The Boxer and the Butterfly

by Sasha Hibbs

  “What else should they be remembered for but the work they left behind for the world to marvel at?”

  “The life they led. They all died young. They were all poor, suppressed women who lived in an era where women were dependent on men, and while their work is excellent, they should be remembered for not only the work they wrote, but that they wrote such pieces in spite of their circumstances.”

  His statement seemed to stump Mr. Romano and me as well. After several seconds of silence, Mr. Romano began to speak again.

  “Okay. So, how’s their work considered fantasy now?”

  “While not as far reaching today as the era they wrote in, segregation still exists which was a huge theme in all their novels,” Mickey replied.

  “Segregation?”

  “Yes. Rich people marry rich people. Poor people marry poor people. And if you strayed outside your ranking, you were shunned, hence the segregation of classes.”

  “True of that time, but those were ideals of the past, not the present.”

  “You’re wrong. That is something that certainly exists today. Let’s say, if a rich girl marries a poor boy. In some family circles, she would be shunned by her family.”

  I heard the hostility in Mickey’s voice. Was he making a reference to me? Momentarily I thought so until Mr. Romano made his next statement.

  “Perhaps, but surely today, this wouldn’t include her entire family,” Mr. Romano said. There was an undertone of challenge in his voice.

  I heard Mickey scoff under his breath. This had somehow turned personal for Mickey. I looked back and forth between him and Mr. Romano. Mickey had a chip on his shoulder toward him, but I couldn’t figure out why. He was only our teacher.

  “While the perspective on their personal lives is interesting, let’s talk about a common theme in their work—forgiveness.”

  Here’s where Mickey had no opinion. He seemed to have plenty to say regarding the Bronte sisters and Jane Austen on a personal level. Was it because he identified with it personally? Admired their struggles? After listening to him, a picture of Jay cropped up in my mind.

  Mickey might not be a football player, but I’d watched him briefly in the ring. He had a mean left hook. His boxing had to take diligence and a large dose of discipline. But what he had that Jay lacked was the ability to fence with words, to engage in a debate over literature. I knew Mickey was smart. There had to be a reason why he’d been recommended for Honors English. But knowing something and seeing it were two different things.

  Chapter Eleven

  The rest of the week passed without any hiccups. As promised, Mickey came to Honors English every day. That week, we continued on our women of British literature kick. I knew Mickey was intelligent to some degree, but a full week of Honors English left me with no doubt. The only question still remaining was why he hated Mr. Romano so much. I thought about Mr. Romano when he caught all of us painting up the school wall. He was angry, but given what we did, his reaction was less severe than most. At first I thought the punishment doled out to me was unfair, but Mary quickly reminded me that my restitution could’ve been far worse. Plus, Mr. Romano acted as though the event never happened, or at least, he didn’t seem to be carrying a grudge about it like Mickey was.

  At every turn, Mickey found a way to refute the topics Mr. Romano tried to point out regarding our theme week, and it was growing more and more obvious. I wondered at what point Mr. Romano would finally snap at him. Occasionally I would turn around in my chair and give him a questioning look, hoping he would take the hint and go along to get along. But Mickey was defiant.

  At the end of class on Friday, Mickey caught me going out the door as the last bell rang. He gently grabbed my elbow and said, “Remember our deal.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. I hadn’t forgotten our deal; I hadn’t figured out how I was going to pull it off without eventually getting caught. There were only so many excuses I could come up with to satisfy my parents and last weekend was difficult enough. I couldn’t imagine repeating this every Friday.

  “I remember,” I said, my gaze trailed down to his lips. The two kisses we shared were things I tried to push out of my mind all week, but it was moments like this one—where I was so close to him—those images of us kissing resurfaced in my mind.

  “Be there,” Mickey said with a sly smile. Oh, he was handsome. A devil. But I was no angel and the longer we continued down this path, the more and more I felt like the devil’s advocate.

  ****

  Driving home, I thought of all kinds of excuses I could give my mom and dad to bail again on dinner. As I pulled into our driveway I spotted Mary’s car. Dad’s car was there too. I had the whole way home to think of an excuse and I still came up empty. I parked the car and walked in. It was still too early to go out for dinner. My dad wasn’t in sight, leading me to believe he was in his study. I heard noise in the kitchen. I walked in to find Mary putting away clean dishes.

  “Hi, Mary.”

  “Hi, Autumn. How was your day?”

  “Good. It was good,” I said absently, my current predicament overshadowed the desire to talk.

  Mary must’ve sensed my distraction. She was good at honing in on things where I was concerned. Sometimes I thought it was a motherly intuition she felt my own mother lacked and she tried to make up for it.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said, but even I didn’t believe my halfhearted response. I knew she wouldn’t either.

  Closing the door to the dishwasher she turned, gazing directly at me. There was always something unnerving about her penetrating stare.

  “What’s wrong, Autumn?”

  “I kinda have a small problem,” I said, biting down on my lower lip.

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “No, nothing like that,” I said, lowering my voice in case my dad walked through the kitchen. I didn’t want him or my mom to overhear me.

  “Then what’s the matter?” she asked, a perplexed look scrunching up her face.

  “Remember my problem at school? The wall? Tutoring?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, so far the tutoring has been going okay, but we kind of worked out that I would tutor him on Friday nights.”

  It was another lie. I couldn’t tell anyone about Mickey’s fights. I knew they were illegal and I didn’t need him to tell me that narcing him out would be crossing a certain line. I felt bad about lying to Mary of all people. She’d been with my family for years. She took care of us. And I knew she loved me. She was—hands down—the easiest person under this roof to talk to.

  “And?”

  “Well, we all go to the Country Club Friday nights for dinner.”

  “Can you not just tell your mom and dad that’s what you’re doing?”

  “Oh, my God, no! Are you kidding?”

  “Wait a minute,” Mary began. I could see her piecing the puzzle together. “You haven’t told your parents that you’re tutoring this boy?”

  I shook my head.

  “Autumn, I’m surprised.” What she meant to say, I knew, was that she was disappointed. I could see it all over her face.

  “There’s no way I can tell them about Mickey.”

  “Mickey?”

  “Yes. Mickey Costello.”

  “Cecelia Costello’s boy?” Mary asked.

  “Yes.”

  “He’s a good kid and smart. I’m a bit surprised that he requires tutoring.”

  “Well, that would make two of us, but he’s the one. How do you know him?”

  “I’m friends with his mother and live a few blocks from where they do.”

  I’d never thought about where Mary lived before and instantly felt bad for it.

  “I’ve been trying to think of excuses all day—”

  “Excuses?” Mary cut me off. “Oh, no, Autumn. In this case, I’d say excuses are the same thing as a lie. You’d better come clean and just tell your mom and dad what you’re doing before you dig yourself
in a hole so far you can’t get out. You’re young, but you better believe me when I tell you that you have to create a lie to cover up a lie and the web gets spun so far out of control that you’ll end up caught up in your own tangled web.”

  I knew there was truth to what she said. But there was no way I could tell my parents. Absolutely not. They would never agree to me hanging out with Mickey, let alone go to an underground fight with him. I only had to get by for the next couple of weeks. Surely if I went to the next few fights, I could reason with Mickey. Or maybe he’d get bored with me and not care if I went to his fights at all.

  “You’re right, Mary. Thank you for the advice.” I turned quickly and ran up to my room. I didn’t want to see the analyzing look on her face. She could see right through me.

  ****

  I fidgeted around my room for two hours, agonizing on what excuse I could come up with to get out of going to dinner. In the end, I waited for my mom to come upstairs to my room. Two hours later and I had nothing original. I used the oldest trick in the book. I could hear her coming down the hall. Quickly, I threw myself on my bed and curled up.

  “Autumn,” Mom said, as she craned her neck around my door. “We’re going to be leaving soon.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. But I don’t feel too good.”

  She pushed the door open and came into my room. I tried to scrunch up my face to add to the ruse.

  “Are you fevered?” She hovered over my bed and leaned down to feel my forehead. “You don’t feel hot.”

  “My stomach hurts. There’s been a virus going around school. I probably caught a bug,” I said, wrapping my arms around myself rocking slightly in the bed.

  “Oh, dear. Have you had any other symptoms? Diarrhea? Vomiting?”

  “Mom!”

  “What? I’m your mother and I don’t care how old you are. You are still my child.”

  Lying was bad enough, but it was rare times like this when she actually revealed that maternal side of her I knew existed that really made me feel terrible.

  “I think I need to stay in bed and rest. I’m sure I’ll feel better tomorrow.”

  She leaned over me once more to feel my head and then my cheeks.

  “Okay, but if you start to vomit or have diarrhea, you need to drink water or some Gatorade. You’ll end up dehydrated.”

  Discussing bodily fluids with my mom was embarrassing, but I guessed this was my punishment for lying.

  “I will. I’ll call if I need anything.”

  “I hope you feel better, honey,” she said, and then left the room and me feeling guilty. I waited until I heard my parent’s car pull out of the driveway before jumping off my bed, quickly running into the bathroom.

  They’d be gone for a couple hours. If I played my cards right, I could go to the fight, hang for an hour and then get back home with them none the wiser. I assessed my appearance in the mirror, lying to myself yet again that I didn’t really care what I looked like. But I still brushed my hair out, applied lip gloss, and changed into a red sweater that complimented a snug pair of jeans.

  I turned the light off in my room and ran downstairs. I knew Mary had long gone, but even the reminder of her gnawed at me. I knew I was doing the right thing, but going about it the wrong way. It didn’t stop me from grabbing my car keys and going through the door where I’d go to a fight where a boy named Mickey was expecting me. I thought of his words. They gave me courage.

  After all, a deal was a deal.

  Chapter Twelve

  After I parked my car, I retraced my steps from last weekend to where the fight was. Sure enough, I met the same bouncer from the week before. I grabbed ten dollars out of my pocket but was stopped by Mr. Bouncer.

  “You’re Mickey’s girl, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said, hoping the surprise wasn’t too obvious in my voice.

  “You’re good,” Mr. Bouncer said, jutting his chin out toward the entrance. “Go ahead in. His crew is behind the right side of the ring.”

  Was I supposed to go behind the curtain?

  “Thanks,” I said and made a mad dash down the metal steps.

  As soon as I made it to the bottom, I walked through to where the ring was. I flicked my gaze over to the right side. Red curtain. Bingo. I wove in and out of the crowd and made my way to where Mickey would be.

  I faintly heard a song emanate from behind the curtain. I pulled the side back and peeked in. I saw Mickey, Sean, and Daniel. They were listening to an old folk song I recognized from one of my dad’s albums. “The Boxer” by Simon and Garfunkel. I guess that was appropriate for the situation. As I watched them, their lips move with the words, it felt like a personal moment. I didn’t want to interrupt. I backed away, dropping the curtain and found myself a spot relatively close to the side of the ring Mickey would appear on.

  Music—angry and loud—roared to life all around me. The crowd cheered, stomped, and went wild as the other fighter emerged from behind a black curtain on the left side of the ring. He was big. Under his blue Mohawk, he sported a menacing-looking gaze. His lip curled up in a snarl. My heart plummeted, thinking about Mickey taking this guy on. Aside from last Friday’s fight, I’d not really had the opportunity yet to see what Mickey was capable of, at least in the ring. In the classroom he could fence and spar with words the entire length of the class. But I had no clue if he were as clever with his fists. He seemed to do okay last weekend, but this guy looked like a solid, impenetrable brick wall. And sizing him up, I couldn’t imagine Mickey being able to defeat him. The crowd roared as the announcer introduced Mickey’s opponent.

  Cole Garrett.

  Cole wore black shorts with blue stripes down either side. He waved his gloves in the air, inducing more cheering. The louder the crowd roared, the more I begun to panic. The announcer motioned for the crowd to lower it down a bit. And then Mickey walked out. He didn’t jog and fist pump at the crowd like Cole did. He walked out as though he were simply doing a job. Daniel and Sean trickled out behind him, situating themselves in Mickey’s corner.

  Mickey stepped up into the ring. His gaze was focused and unflinching. He stared at Cole the entire time the announcer introduced him. Maybe he was angling for intimidation. Unlike Cole, Mickey didn’t try to work the crowd. It looked like he could care less whether they were here or not. As the announcer made his final speech, entailing the rules between the two, Mickey hit his gloves off his knees. Daniel and Sean cheered him on.

  The announcer lifted both hands in the air and then on the countdown, lowered both swiftly, moving out of the way. Mickey and Cole raised their gloves, keeping them just below their line of vision, mere inches away from their face. They circled one another. I moved in closer. I remembered the girls from last week telling me Mickey never lost a fight. I hoped tonight wouldn’t be his first. I was approximately a foot away from the ring. I held my breath. In the next second, Cole swung and jabbed Mickey in the face. He didn’t flinch. Mickey continued circling him while keeping his fists up. Cole swung again, landing a glove to Mickey’s left temple. I winced as an image of Mickey’s previous wounds flitted through my mind.

  “Hit him!” I screamed. I wasn’t for violence, but this jerk was starting to piss me off.

  I had no idea how Mickey could’ve heard me over all the noise, but in an instant his gaze landed on mine. I balled my fists up and I was no fighter, but I motioned for Mickey to deck him while mouthing hit him.

  He smiled as though he thought me cute. I imagine it probably was hard to take me serious, but I was tired of watching Cole hit Mickey and him allowing it. He winked at me. Actually winked. I could feel myself blush. And then Mickey pounced. In one angry swing, he packed a right hook that slammed into Cole’s jaw, sending him to his end. The crowd was a fusion of booing and cheers. I imagined the crowd was an equal mix of supporters for Mickey and Cole.

  I was relieved to see Mickey unscathed and cringed when I finally saw Cole straighten himself back up. He was sporting a nasty looking laceration at t
he corner of his left eye. The surrounding skin was beginning to swell.

  Daniel grabbed a bottle of water. Sean stepped down from the corner. We made eye contact and then he disappeared into the crowd momentarily before appearing by my side.

  “Thank God you showed up,” he said.

  “Sorry?” I was genuinely confused.

  “Mickey was pouting and acting like a total asshat because he thought you stood him up.”

  “It’s not like we’re dating,” I said, trying to hide the excitement in my voice. I recognized it then—the acknowledgment deep down that there was more than a passing attraction for Mickey.

  “You’re the one who said you were his girl,” Sean said, a lopsided grin on his face.

  I instantly remembered the words from Mr. Bouncer guy. He waved me through, saying I was Mickey’s girl. Is that what Mickey was telling everyone? Surely not. Mickey was undeniably hot. There was this edge to him, one I wanted to touch because he was sharp and my life was dull, but I didn’t want to get cut. It was that side of him, that bad boy image that called out to my good girl side.

  “I didn’t mean literally.”

  Sean ignored my comment.

  “How’s the tutoring going?”

  “I’m not sure how much tutoring he actually needs,” I said.

  From the beginning I’d questioned why he needed a tutor. He was already in Honors English. Tutoring generally suggested that he needed help studying—another teacher—to help him when he was failing or close to it. But that wasn’t the case with Mickey.

  “Mickey’s pretty smart.”

  “I’m starting to figure that out,” I said. “You and I both know he doesn’t need tutoring. It’s more like he needs a truancy officer to make sure he attends class. So tell me—why was he not going to class?”

  “He didn’t tell you?”