by Laura Shovan
“We went to California,” Bryan says. “That’s where Uncle Steven lived.”
“Wait a minute. Is this the uncle you used to watch pro wrestling with?”
Bryan nods. “He promised we’d go to WWE Raw next time he came to Baltimore. And before you say anything, Lev, I know it’s not real wrestling. But that’s what we liked about it. Uncle Steven said it was like watching the Three Stooges with a turbo shot of pain.”
I groan. “Wrestling’s not supposed to be fun. It’s not supposed to be staged.”
In real wrestling, there’s no script. Your opponent can throw anything at you. That’s why we practice three times a week. I can hear Coach Billy’s voice in my head: You win right here, in the practice room. When we step out on the mat, he wants us to be ready.
“Yeah, yeah,” Bryan says, rubbing his glasses on his hoodie. “I know. It cheapens the sport. You told me a million times.”
Maybe if I tease him, he won’t be so sad about his uncle. “If you love wrestling so much—”
“No way. I am not joining your team. The minute wrestling season starts, you have exactly zero life.”
A grin takes over my face. We’ve had this argument so many times, it’s turned into a joke between us. “That’s the way I like it. School. Boom! Homework. Boom! Practice. Boom! Sleep like a rock and do it all again.”
“What’s wrong with goofing off?” Bryan asks.
Sometimes I wonder how we stay friends. Bryan’s allowed to do what he wants with his free time, as long as he practices clarinet and keeps his grades up. Not me. My mom thinks the more scheduled my life is, the better.
I stand up and put my face by the window. “I smell the tang of winter.”
Bryan snorts. “That’s not the tang of winter. That’s bus exhaust and your pizza breath.”
“That smell is the taste of me wrestling at States.” I sit and lean closer to Bryan. “This is my year. I’m going to train. I’m going to run every day before school.” I shove Bryan’s shoulder to wipe the smirk off his face. “Laugh all you want, doofus. I’m serious.”
“Reality check: You’re eleven years old. You’ve got more baby chub than muscles.”
“I was this close last year.” I hold my fingers a centimeter apart. “One move. I lost by one move.”
“It was six months ago, is all I’m saying.” Bryan isn’t paying attention anymore. There’s sheet music in his lap. He runs a finger along a line of notes.
“Nine,” I say. I shake Bryan’s arm. “I’ve had nine months to plan my revenge.”
He makes an exasperated sigh. “Dial back the drama, Lev. Forget about Spence. If States is your goal, it should be your goal.”
I shake my head. “All the good kids on our team go. I have to be one of those kids or Spence will never shut up about it.” I lower my voice. “I can’t lose again.”
“You’re bugging out and the season hasn’t even started yet.”
“Hello? Have you met me?”
“Yeah. But I like you better when you’re regular Lev, not Wrestler Guy.”
“If I make it to States this year, will you come watch?” Bryan never comes to my matches. Not once since Mrs. Torres made us reading buddies in second grade and we got to be friends.
Bryan halfway frowns, so I know he’s faking. “I don’t know. There’s no costumes.”
“Nope.”
“No masks. No flying suplexes. No battle cages.”
“Anything else?”
“No cheerleaders.”
“Ew. Are you really going to come to a match?”
“If you get to States, I’ll be there.”
I don’t even have to close my eyes to see it. I’m on the mat at the state wrestling championship. The ref raises my hand in the air while Nick Spence cowers next to me, defeated. And there, in the stands, is Bryan, pumping a fist in the air.
It’s our big night. We’re officially moving up to the Eagles travel team. Kenna comes over after school to get ready for the meeting.
“Keep your eyes closed, or you’ll ruin the surprise,” I tell her, pulling her toward my closet.
Kenna jiggles her feet. Her dark curls jiggle too. She was quiet at school today, but there’s nothing to worry about. Everyone on the team knows my family. Evan and Cody were Eagles in middle school. I’ve known Coach Spence practically my whole life. He’s a serious coach. It won’t be like rec league, with games of dodgeball and Steal the Bacon at the end of practices. Our teammates will be some of the best wrestlers in Maryland.
Hanging on the closet door are two Wonder Woman wrestling singlets, red with the yellow W logo. Singlets are one-piece uniforms, a spandex combination of a bathing suit and bicycle shorts.
I squeeze Kenna’s hand. “Now,” I say.
Her dark eyes flutter open. They widen in surprise until they’re as round as gobstoppers. “Wow.”
I do not hear exclamation points. I do not hear hearts, or grins, or any other kind of emojis in Kenna’s flat “Wow.”
“Awesome, right?” I ask, hoping she loves the singlets so much that she’s gone into shock. “My mom found them,” I hurry to explain. “She said they’ll give us wrestling superpowers.”
Kenna gapes at me. “We’re not wearing these for real, Mickey. Tell me we’re not.”
“Don’t you like them?”
She reaches out to stroke the smooth spandex. “Sure. For fun.”
“Of course!” For a second, I thought Kenna hated the singlets. “They’re not for competition, obviously. We’ll have royal-blue singlets with the Eagles logo. But we could wear these to practice.”
“I don’t know.” Kenna frowns. “It was super nice of your mom, but they’re a little babyish.” She rushes to get her thoughts out before I can argue with her. “We’re in middle school. We’ll probably be the only girls on the team again. We should try to fit in. They’re kind of…”
Wonderful? Amazing? I think.
“Loud,” says Kenna.
I cross my arms and scowl at the singlets, but really I want to scowl at Kenna. I was excited about wearing something special to our meeting. Even if no one else saw the yellow W, it would make me feel brave and strong instead of worried and awkward about joining a new team, not to mention worried and awkward about wearing a sports bra under my singlet for the first time. Kenna’s mom took us shopping last week. I don’t really need a sports bra, but Kenna sure does.
For a second, a thought flashes through my head. Maybe we should have stayed on rec with Coach Brandon. We were two of the best wrestlers on his team, the Mustangs. If one of the boys teased us about wearing sports bras, superhero singlets, or anything else, they’d end up pinned to a wrestling mat by not one, but two girls.
But I blast the thought of Coach Brandon and the Mustangs out of my head. I am determined to be an Eagle like my brothers. Dad says if I make it through this season, he’ll sign up to be an assistant coach next year. Then he’ll have to spend more time with me.
Kenna nudges me, but I’m not about to smile. “We can be Wonder Women on the inside,” she says. “That’s where it counts, right?”
“I guess.” I hand her a hairbrush. Kenna sits on the end of my bed and I settle onto the floor.
I wish Kenna were my sister. My brothers’ idea of affection is a swift punch in the arm. Cody can barely sit still long enough to talk to me. And I hardly see Evan since he moved in with Dad over the summer.
“Why am I braiding your hair?” Kenna asks. “I thought we weren’t wrestling tonight.”
I nod. “It’s just a meeting. Coach will go over sportsmanship rules and introduce all the new kids. Don’t be afraid of him. He only sounds like he’s going to explode.”
Kenna catches my eye in the long mirror next to my closet, raising her eyebrows at me.
I point to a picture o
f my favorite Olympic wrestler taped to the glass. “Four Dutch braids, please. Like hers.”
She leans down to rest her chin on top of my head. “Are you sure we’re ready?” she asks. “Wrestling in rec league was fun, but the travel kids are going to crush us.”
“No way,” I say. “We’ve got this.”
“I don’t know. Remember what Coach Brandon said? Starting travel is like moving up to middle school. We’re going to be the new kids again. We’re going to lose. You hate losing.”
“Maybe we’ll lose at first. But it won’t last forever. We’re strong. I only gave up three matches last season.”
She rolls her eyes at me, so I elbow her knee.
“Still,” Kenna says, “are you moving up to travel because you love wrestling, or because your brothers love wrestling?”
Wrestling is my family’s thing. When my parents divorced, Dad put all his attention on wrestling. He’s the one who takes my brothers to their weekend tournaments and signs them up for summer camps with famous wrestlers. Mom said the only way I’d get to spend time with him was if I went along to watch my brothers compete. Ever since then, I’ve wanted to be a wrestler like Evan and Cody, like my dad was in high school. It’s in my DNA.
I study Kenna’s hair in the mirror. Kenna is biracial. She looks like both her parents. Her hair isn’t straight like her mom’s or thick and wiry like her dad’s. It’s a jumble of tight brown curls, a shade darker than her skin.
I don’t look anything like my dad, with his red hair and sharp jaw. He says I’m Mom’s Mini-Me. My hair’s plain brown and straight. I have her brown eyes. The only thing that stands out about me is Mom’s cleft chin. And her dimples, but only when my smile is really big, and smiling like that shows off my braces. No thanks.
I wish I had Dad’s red hair, like Evan, instead of looking so average.
I sigh and smile at Kenna. “I’ve dreamed of being an Eagle my whole life.”
She wraps an elastic around the last braid. “Kids at school are going to think we’re weird.”
“They’ll think we’re awesome!”
I pop a bicep. Kenna closes her eyes and shakes her head.
“You promised,” I remind her. “When we signed up for Eagles, you said you were all in.”
I jump up to get a closer look in the mirror at the four fat braids running from my forehead to my neck and down my back. “Perfect!”
“Dickinson isn’t like elementary school,” Kenna says.
“It’s middle school. What did you expect?”
“I don’t know what I expected.” She falls back on my bed. “It’s hard work.”
There’s something I’m not getting. Lately, when it comes to Kenna, it’s like I know the first steps of a math equation but can’t figure out how to finish the problem. She’s met a bunch of new kids. She keeps inviting them to sit with us at lunch, as if we’re interviewing girls to be our friends. Is that what she means by hard work? Because it feels like it to me. Things are easier when it’s the two of us.
I pull on her arm. “Promise me you won’t quit.”
Delgados aren’t quitters, but Kenna’s not a Delgado. Sometimes she needs convincing. “We don’t care what anyone says about girl wrestlers, remember? We have each other. We’re Wonder Women. Even if we don’t wear the singlets.”
“I guess. As long as we stick together,” Kenna says.
“Best friends and wrestling partners forever.” Makenna and Mikayla at school. Kenna and Mickey on the mat.
I’m so pumped for the Gladiators preseason team meeting tonight. I jump off the school bus and run home, leaving Bryan in the dust.
“Wait up!” he calls.
I turn and jog backward. “Can’t! Got to get ready.” I put up my hands T. rex style and growl at Bryan. He runs to catch up to me.
Bryan’s not a bad athlete. He used to play soccer. But when the league made kids try out and placed them on A, B, and “We Don’t Care” teams, Bryan was done. He says sports should be for fun, not for glory.
“Do you think we’ll get to write horror stories for Mr. Van’s new project?” Bryan asks. “I’m going to write about a haunted restaurant where all the food comes to life.”
“Can’t you stop thinking about food for a second?” I turn around to walk with Bryan, fixing my backpack so my books sit high on my shoulders. Coach Billy says if we have to carry heavy backpacks, we might as well build up our neck muscles.
“The guy has more books on his desk than our whole media center,” Bryan says. “Okay. I exaggerate, but if Mr. Van weren’t a giant badger man, he’d get crushed by a book avalanche. I can picture it. He’s staying late at school, grading essays. There’s no one else in the building. Suddenly, a breeze wafts across his stack of books.”
“Wafts?”
“Don’t interrupt the flow of my literary genius,” Bryan says. “The books teeter. Mr. Vanderhoff is wrapped up reading the brilliant writing of one Bryan Hong. He does not notice disaster is about to strike. Then, ka-BOOM!” Bryan pauses.
“It hits him like a tsunami?”
“Exactly. Mr. Van is knocked unconscious. They don’t find him until morning.”
We stop at the bottom of my driveway. “I thought you liked Mr. Van.”
“No one is safe from the word stylings of Bryan Hong.”
“Oooh, I’m scared.” I pretend to shake. “See ya!”
“Yeah,” Bryan says. “See you in a few months.”
“It’s not that bad, Bry. We eat lunch together every day.”
Bryan shrugs.
“No practice on Tuesdays or Thursdays. We’ll ride bikes.”
“It’s a deal. Unless it snows. Then, video games at my house.”
* * *
“Mom!” I call the second I’m in the door. “Is my Gladiators hoodie clean? I want to wear it to the meeting.”
Grover waddles into the hall, snuffling my backpack. He sounds more like a pig than a dog. I pat his soft ears.
“You’re old enough to do your own laundry,” Mom calls from the top of the stairs.
Mom thinks being a middle schooler means I should be more independent. When I started sixth grade, she started her master’s degree. She says she wants to be a school guidance counselor when she grows up. I hope she sticks to little kids. My mom is way too nice for middle school.
Mom comes down the stairs. She’s dressed for class, corduroys and turtleneck sweater. Her hair is pulled into a bun. She’s even wearing makeup. Mom says she wants the professors to know she’s a serious student. In one motion, she ruffles my hair, picks up my backpack from the floor, and hangs it up on its hook.
“What’s in here? Rocks?”
I stand in front of Mom to make sure she can’t run off to do laundry or hunt for the psych textbook she’s always losing. “Will you help me with my homework plan?” I ask. “I want to get it all done before we leave.”
Mom’s starting to pull folders out of my backpack when I hear a chair move in the kitchen.
“Dalia’s home?”
This is the only time of day when I have Mom to myself, before everyone gets busy with sports. I know I’ve lost her attention as soon as my sister strides into the hall. Dalia is supposed to be at field hockey. She’s a junior in high school, which means every second of her day is scheduled with homework, SAT prep, and sports. Mom treats Dalia like she’s a VIP guest in our house. Abba says Mom’s acting this way because my sister’s going to college soon. I can hardly wait to be an only child.
Dalia wears her hair in a long, tight braid. It swings back and forth like the pendulum in that horror story Mr. Van read to us.
“Forgot my cleats,” she says.
Mom starts tearing through her purse, looking for car keys.
“I don’t need a ride, Mom,” Dalia says. “Evan’s driving me.
”
“Evan’s coming over?” I run to the window. Evan is Dalia’s boyfriend, and he’s the best. He loves video games and plays touch football with me in the yard, and he’s a wrestler. He even won state champ in eighth grade.
“Forget it, Lev,” Dalia says. “Evan’s taking me to practice. That’s it.” She shoves hockey sticks into her tall, narrow bag. A horn beeps. Dalia runs outside in her socks, cleats swinging from her hands, braid swinging on her head.
“Wait!” I follow her outside.
Evan rolls down the window of his silver truck. “Hey, buddy.” He gives me a fist bump. Evan has curly red hair and a cleft in his stubbly chin. He has a wrestler’s wide shoulders and neck, and the tops of his ears are lumpy in places. I’ll never have beat-up wrestlers’ ears. Mom and Abba make me wear headgear, even at practice.
“You training yet?” Evan asks.
I’m about to tell him the team meeting is tonight, but Dalia interrupts. “No wrestling talk,” she says. “Sometimes I think you only go out with me so you can hang out with my baby brother.”
I’m not a baby, I’m about to complain, but Evan points a thumb at my sister and shrugs at me. I know what he means: Sorry, buddy. She’s the boss. His eyes crinkle like he’s holding in a laugh. Evan is the exact opposite of Dalia, funny and easy to get along with. Everyone in my family likes him.
As I watch the truck pull away, I smile. I’m going to work my butt off this season. By the time I finish middle school, I’ll be a state champ just like Evan.
When we get to the high school where the Eagles practice, I skip through the halls.
Dad says wrestling is a growing sport in Maryland. Our county runs a league of rec-level teams and one travel team, the Gladiators. Teams practice at high school gyms, but there are a few independent teams, and Dr. Spence’s Eagles is the best one, with the toughest training program. That’s why Dad picked the Eagles when Evan and Cody were in middle school.
Mom grins at me and Kenna as we head to the gym for the meeting. “It’s a big step, moving up to travel,” she says. “You girls are going to be fierce.”