Dodging Trains

by Sunniva Dee

  He could be right about that last strike though. It might’ve been a tad overboard. My new thing, to use a scale from one to ten to score my own moves, is an idiosyncrasy I don’t share with my teammates. Because consequences: can’t and don’t want to imagine them. But my last punch was a nine—I did hold back. If it were a fight, I’d have made that shit an eleven.

  “Tie your hair, son,” coach Dawson says. There’s pride glimmering in his eyes. Since the first fallout with my father years back, Dawson has been a surrogate to me, though some might say a good dad wouldn’t want their son to get beaten the crap out of.

  Dawson’s still waiting for someone to come along and do that to me. Thinks I need to get jacked down some notches before I go pro. I don’t agree, and I certainly won’t facilitate it. I’ve been close a few times, but I’m happy to say I’ve always disappointed.

  “It’s not long enough for a hairband, man. Plus, I’m cutting it. Butchering it down to the roots,” I say.

  Dawson is short and wiry with silver hair that looks like it’s been sprinkled with powdered sugar. No way I’ll admit this in public, but I dig him. Might sorta love him, actually.

  “Sure. You’re cutting it before tomorrow then?” he asks, a smirk lifting his lipless mouth and deepening the creases in his cheeks.

  For years now, Dawson has worked me. It’s crazy how my chaos has subsided thanks to this sport and him. I changed from a panicked teenager with no control over my past into a man with a focus, a goal, and control over mind and body.

  “Count on it,” I fib. “You’ll see my scalp.”

  I’m Dawson’s rising star—his wife’s words, not his, because Dawson is a man of measured praise. My future looks bright thanks to the man, which I get mushy-eyed over again. That’s not good only two months from the most decisive fight of my life when I need more single-minded focus than ever.

  Dawson’s cell chirps a 70s tune from his pocket. He fishes it out, flicks it open—yep, flip-phone—and his reply is the only word he doesn’t enunciate with an accent. “Yapp?” Over the years, I’ve become used to Dawson’s Polish flair, to the point of acting as the unofficial translator at the gym.

  The furrow between his brows smoothens as he listens to whoever’s on the line. It makes him look happy even though he isn’t smiling. I grab my water and eye Jaden. Extend my middle finger to him around the plastic cup because it’ll piss him off and fire him up for the next round.

  “It’s the new mayor.” For some reason Dawson finds positive traits in my father that I’ve never noticed. Dad and I didn’t see eye to eye for a while there, but we’ve ironed out our differences for the sake of Ma. Yeah, things are okay between us now. Doesn’t mean he rocks my world.

  “Can’t talk—I’m busy,” I mutter, pumping my chin in Jaden’s direction. My fists lift on their own, tightening and getting ready to work. Jaden does the girliest move I’ve ever witnessed on a mat. Dude fucking sticks his tongue out at me. I whip in Dawson’s direction and mouth, See that?

  Clearly, Dawson did not see that. “Here, your father,” he says as if he’s bad of hearing too, and on a sigh, I grab the phone.

  “Hey, Dad.” I sound final like we have nothing to talk about.

  “Hi, son. Your mother and I would appreciate it if you attended the mayoral inauguration next week,” he says in the suave tone he uses on political opponents. And on his followers. On whoever.

  “Straight to the point, huh? Good job,” I clip out. Dawson doesn’t catch all nuances in the English language, and now he smiles and lifts a thumbs-up before strolling over to Jaden.

  I watch him lift Jaden’s arm and position his torso in a twist that could turn deadly if my friend timed the strike right. He won’t. Most people don’t. Sanchez does. Hate that guy. He’s fast, deadly, and I’m going to destroy him.

  “Well, it would mean a lot to your mother. To have you here would be—”

  “Right, I understand,” I bite him off. Back when I needed him, it was all about appearances and playing things down. Shoving things under carpets. Smoothing over his son’s faux pas, while I fixed things myself in school.

  I figured shit out and had the whole damn school dance to my pipe by the time my dad fled with my mother and me. It was in the nick of time too. I guess I should be thankful for that.

  “I can’t make it. Say ‘hi’ to all the cool people of Rigita ’kay?” I say, and that’s when the bitterness blows free. Those assholes are adults now. God, I hope they have the worst lives. Muted shuffling ensues on the phone, and then my mom’s on.

  “Keyon, darling. How are you? I don’t think your phone is working again. I told Dad to call Dawson, because his phone is much better than yours. New phones aren’t always the best, you know.” My mother is too innocent to grasp that I don’t necessarily pick up my father’s calls. Hers are fine. I don’t need a bulletproof vest to talk to my gentle, softhearted mom.

  “I’m good, Ma. I’ll check my phone, but I can’t make it to Rigita for the inauguration. There’s the Mexico fight, remember?”

  “Darling, please. Can’t Dawson come with you? We’d love to have him too.” Ma knows better than to demand my presence, but that slow, cotton-candy sweetness in her voice always makes me rummage for solutions she might like.

  “I think we have a… Honey?” she calls to Dad. “In the basement, that’s a gym, right? Next to the wine cellar?”

  “Yes. It’s not fully equipped, but it’ll be in tip-top shape by the time he arrives,” my father promises loud enough for me to hear.

  “The gym is empty,” Mom says, honest as always while Dad groans. “We don’t have anything in it yet”—she specifies in case I didn’t grasp what “empty” entails—“but it’s there, and it’s spacious. We have a five-person shower room too, and a new stack of the thick, oversized towels you like. Why don’t you let us know what you need, Keyon-baby, and we’ll get it installed?”

  “Sure, Ma.” Joking, I throw out to Dawson, “You want to shut down your gym and come along to Rigita for my dad’s inauguration as a mayor? I need you to train me while I’m there.” Four faces turn to me from different sides of the gym, expressions blank as they take in my inanity.

  Until Dawson’s skinny cheeks draw up, wrinkle after wrinkle fanning upward on both sides of his mouth.

  “For a week?” he asks, and I nod. He bobs his head back at me, saying, “I can leave Darrell in charge. My wife always asks me to take her up north. She thinks it will remind her of Poland.”

  On the plane, I consider the way I left Rigita at sixteen. If it weren’t for me, my family and I might have stayed in that little town, but the school board gave my parents an ultimatum in the end. If I screwed up again, I’d be expelled.

  At the time, Rigita had one private school, and the odds of me getting in with my grades and track record weren’t good, so my father accepted a position in a law firm a few counties over.

  I’d been ready, so ready for the move. The only person I’d missed from Rigita was Paislee. I still can’t stand to think of how she cried when I told her I was moving. “What am I supposed to do now?” she’d asked, voice cracking.

  “Yes, please—I’ll take some,” Dawson says to the flight attendant. She pours him a thimble-full of coffee, and he nods rapidly in thanks. “You sure you don’t want any, Keyon?” he inquires.

  I hold a hand up, shaking my head. I’ve got a few sports drinks I’ve been chugging, repairing the liquid loss from a particularly hard morning workout before we took off to the airport. Coffee is the last thing I need.

  “You haven’t been back to Rigita since you moved?” he asks.

  “No, I hated it there,” I say.

  “How come?”

  “Douchebags in school, you know. I got them good though, once I started taking kickboxing classes.”

  Dawson chortles a little. “Makes sense.”

  I smile. “I might look up a friend I had. We’ll see about the time available. When’s your wife flying in?”r />
  “Saturday. She wouldn’t want to impose on work.”

  “But we’ll be working on the weekend too, Coach,” I say, teasing him like he teases me.

  He bumps my shoulder. “She doesn’t know that.”

  “Eh,” I say. “I’ll count my own sit-ups while you’re out sightseeing.”

  “She’ll like that plan.”

  Rigita. My chest feels congested just by being here again. I mean—Jesus, this is not a good place for me. Dawson’s in the passenger seat of my rented ride, and he’s letting out pleased exclamations in hushed tones over the beautiful scenery leading into town.

  All I see are clouds hanging over us. The place is fucking gloomy to me. I couldn’t care less about the fresh snow layering treetops and roofs of pristine wooden houses when we enter the downtown area. The ground is a blanket of twinkling white, and I can’t for the life of me appreciate it.

  Icy air penetrates the car through the small vents, and I crank the heat and mentally go through my list of workout clothes. Do I have enough to stay warm and work up a sweat while running?

  While I lived here, I’d bike to the gym. It was cold at times, but I kept my body temperature up. Sometimes because I couldn’t get there fast enough, sometimes due to a recent run-in with the school bullies.

  Fag. Gay. Cocksucker. I block out the name-calling; it happened a long time ago.

  It started during my first week in a new school. Aaron’s girlfriend flirted with me in the cafeteria. I was a shy kid, but she was funny and asked me questions that were easy to answer. She swapped yogurts with me when she’d taken the last strawberry one and I got stuck with peach. I shouldn’t have said, “How gentlemanly of you” and made her answer, “Anything for a fair boy.”

  As she admired my hair, touching it with porcelain fingers, everything rushed downhill: Aaron grabbed my collar from behind, and my under-the-radar times at school ended with a wham.

  “Very pink house,” Dawson observes on a signature bob of his head.

  “Yeah,” I agree. “Rigita prides itself on offering a mayoral mansion, and I guess Dad accepted. The former mayor was reelected a million times, so that’s all everyone remembers, Cyril Thompson living there.”

  “I see.” Dawson gathers stuff from the backseat while I park. One of the enormous oak doors swings open at the top of the stairs, and there she is, the exotic specimen Dad found while vacationing in the Dominican Republic. The prettiest and gentlest woman in the world, whom no one can compare to: my mother.

  “Ah it’s great to see you,” I say, hugging her on the stairs. She’s so little she disappears in my arms.

  “My baby boy!” she squeals, trying to rock me in our hug. “You need to come see us! You have grown so much!”

  She makes me laugh. “I’m here now, aren’t I? And I’m pretty sure grown men don’t keep getting taller.”

  “So buff though, like, burly-buff. My handsome boy.” I’m exactly how I was the last time we met up, but I’m not here to insist on details. I shrug and stare past her at my father.

  He’s in the doorway, arms hanging and eyes glossy. At six-foot-three, he’s who passed down my stature. My coloring, tan skin, and dark hair, comes from Ma’s side.

  “Keyon. Thanks for coming.” Despite our disagreements, I can tell he’s genuinely happy. “Come on in—your rooms are ready upstairs. Let me get your bags.” He makes to descend for the car, but Dawson cuts in, “No-no, Mayor, I’ve got it.”

  “Mr. Dawson!” Dad’s grin broadens at the sight of Coach. “I see you take good care of my son.”

  “I try, sir. He doesn’t always listen though.”

  “So nothing new under the sun, you’re saying?” Dad allows, smiling.

  Inside, people mill around, hanging celebratory garlands on the walls, from the ceiling, and arranging enormous bouquets in vases on the array of tables, shelves, and mantels. I don’t recognize half of the furniture.

  “We have a grand piano now?” I ask Dad.

  “It’s rented for the party. We’ll have a pianist.”

  “Nice. Wait… you’ll have the party here? For who?”

  “The inauguration ceremony will be held at the Civic Center, but afterward we’ll have an open house for all of Rigita’s citizens. Anyone who wants to come by can, and since it’s close to Halloween, we’re making it a masquerade party. With no masks,” he adds when he sees my raised eyebrows.

  “What? Dad, this can’t be safe.”

  “I’m going to start a new era in this town. One of trust and closeness with the townspeople, and—”

  “Dad,” I repeat, holding my hands up. Save your speech. “What are you doing for security? Am I here to make sure nothing happens to you?” I partly joke.

  Dad huffs. “The sheriff and his crew will be mingling too, and there will be a metal detector at the entrance.”

  “How welcoming.”

  Ma covers her mouth to hide her amusement. Once she’s managed, she comes to Dad’s defense. “We’ll make it fun, Keyon. You’ll see. It’s going to be like going through an Old West frisking scene in a, you know, a prison. ‘Leave yer weapons here,’” she says in a terrible rendition of a pirate voice.

  I snort out laughing. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

  She nods. “With his new secretary. She’s pretty.” Ma frowns.

  “Not as pretty as my wife,” Dad says and kisses the top of her head. She’s immediately appeased.

  It’s good to see them both. I’ll survive a week in Rigita as long as I don’t run into any assholes. If I do, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.

  PAISLEE

  I think way too much about the upcoming inauguration. What if Keyon attends? I know he hates Rigita—he’s been pretty candid in the press about his experiences here—but he was close to his mother, so who knows?

  The first thing his mom did when they moved back to town was to call my mother to ask if she’d be interested in picking up the cleaning duties at the Arias’ house. What nerve, I thought, but then I recalled the ways of Silvia Arias. She was such a kind, caring person. She never did anything to hurt other people’s feelings, and back when they moved, she gave Mom several months’ worth of salary to ease her worries while she looked for another job.

  My mother is at the Mansion as we speak. Needless to say, she accepted the offer to return. “What?” she’d asked at my shocked expression. “It’s not like I get rich at Ivy’s. People are stingy with their tips, honey, and the Arias paid me well to keep their home clean. I liked it. I like them. Silvia keeps asking about you.”

  “Wait, I know you.” A beautiful, doe-eyed Keyon with plump cheeks bunches his brows in concentration.

  “No, you don’t,” I say and cross my arms on the doorstep to his house. “I’m just here for my mother. Not for you.”

  “I figured it wasn’t for me.” He pulls a blue lollipop out of his mouth, studies it, and holds it out to me. “Want some?”

  “Eww, that’s gross!” I tip my head up and glare at him. “Plus, I can buy my own lollipop if I want one.”

  “Do you? Want one, I mean?” He leans his head against the doorjamb and squints at me. I feel my cheeks flame.

  “No, I don’t want a stupid lollipop. You know, your mother’s lazy,” I tell him, because I’m salivating over the damn lollipop, and she really must be lazy.

  He looks surprised. “No, she’s not. Why would you say that?”

  “Pretty obvious, don’t you think? Your mom freaking pays someone to clean her house. Or maybe she doesn’t know how to do it, and that’s just sad. I feel sorry for you with a mom like that. She should take lessons from my mom, ’cause she’s great.” I sniff, tightening my arms around my middle. “Our house is prrristiiine. Always.” It’s a lie, but he’ll never know.

  I’m ready for a fight. Lots of ugly words appear on my tongue, and I’ll spit them right at his gorgeous face on his gorgeous, wide doorstep with the probably also-gorgeous parents in there, who still love each
other after having been married since way before he was born. I bet his dad doesn’t spend his money outside of the house so his mother has to take extra jobs.

  Keyon’s eyes seem to morph. They grow even bigger, and my mouth pops open over the small flecks of green appearing around the pupils. I wonder if it means I’ve upset him, until he says, “Raspberry, melon, or lemon?”

  I suck in a breath. My ugly words don’t fit in the conversation anymore, so I tell him the truth about candy and lollipops.

  Raspberry.

  Raspberry is my favorite flavor.

  And I don’t resist when he takes my hand and leads me into their kitchen.

  Lunch at Ivy’s can be slow, which is why Mom and I are hogging one of their red-checkered window tables. It’s a good place to keep an eye out for the owner. She always parks up front and uses the main entrance, which leaves Mom with time to swipe up her plate and disappear behind the counter before she enters.

  “Honey, you should go on Saturday. You don’t have to make a production out of it. Just use one of your old costumes and go. They’re preparing the Coral Mansion to a T, there will be tons of amazing appetizers they’ll carry around for the guests to snack on, and I think they mentioned champagne too.” Mom beams at me, wanting me to have fun.

  I shake my head. Now that Mom tells me Keyon is here, the objections parade through my mind. I consider the way I act, my mud-stained status in this town. How I’ve created my own reputation and dug my own grave socially. In bigger towns, I’d be anonymous, one of many “loose women,” I’m sure, but here, it’s not like that.

  The train station happened a few years before Keyon and I became best friends. He never learned of it, because back then I was letting the secret fester. After he moved, the loneliness and fear fused into a black glob inside of me, and it was only when it became too hard to breathe that I faced it.

  “He asked about you,” Mom says, eyes skimming my face. “Keyon did,” she continues. “He’s taller than his dad now and very sporty-looking. You should see his hands. They’re like…” Mom closes an eye, considering. “Like a lumberjack’s—huge. Goodness, I would’ve never guessed. Remember how little he used to be? He was a head shorter than you, Paislee, and you weren’t even tall for your age.”