by Sarah Deming
Gravity decided to bite the bullet and say good morning to Svetlana, who looked pretty much recovered from last night, only slight bruising visible on the bridge of her nose. She was sitting in the back row, chatting with her roommate, Wendy, who had also lost her preliminary match. When Gravity greeted her, Svetlana stared straight ahead, as though she wasn’t even there.
Gravity thought she had not heard, so she spoke louder: “We missed you at dinner last night! Your nose looks great! I watched that girl May, and she’s got nothing for you.”
But Svetlana kept up the I-can’t-hear-you act.
Wendy gave Gravity an awkward half smile, clearly unsure of what to do.
Gravity decided to let it go. As she went to sit down next to her roommate, Chantal, she mentally recited some lines from an old samurai poem that Fatso had taught her:
I have no parents: I make the heaven and earth my parents.
I have no friends: I make my mind my friend.
That poem always made her feel better. Svetlana would get over herself. And maybe Gravity would make new and better friends once she was on the national team. She glanced longingly at the front row. Kaylee Miller, a blond California flyweight who had won last night by stoppage, was making Sacred Jones crack up by imitating a pirate. The last time Gravity had seen Sacred Jones on TV was at the ESPYs, in a spectacular gown of peach satin. Gravity thought the great champion looked even better like this: no makeup on her warm brown skin, in a dinosaur headscarf and sweats. She and Kaylee were laughing so loud that a few girls cast resentful glances in their direction, but Gravity wished she could be a part of their conversation.
Her opponent for that night, Paloma Gonzales, was sitting all by herself at the end of Gravity’s row, staring into space with her headphones on. Gravity tried to catch her eye but could not.
“A bronze isn’t bad, but I plan on winning gold,” Gravity said to Chantal. She said it loudly, hoping Paloma would hear and take offense, but she just kept listening to her music.
Chantal said, “I heard she didn’t even deserve to go to London. My coach said she shoulda won.” She nodded to the front of the room, where Aaliyah Williams was stepping on the scale, topless and in boxer briefs. Aaliyah had a spectacularly muscled physique and was tattooed all over.
“One hundred and thirty-two even,” announced the female fight doctor.
“One thirty-two for Aaliyah Williams,” repeated the female official, writing it down.
Aaliyah stepped off the scale, pulled her jeans back on, and accepted the congratulations of her friends.
It was Paloma’s turn next. Gravity watched as she stripped to bra and panties, noting the efficiency and aggression of her movements. A large tattoo of the Olympic rings stretched across her tan, muscular back, and her dark hair hung down in a long braid almost to her knees. Gravity thought it was creepy to have hair that long. Plus, it must add at least an extra pound.
The doctor announced, “One hundred thirty-one point eight pounds.”
“One thirty-one eight for Gonzales.”
Nakima, a nice middleweight from Newark, leaned over to Gravity and whispered, “USA Boxing loves Paloma ’cause she gets all the sponsors and press. If you wanna beat her, G, you gotta beat her. They won’t give you a close decision.”
“I’m not afraid of Paloma Gonzales,” Gravity said quietly. “Everybody goes down if you hit them right. And Aaliyah Williams gasses out. I can outwork her.”
Nakima remained silent at that. Probably she thought Gravity was all talk. Paloma and Aaliyah were nationally known, and she was just some kid from Brooklyn. That was all right. By the end of the tournament, everybody would know who she was.
Chantal made 112 with two ounces to spare, and Gravity gave her a high five. Then it was her turn. She pulled off her Cops ’n Kids jersey and bent down to strip off her sweatpants. She took off her bra and socks, too, because she didn’t want to give up an extra ounce, and you only got one chance to make weight.
Stepping onto the cold metal square, she balanced on the balls of her feet and thought about light, fluffy clouds. The display flashed with double zeros. After a moment, it settled on 131.7. She exhaled with relief.
As she stepped off and bent to pick up her clothes, she caught Paloma Gonzales watching. A flare of delight went off inside Gravity’s heart. She stood up very straight, still bare-chested and in her lucky pink thong, holding Paloma’s gaze.
“What are you looking at?” she said loudly, lifting her chin in the air.
Sacred Jones and Kaylee went, “Ooh!”
D-Minus had been in the fitness room last night, and he said Paloma was running her mouth about how easy the field was in this year’s Trials. Apparently, she had said Gravity would be light work because she was only sixteen. Well, Gravity might be young, but she was the only undefeated fighter in the whole tournament.
Chantal said, “Yo, G, chill!” but she kept on staring. It was fun.
Paloma looked way less intimidating in person. Like Svetlana, she was on the small side for lightweight. She had a button nose and pouty lips, and there was something brittle about her brown eyes that made her swagger seem like a lie.
“All right, ladies, knock it off,” said the fight doctor, but she sounded mildly amused. Weigh-ins were kind of a drag, so everyone appreciated a little action. Gravity held Paloma’s gaze as long as she could, then snapped her eyes away and left the room, filled with the triumph of having decisively won the pregame.
The hardest part of a fight was waiting for it to begin. The staredown with Paloma left Gravity so hopped up on adrenaline that she couldn’t make herself eat breakfast, which threw off her entire rhythm, and the day went downhill from there.
At lunch, she was unable to stop herself from eating a chicken burrito the size of her head, after which she fell into a deep carbohydrate coma, emerging just in time to catch the shuttle to the sports center. She would have missed it entirely if not for Fatso, who always took the precaution of banging on his fighters’ doors if they did not text him back.
Gravity was in such a rush that she forgot to bring socks or a cup to the venue. She did without the socks—Tyson had never worn them—but a cup, though optional for women, took some of the sting off body blows, so she borrowed one from Nakima. It was so big that Fatso had to tape it all around, and it stuck up out of the waistband of her trunks, making her look like a dork.
D-Minus was fighting right before her in the same ring, so Fatso was working his corner instead of warming Gravity up. She shadowboxed by herself in a quiet part of the cavernous sports center, trying to get a good sweat on, but she felt exposed and anxious. Normally, Svetlana would have been by her side, feeding her a steady stream of positivity until the time came to make her ring walk. There had been some indication of a thaw between them. Svetlana had won her fight that night against Hawaii and had silently accepted a hug afterward, but Gravity missed her friend’s presence at her side. Alone, she had no buffer from the uncertainty that kept creeping into her mind.
Had she made a mistake that morning? She had felt so certain of herself when she called Paloma out, but what if she couldn’t back it up? Coach was always telling D-Minus, “Don’t let your mouth write checks your ass can’t cash.”
She glanced up into the ring, but D seemed to be taking care of business. His opponent was a light-punching kid who thought he was slicker than he was. As she watched, D switched southpaw, his body language broadcasting supreme confidence.
She needed some of that confidence.
She caught sight of Lefty in the crowd around the ring and dashed over to him. He had on huge silver Beats and was bopping his head in time to the music as he divided his attention between D-Minus’s fight and the little pocket notebook in which he scribbled his rhymes. Gravity smelled beer fumes radiating off him.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Chillin’,” Lefty said. “You fighting tonight?”
“Of course I’m fighting.”
“Sweet!” He pulled out his phone and tried to take her picture but took a burst of selfies by mistake. She shook her head.
“Lefty, do you have Coach Thomas’s phone number? Can you call him for me? I would do it myself but I’m gloved up.”
Once you got the official ten-ounce competition gloves on, you weren’t allowed to take them off, which was why it was so important to pee before you went to the glove table. Lefty stared at her in confusion for a moment, then bent over his phone. Gravity looked back up into the ring just in time to see D-Minus’s opponent stagger backward from a big right hand, drawing an eight count.
She yelled, “That’s it, D! Beautiful!”
“Here,” Lefty said, holding the phone up to her face.
She cupped a glove over her other ear, blocking off the cacophony of the three simultaneous rings.
“Coach?”
“Champ! You okay?”
Something in her relaxed when she heard his deep, gravelly voice.
“Hi, Coach. I’m okay.” She hadn’t planned anything to say and felt suddenly shy. Lefty was standing so close to her, studying her with his sexy vampire eyes.
But Coach seemed to understand, because he said, “You’re about to go in against Gonzales?”
“Yeah.”
“You all warmed up?”
“Not really.” Every part of her body felt tight and cold. Her mouth was dry. Her head throbbed.
“Do twenty jumping jacks right now,” he said.
“Okay.” She looked up and saw Fatso climbing down the ring stairs with a euphoric D-Minus. “D just won. I’m up next.” Her stomach lurched. She didn’t want to get off the phone.
“Listen to me. Paloma Gonzales boxes to please her father. You box to please yourself. That’s why you’ll win.” Gravity considered this. She had never thought about it before, but maybe it was true. Coach erupted in a fit of coughing. When it was over, he wheezed, “You have already defeated all your enemies.”
She let that sink in. She didn’t understand what it meant, but it sounded good.
“Thanks, Coach.”
She nodded to Lefty, who took the phone away and hung up.
“Left…” She hesitated. “You’ve got a tough fight tomorrow. I don’t think you should be drinking.”
He smiled at her, but his eyes stayed sad. “Let’s be real, G. I can’t beat that kid. You know it. I know it. Everybody knows it. Might as well enjoy the night and the fights and the music.” He put his headphones back on.
Gravity had never in her life heard a boxer talk like that. Then again, something about Lefty had always been different. It was like he was always hearing music in his head.
Then Fatso found her and said, “Come on, baby, we’re up.”
The New Jersey head coach, who everyone called Sergeant Slaughter because he was so mean and always dressed in camouflage, followed with the spit bucket.
They pushed their way through the crowd toward ring two, where the round timer sounded like a fire drill siren, and she was through the ropes before she could ask Fatso what the game plan was. Everything went very quickly after that. The mouthpiece, the final drink of water, the bows to the judges. Dark eyes boring into hers, dread blossoming in her belly, the fire drill siren, and Paloma running at her full speed, like a bus into a bicycle.
Paloma ran over Gravity in center ring, forced her to the ropes, and ran her over again in each of the corners. It was the worst thing that had ever happened to her in the boxing ring. The next thing she knew, the fire drill siren screeched again and Paloma went away. Gravity staggered back to Fatso, who grabbed her and plunked her down on the stool. Sergeant Slaughter clapped a bag of ice on the back of her neck.
Fatso told her to breathe and she breathed. He told her to drink and she drank. He gave her some instructions, but it sounded like someone talking at her from very far away.
Then he was gone, and Gravity watched, frozen, as Paloma came running from across the ring. She turtled up immediately and took the opening barrage on the shoulders and the backs of her hands. Paloma was relentless. Every time Gravity thought it was her turn to get off, Paloma would pivot and start over from a different angle.
The first standing eight count was bullshit, called after a flashy triple hook that Gravity totally deflected on her forearm. She spent the first few seconds arguing with the referee, even though that was pointless. By the time she remembered to look at Fatso, Paloma was back on her.
She got low, and a three-piece combination sailed over her head, but when she tried to pop back up with a hook, Paloma threw a straight right inside it.
Bright, sharp pain shot through her left cheekbone, just below the eye. Gravity heard as though underwater the oohing of the crowd and Paloma’s father cheering in Spanish from the corner. It was an awful feeling. With difficulty, she lifted the gloves back to her face to convince the referee that she wanted to continue.
The siren sounded, and Fatso came to her, grabbing her by the rib cage.
“I forgot to do the twenty jumping jacks!” she gasped, seized with despair.
“What?” he said.
“I forgot…”
She doubled over, no air to spare for speech.
“You forgot to throw punches is what you forgot,” Fatso said. He steered her back to the stool and pushed her down. Sergeant Slaughter put ice on her cheek.
As Fatso’s eyes met hers, he looked calm and almost amused. That made her furious.
Did he think this was funny?
“I didn’t warm up,” she snapped. “You weren’t there.”
He laughed. “Well, you’re warm now.”
Sergeant Slaughter hooked his hands under her armpits and lifted her back onto her feet.
Was the break over already? She wanted more time. She wanted to sit back down on the stool.
Fatso shoved the mouthpiece back in.
Someone yelled, “Seconds out!”
Just before he left the ring, Fatso grabbed her headgear and yelled, “Last round, baby. Don’t get mad at me. I’m not the one beating the shit out of you. Let your motherfucking hands go. If you don’t throw punches, I’m stopping it.”
Gravity teetered on her boots. That was the meanest Fatso had ever been to her. In the five seconds before Paloma was on her, a host of emotions passed through her: hurt that he would speak to her like that, humiliation at the thought of him throwing in the towel, anger at Fatso, anger at herself, anger at Paloma.
Yes, that’s it. She was supposed to be angry at Paloma.
She seized on that thought as the beating began again. And she was angry, but it wasn’t the kind of anger that did any good. It was a slow, heavy, resentful kind of anger. It reminded her of something.
Gravity could see Paloma’s father over her shoulder, gesticulating passionately from his stool. A knife twisted in an old wound, and Gravity was filled with self-pity, because her father would never be in her corner, and she always thought she was over it, but she would never get over it. She looked down at Paloma’s boots—white on white—and knew she should just accept that she was the loser because she always broke everything sooner or later and that was what it reminded her of. It reminded her of life.
She was dimly aware of some contradiction in her logic, but the punches were coming so fast she couldn’t think. As she stood there, panting, her vision crystallized and she saw everything with incredible clarity. The banners on the walls of the sports center. The wrinkles in the forehead of the referee as he watched her with concern. The intensity on the faces of D-Minus, Lefty, Boo Boo, Genya, Monster, a
nd Svetlana as they watched from the front row, hands cupped to their mouths, screaming something in unison.
Svetlana. Svetlana was rooting for her too.
She looked over at Paloma. Her mouth was open, and her hands were at her sides. A wet strand of dark hair had escaped from her braid and clung to the hollow of her neck. She must have been tired too. She had thrown a lot of punches in the first two rounds. Maybe too many.
“Box!” commanded the referee.
Gravity figured out the mistake in her logic. She had been angry at Paloma for beating her, but Paloma hadn’t won yet. There was still time left in the round, and that made this different than all the other messed-up things in life. Victory was still possible.
She bit down on the mouthpiece. Just as Paloma came within punching range, she made out what her team was screaming. Svetlana’s voice, more piercing than the rest, floated to her over the crowd: “Q Train!”
It was an old code from Cops ’n Kids. Boo Boo’s dad started it: a system of combinations based on this street fighting style 52 Blocks. Gravity remembered Q Train because it had always been her favorite—a strange feint with the left, then a short right to the body, half step back, right uppercut, left hook, right hand. She had spent rounds throwing it over and over on the stationary wall bag until she could make it shake with the final cross.
Paloma still had her hands around her sides, lulled into complacency by how badly Gravity had been fighting. She was a sucker for the feint, and the short right to the solar plexus made her double over, presenting a perfect target for the uppercut. Gravity grinned as she half-stepped back.
So what if Paloma had an Olympic bronze? She didn’t have Gravity’s heart.
The uppercut lifted Paloma’s head for the tight little hook that followed. But that was just a way to bring Gravity’s weight back onto the rear foot for the big finish. She threw the right hand straight and strong, just like Coach taught.
Paloma looked surprised to find herself on the canvas. She blinked up at Gravity, her legs splayed, her feet flopping out to the sides, like a scared little girl who had fallen on the playground.