Tap Out

by Sean Rodman

  Dad takes a deep breath, like he’s about to yell. But then he lets it go, a steady hiss of air before he finally speaks.

  “Well, she was never on my side. Never understood my reasons. You know, it wasn’t always like this. Before those bastards laid me off, it was different. That was hard.” He leans forward, tapping the concrete chessboard in front of me to make his point. “And damn straight I was angry. You take a man in the prime of his life and tell him that he’s not worth a dollar. Make it so that a man can’t take care of his family anymore. I had a right to be angry.” He thumps the board again, now with his fist. “That’s what your mother never understood.”

  I’ve heard this speech before. “I know, Dad.”

  He looks at me, the circles around his eyes so dark they look bruised. Scared eyes.

  “Yeah, you get it,” he says. “I guess you’re learning about being a man all on your own. Something your mom can’t teach you. Doing whatever you need to do to survive. Being a fighter.” He flashes a smile at me. Mimes ducking and weaving, throwing a punch. I don’t smile back.

  “You think that’s true? That I have to fight for everything?”

  “Damn straight.” Dad pounds the table in front of him again. “It’s like this game, like chess. It’s you against everybody else. You’ve got to make your moves. Plan your strategy. Never let your guard down.”

  I look at the chessboard. Black squares marching in ranks against the white squares. “Yeah, that’s what I always thought.”

  Dad leans back, satisfied. Then I continue.

  “But now, Dad, I’m starting to think about the game a little differently. See, I thought I was a player. But I’m starting to realize that I’m just one of the pieces. Like the knight or something. Maybe the pawn.”

  His eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Naw, maybe I didn’t explain it to you right. You see, it’s—”

  “No, Dad. You always explained it just fine. But I think I’ve figured out the truth. I’m the piece, and I’m letting everybody else tell me what to do. Tell me that there are all these battles I have to fight.”

  Dad looks at me, searching my face with his dark eyes. “Son, I don’t understand.”

  I stand up. “I’m not going to fight your battles for you anymore. You want to believe that the world is out to get you? That there’s no one on your side? Can’t trust anyone? Go ahead. But I’m not going to play that way anymore.” I stand up and without giving him a chance to answer start walking away. As I walk across the plaza, I hear him call my name once. But I don’t turn around.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Friday morning. The clock in the History classroom is the old kind, with a big white face and black numbers. I can’t help watching it as the time creeps closer to noon. To the fight. Part of me wants the hands to speed up and get this over with. Part of me wants the hands to freeze.

  “How about an answer from you, Darwin?” Mr. Hassel asks. Damn, he doesn’t let anything slip.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Can you repeat the question?”

  “That’s what I thought.” Mr. Hassel sighs. “We’re talking about Switzerland being neutral in the World Wars. Chris said he thought they were cowards. You wrote your essay about this, so what do you think?”

  He leans against his desk, a little smile on his face. I shrug. His face hardens.

  “I’m not giving you an option, Dar. Tell us, what do you think? From all the research you did?”

  I look out the window and take a deep breath. He still doesn’t believe I wrote that essay.

  “I think it’s not simple. But they weren’t cowards.”

  “Okay, why not?”

  “Well, I think you’re a coward if you are afraid of a fight. But that’s not what it was, right? They had an army. Like, half a million people, which is pretty good for a tiny country. But they had decided to be neutral way before World War I—like, two hundred years before, right?”

  “More like three hundred.” Mr. Hassel crosses his arms. “Go on.”

  “Being neutral was what they believed in. It was who they were. And they weren’t going to change that because everyone else was going to war. So I guess I think they weren’t cowards. In fact, it was kind of brave.”

  Mr. Hassel looks at me for a minute, like he’s trying to figure out what he’s seeing. Then someone else raises a hand, and the class moves on. I try to pay attention but can’t stay focused. I keep looking at the clock. Finally, the bell sounds—a flat squeal punctuated by the grating of chairs sliding away from the desks. I’m almost out the door when Mr. Hassel stops me. Other students shove around me.

  “That was a good answer, Darwin,” he says. “I might have made a mistake before.”

  “I’ve made a few as well,” I say. “Thanks.”

  Jonathan was right. The crowd is the largest yet. The empty garage is crammed with bodies. It’s a good thing the building is surrounded by an empty lot, or the noise from the crowd would be pretty loud. Inside, it’s a solid roar of male voices. Jonathan sees me push between the students and into the ring. He looks like a little kid at Christmas.

  “Check it out!” he says. He holds his arms wide. “Look at your fans!” Yeah, just look at them. Full of adrenaline and stupid. I head over to the broken chair that marks my corner of the ring. As I take off my blazer and unbutton my shirt, I hear Jonathan calling out for silence.

  “Welcome back to the Friday fight club! The best in live entertainment! Better than any of that mma crap on cable!” There are some scattered laughs.

  “Today we have a special event for you. A double bill. Two fights for the price of one!”

  What? I look questioningly at Jonathan, but he just smiles at me and turns back to the crowd.

  “And our first contender is a guest. Someone almost as fierce as our own Downtown Dar. May I present to you… Manslaughter Mason Dillon!” Jonathan points across the ring, and I see a big bald guy emerge from the crowd. Mason. The guy who was roughing up Jonathan when I first met him. I walk out into the empty space that serves as the ring and grab Jonathan by the shoulder, spinning him around.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I say.

  Jonathan straightens his sunglasses. “Making some magic. I thought, who better to take you on than someone who has a grudge against you?”

  “He doesn’t even go to Norfolk.”

  “What, that’s against the rules? Oh, wait. I make the rules. And I say it’s fine.” The crowd is getting restless. I stare at Mason. He smiles, a flat line under his beady eyes.

  “What’s the problem?” he yells out. “You afraid?” There’s laughter from the crowd. Jonathan turns to me, eyebrows raised. I barely shake my head.

  “All right, it’s on!” yells Jonathan. The crowd roars like a jet engine.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mason’s eyes don’t leave mine as he shifts his weight, forward and back. Getting ready to pounce. I wait for it.

  He comes at me with a right hook. My head flinches back as his fist swings by me, air brushing my face. I snap a right jab in while he’s still finding his balance. I feel my knuckles hit flush with his jaw. Solid hit. Feels good. Mason turns and stumbles away.

  While he’s got his back to me, I yell and charge at him. At the last moment I whirl around and slam his knees with a strong kick. The force of the impact spins him around as he drops to the floor. A good opportunity to get a submission hold on him. But I miss it—I’m too slow—and I’m surprised to see Mason back on his feet. He doesn’t waste time, stepping in toward me and lifting a knee into my stomach. I groan and bend over, and he follows through with an uppercut as I go down.

  I hit the floor and roll onto my side. There’s a sharp needle of pain above one eye. I can feel a warm sheet of blood under my nose. I don’t move, because it will make it hurt more. Jonathan comes in from the side, leaning down.

  “You finished?” Past him, I see Mason already lifting both hands in victory, the crowd shouting approval.

  N
ot yet. I’ve got a little more fight. I shake my head and push myself upright. Mason turns around, surprised, as people in the crowd start pointing at me.

  Back on my feet, I lift my fists. Then gesture at Mason with one hand—come on, come at me.

  He rolls his neck, loosening up. Smirks like this is going to be icing on the cake. Then he runs at me, setting up for a big high kick.

  But I step into it, too fast for him. I club his head with my left. Drive straight in with my right fist. Something crunches. Mason staggers back into the crowd, eager hands pushing him back toward me. His shoulders heave up and down as he breathes, his face contorted with rage. He comes at me fast, each step punctuated with a punch. Right, then left. His speed throws me off. I back up, circling away from him. I move too quickly. Big mistake.

  My arms windmill as I try to regain my balance, falling backward. I hit the floor hard, knocking the wind out of me. Mason seizes the opportunity and is on top of me in a second, pinning me down across my middle. He launches hit after hit to my head. I’m too busy trying to protect my face to make any counter moves. My head rocks back and forth from the flurry of blows.

  I’m starting to get fuzzy. Starting to lose consciousness. I’m going to black out. I’ve got to do something.

  I grab his wrist with one hand. With my other, I grab his bicep for leverage. Then I push off with my legs, bucking my hips up and rolling over, hard. It works, and Mason topples away from me. We both scramble to our feet, breathing heavily.

  This guy is too big, too fast, too strong. A big, angry animal. I can’t win on his terms. I need to be smarter. I take deep breaths as I circle around him. I focus on Mason’s eyes, watching.

  Then I see it—the moment where his rage takes over. A second before he launches himself at me, I see it coming. And that lets me step to one side, sticking out my right arm as he goes by. A clothesline. His own weight and speed work against him as he slams into my forearm.

  Mason’s feet fly up, and he lands on his back with a solid crunch. I’m on top of him with a sidehold, one leg pinning down his left arm. With my right hand, I lock and twist his left arm up. Mason grunts in pain, but he can’t move with me pinning him like this.

  “Tap out?” I say, right in his ear.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mason squirms, trying to break my hold. So he wants to keep going. I put more torque on his left arm, feeling tendons grind in his shoulder. This time he yells, a thin, nasty scream. I feel a double tap on my thigh from him.

  Mason’s done. I release him, get to my feet and shuffle back to my “corner.” Mason stays down, massaging his shoulder while the crowd roars my name: “Down-town Dar! Down-town Dar!” Eventually, one of Mason’s friends helps him out of the circle.

  Jonathan comes over and helps me drink from my water bottle. “You ready for the next event?”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  Jonathan smiles underneath his expensive sunglasses. “I arranged a little something extra today. It’ll be easy for a pro like you.” He slaps me gently on the cheek, walking back into the center of the circle.

  “Ladies, gentlemen—don’t walk away. The main event might be over, but we have a new contender today.

  Let’s give a warm fight-club welcome to Marvelous Mark Ashbury!” There’s a moment of shocked silence, then a wash of laughter from the audience. Mark steps out of the crowd. He’s wearing long shorts, green with yellow stripes down the side. The oversized fight shorts make his scrawny torso look even tinier. His blond hair, buzzed down to fuzz over his scalp, gleams in the lights. He eyes the crowd nervously, like a rabbit looking for shelter.

  I motion for Jonathan to come over to where I’m sitting.

  “What’s the problem?” Jonathan squats down next to me. He pulls off his stupid sunglasses to look at me, searching my face. “You all right?”

  “I’m not fighting him,” I say, mumbling through a swollen lip.

  “Why not?” Jonathan looks confused. “You’re hurt?” Someone in the crowd starts chanting, and soon the room is filled with the sound.

  Fight. Fight. Fight.

  A thread of blood and snot drops from my broken nose. I wipe it away with the back of my hand. I look across the ring to the other side. Mark is looking down at the floor, smacking one hand into the palm of the other, thin muscles flexing. Trying to psych himself up. I look back at Jonathan.

  “That kid is going to get killed. He’s not a fighter.”

  Jonathan snorts. “That’s why everyone can’t wait to see you pound the crap out of that nerd. Watching you shut him down is why this crowd is paying extra today. Like watching a baby seal take on a shark. It’ll be hilarious.”

  Fight. Fight. Fight.

  “I’m not going to hurt him for—” I stumble on the word. Cough. Copper taste on my tongue. “For laughs. I’m not like that.”

  Jonathan takes my head, his hands on either side of my head. Pulls me close, looks straight in my eyes.

  “Yeah, you are. This is who you are, Dar,” says Jonathan. “This is what you’re good at. You are the monster. You are the thing that everyone is afraid of. That’s your gift, man. Now get out there and use it.”

  He backs up. I rise unsteadily from the chair, and the crowd roars in response. Mark looks up from the floor and scrambles off his stool. I take a deep breath, trying to think straight. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I need to teach Mark a lesson. Beat it into him. I walk forward to the center of the ring. Jonathan slaps me encouragingly on the shoulder as I walk past.

  Fight. Fight. Fight.

  In the center, I stop and let Mark take the last couple of steps toward me. I can see the fear on his face. Jonathan steps close to us.

  “Ready, gents? Let’s do this!” he yells and steps away. Mark raises up his fists, just like I bet he’s seen all the guys on TV do it. Like a video-game character.

  I raise my fists to eye level. Mark flinches. Sweat shines through his short haircut. But the chanting of the crowd throbs, propelling him forward one step toward me. Then another.

  Fight. Fight. Fight.

  He takes a weak swing. I catch it with one hand. And hold it.

  “No,” I say. “Don’t do this. We don’t need to do this.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mark tries to wrestle his hand free from my grip, confused. Jonathan practically runs in from the side of the circle.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I give up. Mark wins,” I say. I let go of Mark, turn and grab Jonathan by his shirt. “And I’m done being the entertainment.” I push him loose. As I turn away, I start stripping the tape off my hands. The crowd murmurs, confused.

  “Dar, everyone’s expecting a fight!” yells Jonathan. “You have to fight!”

  “I don’t know who I am anymore.” I start walking out of the ring. The crowd parts to make way for me, and I stop on the edge. “But I don’t fight for you. Or them.”

  The garage is silent as I leave, the steel door slamming behind me.

  Mr. Hassel looks startled when I open the door to his office. I catch a glimpse of myself in the framed mirror behind his desk and understand why. I try to button up my stained white shirt. When I rub a fist under my nose, it comes away with flecks of rust-colored blood.

  “I need to talk to the principal,” I say. “I need your help.”

  “What have you done, Darwin?” Mr. Hassel stands up from his desk, offers me some Kleenex from his desk. “Are you hurt?”

  “Remember when you said I needed to come clean?” I say. I slump into a chair across from him. “I think you’re right. I’ve got some things to tell you about.”

  After it’s all over, the cops and the principal let me go home with my mom. On my way out of the school, I see a crowd of students watching the police cars in the parking lot. I see Keisha and ask my mom for a minute.

  Keisha sees me coming and starts to turn to leave. Then she stops, takes a deep breath and moves toward me instead.

 
“Dar, what’s going on? I’ve heard things about—” she starts to say, but I cut her off.

  “I have to tell you something. I caused a lot of bad stuff to happen. A lot of people got hurt. Including you. I’m sorry. I wanted you to hear that from me.” Keisha looks away, but I can see her eyes watering. “I wanted to tell you that now, because I might not have a chance later.”

  She says quietly, “What’s going to happen to you?”

  “I’m leaving the school,” I say. “For a while. Or maybe for good.”

  One of her friends calls out from the crowd, and Keisha looks over her shoulder. “I should go.”

  “Wait. Remember when you said that you didn’t know who I was?” She nods. “I didn’t know either. But I’m figuring it out. And when I do, maybe you’ll give me another chance?”

  She lifts one hand up to my cheek, and I feel her cool fingers pressed against it. “I’ll do that.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dear Dad,

  By the time you get this letter, I will know if I’m going to juvie or not. When I told the principal about the fight club, she said that I might get some consideration for coming forward with the details. For helping shut the club down.

  I’m still expelled, of course. But I don’t know what will happen next. And that’s okay.

  You told me once that hate was good. That winners hate just a little bit more than everyone else. And that’s how they win fights.

  You told me once that every day was a fight. That I would have to fight for everything in my life.

  I believed you. I think I started to become someone just like you. Who sees the worst in everyone. Who thinks the world is out to get them. Who sees everything as black or white. Win or lose.