Total Knockout

by Taylor Morris

  I understood how angry he was. I thought of the morning I’d forced him to box me, then sucker punched him. “I don’t know,” I said.

  “‘I’m sorry, thanks for everything’? Is that how you break up?”

  “Coop, sit down,” I said, hoping it would calm him down. That’s what people on TV and in movies always seemed to do. He dropped down on the trampoline, spilling my hot chocolate, now cold, on the blanket. I didn’t say anything but tossed what was left on the grass and held the empty mug.

  “You were right,” Cooper said. “I should have listened to you. She totally bailed just like you said she would.”

  “No, Coop,” I said. Maybe her bailing had something to do with her mom. Whatever it was, I didn’t think she meant to be mean or cold. “I think she’s just upset about everything.”

  “So she breaks up with me? Please. She doesn’t care about anyone but herself. And she dumped me in front of you! Not that I care, but dang. You don’t break up in front of other people, do you?” he asked, as if I knew anything about dating.

  “No,” I said, “you don’t.” I decided not to say anything more. Sometimes it felt good to be mad for a little while, and between Melanie and me, Cooper had definitely earned that right.

  We sat on the trampoline until it was dark. I realized, as he alternately ranted and sulked, that I would never try to kiss him again. His friendship meant more to me than any romantic thing ever could. Besides, even if he felt the same way about me, we’d eventually break up—we were only thirteen, for crying out loud. What would we be like post–boyfriend/girlfriend? We’d never again be like we were now. And the way we were now was the best way to be. Best friends. Always.

  At home, I sat on my bed after I’d finished my homework, holding Paddy, and thought about everything that had happened.

  I had expected my eighth-grade year to be my best, but instead it had turned into a muddled mess that I never could have predicted—and I wasn’t even through the first semester yet. Then I realized, sitting alone in my quiet room, that despite all the change that had been happening in my life—at school, with my friends, in my life’s ambition—that almost nothing had changed at home. That is, until we were called for dinner.

  Dad made dinner. It’d been a long time since he’d cooked, and by the looks of things, Henry had convinced him to try some of his new vegetarian grub. Dad made falafel from a boxed mix; picked up hummus and pitas at the market; and cut up some tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and lettuce.

  “What’s this?” Mom asked, looking skeptically at her plate.

  “It’s Mediterranean,” Dad said. “You’ll like it.”

  “And no animals were killed in the making of this meal,” Henry added, nodding at Dad.

  “You made this together?” I asked.

  “Yep. Henry’s idea.” Dad smiled.

  I had to admit I was a little jealous that Dad and Henry had worked together on something. Dad and I hadn’t done anything in months. It seemed like the days of him taking me to his gym to work the bag were long gone.

  “How are we supposed to do this?” Mom asked, peeking inside her pita as if the answer might be hidden there.

  “Pack it in,” Dad said. She looked at him like he had just suggested she smear the putty-colored hummus on her face. “Here,” Dad said, getting up. “I’ll do it. It’s like a sandwich.”

  “It is a sandwich. It’s Egyptian,” Henry said, tucking falafel balls into his pita, then spooning the hummus on top of them and adding the vegetables. He topped that with another dollop of hummus. I mimicked him.

  “What’s that weird brown stuff?” Mom asked, but she seemed amused that Dad was making her pita for her. I noticed that he picked out the extra-thin-sliced tomatoes for her, just like she liked.

  “Hummus. It’s mashed chickpeas, mostly,” Dad said. “There.” He presented the plate back to Mom. “Do you know how to say ‘bon appétit’ in Egyptian, Henry?”

  “Mmm, no,” he said. “But let’s hope this food nourishes our bodies as well as our minds.”

  I only wanted to gag a little bit, but I still smiled at my little brother.

  Dad sat down and watched Mom as she picked up her pita, hesitated, then took a bite. She slowly began to nod. “Hmm!” she said through a mouthful. “It’s good!”

  Dad beamed, then chomped into his own. I was pretty sure that Mom hadn’t complimented him in a long time, and was glad that she did tonight, in front of Henry and me.

  “Speaking of food,” I began in a pathetic attempt to get some attention focused on me. “Did anyone hear about the fund-raiser the school had last week?”

  “Evelyn at work told me about it,” Mom said. She looked at Dad and said, “Pie toss turned into a pie fight.”

  “Ah.” Dad nodded, looking amused.

  “It’s worse than that,” Henry said. “My friend Simon’s sister said that almost a hundred pies were totally wasted for no good reason at all. Think of all those eggs in those pies, and all those chickens that had to lay those eggs in cramped quarters for nothing.”

  I sighed. For a guy who supposedly meditated every morning, Henry sure knew how to rile himself up. “That,” I said, “and the student council lost money for the first time in its history. Ever,” I emphasized in case anyone missed it. I shook my head. “A travesty.”

  “How’s Melanie taking it?” Mom asked, wiping the corner of her mouth.

  “Not so well,” I said, enjoying having someone to talk to about it. “I mean, she wants everyone to believe she’s fine, but I’m not so sure. She’s just laughing it off and making a joke of it. She wasn’t kicked off the council, but it’s like she’s already quit.”

  “Really?” Dad asked, sounding surprised.

  “Yes,” I said, feeling uneasy with the way he was looking at me.

  “Huh,” was all he said.

  Then Mom asked Henry what he was working on at school, and he launched into a speech about getting yoga included in PE, leaving me in silence to wonder why Dad kept darting his eyes at me when he thought I wasn’t looking.

  After dinner, Dad insisted he clean the kitchen even though Mom said it wasn’t fair that he had to cook and clean (!). So, she kissed his cheek (double !) and went back to the bedroom with her laptop clutched to her chest. Henry told us all “peace” and went to his room, and I went to the living room, pulled a blanket over my lap, and turned on the TV to watch my favorite crime investigation show.

  When Dad finished the dishes, he sat down in the chair next to the couch with a glass of ice water and let out a satisfied sigh.

  We watched the show in silence for a good half hour, until a commercial came on for a heavyweight rematch on pay-per-view.

  When it was over, Dad muttered, “Hmph.” I looked at him, tired of wondering what he was thinking, and if he was getting at something.

  “What?”

  “Reminds me of something,” he said. He shifted in his chair. “You remember watching fights with Naseem Hamed?”

  “Prince Naseem?” I corrected. I couldn’t believe he was bringing this fighter up—I had just been thinking about him a couple of weeks ago.

  Dad smiled. “You know he’s not a real prince. That was just a nickname he gave himself. Part of his arrogance.”

  “Of course,” I said, even though I hadn’t known. “What about him?”

  “Didn’t you ever wonder what happened to him?”

  “He lost that big fight to Marco Antonio Barrera.”

  “Yeah. And?”

  “And that was it,” I said. “I guess his career ended.”

  Dad said, “In every big fight, there’s always a clause that gives the fighters the option of a rematch. Hamed lost the fight, but he could have fought again. He just chose not to. And look what happened.”

  Dad sat back, like everything was obvious. “So?” Dad said.

  “So, what?” I asked.

  “Girl, aren’t you ready for your rematch?” I looked at him blankly, and he said, “All
that student council stuff. Like you talked about at dinner.”

  I tried not to sigh loudly. I thought I’d been pretty clear as to how things stood with me as far as student council was concerned. “There’s no rematch. Against who? Melanie?” I shook my head. “The bout’s over for me, Dad. I’m not even in the ring anymore. I’m not even in the gym.”

  “That’s because you’ve chosen not to be. You can still fight, Lucia. You can still step back in.”

  I said, “I’m not going to try to get Mrs. Peoria or Ms. Jenkins to take me back as president. That’d be pathetic, and besides, Melanie is still president. Even if she doesn’t want to be.”

  “Loosh, that’s not what I’m talking about. You can still help things, can’t you? You can help Melanie.”

  “Dad, she won’t—”

  “What was the first thing I taught you about boxing?” he asked.

  “To keep yourself protected,” I said automatically.

  “No,” he said. “Before I ever let you put on a pair of gloves, I told you that boxing was about endurance. Seeing your fight through to the end no matter how exhausted or defeated you are. Quitting is the worst thing a fighter can do. You only quit when you absolutely have to. Now, do you absolutely have to quit?”

  “Dad, I got kicked out—”

  “No, you don’t have to quit,” he continued. “So keep going. Help Melanie. Help the football team. You want them to have those warm-up suits, don’t you? Then fight for it,” he said, sounding as determined as an old cutman. “Make sure no one takes that away from them—including you.”

  Dad hadn’t talked with that much encouragement since he taught me my first jab.

  “What about you, Dad? What are you doing about getting a job?” He looked back at the TV. “Are you still fighting? Because from the looks of things, it seems like you gave up a long time ago.”

  He sighed. “It’s different, honey. Adult stuff is hard to understand.”

  “I don’t believe that anymore. And you did teach me early on about keeping yourself protected. You said if you leave one small opening, the fighter will take advantage of that. I think that’s what you did at work. Someone saw the opening you left and took advantage.” He seemed to consider this, and if I say so myself, I thought it was a pretty darn good analogy. “You still don’t have to throw in the towel.”

  He leaned over and patted my leg. “Smart girl,” he said. “I’ll get back in there if you will.”

  I smiled a great big smile at my dad like I hadn’t smiled at him in months. “Deal,” I said, then jumped up from the couch.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the fight!” I said as I hurried back to my room and shut my door.

  As I sat down at my computer, I realized there were times when you should protect yourself, like I had just said to Dad, and times you shouldn’t. I realized that with all of Melanie’s jokes, with all her hobbies and flirting and outward happiness, she was just keeping herself protected too, from what had happened long ago with her mom. Maybe she was protecting herself from dealing with it. And even though it’s good to keep yourself protected in the ring, it’s not always good to do it in life.

  So I sat down at the computer and wrote an e-mail:

  Melanie:

  First, I want to say I never got to thank you for being the first one to come to me about our fight. I was angry and I guess I was just going to let it end like that, but you made the first move. It was really brave of you, and I’m sorry I wasn’t nicer about it.

  Everything aside, the football team really needs those warm-up suits. Mel, you can’t quit now. They need you more now than they ever needed me.

  I have an idea that I think will work, and it’s really low-key—no one has to know, if you don’t want them to. Whatever happened to us, especially about Cooper, I think this is important, and I think you do too.

  If you’re interested in this proposal, please sit next to me on the bus in the morning, or at least drop a note on my seat as you pass and we’ll talk later in private.

  Respectfully,

  Lucia

  The next day I went to Cooper’s in the cold, dark morning air, obsessing over the e-mail. I knew the boxing would help me push out all that anxiety.

  I took Cooper’s blue hand wraps from him so I could do his hands. But he took them back and said, “No, I can do it.”

  “Since when?” I asked.

  “Since now. I’ve been practicing. ’Bout time I learned to do it myself.”

  I watched him work the fabric around his wrists and knuckles and awkwardly between his fingers. When he was done, it was a little lumpy, and even though I worried he hadn’t padded his knuckles enough, I told him it looked great.

  We boxed hard, both of us, but there were no cheap shots or breaking the rules. When we were done, we touched gloves and said, “Good match.”

  After my generic-bran-flakes breakfast, I waited on the corner for the bus with butterflies in my stomach almost as fierce as the morning of my election speech.

  I saw the bus coming down the street, and when I heard a distant front door slam, my stomach gave a lurch. I stepped up the stairs of the bus.

  I sat in my usual seat and watched Melanie cross in front of the bus, wearing a pea-green flat-cap.

  She climbed up the bus stairs, and as she turned down the aisle, my heart pounded. She paused at my seat. She didn’t look at me but looked into her bag, which matched her hat, like she was digging for something, a note maybe. As the bus pulled away, she stopped searching and continued past me without a word.

  The guys in the back of the bus gave a little cheer as she sat with them (“Pied Piper!” they called).

  What was that? Had she paused in the aisle just to mess with me? It was like she was flexing some sort of power over me.

  All through the day, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. At lunch Coop and I sat together with Max, but none of us spoke. Max kept darting his eyes between Cooper and me, and I kept looking at Cooper to see if I could read anything on his face about Melanie. Finally, Cooper snapped, “Everybody quit looking at me!” That’s when Max looked at me and kind of shrugged, and we went back to eating.

  There were so many things I loved about Melanie—her sense of adventure, her willingness to try anything—and that openness was something I knew I didn’t have. I’d been jealous of her for it. But she never stuck around for the fight. And instead of feeling sorry for her, I got angry. She had to follow through and finish what she started—and what I also had started. That, I decided, showed responsibility. That showed true heart.

  So, I cornered Melanie at her locker at the end of the day. The cutouts of the pies that were on her locker had been taken down. I hadn’t heard too many people talking about P-Day since Nicole’s article came out almost two weeks ago, and I had to wonder if Melanie herself was the one keeping the story alive.

  “Hey,” I said as she threw her books into her locker with what seemed like a little extra force. “Did you get my e-mail last night?” She sighed loudly, but I wasn’t going to back down. “Melanie,” I said.

  “Look, it’s fine.” She laughed, but it was totally fake. “You can do whatever you want for the football team, but I’ll leave it to you. It’s still really your gig anyway. I’m just the sub.”

  “Melanie, come on. Don’t be like that.”

  “Like what?” she asked, a smile on her mouth but not in her eyes. “I just . . . thanks for wanting to include me and all, but you know I’d just screw it up.”

  “Stop it,” I said. “Mel, I need your help. I can’t do it alone.” I softened my voice when I realized she was really listening to me. “Let’s not quit together.”

  She seemed to consider this and stood scratching at the edge of her locker for a moment. “Are you trying to get back your presidency or something?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s not like that at all. No one has to know I’m helping you. In fact, I don’t want anyone to know. It’ll be just b
etween us.”

  The halls were quiet as most people had already headed out to the buses, which I started to worry we were going to miss. Again.

  “Well, what’s your brilliant plan?” she asked.

  I smiled, relieved and excited about the project. “Easy. Divide and conquer.”

  Over the next week, we worked out a pretty simple plan. We became a two-person fund-raising machine. Only instead of asking the parents and students to donate to the football team, we asked the local businesses. Most of them had kids who either went to Angus or would one day. And even if they didn’t, everyone loved watching Angus football to try to predict who would be the major players in high school, and even who had the potential to go pro.

  I e-mailed Melanie a list of businesses we could easily hit, and we made plans on where to meet after school. And it turns out, we were a really good team. Melanie was great at charming the owners, and she always seemed to know just when to give me my moment to step in with the kill, the Big Ask. By the time we left, we almost always had a check.

  After our last stop, we counted up the money.

  “It’s not enough,” I said. I had already counted it three times.

  “Are you sure?” Melanie asked.

  “Positive.”

  We were at her house after our final round of hitting businesses. Most places had been really nice, and even with the deficit Melanie had created with the pie toss, I still couldn’t believe it wasn’t enough.

  We were in the kitchen, which had more empty take-out boxes than dishes. During the time we’d spent together, doing our fund-raising shtick, I felt like I’d gotten to know another side of Melanie. She was outgoing, yes, but she was also really good at selling our cause, of telling everyone how important this was for our football team and school. She had a lot of passion in her that I hadn’t realized before.

  “Now what are we going to do?” I sighed. We’d exhausted every place in town, from the tiny mom-and-pop places to the big chain stores. My plan hadn’t been good enough.

  Melanie sighed, taking off her magic red beret and setting it on the table in front of us. “So much for magic, huh?”