by Sean Rodman
“Finish him!” he yells.
Fine.
I wait until Alex takes a big swing at my head, a roundhouse. I skip back, just clearing out of the way. As he’s recovering from the swing, I kick hard at his left knee. Alex grunts in pain and falls to the cement. Then I’m on top, pinning him to the ground and hitting him hard.
Again and again. Landing punch after punch into his stomach, side, head. Like the piston of an engine, up and down. Alex tries to push himself up from under me, but I won’t let him. I’m not thinking for myself anymore. The screams of the crowd become white noise, static filling my head.
Then suddenly the noise empties out. The crowd has stopped shouting.
I’m about to use my elbow, driving it right down into his bloodied and bruised face. Finish him. I look up, only able to see through one eye, the other one puffed completely shut.
Everybody is looking at me, horrified. And that’s when I see her in the crowd.
Keisha. Disgusted. Revolted. Scared.
I drop my stare down to Alex. Barely breathing. Red and white bubbles of blood and snot around his crushed face. I stagger to my feet, feeling like I need to throw up.
“That was more like it,” says Jonathan quietly, coming in close to me. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “You put on a good show.” Most of the crowd is scattering away through the exits, but Jonathan doesn’t look worried. Sam and others from the football crew are kneeling around Alex on the ground. Sam looks over at me. His fat face is streaked with tears.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he says.
I search for something to say to him. But nothing comes out of my mouth. I just let Jonathan push me toward my school clothes. Let him press the money into my hand.
I don’t have an answer for Sam. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Outside, in the bright sunlight, I start to run. Not running away from what I just did—too late for that. Not running toward Norfolk, or home, or anywhere.
Just running. Trying not to think. Trying not to be me.
Chapter Twelve
I catch sight of Keisha out of the corner of my eye as I run by. She’s sitting in an empty bus shelter, curled up on the bench, arms wrapped around her knees. I step in front of her, then hesitate, not sure what to say. She looks up, and I see her eyes are red from crying.
“Keisha,” I say. “It’s not like you think. I don’t want to do that stuff.”
She snaps the words out, like breaking pieces of glass. “Don’t bother lying to me.”
“My mom—I need the money.”
“The money? That’s why you nearly killed him?” She uncurls from the bench. “Who are you?”
I can feel some fizz in my blood. Maybe something left over from the fight. Anger. Frustration.
“You’re right—you don’t know me. And you don’t want to make the effort either.”
Keisha shakes her head slowly, fresh tears tracking down her cheeks. “I tried, and I think I was fooled by this…this front you put on. You were just trying to be the person I wanted you to be. Someone who is a good man underneath all the tough-guy crap.”
“I am a good guy.” I sit down next to her on the cool metal bench of the bus shelter.
She shrinks away from me. “I don’t believe that. Not anymore.”
“Don’t you even want to know why? Why I have to do this?” I look at my hands, still swollen and cut from the fight.
“It doesn’t matter, don’t you get it?” she snaps. “There’s no ‘why’ that makes sense of this. Human beings don’t do that to each other. Especially for money.”
“You know what? People hurt each other every day, every hour. If everybody wants to pay to watch me hurt someone, then so be it. I’ll take their money.”
“You can’t believe that. Some things—” She stops, thinking. “I guess some things shouldn’t be bought and sold. I don’t think you should have sold yourself like this.”
She stands up and walks away down the street, and I watch her disappear into the crowds.
“FINISH HIM!” roars a tinny voice through the TV speaker. Runt jerks at his game controller, rapidly clicking the buttons. On the screen, a cartoon ninja leaps toward a lizard-headed opponent. Despite my best efforts, my lizard man is getting pounded by my little brother’s ninja. Might be that my shoulder still aches pretty badly from the fight yesterday. A second later, Runt drops his controller and raises both arms in victory.
“I win!” he shouts. “You lose! You suck!” He leaps across the couch at me. I laugh and let him push me over.
“In a real fight, you wouldn’t stand a chance,” I say. “You know that, right?”
Runt rolls back and then freezes in a kung fu pose.
“I’ve got ninja skills,” he says. “That’s why I win all my fights.”
I sit up. “Big talk for a gamer.”
“No, fights for real,” Runt says, a little swagger in his voice. “At school sometimes.”
“The other kids pick on you?” I say. Runt is small for his age. An easy target, I think. But Runt shakes his head.
“Not always. If a kid has something I want, I’ll fight him for it.”
“What? Runt, man, that’s not okay.” Runt’s face smooths out. Not wanting to reveal anything. He hops off the couch and picks the game controller off the floor.
“Let’s just play again, okay?”
I hesitate, then pick up my controller. Runt quickly flashes through some menus on the TV, and then we’re back together on the screen. His ninja leaps at my lizard.
“I don’t want to hear about you beating someone up, hear me?”
Runt doesn’t answer. When I look over, I see the flickering light from the game reflected in his eyes. He shrugs. “You’re a good fighter. I’m getting better at it.”
“It’s not the same thing, Runt. It’s—it’s hard to explain, but you’ve got to fight for the right reasons.” The ninja delivers a kick to my lizard, which dissolves in a shower of pixels.
“So what are the right reasons?” says Runt. He doesn’t look away from the screen as the words Round 2 scroll across it. I don’t answer. I don’t know how to answer. Instead, I just mash the buttons, and my lizard man shuffles toward another beating.
When Mom comes home a little later, it takes her a few minutes to find the envelope with the cash from the fights in it. I left it on her dresser in a plain envelope. It’s in her hand when she walks out of the bedroom, holding it out like it’s something dangerous. I can feel my heart start thumping, and I try not to look nervous.
“Darwin, where did this come from?”
“Me. I know it’s not a lot, but—”
“Not a lot? There’s, what, a couple hundred in here? That is a lot of money for you to pull out of thin air.”
I feel like crap lying to her. Which makes me even more defensive. “I thought you’d be happy. I guess I should have known better.”
“Don’t you talk to me like that, Darwin. I have every right to ask where this money comes from.”
“It’s not like that,” I say. I take a breath, trying to cool down. Lay out my cover story calmly. “I’ve been doing some work around the school. They pay students to help with the gardens, pick up trash.”
She grunts and crosses her arms. “Pays pretty well for janitorial. Why didn’t I hear about this before?”
“That was just it. I was kind of embarrassed. I know it’s not the kind of work you probably want me doing.”
“This isn’t coming from TB and his crew, is it? Because if I find out this has anything to do with drugs, I swear—”
“Mom!” I say. “It’s nothing like that.”
“I hope I raised you well enough to know the difference between ends and means.”
“What do you mean?”
“That this isn’t worth a dime if you had to do something wrong to get it. You need to be able to walk tall and be proud of your actions. Even if you’re picking up garbage, you can be proud.”
“Right. I
get it.” I feel like throwing up. I keep telling myself that I’m doing the right thing. Even if it feels really wrong now.
“I hope so,” she says. “You should have told me about the job.”
I shrug, accepting it. “But the money is going to help?”
“Yes, Darwin. It will help, and I appreciate it. I do. I just worry, you know?” She puts the envelope on the kitchen counter and wraps her arms around me.
An hour later, Mom is reading Runt a bedtime story when the phone rings. I grab it quickly so it doesn’t disturb them. Hoping it might be Keisha.
“Yeah?”
“Dar. I’m glad it’s you.” It’s a gravelly voice I recognize instantly, even though I haven’t heard it for months.
“Dad.”
Chapter Thirteen
It takes me a second, thinking through everything I want to say to him. In the end, I just blurt out small talk.
“They let you make phone calls now?”
He laughs. “Once in a while, if I behave myself. I never called before because—I guess I figured your mother wouldn’t want me to.”
“That’s true,” I say. I lower my voice and lean my forehead against the cool cupboards. “So, why you calling now?”
“I wanted to let you know I’m going to be getting out soon.”
“Out?” The judge gave him three years for assault. It’s been six months. “How?”
“No, not like that. It’s just a UTA, a day pass. This Friday. Like I said, I’ve been behaving myself, and they’ll let me out for a couple of hours. I thought maybe I could see you and Riley, stop by the apartment?”
I don’t say anything. I can hear Runt and Mom in our bedroom, talking quietly. The click of the lamp turning off.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Dad,” I say. “Listen, I gotta go.”
“Wait,” he says. “Just wait. What if it’s just you and me? I can meet you at that park. You know, the fountain? The one I’d take you to when it got really hot?”
Mom emerges from the bedroom, closing the door gently behind her.
I speak quickly and quietly, just wanting to get him off the line. “That sounds good. Tomorrow. Four o’clock?”
“Great. Wait—before you go. Did you get my letters? I haven’t had any back and—” I hit the disconnect button and put the phone down. Mom comes around the counter into the kitchen and picks up a cloth to start drying the dishes I just washed.
“Who was that?”
“Nobody. A friend. I’ll be home a little late on Friday.” She nods, hands me a dish to put away. I wait for the follow up, the interrogation. But she’s lost in her own thoughts. Thinking about something else, probably money. I used to get angry when she was like this. Distracted. But right now I’m grateful she’s not paying attention—I don’t want her to look too hard at me. And that makes me feel ashamed.
The thudding of my gloves into the heavy bag follows a rhythm. One, two, three. Right punch, left, right for the finish. Again. There are other rhythms in the school gym too—the repetitive clank of weights, the ticking of a skipping rope. I like those sounds. They let me focus. One, two, three. Forget about everything. One, two, knockout punch. One, two—
“Downtown Dar!”
Breathing hard, I turn around to see Jonathan smirking at me. He’s wearing the sunglasses again, trying to look like a player. Even a Kangol hat this time. Gangster.
“What do you want, Jonathan?”
“Just wanted to check in on you, man.”
I turn back to the bag, steady its swaying with one glove, get focus. “What’s the problem, Jonathan?”
“No problem,” he says. Then he steps closer and lowers his voice. “I just heard that some teachers were asking around. About the last fight.”
“Yeah?” I bring up my fists.
“I was worried about Alex and the football crew snitching on us after you laid that beating down. But those guys are worried about getting scholarships to college. Anything comes out about them being involved in the fight club, it might screw up their chances at some big money. They’ll stay quiet.”
I nod. Pound the bag a couple of times. Heavy hits that rock the bag back and forth.
“So what’s the problem?” I say.
“No problem,” repeats Jonathan. He moves around to steady the swaying punching bag. Standing behind it, he leans toward me. “In fact, I think we’re going to have our biggest crowd ever tomorrow.”
“What?” Sweat stings my eyes, and I rub it away with my arm. “What are you talking about?”
“Friday fight club. Tomorrow.”
“No, you don’t get it. I’m out.” I come closer to him, looking around to see if anyone can hear us. “That was my last fight. I could have killed that guy.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Jonathan snaps. “You tuned him up—he took his chances. He knew your reputation.”
“My reputation?” I stare down at my gloves. “I’m not a—”
“A what? A fighter? A killer in the ring?” Jonathan steps in front of the bag. Points at the big mirror on the wall beside me. “Look at yourself. You’ve got to see yourself the way everybody else in this school sees you. They see dangerous. They see a tough guy from the streets. And you know what? Because of that, every girl wants you. And every guy wants to beat the crap out of you.” He puts an arm around my shoulder. I look at the two us in the mirror for a moment.
“You’re full of crap, Jonathan.”
“Maybe.” He laughs. “But that’s what I’m good at. I’m a promoter. I’m making you money for just being who you are.”
“You don’t know anything.” I shrug his arm off of me and turn back to the punching bag. “I’m done. Find someone else.” I tighten the Velcro on my gloves. Get ready to start up again. But Jonathan puts one hand on my chest and with the other takes off his sunglasses to look me in the eye.
“Dar, let me ask you something. Where do you think you fit in at Norfolk?”
I swat his hand off my chest, but I don’t say anything.
“Are you down with the jocks headed for college? You hang out with the sons and daughters of investment bankers? Invite your homies over to the pool at your mansion?”
I snap a hard right punch into the bag, making a deep, muffled thud.
“That’s right. You know and I know—everybody knows,” Jonathan goes on, “that you don’t belong here.”
Screw him. Screw them. I unleash a flurry of punches to the bag.
“You only got in as a charity case,” Jonathan continues. “You’re never going to be on the real inside because everyone knows who you are—an outsider.”
The big red bag is rocking back and forth so badly that I miss a punch. I stumble, chest heaving.
“What’s your point?” I say.
“My point is, you should go with it. Be the inner-city monster of Norfolk Academy. Downtown Dar.”
“You think of me like that?” I say. “You think this is all I am?”
Jonathan slides his sunglasses back on and smiles. “I’ll see you tomorrow in the garage. Regular time.”
Chapter Fourteen
I walk underneath the big trees of the park. Orange and red leaves above. Brown leaves crunching underfoot. The sharp afternoon air smells like snow. I arrive at the plaza, a round space dominated by a big fountain. In the summer kids splash around in it, but right now it’s like a big, empty concrete bowl. I scan the plaza, checking out couples and families on the benches. Two kids kicking a soccer ball. And, on the other side of the fountain, someone hunched over a table. I recognize the black leather jacket. Dad. I’m seized by the urge to turn around and walk away. Not deal with him. With the mess he’s made of my family. At the same time, there’s a part of me that’s a little kid like Runt. That just wants to bring him home. Have a dad again, even if he screwed up.
He looks up when I approach. I can see the years in the wrinkles around his eyes, like I can with Mom. He smiles uncertainly and stands up, not sure if he should
hug me or shake hands.
“Man, I think you grew,” he says. “Look at you.”
I smile and shake my head. “It’s only been six months, Dad.”
“You say it like six months isn’t a long time. Hey, sit—sit down.”
I do, on a concrete bench alongside the table. Engraved into the table is a chessboard, the flecked black and white squares embedded in its surface. I’ve seen old guys playing here on weekends, staring intently at their little pieces.
I study Dad’s face for minute. “So how’s it been?” I ask.
“I’m holding my own.” He leans across the table. “Food’s a little better than your mom’s, actually.” I laugh. “And I’ve been playing my cards right, behaving good. Already got this ‘unescorted temporary absence.’ Maybe I’ll get more of them. See you some more? Maybe see Riley next time?”
“I don’t know about that. I’m not sure if Mom would let that happen.”
“Huh,” he says. He pushes up the sleeve of his leather jacket to scratch his forearm. There’s a new tat there, a small spiderweb. “Well, she let you come today, right?”
I shrug and look away.
“Your mother doesn’t know you’re here, does she?” I look back sharply, and his brown eyes bore into mine.
“She’d just get mad,” I say. “At me. At you.”
“Aw, man.” He laughs, but like it’s sad, not funny. “She’s not going to forgive me for a while.”
“Forgive you? I wouldn’t wait for it. Mom still doesn’t—” The words drop away from me.
“Doesn’t what?” Dad sits back and crosses his arms, leather quietly creaking.
Love him? Care about him? I think she still does. A long moment goes by while I think.
“She doesn’t trust you,” I say. “She says that you were always angry and almost always drunk.”