Tap Out (17 page)

Rob laughs. “Wait on that. Try washing the smell off first and then see if you still want to thank me.”

I slide the gloves on and then join everyone else along the wall. Coach Dan trots to a back room and then emerges
with various pads. He holds a bunch, kicks some more in front of him, and sets them down just off from the center of the mat. “Before we hit the shields, let's review proper stance.” He points at us. “Guys on the wall, spread out and mirror these three.” We do and I look up and see the Blob. He nods at me, and I return the same. Still no Dave, but I'm keeping my eye on the door.

“All right. One piece at a time.” Coach Dan stands behind the three fighters. “Heads.” All tuck their chins down, close to their necks. I follow. “Protect the chin, don't make it a target.”

“Eyes.” All three stare at whoever's in front of them, and for Amir, that's me. His eyes burn so cold I have to look away.

“Arms.” They tuck their elbows to their sides but keep their shoulders loose, ready to drop a bomb, while their hands hover around their eyes, protecting. All have their right side slightly forward. I position myself the same and feel tucked in, coiled. I know this one.

“Body.” Each bends at the waist, only a bit, but it shrinks their open space, their strike zone. Makes sense.

“Feet.” They all shift the left foot forward and bounce on the balls of both feet. I look to the left and right, watching us all get ready, and it feels as if we're about to brawl.

“Excellent. Relax.” Coach steps out from behind and smiles. “Perfect form. And we must remember that form matters. Not only when we're fresh, but when we're beat. Especially then. When it's two minutes into the second round and you want to drop the shoulders or rest on your heels, that's when you need to tighten up.” He pauses and looks at us. “Because if you don't, that's when you lose.”

Heads nod and Coach crosses to the shields, scatters the pile. “We should have enough for you to pair up. I'll give you combos.”

Rob trots over and picks up a shield, then comes back to me. “This is the fun part.”

“Nothing fancy, just four punches, four combos.” Coach claps. “Amir.” Amir slides his arm into the pad, and Coach Dan pops into stance. He looks different, younger, somebody I wouldn't want to fuck with. “Jab.” He tosses a few into the shield. “Alternate hands and remember your feet. Don't stand still.” He bounces in and stabs, quickly bounces back, looking like a boxer. “Now, double jab.” He does the same but sticks two lightning-fast strikes into the shield. Amir rocks back.

“Now, cross. Remember to settle the weight on the opposite foot and rotate from the hips.” Dan dances and then plants his left foot, draws up his right shoulder, keeping his left hand near his face and blasts the shield from a right angle. He follows through by bringing his right hip across. Amir has to reset.

“Last, the hook.” Dan again dances. “Remember to drive the hips to full extension. You want to go through, not just meet the jaw.” Dan turns to Amir, drops his hips, and brings his hands to his face. When he pops, it's like a fucking jackin-the-box. His left leg stays bent and he powers off the right, extending his fist into the mat, through and high up in the air. Amir falls on his ass.

No one laughs; instead it's a thunder of applause.

“Nice, Coach D.”

“You going Golden Gloves on us?”

Coach helps up Amir and then smiles. “That one felt good. Damn.” He rubs his knuckles. “All right. I'll call out the punches and then the combos. Don't think, just react.”

Rob slides the shield in place, and I adjust my gloves, pushing them down, making sure they're tight.

“Stance.”

I drop into it and Rob nods.

“Jab right.”

I do but forget my feet. Rob points at them.

“Jab left.”

I remember this time, and the hit stings.

“Right. Left. Right. Left.” Over and over. My arms are already tight, I'm sweating and breathing heavy. “Stop. Shake'em out.” I look around. Guys are wiggling their arms and rolling their shoulders. I do the same, and it seems to help.

“Stance!”

“Keep low, Tone. Looking good.” Rob's watching me like he's examining a car.

“Double jab, right. Double left. Double right.” And on and on. The crosses are tough, but Rob tells me to follow through with my elbow, and that makes all the difference. I even knock him back on a few. The hook is easy for me, cuz most guys I've fought have been bigger. I'm always trying to take off a head at the chin.

“Rest and switch up.”

Rob drops the shield and rolls his shoulders. “Fun, right?”

“Hell yeah.” I notice the lift to my voice. It feels good.

“Wait until we work on knees and kicks. You land one of those right during a fight, fucking devastating.”

I pick up the shield. “You nervous? You know, about the fight?”

“Yeah, but I'm ready, too. Not like I haven't thrown down before.”

“True.”

“It is different, but I'm more excited than anything.” He pauses. “You know what does make me nervous?”

I shrug.

“We gotta have that fucking truck working by Friday. Two fucking days, man. That's it.”

Shit, I didn't realize it was that soon. School and Vo-Tec have just been a blur. But, fuck, I owe Rob. “We'll get it tomorrow. You'll see.”

Rob goes to say something, but Coach yells, “Stance!”

He hits the bag hard on each call, and I grip the mat with my toes so that he doesn't knock me on my ass each time. Every punch is crisp, every angle correct, at least from what I can tell. Even Coach Dan hovers for a bit, looking for flaws, much in the way Rob watched me. Coach only smiles, though, and yells for the next combo.

I watch Rob, really examine him, and it's more than just position. He's not really here with us. It's like he's in his head, or maybe out of it, and just letting his body do the work. He looks dumb, like some fucking cow or shit. Not a pissed-off bull, all stomping and grunting. No, he's just loose, and kind of stupid with his mouth hanging open and his eyes glazed.

But his image screams strength. I can hear it. And I want it.

I hit the button for the elevator and wait. I feel bad showing up soaked in sweat, but I didn't bring anything to change into, or even have a bag so I could. She won't care, though. Visiting hours are almost over, and she'll be hopped up on her meds already.

I head to the nurses' station, where Camilla, the head nurse, has been every single night. I wonder if she ever gets up from her chair. It looks like it's crammed up her ass.

“Just made it, Tony.” She smiles.

“Yeah? Is she all right?”

“Rough evening. The jaw's healing well, but she says it's throbbing. We're giving her as much pain meds as we can.” She looks up and down the hall. “I think she's just sick of being penned up here.”

I bite my tongue so I don't laugh. This place is a fuck lot better than our trailer. There's heat, food, and security.
She
doesn't feel pent up. No, she's got it good. “Can I still go see her?”

“Of course, sweetheart. Go right in. Probably be the best part of her day.” Camilla smiles and her eyes disappear into the wrinkles. I walk down the hall and take a deep breath before entering the room.

When I was a kid, she used to be bruised and swollen and lying in bed a lot. I didn't know any better, thought it was normal, what fathers did. Then I went to school and the other kids talked about doing crafts and shit with their parents. Playing board games and watching TV. All I knew was arguing, beer cans, and staying in my room where it was safe, for the most part. She looks like she did then, when my dad really went over her. Her nose is wide and flat and extends out beneath her eyes. Her lips are swollen like some celebrity's, but instead of looking sexy they're cracked and oozing. Her jaw balloons out on the left side and makes my own hurt just looking at it. But her eyes are open, not slits like they've been. “Tony?” At least that's what I think she says.

“Hey, Mom.” I move to the side of the bed and sit in a chair.

She moves the bed upright but winces at the effort. There's no fucking way she'll be out of here in a week. Fuck, not even two. She stops, breathes deep through that deformed nose and then says, “I'm all right.” It sounds like someone's sitting on her head.

I look at my feet. “Nurse said you're in pain. Jaw's bothering you.”

“Don't worry.”

I don't know what to say. Not worrying is an impossibility.

“You okay?” She reaches for me.

Her hand is bruised from the IVs that still run from it. I don't want to touch it. Last time I did, it felt lifeless. I've never felt that question before. Whether she was alive. But I grab her hand and squeeze it lightly and remember that she's asked a question.

“Sorry. I'm fine, just tired. Practice wore me out.”

She smiles, an odd faraway grin. “Back to football, huh?”

“No, Mom, that was years ago. I'm . . .” I don't know how to explain it, and it's probably not worth it. She won't remember.

“That's good. Make sure you eat. Need energy.”

I feel like squeezing real fucking hard and asking her just how the fuck I'm supposed to do that without her home and without any money. But I nod. Cameron did this to her. She didn't do it to herself. “All right.”

“Good. Be home soon. It'll be like it used to be. Just fine.”

The fuck? She must be high as a fucking kite. Like it used to be? When? When was the
good
time? I don't remember that period. Fuck, I'd better go before I say something I shouldn't. “Just take your time.” I stand and pat the back of her hand.

She nods, closes her eyes, mumbles something, and I wait for more, but she's out. I watch her for a moment, just look at her busted face one more time. I can't remember if my father did worse. Sure if he didn't then he came close. I don't want this. I want a normal fucking life, or whatever stupid fantasy I have for what that is. Sounds like she does, too. I can't wait as long as she has. I've got to figure something out. My brain was intelligent once. Maybe I can get it jump-started?

The cafeteria's mostly empty: a couple of docs sit at a table talking in some foreign language and an old dude sits by himself, staring down into his soup. The cashier looks like she's about to nod off and take a nosedive into the register.

I head over to the refrigerator and grab a carton of milk, the only thing I'm gonna pay for. Then I get a tray, make a sandwich, grab a fistful of cookies, and take it all to Sleeping Beauty. She startles when I slap the tray down, but pretends nothing's wrong, doesn't even look up at me, just at the tray and starts pounding numbers.

“Eight fifty.” The cashier has the wet and sticky voice of a lifelong smoker.

I pat my pockets, back to front, then just let my hands dangle and say, “Hmm.” She looks up, face closed in on itself.

“I forgot my wallet.”

Her expression stays flat.

I root around my pocket, find the change I need for the milk. “A-ha, guess I'll be dieting tonight.” I slap on a chuckle and hand over the change.

She stares at her hand and then at the tray.

“I'll put the rest back. Sorry.”

“The sandwich?”

“Oh. Yeah. Well . . .” I look at it and then back to the counter where I made it. “How about I wrap it up and put it with the other pre-made?”

She remains still for a moment and then nods. “All right.”

They've all said the same thing, must save them work or filling out a form or shit. I don't know how I came up with the plan, but it's been working, so I don't fuck with it. I bring the tray back to the service area, where they keep the spoons and forks and salt and shit. They've got a giant roll of plastic wrap as well. So while the hag voids my order and then re-rings the
milk, I wrap the sandwich and cookies into one big blob, drop it into my underwear and pretend to return everything. My pants are so baggy that no one has noticed.