, Duke?”

“Peachy keen, Mal. This one’s mine. Curio!” I call, and our quarterback looks at me, the two of us exchanging a glance that says this’ll be a blast, literally. I’m gonna take the ball and run it into thePadua end zone where it belongs.

The play starts and the ball is mine, tucked safely into my torso while I lower my head and shove myself forward by sheer force of will. My mom hates to watch this; she covers her eyes, but for me, this is when the game feels most like war—there’s something undeniably primal about it, and dangerous, too. I grit my teeth around my mouthguard and pummel as far forward as I can, the usual necessary evil of gambling my body based on four years of weight training, a dash of good karma, and a whole lot of blind faith.

Almost immediately I’m wrestled sideways from my right and left, wrenched in two separate directions. Something smacks into the front of my helmet; I tuck my chin in time to prevent my head snapping back, but elsewhere there’s an impact to my right knee. It’sa blow from a weird angle, a hard, forced contortion—

(Shit.)

—and in a blinding splice of pain I find myself at the bottom of a dogpile, the ball forced into my gut just a yard shy of a touchdown.

For a second I’m too dazed to get up, blinking away stars.

Does anything hurt?

No, nothing hurts. (This happens every time I get hit. A flash of something; nerves or whatever.) I’m slow to get up, though, letting Curio pull me to my feet while I try to recover my equilibrium.

Once I’m upright, I’m fine.

I think.

I bend the knee back and forth, testing.

“Everything okay?” Curio asks in a low voice.

“Yeah.” I would know if something was wrong, right? “Yeah, fine.”

Beneath his helmet, he’s expressionless. “Looked bad.”

For a second I wonder, but then Coach calls for a time-out from the sideline. There’s a buzz around the stadium, bracing, and it’s the insidious kind. The kind of tension reserved for a loss.

Curio frowns, waiting for my response, and I shake my head. We still need a win, and I’m the only one who can get us there.

“Just in shock, sorry,” I call, jogging over to the huddle. “Everything’s fine.”

Our offensive coach, Frank, pulls up next to me. “That was a bad hit, Orsino,” he says in his low rumble.

“Nope.” I put on my sunniest face, knowing Coach is watching.“It’s fine. Bruised, that’s all.”

He cocks a brow doubtfully. “You’re sure?”

“With one yard left to go? Of course I’m sure.” I feel weird, a little unsteady, but I can definitely move. Besides, losing this early in the season means no state championship. Poof, there goes the season, my whole legacy up in smoke. “I’m fine,” I say again. “Nothing to worry about.”

Frank’s eyes narrow to slits, then dart to my dad. “Risky,” he murmurs. “Might be better to pull him now.”

“No way,” I cut in instantly. “We’re one yard from the win, Coach!”

If anyone’s going to be as hungry for the win as I am, it’s Coach Orsino. He nods once, stiffly, and my relief nearly knocks the wind out of me. “Run a counter. Volio,” Coach adds, “stay close.”

We break and head back to the field, Curio still eyeing me whileI test my stance. “Sure you’re good?”

I shove in my mouthpiece, shrugging, and Curio nods with understanding. Sure or not, this is happening. As far as I can tell, my knee is tender, but fine.

Ever forward, ever onward. I happen to catch the eye of the cornerback, who’s watching me as we set up for the snap. Not watching—staring, creepily. I blow him a kiss and get settled at the line of scrimmage, shaking off my misgivings as the end zone comes into focus.

Third down. It’s do or die now, so Volio and I set up for the counter—another well-practiced misdirection play.

“On one,” shouts Curio. “HUT!”

I drop backfield and Curio does a beautiful, Oscar-worthy fake to Volio, which works on everyone but my BFF the Padua corner-back, who can’t take his eyes off me. Not that it matters; Curio tosses me the ball and I’m off like a shot, veering away for a clear opening. I know without a doubt that this touchdown has my name all over it, and the crowd knows it, too.

“DUKE, DUKE, DUKE—”

From my periphery the Padua cornerback drops, aiming for my legs—for my knees—and I swear I see it in flashes, like it happens in slow motion.

His red uniform from the corner of my eye.

The yellow of the goalpost.

The green of the turf.

The bright white of panic when I feel something go wrong—No, that’s not it; I don’t feel it. I hear it, loud as a gunshot this time, like cracking a knuckle but indescribably worse. The sound rings harsher than the impact, though I don’t register it until after I get dragged down. Instead I think, Is the ball still in my hands? And then I think, This isn’t right.

Something is really, really not right.

“Enjoy the view,” snarls the Padua cornerback, who gets called for a late hit. Or something. I can’t fully understand what the refis saying because I’m busy telling myself Get up, come on, Jack, get up, but something’s misfiring. It’s like my brain and my body got disconnected somehow, unplugged from each other.

“Jack? Jack, can you move?” That’s Frank.

“Duke.” Coach’s face appears, all morphed and unrecognizable. The ref is talking to me now, I think. “Son, you okay? You need help?”

I hear my dad call for a medic.

“Oh my god, Jack!”

That’s Olivia, her green-and-gold glitter blurring when I try to look at her and realize I can’t quite focus. An ache is settling in, like a cramp or a wave. It rises somehow, tightening my chest.

“Jack, are you okay?”

“Messaline all-star running back Jack ‘The Duke’ Orsino is down inthe Padua end zone!” calls the announcer over the speakers. I canhardly hear him over the sound of what I now realize is the fightsong, meaning we did it. We got the touchdown. And the win.

Which is good. Great, even. I’d be pissed if we hadn’t.

And anyway, I’m fine, right?

“Coach, this ain’t good,” Frank murmurs to my father, who says nothing.

I close my eyes, exhaling out.

Champions are half intention, half work. I can will myself to the end zone. See it, make it happen. I can will myself off the ground.

Only this time, I don’t think I can.

Vi

“The head,” Murph soliloquys, “now severed from the body—”

“Lovely,” I mutter to myself. (Well, to him. But if anyone asks,it was under my breath.)

“—looks up at you, eyes aloft, and whispers one word—”

“Toni!” shouts Antonia’s mother, Mrs. Valentine. “Are you inhere?”

“Yes, Mom, in the kitchen!” Antonia shouts directly into my ear, and then flushes. “Oops, sorry, Vi.”

“I’m used to this sort of mistreatment,” I assure her.

Antonia’s mom walks in, so we all sing “Hiiiiii, Mrs. Valentiiiiine” at her like a Greek chorus. Antonia’s older brother Nick, home for the weekend, enters with a kind of “FYI I used to be king of this place” strut while her younger brother, Jandro, shuffles in behind him.

“How was the game?” Antonia asks Nick on the group’s behalf, just to be polite. (She once had to explain to Leon how football worked, and he immediately said it was too complicated. “It’s not any more complicated than a quest,” she insisted at the time, be-cause it’s very important to Antonia that everyone feels comfortable and informed. “Every player has a Quest Sheet, basically, with plays they’re allowed to do or not do—”

“—and the ultimate goal is tossing a toy around from one over-stuffed jock to another,” Leon scoffed in reply. This from a boy who thinks he could probably shoot lethal arrows if he was just “given a fair shot.”)

“Well, the game was great,” Mrs. Valentine answers her daugher cheerfully. “The new QB’s got nothing on Nicky, of course—”

“Mom,” grumbles Nick.

“But he’ll learn—he’ll get there!” she assures him.

“Mom, Curio was fine. Can I go?” Nick asks, looking jittery. “I want to get to the hospital.”

“Hospital?” echoes Danny Kim, who I forgot about for a second.

“Is it that bad?” Mrs. Valentine asks Nick, who shrugs, riffling a hand through his hair.

“His mom was trying to talk him into it, so I’m guessing he’s there now. Cool if I take your car?”

“Yes, that’s fine—”

“You can just take yours,” Antonia offers him quickly. “I won’t use it tonight. If we go anywhere, Vi can drive me.”

Nick looks at me briefly, dismissing me in nearly the same moment. “Thanks, Ant.”

Then he’s gone, leaving the rest of the room to glance quizzically at Mrs. Valentine.

“What happened?” asks Matt Das.

“Oh, someone got hurt. One of Nicky’s friends.”

“Who?” asks Leon, perking up. Football may not interest him, but knowing things about other people’s personal lives always does.

“Jack Orsino,” Mrs. Valentine tells him.

“Jack?” echoes Antonia, shocked, at the same moment I reflexively grumble, “Ugh, Jack.”

Antonia’s eyes cut to mine with a swift, silencing glance. This is partially the result of Antonia being a Nice Person, but more significantly it’s the fact that Jack Orsino’s cheekbones and chest measurements regularly motivate her goodwill.

Basically, it’s no real shock that Jack Orsino won Associate Stu-dent Body president, given that the whole thing is a farce. First of all, his friends on the football team were responsible for counting the votes, so you can see why I demanded a recount. After nearly a month of hard-core negotiating with all the biggest and most underrepresented clubs on campus, I felt a margin of eighteen votes was pretty freaking negligible, so I invoked the election guidelines that require a more statistically significant victory to win. But, of course, instead of choosing an objective third party like the guidebook specifies, they just let the same apathetic jocks count them again.

Not that the official results were ultimately that surprising. Jack, bronzed like an Olympian god with the preternatural confidence of someone born with perfect skin and a six-pack, has all the necessary prerequisites to win at high school, whatever that turns out to mean ten years from now. (I got vice president as runner-up, so it wasn’t a wasted effort, but still.) The point is, you can never overestimate the voters, who see dimples and a varsity letter and decide that counts as budget competency or even the slightest attempt at effort. From my perspective, aka the lowest possible degree of interest, Jack is like if the smirky rebel captain from Empire Lost were darker, taller, and more difficult to work with. Think your classic cinematic rogue, but unlikely to show up in time to save you because . . . Wait, hang on, you needed something? Huh, weird, it totally slipped his mind.

In Jack Orsino’s case, I wholeheartedly agree with Leon that football is just a matter of tossing a toy around. Jack’s one of the ones who runs around with the toy, which as far as I’m concerned takes very little skill. At least as quarterback, Nick had to be tactical. Jack just . . . runs. (Unsurprisingly, he acted like I kicked his puppy when I asked for the election recount, which is literally a school requirement. I assume he finds it hard to believe that rules were ever meant to apply to him.)

“What happened to Jack?” asks Antonia, who looks concerned, because of course she does.

“Well, a rather unsportsmanlike play, I’d say,” says Mrs. Valentine, glancing over the table to see our various dice, guides, and QuestSheets. “What’s the adventure today?”

“The Amulet of Qatara,” I answer, hoping that will be enough to get us all back to the game. “It’s one of the more classic quests.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” says Mrs. Valentine.

Behind her, Antonia’s brother Jandro snorts quietly.

“Someone was just beheaded,” I inform him, as Antonia blanches and Mrs. Valentine nudges him out of the room.

“Let them play, Jandro. You guys have fun,” she tells us warmly.

“Need anything? Snacks, soda?”

“We’ve got plenty, Mrs. Valentine,” I tell her, because my mother

didn’t raise me to be impolite. “Thanks so much for offering.”

“Okay, I’ll stay out of your hair.” She smiles at us and gives Jandro another small shove into the living room while we turn back to Murph.

“Damn, wonder what happened to Orsino,” he says vacantly.

“Who cares?” I drum my nails on the table.

“Can we wrap this up?”

“Yeesh, you’re in a hurry,” says Marco.

“Um, don’t you want to win? We just took out the last of the Cretacious horde.”

“Well, she’s in the middle of saying something,” says Murph.

“Okay, what’s she saying?”
“Staaaaaaahp,” Murph conjures up in a low, creepy ghoul voice.

I roll my eyes. “Okay, great. Famous last words.”

The rest of the quest is fairly straightforward. Now that the last enemy horde has been wiped out, the caves have been explored, and the bad guys have all been successfully dismembered, there’s not much more to say. Antonia’s character, Larissa, heals us in preparation for the next stage of our quest, and then we reach the momentI’ve been waiting for. This is the point where, as a group, we would decide which ConQuest expansion book to do next, and I am . . .somewhat invested in the outcome.

“Now that we’ve arrived at the end of this quest,” I say, clearing my throat, “I have a proposition for the group.”

“Aye, aye,” says Leon in a bawdy sailor’s voice.

“I’m not done,” says Murph.

“Yeah, I know? That’s the point,” I say impatiently. “Before we finish—”

“Whoa. This is so small,” says Marco, who appears to be staring at a misshapen pretzel.

“That’s what she said,” snickers Leon, followed by laughter from Danny Kim.

“Um?” I say, exasperated. “Hello?”

“Guys,” Matt Das cuts in. “Just hear her out, okay?” God, at least not everyone here is an idiot.

“Yeah. My house, my rules,” adds Antonia, bowing theatrically to me. “Astrea Starscream, the floor is yours.”

“Actually, this is more of a Vi thing,” I tell them, giving Antonia a small but grateful glance. “About what quest we do next.”

Leon unhelpfully contributes, “I thought we were doing The Cliffs of Ramadra next?”

“What’s that?” asks Danny Kim, because of course he does.

“It’s supposedly the game that inspired War of Thorns,” says Murph.

“Ooh,” says Danny Kim instantly. “That sounds cool.”

“It’s a battle game,” says Rob Kato. “Like, a hundred percent combat, supposedly.”

“A shit ton of gore,” adds Leon with palpable glee. “Like the show.”

“The show’s not that gory,” Antonia says, making a face.

“Whatever. You only watch it for Cesario,” says Leon snidely, which irks me.

Cesario’s one of the main characters on War of Thorns, a fallen prince from the rival kingdom who used to be the main villain. His redemption arc is the most interesting plot in the show, but every boy in the world thinks girls are only watching the show for his abs.

“We hadn’t actually agreed on doing Cliffs of Ramadra next,” I point out.

“Yes we h— ”

“Look, the point is I wrote a new quest over the summer,” I say, cutting to the chase. “And I just think— ”

“You wrote a quest?” asks Matt Das.

“Yeah.” I’m very excited about it, though I’m trying to temper that for now. They’ll smell my hope like blood in the water and mock it to death just for being my idea before I get the chance to make it sound like their thing. “So, it’s kind of like a political thriller,” I tell them. My brother Bash and I dreamed it up after we watched some super- old mobster movies at our grandma’s house.

“The game opens in a bazaar- like setting— ” “Bizarre like weird?” asks Murph.

“Bazaar,” I correct. “Sort of like an underground fae market, but—”

“Fairies?” echoes Danny Kim, with an expression that I would love to personally remove from his face.

“In the quest,” I continue loudly, “we’d be in a world with a corrupt capitalist system that enables the tyrannical rule of a shadow king—” I can tell I’m talking too fast, based on how everyone’s eyes briefly glaze over, so I move on. “The point is, to successfully make it through this world, we’d have to fall in with a gang of underground smugglers who coexist alongside the shadow king’s assassins. But since this is a world where magic can bind you to your word, that means everything we do in the world of this quest has long- term consequences— ”

“Sounds complicated,” says Murph, frowning.

“Plus you always want to take too long on the tactical parts,” Marco adds.

“Well, no, not really,” I say, answering Murph, since Marco is obviously just whining and therefore not important. “I mean, so long as I were QuestMaster—”

“You want to be QM?” asks Marco.

“I mean, I wrote the quest, so— ”

Leon and Murph exchange a look just before Marco cuts in

again. “So basically we’d never do any fighting, then.”

“Guys.” Again, I actually do a combat sport, but if I hear them refer to it as kickboxing one more time I will definitely snap. “Obviously combat is still essential to the story, it’s just— ”

“I feel like the battle games are more engaging for the group,” says Rob with obnoxious faux pensiveness.

“Okay, that’s literally false— ”

“I think it could be fun,” Antonia says. “Could we maybe do a single quest first, to try it out?”

“Well.” I know Antonia’s trying to help, but she . . . isn’t. “Like I said, there would be long- term consequences to every action, so— ”

“I don’t understand. We’re fighting fairies?” says Leon.

“No,” I grind out, trying not to lose my temper. “I said it’s like a fae market, as in it’s a magical black market dealing in contraband, where we would have access t— ”

“Let’s just take a vote,” suggests Murph, as I grit my teeth, brac-

ing for an outcome I was sure I wouldn’t have to deal with. I mean, come on, right? I played their choice of quest. I won severalrounds of combat when they were all dumb enough to fall into the same trap of hypermasculinity. I’ve proven that I know what I’m doing.

Haven’t I?

“All in favor of Vi’s fairy quest?” asks Murph.

“Oh my god,” I say as I raise my hand, “it’s not fairies—”

But it doesn’t matter. Antonia’s hand goes up, and then, gradually— after a long period of time glancing around— Matt Das’s does, too.

That’s it.

“You’re joking,” I say.

“All in favor of Cliffs of Ramadra?” prompts Murph.

Danny Kim’s hand shoots in the air and whatever happens after that, I don’t care. I rise to my feet, grabbing my dice and my notes and shoving them into my bag.

“Geez, sore loser,” says Leon, but I don’t care anymore. Isn’t it bad enough to have to go to a school where people only care about looks and clothes and football without having to also contend with a band of group-think dudebros who never give me the benefit of the doubt? I swear, there’s no winning. Not even among massive ConQuest dorks who spend their free time speculating about Antonia’s boobs.

I worked all summer on this quest. I designed it specifically to appeal to everyone: battle scenes, cool enviro, interesting and unique plot. But no. I’m a girl, so obviously it’s a girl quest.

“Hey” I hear coming after me. “Vi, wait!”

Matt Das follows me out the Valentines’ front door, stopping me before I reach my car.

“Vi, come on, I’m sorry— ”

“I worked on this for two months,” I tell him bitterly, not wanting to look at him. All I need is to start crying right now. “Like, you have no idea how much work went into this, and how much research and planning and— ”

“Look, I’m sorry.” And he looks it. “Those guys are idiots.”

“I know.” I turn away, and then, taking a breath, look up. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to just rush out of there.”

“Hey, I would’ve, too. They’re being completely ridiculous.”

“Yeah.” I chew my lip. “Look, thanks for that. For voting for my quest and stuff.”

“Yeah, no problem. Leon’s a dumbass.”

“Ha. Yeah.”

“And Danny Kim? Like, do you even know anything, dude?”

“I know.” I roll my eyes and exhale. “Ugh.”

“Hey, I know it sucks, but it’s their loss. Just come back and kick all their asses next week.”

“Yeah . . . yeah, I guess.” I look up at him, sighing. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Wanna get out of here?” he offers. “Go get some froyo and talk about it?”

Talk about it? Yeah, no thanks. All I want to do is get online and lay waste to some fictional characters until the urge to throw darts at real people safely evacuates my system.

“Oh, thanks for the offer, Matt, but— ” I shrug. “I’m tired. Kinda just want to go home.” I turn to my car, but apparently Matt’s not finished.

“What about tomorrow?” he asks, stepping between me and my car door.

“What?”

“Wanna catch a movie or something?”

“Oh . . . maybe.” This suddenly feels very weird. “I don’t know, Matt— ”

“Seriously?”

I blink at him. “Matt, I just want to go home, okay? If I’m up for a movie tomorrow, I’ll text you.”

“But you won’t, obviously.” He folds his arms over his chest.

“Okay, what is this?” I ask him with a sigh, gesturing to his posture. “I’ve got RenFaire all day and then I hang out with my mom and my brother. If they’ve got something else going on, I’ll let you know.”

“Oh, how convenient.”

“Um, yeah, sure.” I reach for my car door and Matt shifts, blocking me again. “What the hell?”

“If you’re trying to blow me off, just say so,” he tells me snidely. “I mean, what more do you expect me to do, Vi? I took your side. What else do you want?”

Tension climbs all the way up my vertebrae. “Whoa, what’s going on?”

“I get that you think I’m not cool enough to go out with or whatever— ”

“What?” He’s got to be joking. As if I’ve ever not gone out with someone because they weren’t cool enough. I’m currently wearing a shirt with a math joke on it.

“—but I’m actually nice to you, Vi,” he rants, “and I just don’t think it’s fair for you to act like I don’t exist.”

“Matt,” I say sharply, “I didn’t know you were trying to ask me out, okay? I was just telling you my plans.”

“Well, now you know,” he says stubbornly. “So are you going to call me or not?”

“Um, not?” I tell him, because duh, he’s standing between me and my car, and even if he is a nearsighted nerd who wouldn’t pose a threat under any other circumstances, he’s still making me feel like I don’t want to be anywhere near him, tomorrow or any other time.

“Great. Really cool of you, Vi,” Matt says, dripping with sarcasm.

God. “Can I get into my car, please?”

He waves me toward it, bowing derisively as he goes. “Just so you know,” he says with his hand still on my open door, “I’m the only guy in that room who doesn’t call you a bitch behind your back. Even Antonia looks like she wants to half the time.”

I bristle at the mention of Antonia. Nice guys, I swear. “And let me guess, you think you’re so brave for letting them do it?”

“You are a bitch, Vi,” he snaps at me. “I thought there was more to you. But apparently there isn’t.”

It really shouldn’t sting. It shouldn’t.

“You actually thought I’d go out with you?” I force a laugh, coldly. “Not in a million years.”

Then I get in my car, locking the doors and driving away well before my hands stop shaking on the wheel.

Chapter Three

Critical Existence Failure

Vi

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

“Hello?” I sigh.

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

They just like what they like, that’s all.”

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

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

Oh, Antonia. Innocent little Antonia. “I take your side because

you’re actually capable of intelligent thought.”

“Well, whatever. I think your quest sounds cool,” she assures me.

“And they’ll come around eventually.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have absolutely no use for flies.”

“You know what I mean.”

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

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

I snort in response. “So?”

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

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

“No. He didn’t say anything.”

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

“So what happened?” she presses.

“Ugh. Nothing. He asked me out.”

“And you said . . . ?”

“No, obviously.”

“Vi!” Antonia sounds scandalized.

“What?”

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

“So?”

“So what?”

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

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

“By that logic, I should date you.”

“We’d be very cute and weird together,” Antonia blithely agrees,

“but stop dodging the point. You can’t be so picky.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And at least 10 percent of my sanity back.

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

“What? It’s, like, barely ten— ”

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

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

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

“Okay. You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m good. See you tomorrow.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope,” I say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, whatever. They suck.”

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

“Have fun.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

you name it. I pick Arthurian knight, because duh. Swords, mostly.

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

When I first started playing MMORPGs, I used to use a head-

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

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

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

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

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

yo, finally. u down to clown on gm0n33 bro shut up I called cesario for morholt

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

UHH YA hence calling u for morholt

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

u can’t just call him I need a partner

nd that’s my problem y???

Boys, honestly.

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

Jack

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Duke knows how to take care of himself— ”

“Don’t call him that,” she snaps. “And you want him in a wheel-

chair by the time he’s forty? How many of your old teammates are suffering now? How many have had their personalities completely rewritten by head trauma, or worse— ”

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

That she herself is white is not really a matter of relevance—

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

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

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

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

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

Guess I’ve got plenty of it now.

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

“Jack?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can rest anywhere,” I assure her.

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

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

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

Is she mad at me? Maybe.

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

“You do?”

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

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

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

“Well, I just— ”

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

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

“You do?”

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

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

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

“What? Jack,” she says, aghast. “Of course not!” “But— ” I blink, and then my entire world shifts.

Again.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m just stressed,” she says quickly. “School’s been really over-

whelming, and you know, my family, college stuff . . .” She trails off. “But obviously I still care about you— ”

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

Whoa. How much have I missed, exactly?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before I can answer, she messages me again. do you need your knees in order to sign off on a budget I roll my eyes.

please do not injure yourself with concern for me, I say. I don’t know

how I could live with the guilt also,I add, just get ryan to be the second signature

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

ryan, she replies, is an idiot

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

She starts typing and I instantly regret saying anything.

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

all I’m asking for is ONE SIGNATURE

pretend it’s an autograph

presumably you love that

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

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

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

Chapter Four

Death Cry Echo

Vi

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, myworld 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 Thorns post 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’mthe 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 didtell 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 expla-

nation.

“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?)

Jack

“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 re-

gardless 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 somethingI 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.

Copyright © 2024 by Alexene Farol Follmuth.

Twelfth Knight, by Alexene Farol Follmuth, will be released on May 28, 2024. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:

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