“Are we?” I ask. “I wasn’t sure.”
Look, I’ll be honest. Filming most of the second movie was a blur, but the lead-up to it, the endless hours of training for the fight scenes, is ingrained in me to the point that I could do this with my eyes closed. So while I’d probably die gruesomely if I lived back in the days of King Arthur’s court, a fucking Knightmare LARPer is nothing.
“Feel free to kneel at any time,” I tell him. “I’ll accept your surrender.”
He scoffs, those words setting him off. He takes the first swing. It’s weak, easy to block. I let him try a few more times, picking up his pattern, before I put him on the defense, something he’s clearly not used to.
BAM. BAM. BAM. Hit after hit, I go after him, following the same fight routine from the movie. It’s like a choreographed dance, one the guy knows, but he’s not quick enough on his feet to stop me. Five minutes maybe, I rail at him… he breaks a sweat, eyes wide like he’s starting to think I might actually stab him. He puts up a decent fight, enough that a few blows nearly makes me lose it, my wrist stinging, pain shooting up my arm, but I don’t stop until he kneels.
He drops his sword, dropping to one knee, and I hear Madison cheering, screeching as she runs for me. She wraps her arms around my waist, hugging me, and I laugh as I hand the sword off to whoever lent it to me.
“Man, you’re good,” the guy says with a laugh as he gets to his feet, holding his hand out. “Name’s Brad. You are…?”
“Jonathan,” Madison chimes in, answering for me. “Oh, wait, he’s Knightmare today!”
“Well, Knightmare, if you ever decide to join a LARPing league—”
“I appreciate it, but it’s not my thing,” I mumble, steering Madison away.
“Could’ve fooled me,” the guy says.
I ignore that, leading Madison back inside the convention center. “So, did we decide what we’re doing now?”
“More sword fighting!”
“Ah, I’m afraid that has to wait for another time,” I say, “but there’s still other fun to be had.”
More panels. Some shopping. Even another trivia game. She eats ice cream, getting it all over her. I buy her the Maryanne doll, so she doesn’t have to keep substituting with Barbie. It’s nearing nightfall when things start coming to a close. I can tell Madison is running out of energy. She’s quiet now, clinging to my hand.
“You ready to head home?” I ask. “I’m sure your mother must be missing you.”
She nods.
We start toward the exit, but Madison hesitates halfway there, tugging on my hand. “Wait! We forgot!”
“Forgot what?”
She doesn’t answer, instead dragging me straight over to the booth with all the standees.
“I wanna Breezeo one,” she declares, telling the worker, pointing at the standee.
“They’re $30,” the lady says.
Sighing, I count out the cash and hand it over before grabbing the standee and hauling it along with us.
We make our way through the lingering crowd and out the exit. I lead Madison around the corner of the building, lingering there as I send a message for the car to get us. It’s a minute or so out, so we wait as people wander past.
I shove the mask up off my face when I see the car coming and take a step toward it when a voice calls out, “Johnny Cunning?”
I turn, tense, and see a woman with her young son, the two of them gawking at me.
“Oh my god, it’s really you!” the woman says, grasping the kid by the shoulders. “My son told me it was, you know, he kept saying it was you, but it didn’t believe it.”
It’s always the kids.
They’re intuitive.
No matter how much you disguise yourself, kids can sense it.
“Can I have an autograph?” she asks, holding out a comic book as she digs for something to write with. “Please?”
“Uh, sure,” I mumble, taking the marker from her and scribbling my name, my eyes on the kid. He looks to be about Madison’s age, the same look of reverence on his face that she had this morning. He, too, is wearing a Breezeo costume, but his is homemade... a lot of time went into it. It’s strange, after everything I’ve done, having kids look at me like I’m some hero. “You want a picture, little man?”
He nods enthusiastically, like he’s speechless, so I kneel down beside him, posing, letting his mother snap a quick photo.
“Take care of yourself,” I tell him. “Make sure you always look out for your mother.”
I stand up, grabbing Madison’s hand and leading her to the car before anyone else spots me.
The drive back home feels like it takes forever. It’s dark when we arrive, and Madison is fast asleep. I try to wake her, but she’s not budging, so I pull her out of the booster seat and carry her. She grumbles, not waking up, arms wrapped around my neck. I drag the standee along under my arm as I head for the front door, prepared to knock, but it pulls open before I can.
Kennedy stands in the doorway, looking relieved to see us, still wearing her work uniform. She steps out of the way for me to come in.
I drop the standee right inside the apartment. Kennedy stares down at it before shooting me a peculiar look.
“I know,” I mutter. “It’s probably the last thing you want to have to look at, but she wouldn’t leave without it.”
Kennedy shakes her head, closing the front door as she says, “You can tuck her in bed, if you want.”
As the students at Fulton Edge Academy take their finals, you’re driving through the Midwest, on your way to California. The girl, she sits beside you, in the passenger seat of your blue Porsche, writing her heart out in her notebook.
It’s one of the few things she brought along.
She slipped back into the house as you sobered up, filling her school backpack with clothes, packing her Breezeo comics and grabbing her cell phone before writing a note to her parents.
Mom & Dad,
I know you’re gonna be upset when you realize I’m gone, but please don’t worry too much. I’m okay. I’m with Jonathan.
Love you both,
Kennedy
Needless to say, over twenty-four hours later, they’re pretty freaking worried. She’s only seventeen. They’ve already called the police. She’s officially a teenage runaway. Her phone started going off not long after you got on the road, bombarding her with messages, begging her to come home.
The phone died after a few hours.
She forgot to bring her charger.
You? You’ve got your phone, with nearly a full charge. The only person who has called you is your sister, to warn you that someone leaked the Fulton Edge Academy security footage. Your fight with your father is all over the news, playing on a loop. It’s a political nightmare, Speaker Cunningham assaulting his own child. They’re calling for his resignation.
Time keeps ticking away.
The miles between you and New York continue to grow as California edges closer. You offer to turn around for her. You don’t want her to have any regrets. She tells you to shut up and keep driving west.
A few days later, you cross into the city limits of Los Angeles. The day you should’ve graduated. You find a small hotel that’ll rent a room to an eighteen-year-old, just until you can get set up somewhere permanently.
“Let’s go out,” you say.
“Where to?” she asks.
“Somewhere nice. We’re here. We made it. We should celebrate.”
So you do just that. You take her out. She wears her graduation dress, the one her mother helped pick out—sleeveless, royal blue. She has to wear her everyday flats, because she forgot to pack extra shoes. It’s simple. She feels so plain.
You tell her she’s the most beautiful woman in the world.
Dinner is at a fancy steakhouse, the kind where portions are small and the bill is massive, but people don’t complain because it’s all about the atmosphere. Afterward, the two of you hit Hollywood Boulevard, seeing the handprints immortalized in cement before strolling along the Walk of Fame, looking at the celebrity stars as you hold hands.
“Someday, you’ll be here,” she tells you, smiling, as you pause and pull her to you. “You’ll have your name on one of these stars.”