by Laura Shovan
I slice through the tape with a green-painted fingernail. Under the Bubble Wrap, there’s another box. Nestled inside are the brightest hot-pink wrestling shoes I have ever seen.
“Whoa.” Cody shields his eyes. “Where are my sunglasses?”
I grin at him without showing my teeth. “This means I don’t have to wear your nasty old hand-me-down shoes.” I sit on the floor, right there in the hallway, and pop off my loafers. Nothing else in the world feels like wrestling shoes. The soles are thin and flexible from heel to toe, so you can feel your feet and get traction on the mat. I thread the black laces tight along the top of my foot, up to my ankle, then pull the ankle strap closed, covering the knot and bow.
“Is there a note? I bet they’re from Dad.” I hope they’re from Dad.
“Got it.” Cody holds up a small card. “They’re from Evan. Socks too. They’re—uh—loud.”
He dangles bright pink knee socks in front of my face. They have a gray hedgehog pattern. The shoes are cool, even though Evan forgot that green is my favorite color. But he remembered I love hedgehogs.
Sometimes I wish Dad were more like Evan. When Evan’s in a good mood, he’s the best. He buys me and Mom little gifts, flowers for Mom, DC hero buttons for me, just because he knows we’ll like them. It mostly makes up for times when he disappears and, like Dad, forgets to call and ask how the first day of school went, or what I’m dressing up as for Halloween, or how it feels to wrestle without Kenna for the first time in my life.
“Here.” Cody hands me the card.
I read, “ ‘You’re going to blow up the mat, Mighty Mite. Good luck at your first big tournament!’ ”
Did Lev tell Evan I’m wrestling on Saturday? My face gets hot.
“What?” Cody asks. He sniffs the box. “Are they poison? Your face is as pink as those shoes.”
“Evan thinks I’m going to the Thanksgiving tournament.”
Cody lifts an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”
I slump on the floor with one pink shoe in my lap. “There’s a dance thing.”
Cody breaks into what he thinks is a dance move. I make my face stay completely still.
“You’ve gotta wrestle, Mickey,” he says. “Kicking butt at that tournament is a Delgado tradition.”
Since Evan moved out, Cody and I have gotten closer. He used to hate it when Evan was Next Man Up. Evan walked around our house like he was the number one son, and Mom and Dad let him do it. When Nonna was alive, she used to say that at our house, the sun rose and set with Evan’s moods. Ever since I can remember, Evan’s been like that. When he’s happy, I’ll find Mom singing show tunes in the kitchen. When Evan’s upset, it’s like someone pulled all the blinds down and put on emo music.
Cody’s not into bossing me around, the way Evan did when he used to babysit us. If Mom’s out in the evening, we make breakfast for dinner, French toast and bacon with orange slices. It’s delicious. Before he moved out, when Evan was Next Man Up, he told us to make ourselves PB&J, then disappeared into his room to play video games.
I ask Cody, “Will Evan ever move back home?”
“I doubt it, Mick. You know Dad. He thinks Evan’s his best friend or something. Evan gets away with a lot of stuff at Dad’s house. No curfew. His own truck.”
“The tattoo.” It’s not fair, the way Mom and Dad treat Evan like he’s the rock-star kid of our family just because he was born first. I was born last. What does that make me?
Still, I feel guilty for wishing the good-luck gift were from Dad instead of Evan. I should probably tell Dad I’m wrestling on Saturday. Maybe he’ll be so excited, he’ll want to come with me. But I’m afraid he’ll say I shouldn’t go. The Eagles tournament is going to be tough. What if I embarrass myself and him?
On the last school day before Thanksgiving, we turn in our topics for the language arts mythology project. Everyone’s talking about it as we walk into Mr. Van’s classroom.
“I’m doing Medusa,” Emma Peake says.
Bryan snorts.
Emma frowns. “What’s so funny?”
“You just cut off all your hair, and you’re doing your project on Medusa. Who’s basically all about her hair.” Bryan is chuckling.
I like Emma’s short haircut. It makes her stand out even more.
Emma puts a hand on her hip and shoots Bryan a look. I’m surprised he doesn’t turn to stone. “At least I’m not doing something obvious, like unicorns. Or Superman.” She taps Bryan’s myth project proposal.
“What’s wrong with Superman?”
Emma ignores him and turns to me. “What are you doing?”
“Vampires.”
“Dark. I like it.”
Mr. Van calls our class to order. Our mythology project will last the rest of second quarter. We have to read and analyze a book related to our subject, create a collage or illustration of our mythological character, and write a poem. Whoa.
“Let me disabuse you all of the notion that this will be a book report,” Mr. Van says. “An analysis is a detailed examination of the book’s elements. An insightful interpretation.” The class groans, but I’m excited about the project. I stop by Mr. Van’s desk on the way out of class.
“Mr. Van, I have a theory.” I can’t wait to tell him. I’m bouncing on my feet.
He smiles through his badger-beard. “I’m all ears, Mr. Sofer.”
“I’m comparing vampires to wrestlers.”
“Interesting. Tell me more.”
“I haven’t worked out the details, but it’s the way we’re always inside. We don’t leave the gym until night. We’re fast. And we drain our opponents’ strength.”
I glance at Nick, who’s still at his desk, packing up his binder. Mr. Van follows my gaze.
“Fascinating, Lev. I expect you to dig into the roots of the vampire myth. Men’s fears are the kernel of that story.” As usual, I only have half a clue what he’s talking about.
* * *
I hurry to make it to PE. Our classes are short because it’s a half day, but we still have to change for gym.
When Bryan and I walk out of the locker room, boys and girls are sitting in separate rows on the gym floor. Our ancient PE teacher, Mr. Wilebsky, leans on a metal cart full of basketballs.
“Ugh. I hate basketball,” I tell Bryan. I trudge to my spot. We sit alphabetically, which means I’m right in front of Spence. He’s wearing sweatpants and a long-sleeved tee under his gym shirt.
“Aren’t you hot?” I ask him. I’m sweating already.
“Ask your girlfriend,” Spence says. He flips his hair, trying to act cool.
“At least I’m not afraid to wrestle her.”
His cheeks turn red. I hope Mickey shows up at the Eagles’ tournament this Saturday. When Nick sees her name on the bracket sheet, the look on his face will be epic.
Mr. Wilebsky lines us up behind a row of girls for basketball relays. Nick and I are behind Emma’s group. My legs are still aching from last night’s conditioning session, but I’m not about to let Nick see me miss a jump shot, especially not in front of Emma.
Emma waves at me from the front of the line. I give her a small nod. One Nick can’t see.
The only way I’m going to get through PE today is by goofing off. We’re supposed to dribble and pass to the next person in line, but I throw a wild pass on purpose, so Nick has to chase the ball.
“What’s your problem, Sofer?”
Want me to make you a list? I think.
Mr. Wilebsky calls me over as the next relay starts. “I don’t want to give you laps, Lev,” he says. “Settle down and do the drills right.”
“I’d rather take the laps, Coach.”
Mr. Wilebsky is bald but makes up for it with out-of-control eyebrows. He raises them at me. “That’s not going to earn you a good participation grade
for the day.” Mr. Wilebsky puts a hand on my shoulder, the way guy teachers do when they want to give you a serious talk. “Everything okay, Lev?” he asks. “Where’s that positive attitude?”
I think about telling him how Nick Spence and I are always competing. It doesn’t matter if it’s wrestling, writing poetry in Mr. Van’s class, or stupid basketball drills. I can’t get away from him.
“It’s wrestling season,” I say. “I’m just tired.” Which is the truth.
Mr. Wilebsky pats my back. “I’ve got a lot of respect for wrestlers.”
“Can we do a wrestling unit sometime, Coach?” I ask.
“Wish we could. Problem is”—he points to the relay lines—“this is a coed class.” His bushy eyebrows move up and down. He doesn’t need to spell it out. I have to shake the thought of wrestling Emma Peake out of my head.
I’ve known some of these girls since kindergarten. Now that we’re sixth graders, they’re showing up at school wearing lip gloss and body spray. Emma’s still my friend, but it’s easier talking to Mickey. She’s got headgear and braces. She punches me in the arm when I do something wrong. She’s one of the guys.
“Get out on the court, Sofer.” Mr. Wilebsky pushes me in the direction of my team, where Nick is bounce-passing the ball to Emma. She takes two steps and aims. The ball goes through the hoop with a perfect swish.
* * *
On Thanksgiving morning, I’m still in bed when Bryan texts me. You up?
Zzzz.
Coming over. Mom’s doing Mad Chef.
The Hongs used to own a restaurant. Bryan’s birthday parties are famous for his mother’s trays of fried rice, egg rolls, and dumplings. Mrs. Hong’s cooking is even better than my O.G.’s, but I hope she’s serving plain turkey and mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving.
When I come downstairs, Abba is wearing Mom’s cupcake apron. He’s in charge of baking bread for our dinner. “Want to help me make the rolls?” he asks.
But the doorbell is ringing. Grover bays at the door, ready to lick the face off whoever comes in our house.
When I let Bryan in, the first thing he does is pet Grover’s head. “Hey, fuzzbutt. Long time, no see,” he tells the dog.
“Bryan and I are taking Grover for a walk, Abba.”
“I like your apron, Mr. S,” Bryan says. Abba laughs and flicks some flour at us.
There’s an open field with a pond in our neighborhood. Bryan and I like to walk Grover down there. I give Bryan a turn with the leash, because his mom won’t let him have a dog. Besides, Grover considers Bryan an honorary member of the Sofer pack.
I explain what happened at the Eagles’ scrimmage last weekend. Bryan kicks a stone in his path. “I can’t see Spence forfeiting at a tournament. He likes to win too much,” he says.
He’s right about Spence. Skipping a match at a scrimmage doesn’t matter. But if Nick forfeits at a tournament, it counts as a loss on his record for the season.
“There were girls in rec league,” I tell Bryan. “Wrestling against them wasn’t a big deal. But it is in travel.” I lean down to scratch Grover’s ears. “What should I do?”
“I don’t know. I’m just the dog walker.”
We leave the sidewalk and head to the pond. The sun makes a golden light that hits me sideways. I like it out here in the field. After all those hours trapped in school, stuck in the wrestling room, breathing other kids’ stale, sweaty air, the autumn wind is fresh. Grover laps water from the pond.
“You want to help this girl, but what’s in it for you?” Bryan asks.
I lean down and pat Grover’s head. He finds a muddy spot and rolls on his back, squirming and kicking his legs in the air. He’s going to need a bath later.
“Nothing. What Nick did to Mickey wasn’t fair.”
“So you’re not helping her because you want to get back at Nick. This has nothing to do with revenge?”
Bryan’s words stick with me the whole walk home. He’s wrong. I’m not helping Mickey just to prove that Nick Spence is a jerk. That’s not who I am.
Kenna is not thrilled when I tell her I’m wrestling this weekend. Her family’s caught in holiday traffic on the way home from North Carolina, where her grandparents live, so we have to resort to a video chat.
“I was hoping you’d change your mind about the talent show,” she says.
“I told you I couldn’t do it.”
“But you said you’d come to rehearsal tomorrow. I really want you to be there, even if it’s just to hang out. Lalita’s house is amazing.” Kenna’s little brother pushes his face between her and the screen, grinning at me. She pushes him away and sighs. “I feel like I only ever see you at school.”
Does she think I don’t know that? With tournament season starting, Kenna’s thrown away her chance to join the Gladiators. She doesn’t get to complain about not seeing me, or make me choose between spending time with her and competing. This is her fault.
“You should’ve thought of that before you quit,” I snap. “We would’ve been spending every weekend together.”
Kenna looks at me like I’ve lost it. “You still don’t get it. Wrestling is your thing.” She frowns at me. “I don’t like it anymore. It’s not about you.”
“I’ve got to go,” I lie. I shut Mom’s laptop down, wondering who’s going to apologize first, me or Kenna.
* * *
On Saturday morning, I’m awake at five a.m., too excited to sleep. Before I pull on my singlet, I study the Gladiator logo on the front. It would be hilarious if we wrestled in feathered helmets, leather skirts, and sandals. I try to picture Lev, Josh, Isaiah, even little Devin and Coach Billy dressed up as historical Roman gladiators. They’d look ridiculous.
“You up, Mikayla?” Mom calls. She walks through my door in her fluffy pink bathrobe. “Cody and I are leaving at quarter to six. Coffee first. Then Cody.”
My brother has a wrestling clinic in New Jersey, but when I told Dad I signed up for the Eagles’ tournament, he promised he’d take me today.
As soon as Mom shuffles out of my room, I pull Cody’s blue Eagles hoodie out of my closet. Never going to happen, I tell myself. Starting today, you’re one hundred percent Gladiator. I ball up Cody’s hoodie and shove it in the bottom of my backpack. It’s going in the Lost and Found pile at school, where Mom can’t rescue it.
Twenty minutes later, Mom, Cody, and I crowd into the kitchen, making lunches and packing our wrestling bags. No one eats. We’re not allowed to until after weigh-ins. Cody yawns, barely awake. He’ll go back to sleep as soon as he gets in Mom’s van. He’s got a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape and a pillow stuffed under his sweatshirt.
“Cody the Wonderboy,” I say, punching his padded stomach.
“I’m too tired for a sarcastic comeback,” he says, swatting my braids. “I’ll be in the car, Mom.”
“You’re sure you’re okay?” Mom asks me. “If Dad’s not here by six-fifteen—”
I know she’s nervous about leaving me alone, but it’s only for a few minutes.
“He’ll be here,” I say. “If not, I’ll call Evan. And if Evan doesn’t answer, I’ll call the Franklins.” Mom doesn’t know Kenna and I had a fight.
After they leave, it’s quiet. I rebraid my hair and check one more time that my headgear, mouth guard, hedgehog knee socks, and pink wrestling shoes are in my bag. I think about packing my stuffie hedgehog too. I’m nervous about today, especially since Dad’s coming. Knowing Spike’s in my wrestling bag will make me feel better, even if I don’t take him out. But I don’t want my favorite stuffed animal getting contaminated with sweaty headgear and stinky shoes. I leave Spike behind.
Dad taps his car horn. When I step outside and lock the front door, my breath comes out in a cloudy gush.
“Thanks for coming, Dad,” I say, as I get in his beat-up SUV.
“What’d you weigh this morning?” No “Good morning, Mickey.” Not even a fist bump.
“Ninety-three point two.”
Dad takes a hand off the wheel and makes a “so-so” motion. “You’re wrestling ninety-five? Your opponent could have a two-pound advantage on you.”
“Nothing I can do about that now.”
“Part of the sport,” Dad agrees. “Let’s hope you don’t have to move up a weight class later this season. You never want to be the lightest guy in your bracket.”
I don’t bother pointing out that I’m not a guy. It’s wrestling talk. That’s all I get with Dad. He’s not the best at talking about school, or friends, or growing up. When he asks me what I’m learning, or how I like sixth grade, our conversations fizzle out. It’s easier to talk about the one thing we have in common.
* * *
The longer I stay in today’s tournament, the more time I get to spend with Dad. Like most competitions, it’s double elimination. Lose one match, and you have to wrestle your way back up the bracket, but you can still make it to third place. Lose a second match, and you’re out, done for the day.
I can do this without Kenna, I tell myself. The Mickey who needed her best friend and stuffie hedgehog, that’s old me. I throw back my shoulders as we step out of the car.
We bump into Lev and his father in the line for weigh-ins. I can’t wait to show him my new shoes.
“It’s too early in the morning for pink,” he kids me.
“They’re my secret weapon,” I say. “I’m going to stun my opponents with pink power.”
Of the hundred or more kids in line, only a few are girls. Everyone’s half asleep, shuffling like a robot army. One by one, wrestlers walk up to the scale, strip down to their singlets, and have their weights written on their upper arms.
When it’s my turn, the parent who’s in charge of the scales writes 93.2 on my arm. Lev gives me a thumbs-up. His arm says 94.0. We’re both eleven years old, so we’ll wrestle in the same bracket: 95 pounds, U12 age group.