Punch Like a Girl

by Karen Krossing

  “Are you growing your hair?” she asks.

  “Maybe,” I say, surprising myself. I didn’t know I was considering it.

  “Good.” She smiles and grips my good arm to keep her balance. “Then we’ll look the same.”

  Casey and I don’t say a proper goodbye. I think neither one of us wants to admit it’s really going to happen. At the end of my shift, I give her a longer hug than usual.

  “Be strong,” I say. She smells like warm marshmallows.

  “Like you and Monty.” Her smile is intense, her eyes fierce.

  “Like yourself.” I turn away, determined not to cry again. Then I push open the shelter’s triple-locked steel door and head home.

  FLASH

  to get sudden insight

  Without Casey, the shelter seems smaller. A new mother and her baby move in, and Sal and Francine get busier in the preschool room. I try not to show Rachel, Jonah and Manny how lost I feel without Casey.

  But when Rachel yanks me over to admire her painting, I miss Casey’s soft fingers curling around mine. When little Manny grins up at me, I miss Casey’s huge, unblinking, indigo eyes. When I see Jonah’s tight curls, I miss Casey’s messy brown hair, so often tangled at the back of her head.

  Most of all, I miss how she made me feel. Strong. Capable. Loved.

  Life returns to “normal.” I watch a Screamin’ Demons soccer game without Matt showing up. My parents insist on buying me a new phone, so we can keep in touch. I’m just grateful that I get a new phone number too. No more texts from Melody and Matt. I catch up in my classes and finish my final assignments so I can study for my exams next week. I try to care about schoolwork, but when my mind drifts back to Casey, I miss her all over again.

  On Friday, after my shift at the shelter, I head over to Alena’s house, hoping she’s free. My parents have been hovering over me with anxious faces, and I need a break from their constant attention.

  “Victoria!” Alena’s mom meets me at the door with their two small pugs wheezing and snorting behind her. “You’ll stay for dinner. Yes?” She wipes her hands on her jeans before kissing my cheeks. “I’m making rosemary chicken in phyllo pastry. One of your favorites.”

  The pugs circle my feet, whining for attention.

  “I don’t want to be any trouble.” I scratch behind their ears, just the way they like it.

  “Good. So you’ll stay.” Wrinkles crowd the corners of her eyes as she smiles.

  A buzzer goes off in the kitchen.

  “We’ll talk later.” She squeezes my arm the same way Alena does. “She’s in her room.” She winks. “She’ll be glad to see you.”

  “Thanks,” I say, thinking how much I’ve missed coming here.

  Alena’s mom trundles toward the kitchen, followed by the pugs, while I wander down the hall. Alena’s house is ranch style, so her room is on the ground floor. As I approach, I hear a top-ten radio station playing and Alena laughing and talking. I hesitate outside the door. Is anyone else in there? Maybe Jamarlo? Certainly not Daniel. Her parents wouldn’t allow a potential boyfriend in her room.

  Since I can only hear Alena’s voice, I decide she’s on the phone and push open the door to step inside.

  Alena is sitting on her queen-sized canopy bed, painting her nails orange while holding her cell phone against her ear with one shoulder.

  “Tori?” She gives me an I-can’t-believe-you’re-here look and then says into the phone, “I’ll call you later, Carmen. Tori just walked in.”

  I’m not sure whether to feel jealous that she’s so friendly with Carmen or happy that she got off the phone for me.

  “Sit down.” Alena waves to the white, plush chair in front of her mirrored makeup table. “I’ll do your nails next. Pick a color.” She motions toward her double row of OPI nail polish.

  It’s a routine we have—Alena doing my nails and me tolerating it. When we were younger, she tried to get me to play dress-up too many times, and nail polish seemed like a good compromise.

  I sit in front of the mirror and randomly pick up a bottle of nail polish. It’s a hot-pink color called Kiss Me on My Tulips.

  “Interesting choice.” Alena smirks and paints another nail.

  The scent of nail polish becomes too intense. I make a face and drop the bottle. “You should wear it next time you see Daniel.” I pick a light mauve. “Sweet Memories?” I read. My memories of Matt are anything but sweet. “These names are terrible.”

  She finishes her last nail and screws the lid back on the bottle. “I’ll find you a good color.” She rolls off the bed and stands, wincing when she bends her sore knee.

  “Forget it,” I say. “I don’t need any polish. How’s your knee?”

  “Luckily, I still need physio appointments. Daniel is a big help.” Alena smiles, running her fingers over the bottles and keeping her nails extended to dry. She selects a bright red. “Big Apple Red. It’ll be perfect with your pale skin.” She examines my cuticles like she’s planning my manicure and then runs her fingers over my cast. “How’s your hand?”

  “Better. The bruises are fading.” I hesitate, remembering how upset she was at the hospital. She probably didn’t want me to get hurt. It’s how I felt about Casey. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out.

  “For what?” Her perfectly plucked eyebrows rise.

  “I don’t know.” I scan the room like it will help me figure out what to say. A pile of dresses is draped over the end of the bed. High-heeled shoes are scattered across the floor. “I’m sorry for getting violent on Neanderthal, Jordan and anyone else who crossed my path. I know it upset you.”

  “Yeah, you were out of control.”

  “I guess.” I pause. “And you didn’t want me to get hurt?”

  “Exactly!” Alena squeezes my good arm. “It’s like you had a death wish.” Her eyes examine mine. “It scared me.”

  “Yeah, I was kind of out of it for a while.” I don’t break eye contact, even though I’m trembling.

  “Tell me about it.” Alena picks up a nail file. “What you need is a friend right now. Let me do your nails. Then we can talk dresses.”

  “Dresses?” I lean back against the chair. “For what?”

  “The anti-prom.” Her smile is a billion watts. “It’s only a week away! It’ll cheer you up.”

  I stand up, tripping over shoes as I back toward the door. “I told you, I’m not—”

  “Don’t start that again.” She frowns. “It’ll be good for you. Besides, we always go to parties together. Jamarlo says—”

  “You can’t talk me into it.” My throat is tight.

  “Why not? Please, Tori,” she begs. “You have to come. Daniel is taking me, and I’m nervous about—”

  “I can’t, Alena. Really. It’s not you. Or Daniel. He seems like a nice guy. I just…”

  “What?” She sounds hurt.

  I take a deep breath. Tell her the truth. “I just don’t want to see…Matt.”

  “Matt? Why worry about him?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Carmen says he’s not coming.”

  “How would she know?”

  “I don’t know. She just knows things. Listen, Matt’s no big deal. Forget about him. It’s not like he got anywhere with you.”

  My face falls. I look away.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” Alena’s voice gets high-pitched. “You said he was pressuring you, trying to control you, so you broke up with him.”

  “I did, but…” I shake my head ever so slightly. Take another step toward the door. My face heats up.

  “He tried to…force me,” I whisper. “At Carmen’s party. He followed me into the washroom. Locked the door. He got my shirt off. And…other things. Before I got away.”

  A scene-by-scene playback pounds through my mind before I can stop it. The slick of sweat on Matt’s upper lip. His stinking beer breath in my face. His hands pulling me down by my hair, my head slamming against the floor tiles. Me struggling against the weight of him.
His fingers rough on my skin, worming inside my jeans. Music beating in my chest. My screams unheard. Then the press of his arm on my throat, silencing me.

  I grind my fists against my eyes, trying to shut it all out. Nothing like this had ever happened to me—until Matt. Nothing like this is ever supposed to happen.

  I open my eyes to a look of horror on Alena’s face.

  “Tori, no!” Her face pales. “Did he…?”

  “I kneed him before he could rape me.” My body trembles. “But it feels like he did.” I remember how I couldn’t breathe when he unzipped his fly. Then I aimed, desperate for air.

  “God, Tori. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I shake my head, unable to talk.

  “Did you talk to anyone? Jamarlo? Your parents?”

  “No.” I grab her wrist. “And you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

  “Why not?” Alena’s forehead wrinkles. “You can’t go through this by yourself.”

  “Why not?” I echo back. “No one came when I screamed.”

  “Oh, Tori!” She gapes. “I didn’t know.”

  A sob slips from my throat. I let go of her wrist.

  “Tell me everything that happened,” she whispers. Her arms wrap around me.

  I pull away. She holds fast.

  Slowly, I give her the play-by-play. How I couldn’t break free. How his lips pulled back from his teeth. His cruel fingers, probing inside my shirt, my jeans.

  Alena’s face goes blotchy. She reaches for the tissue box. I like how she doesn’t turn away when I tell her the hard stuff.

  Eventually, we end up on the floor, leaning against Alena’s bed, side by side, staring at our reflections in the mirrored doors of her closet, me with red-rimmed eyes and her with a tear-stained face.

  It’s a relief to share the horror, to have someone else know my secret. It makes me think of Casey at the police station, and I get a flash of clarity.

  I did more than help Casey talk again. I helped her be heard.

  When her mom calls us for dinner, Alena embraces me again. She smells like the fruity Body Shop perfume she always wears.

  “I still think you should come to the anti-prom, Tori.” She squeezes me tighter. “Not for me, but for yourself. You should be with your friends, even if you won’t tell them what’s going on. Don’t let Matt scare you away.”

  “I don’t know.” I pull away, feeling like a refugee entering a new country. I’m not sure how the inhabitants speak, what they wear, how they talk. But somehow, I need to get along.

  “It could be good for you.” Her eyes reflect the sunlight shining through her wide-open windows. “Just think about it?”

  “I will.” I sigh.

  She claps her hands together. “It’s a start.”

  SQUEEZE

  to exert pressure on

  Late Saturday morning, I’m studying math and munching toast at the kitchen table when the phone rings. I ignore it, hoping Joel will pick it up in the den, until the sixth ring.

  “Tori Wyatt?” says a woman. “It’s Janice Reese with Glencrest Region News. I wonder if you would—”

  “No.” I start to hang up. How did she get our number?

  “Wait, please!” Her voice has a catch in it that makes me hesitate. “I’ve covered a lot of stories, and something about this one sticks with me.”

  I lean against the side of the fridge, ready to hang up on her any second. “What do you want?”

  “I’d like to do a piece on your version of events at Mill Pond Park. Something about what motivates people to take positive action during a crime rather just than watch events unfold. If you’d just consider talking to me?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “You can call my cell anytime.”

  She rattles off her number just as the door from the carport opens. Mom pushes into the kitchen, grocery bags in her hands. Dad trails her with more bags. Janice continues yakking. She sounds sincere, but I don’t trust her.

  “Sorry, but I can’t help you.” I hang up the phone. Janice Reece reminds me why I’m glad to have a new cell-phone number.

  “Who was that?” Mom shoves the bags at me.

  “No one important.” I take the bags from her and set them beside the fridge, flinching from the weight on my cast.

  Dad kicks off his shoes while Mom lines hers up beside the door. As she and Dad unpack groceries, I put my feet up on a chair and concentrate on my next algebra problem.

  “It’s a good thing you’re here,” Mom says as she stacks cans in the corner cupboard. “Your father and I have a proposal for you.”

  Oh no. I keep my eyes on my textbook. “I have a lot of studying—”

  “It won’t take long, Tori, and it’s important.”

  “So is my math exam.”

  Dad stops loading the fridge. “Listen to your mother.” His voice is gruff.

  “Fine.” I drop my pencil and stare stonily at them.

  “We’ve been worried about you for a while now, Tori.” Mom gestures with a can of tuna.

  “I keep telling you that there’s nothing wrong. Really. You don’t need to worry.”

  “Now, we all know that’s not true. The head shaving? The fights? We’ve tried to get you to open up, but you’re just not talking about whatever’s going on.”

  “Nothing’s going on, Mom.” I slouch lower.

  “So we want you to see a therapist. I’ve found the perfect one. Maybe when you have someone to talk to—”

  “Are you serious?” I straighten up. “I already said I didn’t want to.”

  “We’re very serious.” Dad crosses his arms.

  “Maybe you should stop interfering and let me figure things out on my own.” My voice is shrill.

  “But you haven’t even been seeing your friends,” Mom says. “Alena hasn’t been around in ages. Jamarlo either. And what happened to that nice boy you were dating?”

  I flinch. My cheeks get warm. “I’m going to an anti-prom party with everyone,” I say, immediately regretting it. “Is that enough proof that I’m fine?”

  Mom sighs. “Tori, just think about it. This therapist is a great fit for you. She’s—”

  “I have to study.” I slam my textbook shut and stack it on my binder. “I’ll be in my room.”

  After my World History exam on Wednesday, the school hallways are quiet. The teachers are randomly patrolling, hushing anyone who speaks above a whisper, and the kids are either writing like mad in some classroom or studying in the library. I’m tired from trying to stay focused on details that don’t seem to matter, but I still have two exams tomorrow. My head aches, and my eyes are dry. When I get to my locker, Alena’s waiting for me.

  “You need to tell Jamarlo about Matt.” She leans against the locker beside mine.

  I dial my combination, groaning inwardly. “Let it go, Alena.”

  “Tori, he’s one of your best friends. He’d want to know.”

  “But I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, trying not to sound harsh. I open my locker and grab my bag. “Besides, he’s been…different ever since that day at the mall.”

  “So? If you explain what’s been going on—”

  “He’s still upset with me, isn’t he?” I ask, hoping to change the topic.

  “A little, maybe.” Alena examines her nails. She hates gossiping about other people, which is one of the reasons I like her.

  “Why?” I stare at her nails too. Now they’re painted silver, with blue daisies on the thumbs.

  Alena’s dark eyes flash on mine. “Okay, but I’m only discussing this if you promise to talk to him.”

  “Fine.” I roll my eyes.

  She flips her hair over one shoulder and bends closer, like she doesn’t want anyone to overhear, even though there’s no one in sight. “You humiliated him at the mall with that—”

  “Neanderthal?” I suggest.

  “Yes, at the dress shop. He needed to deal with it himself.”

  “But I was trying to help. That guy was a jerk!”


  A line appears on her forehead. “Let me put it like this. You’re tougher than Jamarlo, and he knows it. You shook his confidence.”

  I shove my things into my bag, thinking about Jamarlo. “It was such a big deal to him?”

  She nods. “He’s a joker, not a fighter. You made him feel like your way is better.”

  “It’s not.” I shut my locker. “I’m only acting tough.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Alena says. “So when are you going to talk to him?”

  I wish she’d stop pressuring me. “Soon,” I say, just as Principal Hendrick rounds the corner, his tie resting on his bulging stomach.

  “You girls aren’t supposed to be here.” He shoos us toward the exit.

  “We were just leaving.” I’m glad for the interruption.

  As he watches us head to the double doors, we pass the posters for the grade-twelve prom. The theme is “Paris Romance,” which makes me want to gag. Of course, there are no posters for the grade-eleven anti-prom: it wouldn’t be subversive if it were advertised at school.

  “And you’re coming to the anti-prom, right?” Alena whispers.

  I push open the heavy school door. The outside air is oppressively humid, and my head aches even more. “I told my parents I was going.”

  “Great!” Alena bounces into the sunshine. “It’s going to be a blast. You’ll be happy you went.”

  My stomach compresses into a tight ball. “I hope so.” I plod after her, squinting.

  At the shelter later that day, the kids paint cutouts of a paper tree to assemble on the wall. It’s part of Jia’s make-our-own-garden project. Jonah happily paints the trunk with layers of black, gray and blue—the colors of Batman’s cape, according to him. Rachel has painted most of the leaves in shades of green, with Manny’s help, and is now painting red and yellow flowers. Manny tugs on the bottom of my shorts, leaving a splotch of paint behind.

  “Can you draw me the shape of a butterfly?” His voice is solemn. “Casey would want Monty to be in our garden.”

  “Sure, Manny.” I smile sadly, missing her still. “She’d like that.”