Punch Like a Girl

by Karen Krossing

  “Tori!” a girl calls.

  My eyes pop open. Alena?

  Pressure builds inside my skull. A crowd of voices echoes off the buildings, ringing between my ears, banishing the silence.

  They’ve come for me? It sounds like half the party is clomping into the street. Did Melody tell them about Matt? Did Alena? I stare at the graffiti on the opposite wall, feeling almost human again. There, in the purple letters of someone’s tag, I see hard, straight lines like in Casey’s drawings.

  The pain—in my left eye, in my broken hand, in my scraped leg—bursts to life. The bricks dig into my back. Matt’s fingers probe my body. The stench of his cologne infects my pores. The pressure in my head, my chest, my gut, intensifies.

  I lean into Matt and chomp down hard on his earlobe, tasting blood. It’s not much, but it makes him jerk back far enough that I can get my knee free.

  I bring it up hard where it counts.

  He blocks it. “Not this time, Tori.” He grins.

  I stomp on the bridge of his foot and then aim again.

  My knee sinks deep.

  “Shit!” He hits the ground and rolls in the filth at my feet, moaning and clutching himself.

  I shake uncontrollably.

  Melody is the first to reach the alley. Then Alena, in bare feet, holding her crinoline up out of the grime. Jamarlo in his goddamn dress. Carmen, swinging her jeweled cane like she’s out for a stroll. Daniel, gaping. Joel, pale as stone.

  More people gather, some recording with camera phones, others snapping shots, witnessing the truth.

  My body aches. My eye throbs.

  I find my voice.

  “He tried to rape me.” The words flutter free. “Again.”

  The silence hangs for two beats. Then everyone reacts at once.

  Melody steps toward Matt, leans down and slaps him hard across the face.

  Carmen gasps.

  Joel puffs out his chest like Dad does. “Let me at him!”

  I block Joel. “No. We should call the police.”

  Daniel is at Joel’s side, fingers clenched into fists. He glares at Matt. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “She’s lying.” Matt can barely talk. I landed a solid one.

  “Did she give herself a black eye?” Joel draws back his fist.

  “I said leave it.” I glare until Joel backs off.

  “I can call.” Alena drops her skirts to find her phone.

  “Ask for Constable Nancy Hobbs,” I say.

  “I already called.” Jamarlo stands with us.

  “So did I,” a dozen people echo.

  I nod. I’m in too much pain to smile.

  Matt rises to his knees, his white dress shirt streaked with dirt.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Joel glowers.

  Police sirens blare, coming closer. Matt’s eyes are like a trapped animal’s. He lurches to his feet, wincing.

  “Don’t let him get away!” says a guy I’ve never talked to in three years of high school.

  “Take him down!” yells a girl I don’t even know.

  “The police will get him,” I say, overwhelmed. I don’t want anyone else hurt.

  Matt’s face is gray. His panicked eyes dart toward me and then away. He heaves himself straight at the crowd, but they refuse to let him pass.

  “You’re not going anywhere, dumbass,” Joel says.

  Then Daniel grabs Matt from behind, pinning his arms behind his back in a submission hold. The crowd yells at Matt. A few people head to the end of the alley to watch for the police.

  I watch Matt squirm. Pathetic. Clumsy. Terrified. Why did I think that speaking out would hurt me?

  I sag, suddenly exhausted. Alena and Jamarlo prop me up.

  “Are you okay?” Alena sounds anxious.

  I shake my head, not sure how to answer. Why did I ever doubt her friendship?

  “If I’d known”—Carmen brings her face close to mine, her lip curled up—“I would have castrated him.” She grasps my good hand with both of hers.

  I hold on tight. “Thanks.”

  Police lights flash red and white in the street. I notice Melody slumped against the brick wall. Her tear-filled eyes meet mine.

  I’ve never seen the terror of the soccer field vulnerable.

  I break from Alena and Jamarlo to make my way over to her just as she takes off down the alley. Her shoulders are hunched. She holds her sides.

  “Melody,” I call. “We can talk to the police together. We can tell them about Matt.”

  Melody keeps going without breaking her stride.

  MEND

  to patch up

  Courage isn’t just about being brave for someone else; it’s being brave with someone else.

  Six weeks after the anti-prom, I’m at Cosmic Bowling Alley with Alena, Carmen, Jamarlo and Sal. After Matt first tried to rape me, I pulled away from my family and friends. Now I’m patching my relationships back together with tape, glue, spit or anything else that might work. It’s taken me too long to realize that I need others to help me witness the truth and speak out about it.

  The overhead lights buzz, and bowling balls clink together as they roll into place on the ramps. Sal sits next to me on a two-seater bench, his legs stretched out into the aisle. As Alena picks up a bowling ball, she wiggles her eyebrows at us.

  I roll my eyes.

  Sal just laughs.

  “Watch this awesome technique.” Alena squats to swing the bowling ball between her legs with both hands before releasing it into the gutter.

  We all applaud.

  “I told you I need gutter guards.” She leans against my shoulder to watch the ball travel the lane without hitting anything. She’s hardly left my side since the anti-prom, which is why she and Daniel are taking a break. I’m fine, she told me after he suggested it, even though I begged her to work it out with him. I have my friends. Maybe their relationship was too new to survive that much time apart. Maybe Alena got tired of hearing about Matt from Daniel’s friends, some of whom still hung out with him.

  Matt can suck the romance out of any relationship.

  “No way are we using fricking gutter guards.” Carmen executes a perfect release with her custom bowling ball and personalized sure-grip shoes. I never would’ve guessed she’d been in a bowling league. “You just need to master your stance,” she tells Alena.

  “And your grip,” Sal adds.

  “Good luck teaching her.” Jamarlo grins.

  Alena pretends to swat him.

  When Carmen gets another strike, Alena says, “You need to show me how to do that.”

  “Try this technique,” Jamarlo announces.

  We all laugh when he positions himself backward in the lane, fedora cut low over his eyes. With one hand, he releases a beautiful shot—if it could talk, it would be singing—and all ten pins clatter and fall.

  “Did you see that?” Jamarlo struts back to where we’re sitting.

  Alena and Sal give him a high five.

  “Way to go, Jamarlo,” I say.

  “You’re awesome, babe.” Carmen kisses him.

  Jamarlo has been spending more time with me too. I’m grateful for his sense of humor. Carmen comes as well, since they’re rarely separated, but I’ve changed my mind about her. She may be blunt, but she’s honest. And she’s quirky enough to like Jamarlo, which has to count for something.

  Sal slouches up to retrieve a bowling ball. Since he invited me and my friends to Cosmic Bowling in the first place, I expected him to be a shark. But he’s nonchalant as his arms and legs lengthen and contort before he flings the ball down the lane and topples three of the ten pins.

  He grins at me, and I can’t help but return it. I wish I could be that casual, that content. Sal has never pushed me to be more than friends; he accepts what we are when I don’t even understand it yet.

  Sal finishes his turn, leaving five pins standing. As I head up to choose a bowling ball, his hand brushes my arm and I don’t even flinch.
<
br />   A lot has happened in the weeks since the anti-prom. I told my story to Constable Nancy Hobbs, who interviewed Melody as well. Matt was arrested and then released on bail with a restraining order forbidding him to come near either of us. He hasn’t disobeyed my order yet, although I’m still jittery when I go out. Since he’s not a young offender, there’s no media ban, and Janice Reese is on his trail. I don’t envy him that. After the media story broke, another girl came forward with a similar tale about Matt. I wasn’t surprised.

  At the hospital, I found out that the old man at the laundromat was first to call the police. People can surprise you. Like Joel, who never left my bedside in the emergency room, even for food.

  Dr. Balestra said I hadn’t rebroken my right hand, although it did swell badly. Now the cast is off and my black eye is gone, but I doubt the bruises on my insides will ever fade completely.

  My parents insisted on therapy, which isn’t so bad. Some memories of Matt still get me shaking. My therapist says that if I can write my story, deal with what happened, Matt and Stewart Foster will become part of my survivor experience. Like other memories, they may become less important, even if new triggers remind me of them.

  I hope it’s true.

  As I pick up my bowling ball, I catch a glimpse of a little girl with sandy-brown hair flinging a ball down a neighboring lane.

  I do a double take, sure it must be Casey. It’s not the first time. I see her at the mall, walking down the street, in the school parking lot, at the shelter. She’s everywhere all the time, with me in my thoughts, but never in person.

  This girl has the same uncombed hair Casey did, although her face is wider, her eyes less bright. I turn away, wishing I could see Casey one more time, just to be sure she’s safe.

  I throw my bowling ball with my left hand, since the right is still weak. As I watch the ball veer slightly off-center, I run my fingers over my stubbly hair—still engraved with the wing pattern—willing the ball’s path straight.

  I end up with only one pin standing.

  “Imagine the last pin is Matt and then knock it down,” Alena says. “He deserves to get clobbered.”

  Sal’s bronze eyes find mine. I remember how I wanted to hammerfist Matt just like I did Neanderthal. I shudder.

  Life is brutal. Horrible things happen to innocent people. But there’s more than one way to punch back.

  “Matt’s already getting what he deserves.” I take aim, thinking of Casey, and knock down the final pin.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Although writing is a solitary job, a book is the combined effort of many people. Thanks to the Red Door Family Shelter in Toronto for the volunteer job at one of its facilities. Although the characters and situations in this book are a work of fiction, my experiences there helped make this story more authentic. Thanks to my early readers, who offered astute feedback on the work in progress: Pat Bourke, Anne Laurel Carter, Paige Krossing, Tess Krossing, Patricia McCowan, Mahtab Narsimhan, Cheryl Rainfield, Karen Rankin, Rilla Ross, Erin Thomas and Andrew Tolson. Thanks to Harry Endrulat of The Rights Factory and Sarah Harvey of Orca Book Publishers for believing in the manuscript, and thanks to the Orca team for helping to produce this book. Finally, thanks to my family, who supports my writing in so many ways.

  KAREN KROSSiNG is addicted to stories. She began to create her own stories when she was eight, and today she writes novels and short stories for children and teens. Karen also encourages new writers through workshops for kids, teens and adults. Karen lives with her family in Toronto, Ontario. Punch Like a Girl is her seventh novel. For more information, visit karenkrossing.com.