Straight Punch (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

I shut the bathroom door so Mom wouldn't see what I was doing: practicing my moves in front of the mirror.

Protect yourself!
Big Ron's voice boomed in my head.
I brought my wrists closer to my cheeks.
Rotate your hips! Put
some power in those punches!
he boomed again. I rotated my hips.

“That's better!” That was me, talking to my reflection.

Mom and I ate our granola together. When I'd come in the night before, she was waiting up. I'd told her about my argument with Cyrus and about Di's miscarriage. Mom was shocked that I'd punched Cyrus and glad when I told her I planned to phone him to apologize. Then she apologized for upsetting me. All she wanted, she kept saying, was the best for me, and would I just consider the homeschooling option? I'd told her I wouldn't. That I didn't want to talk about it anymore.

So I decided it was better not to mention that I'd be sparring today. It would only set her off on another worry binge.

Except it's hard to keep a secret from my mom. She added milk to her cereal. “You're jumpy,” she said.

“I'm fine. Just fine.”

“If you were fine, you wouldn't say so twice. Maybe you're still processing everything that happened last night—with Cyrus and then at the hospital. It sounds like you and your friends went through a lot.”

I brought a spoonful of granola to my mouth. “Does this count as emotional eating?” I asked her.

“Tessa McPhail, are you mocking me?” Mom did not sound amused.

I swallowed the granola. “Maybe…” I said to my empty spoon.

“Look at me,” Mom said.

I put down my spoon and looked at her.

“I'm trying to be supportive,” she said. “You don't always make it easy for me.”

“I know,” I said sheepishly. “You're right. Sometimes a person just needs to figure stuff out for herself.”

Big Ron handed me a crumpled plastic bag. Inside were my new red polyethylene boxing gloves. They didn't smell as delicious as leather ones, but they were a great shade of red and no one's sweaty hands had ever been inside them. There were also some breast protectors and a plastic mouthpiece in the box. “No hurry to pay me back for those,” he said. “Your credit's good with me.”

I examined the breast protectors. They were plastic inserts in a bra that looked like it was designed for a dominatrix. “A woman doesn't want to get hit there,” Big Ron said. I knew he was making a point of
not
looking at my chest. “Not any more than a guy wants to get hit where the sun don't shine.”

That morning we spent the first hour in the gym warming up, doing cardio, then stretching out our legs. Every time my eyes landed on the boxing ring, I felt a flutter in my stomach, as if a bird had landed there.

I went into the bathroom to put on the breast protectors. Let's just say I wouldn't be auditioning for the Victoria's Secret catalog anytime soon.

Jasmine was already in the ring, shadowboxing.

My heart thumped double-time underneath the molded plastic. “You trying to spook me or what?” I figured if I made a crack, she wouldn't guess how nervous I was.

“Who, me?” She danced over and jabbed me with her elbow. “I promised Big Ron I'd be gentle,” she said. “But he doesn't call me Jabbin' Jasmine for nothing!”

The bird in my belly fluttered again when I squeezed between the ropes and into the ring.

I shadowboxed in my corner, but I felt like a fake. Jasmine had rhythm. I was a frightened robot.

I knew I had to loosen up. But thinking that only made me more robotic.

Pretty Boy, Whisky and Randy were watching from the bench. I wished Di was there too.

Big Ron cleared his throat. Speech time. “At the sound of the bell,” he said, “you're going to box the first of three two-minute rounds. Remember, you have to follow my instructions at all times. When I tell you to stop or break, you stop punching. You take a couple of steps back and you don't re-engage until I say ‘Box!' again. Jabbin' Jasmine, remember to put a little water in your wine. I want you to treat Tessa Something-or-Other like a fighter, but I don't want you going too hard either. You got that, ladies?”

Jasmine bobbed her head. “Got it!”

I just nodded. I was already too winded to speak—and we hadn't even started sparring.

The bell sounded. I kept my guard up. When I saw Jasmine's left hook coming at me, I gulped, but at least I didn't freeze. I wove to my left, just avoiding contact.

“Nice weave!” Randy called out. His voice seemed far away.

I felt the blood rush to my head as I moved out of Jasmine's range. I might've been moving like a robot, but she hadn't hit me yet.

I could feel Big Ron's eyes boring into us, watching every move, anticipating what would happen next. He must've known I was terrified. Maybe he'd seen my thighs shaking. “It's good to be afraid, Tessa Something-or-Other,” he called from the ropes. “Fear can freeze you. Fear can grab hold of you. But fear can also keep you safe. If you don't have any fear, you're vulnerable.”

Well then, I wasn't vulnerable.

I moved in on Jasmine. For a split second, our eyes met. I half expected her to wink. But she didn't. I didn't see anything in her eyes—not recognition, not laughter. Just focus. That was what made her such a fine boxer.

I threw a straight punch, aiming for her cheek. Jasmine dove out of the way. But she came back at me. I wove to the left, not quickly enough this time. She hit me in the gut, where the bird was. It hurt. I dropped one hand to my belly.

“Keep your guard up!” Big Ron hissed.

I brought my hand back up to my face just in time. Jasmine was coming at me again. Every part of me dripped sweat. Even parts I didn't know could get sweaty—like the insides of my elbows.

The round must be almost over.

“A minute and a half left!” Big Ron called out.

A minute and a half
? There had to be something wrong with the timer! But I didn't say those things. I screamed them inside my head. I was too busy ducking and weaving.

I stepped back to the ropes, keeping low. I needed to catch my breath, regroup. The ropes quivered against my back.

“You're doing great!” Pretty Boy shouted. Did he mean me or Jasmine?

She came after me, both gloves in front of her face. Rather than backing away, I moved in on her. She dropped her elbow. I reached for her elbow, then wrapped both my arms around the back of her arm, tying her up. Neither of us could move.

“No holding! Break!” Big Ron shouted. I tried to slow my breathing and catch my breath. But I couldn't. My breath was a horse galloping away from me.

When would the round be over? I'd been training so hard for so many weeks. Why wasn't I tougher?

“All right, it's time to box again!” Big Ron bellowed.

I sent my fists flying, one after the other. I could hear Jasmine snorting as she ducked and wove. Was she laughing at me, or was it possible Jasmine was getting tired too?

The bell sounded. I had thought the round would never end, but it did.

Randy brought me water and clapped my shoulder. I was too tired to thank him. But not too tired to feel a little spark when his fingers touched my skin. I let the water sit in my mouth before it trickled down my throat.

“You ladies nearly ready for round two?” Big Ron wanted to know.

I ran my tongue over the plastic mouthguard. I wasn't capable of forming words, but I could grunt. So I grunted yeah. I was ready. At least, I hoped I was.

The second round was worse. I stumbled, not bobbing and weaving as quickly as I had before. Every move was a colossal effort. I tried to keep my breaths quick and short.

“Mix it up! Work your combinations!” Big Ron called from outside the ropes.

Jasmine landed three punches in that round. Two more to my belly. One to my jaw. I could feel my lower lip swelling up.

“You ladies ready for the third and final round?” Big Ron asked.

I remembered what Big Ron had taught us.
What counts most is what you do when you've got nothing left.
I had nothing left.

This time all I could do was nod.

“You're doing great!”

I knew Randy meant me. But I knew I wasn't doing great. Not even close. My legs were collapsing underneath me. I had nothing left. Nothing at all. I couldn't even extend my arm for a straight punch. I was flailing. My arms had turned to pulp.

Jasmine threw another punch. I couldn't duck anymore. I didn't have the energy. She got me in the belly again—this time with a straight punch. Even keeping up my guard took more than I had. I felt my upper arms lose strength, my hands drop from my face.
Keep up your guard! Protect yourself!
I couldn't tell anymore if it was Big Ron talking or me hearing his voice inside my head.

What counts most is what you do when you've got nothing left
.

I forced my hands back up to my face. I thought about the hockey riot. I'd been a little girl, unable to protect myself or my mom. I'd just taken it. Let myself get trampled. Two years later, when those bullies had tormented Rachel, I'd run away when she most needed my help. If I'd stood up to those girls, things might have turned out differently. But I'd been too afraid.

I couldn't feel like that again. Not even here in a boxing ring.

Maybe remembering all that gave me a second wind.

I breathed in. Jasmine wasn't dancing so quickly anymore. And she'd dropped her guard from her left cheek. When she turned toward me, I saw my opportunity. I came back with a left hook. It landed
bam!
underneath her jaw. She winced. I punched again. My punches were coming from all angles.

Jasmine rallied, driving a straight right-hand punch to my rib cage. But I was beyond feeling pain.

I ducked, narrowly missing Jasmine's left hook.

The bell sounded and I slumped forward like a rag doll. I still couldn't talk. I was too zonked even to sigh.

“Good work in there, ladies!” Big Ron shouted, his voice sounding hoarse. Then he turned to the boys on the bench. “I don't know about the rest of you, but I'd say Tessa earned herself a new nickname today. Something-or-Other doesn't do her justice anymore. You gentlemen got any suggestions?”

“The octopus!” It was Pretty Boy's idea. “The blue-ringed octopus!”

“I get the octopus part. Tessa flails her arms around like an octopus. But what's with the blue rings?” Whisky asked.

“The blue-ringed octopus is the only one that presents a danger to humans. And from what I saw today, Tessa Blue-Rings is one dangerous mollusk.”

“I like the sound of Tessa Blue-Rings,” Whisky said. “Tessa the Blue-Ringed-Octopus is too long.”

I was too exhausted to object.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I'd never felt mellower as I walked from New Directions to the metro.

All the fight was out of me. It was a shame I hadn't been in the ring before the town hall meeting. If I had, I would have tried to describe the feeling.

I was noticing things I'd never noticed before—how bugs had feasted on a ropy vine, turning the leaves to green lace; the way the sun made a telephone wire glisten; the sharp smell of coffee drifting up from someone's basement apartment. How could I have walked along the same street so many times without noticing any of this?

I was tired and sore, but it was a delicious tired and sore. When I got home, I'd soak in the tub. Maybe use the arnica oil Mom had bought at the health-food store when I'd started boxing. She'd read somewhere that it was good for sore muscles.

I tested the thought of Mom in my mind. I remembered how adamant she'd been about homeschooling me. But I didn't feel angry anymore. What Mom had said was true. She did want the best for me. Only she didn't know what the best was. I couldn't blame her for that.

Because thinking of Mom wasn't upsetting me, I tried something harder—Cyrus. Was I so mellow from sparring that thinking about him wouldn't upset me? I was treading on thin ice. I'd have to go carefully if I didn't want to sink down into my angry feelings.

I pictured Cyrus on that rooftop in Chinatown, droning on about his dreams. He was entitled to his dreams. We all were. Who knew—maybe Cyrus would find a way to make his come true. Maybe making a career in photography would be more like boxing than Cyrus realized. Maybe even if Cyrus was the most focused person in the world, there'd come a time when he had nothing left and, if he really
really
wanted to make it, he'd have to keep going anyway. Maybe I could tell him that.

Then I remembered coming home and finding Cyrus in the kitchen with Mom. How puffed up he had been with certainty that he knew best—and how jealous and possessive he'd acted. Remembering the scene still bothered me, but it didn't enrage me the way it had when it happened.

Of course, I also remembered punching Cyrus in the stomach. The way his flesh had given way underneath my knuckles, the shocked look on his face.

Hitting Cyrus was a mistake. I owed him an apology.

I tried his cell, but it went right to voice mail and I didn't think I should apologize in a message. That would have been too easy.

I'd built up a lot of heat in the boxing ring, but now I felt a sudden chill. When I looked up at the sky, I noticed the sun had disappeared behind a ridge of clouds. I'd learned from Cyrus to notice when the sky was beautiful—and right then, it was. As soon as that thought registered, another one occurred to me. Cyrus might have been avoiding my call. But I also knew where Cyrus had to be—back on the rooftop in Chinatown.

When I got out of the metro, I could see a figure on the roof. Cyrus.

Mr. Lee's eyes widened when he saw me. “What in god's name happened to you?” he asked. “Cyrus didn't do that to your lip, did he?”

I looked him straight in the eye. “Of course not. I'm a boxer.” It was the first time I'd ever said that about myself. “I need to go talk to him. I won't be long.”

“Go ahead then,” Mr. Lee said. “I'm not going to argue with a boxer.”

When I got up to the roof, I was surprised to find Cyrus looking out at Chinatown. “I thought you didn't like that view,” I said.

Cyrus jumped when he heard my voice.

“What are you doing here?” he asked without turning around to face me.

“I came to apologize. I shouldn't have hit you. I'm really sorry.”

“I was more surprised than anything else,” Cyrus said. “You didn't punch me that hard.”

“You didn't protect yourself. It's one of the first things you learn when you box.”

Cyrus finally turned around. “Oh my god!” he said. “What happened to your mouth?”

I told Cyrus how I'd sparred for the first time. That I'd done okay. That I kept going even when I thought I had nothing left. I started telling him it might be like that for him in the photography world too. “Your photos could get rejected by an agency or a gallery…you'd be crushed, you might want to give up…but you'd have to keep going. If it really mattered, you'd have to…”

Cyrus wasn't listening. He touched my swollen cheek, and I winced. He bit his lip. I wouldn't have minded so much if he acted sympathetic, not that I needed anyone's sympathy.

What I didn't want was a lecture.

Or for Cyrus to get angry.

What I got was an angry lecture.

“You can't keep boxing! I won't let you!” Cyrus yelled. The only good thing about arguing on a rooftop is that nobody can hear you. But then I remembered Mr. Lee—was he watching us on his closed-circuit
TV
monitor?

“You won't
let
me? Do you
hear
yourself, Cyrus?”

That last question hung in the air, a kite drifting in the moody sky around us.

Cyrus dropped his hands to his sides.

“I don't need your permission to do anything.” I spat out the words—where was my mellow now? “Do you understand, Cyrus? I'm in charge of my own life. Look, I'm sorry I punched you last night. Really I am. I lost control and that was wrong. But it's over, Cyrus. We're over.”

I saw one small tear in the corner of Cyrus's eye. I thought about wiping it away, but I didn't.

“I just don't want you getting hurt,” he whispered. “You can't blame me for that.”

“I'm not afraid of getting hurt. Not anymore. I'm afraid of
not living
.”

Cyrus didn't say anything to that. Maybe, for once, I'd actually gotten through to him. Because I wasn't sure when I'd be speaking to him again, I decided there was one more thing I needed to tell him.

“You're an amazing photographer, Cyrus. You see stuff other people miss. Remember those balloons? It's your openness to things that makes your photos magic. But you know something? It works with people too. Being open—instead of judging them.”

Cyrus looked across the street at the other gray stone building. I knew he was imagining the photos he'd shoot. “I shouldn't have judged you,” he whispered.

“Or my friends,” I added.

I didn't notice my mom's gray sedan parked across from the Villa-Maria metro. It was only when I heard honking that I realized she was there waiting for me. My first thought was Cyrus must've phoned her to say I'd gotten whacked in the face. It would be just like him to keep interfering in my life even after we'd broken up. Had I ever actually liked that about him? If I had, it was because I'd been a different Tessa. Tessa Something-or-Other. Not Tessa Blue-Rings.

If Mom noticed my lip and cheek, she didn't say anything. Which must've been hard for her. She also didn't mention Cyrus. Maybe he hadn't called her.

“Why're you here?” I asked as I buckled my seat belt.

Mom was already making an illegal U-turn. Which meant this was an emergency. “Because we're going to the casino.”

“The casino? Mom, have you lost your mind?”

Mom kept her eyes on the road. “Jasmine tried phoning you. She figured you were on the metro. So she phoned the apartment. Told me all the money she's been saving from her job was stolen. She's pretty sure her aunt took it. She says the aunt gambles. I said I'd get you and we'd meet her at the casino.”

“You told her what?”

When Mom got on the Ville-Marie Expressway, she was gunning it so hard that no one honked or tried passing her. It was the first time I'd driven with my mom on a highway and she didn't swear. Not once.

Jasmine was at the entrance to the casino, waiting for us. She was wearing bright-red lipstick and the long half of her hair was tied back in a sleek ponytail.

Mom eyed the guard at the wicket. “I just realized,” she said, “that you have to be eighteen to get in. I may have to go in alone. Do you have a picture of your aunt, Jasmine, so I can recognize her?” Mom was using her assistant-manager voice.

“That's my aunt Melinda.” Jasmine lifted her chin to a wall of black-and-white headshots outside the wicket. Jasmine's aunt was younger than I'd expected. She had Jasmine's dark hair and eyes, but her face was more angular.

“What's her picture doing—?” I stopped myself when I noticed the information above the photos.
These individuals have requested not to be allowed into the casino
. I did a quick calculation—there were at least two hundred photos on the wall. But if Jasmine was right, her aunt Melinda had gone into the casino anyhow.

“Don't worry about us getting in,” Jasmine said, pulling a fake
ID
card out of her wallet. I recognized the Concordia University logo.

Mom gave me a sharp look. “You have one of those too?”

“Mine's McGill.”

Mom sighed. “I did my best to raise you right. Honest I did. How long have you had that thing?”

There didn't seem to be any point in lying. “Since grade eight.”

“Grade eight?”

“Every kid's got fake
ID
, Mom.”

“Not Cyrus.”

It was my turn to give Mom a sharp look. “Even Cyrus.”

The guard glanced at our
ID
cards and nodded. “Have you got
ID
?” he asked my mom. She giggled. Were they flirting? Gross!

I'd been to the Casino de Montréal before, so I knew what to expect. A maze of slot machines on the ground floor. People—mostly seniors—cranking up the machines. Lots of clanging—one old woman scooping up a mountain of coins. Other people circling her, hoping to catch some of her luck.

The light was bright, almost glaring, but there were no windows. “The people who run this place don't want visitors knowing what time it is. Whether it's even day or night,” Mom explained as we followed Jasmine up the gleaming escalator to the third floor, where the blackjack tables were.

“The high-stakes tables are over there,” Jasmine said, pointing straight ahead.

“How much did she take?” I asked her.

“Twenty-three hundred.” She sounded more tired than angry. I got the feeling this wasn't the first time Aunt Melinda had found Jasmine's stash.

I sucked in my breath. That was a lot of nights cleaning floors at the dumpling shop.

“I was too busy between school and work to take it to the bank. So I was keeping it in my mom's Bible. Can you believe she looked in there?”

I couldn't tell if I was supposed to answer.

Mom reached for Jasmine's hand and squeezed it. “The main thing is we're here, and we're going to find your aunt Melinda and bring her home and get her some help.”

It sounded like a tall order.

Jasmine was as focused now as she'd been in the boxing ring. She slipped by half a dozen tables, scanning the faces of the people gathered at each one. Most were sitting on stools. Others were standing behind them.

“Good evening, ladies. Care to join us?” a dealer called to us. He was wearing a tuxedo shirt and black bow tie. Jasmine glided past him without answering.

“See that guy's fat ass?” Jasmine asked me, lifting her eyes in the direction of a gambler leaning over a blackjack table.

She was right. He had a huge ass. Maybe gamblers needed more exercise.

“He's wearing a diaper.”

“Tell me you're kidding.”

“I'm not kidding. Lots of them do. That way they don't have to get up to use the can.”

I tried not to inhale.

“That's my aunt Melinda.” Why was Jasmine pointing to a blond woman wearing a tight dress with black sequins? She didn't look too Asian to me.

Mom must've been thinking the same thing. “Are you absolutely sure, dear?” she asked Jasmine.

Aunt Melinda must have disguised herself to get into the casino. I couldn't imagine being so desperate to lose money—though, of course, Aunt Melinda was hoping to
win
money, not lose it. Judging by the anxious faces I'd seen so far in the casino, more people were losing than winning.

“Aunt Melinda!” Jasmine started marching to the table, but Mom put a hand on her shoulder and stopped her.

“Let me talk to her,” Mom said.

I had to hold Jasmine back. A security guard was watching us from the corner. I knew there were other plainclothes guards on the floor too. And probably lots of security cameras.

“Melinda Wong,” we heard Mom say. She was using her assistant-manager voice again. “I need to have a word with you.”

Jasmine's aunt waved Mom away. “Can't you see I'm busy here?”

“It's urgent,” Mom said.

Jasmine's aunt didn't look up from her cards right away. Maybe focus ran in the family. “I don't even know you,” she said when she finally looked at Mom.

“I'm a friend of Jasmine's…”

Jasmine's aunt raised her eyebrows. “How do you know my niece?”

“She and my daughter go to the same school. To New Directions. Jasmine thinks you—” Mom dropped her voice, but we knew she was telling Jasmine's aunt about the missing money.

Jasmine's aunt wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and said something we couldn't hear. Her blond wig was coming loose at one side, and she pulled it back into place.

Mom stayed firm. “You have to come with me now. This is no place for you. Let's go now—before you go through all of your niece's savings.”

Aunt Melinda had lost four hundred dollars, but we all knew it could have been worse. Of course, Jasmine was angry with her aunt. But what surprised me most was how quickly Jasmine forgave her. Her aunt was crying and going on about how sorry she was and how she hadn't been able to help herself. Her mascara left tracks on her cheeks. “All I wanted to do,” she said between sobs, “was win back the money I lost.”