The TV’s behind a closed cabinet in the corner instead of the main focal point of the room, like at my house.
It doesn’t take long before sitting on his living room floor doing homework turns into lying sideways on his living room floor and making out. I bring my leg up over his hip and he gently stops me.
“Slow down a bit,” he whispers, between kisses.
“Sorry,” I say, embarrassed, retreating. The only time I can forget my life is when we’re fooling around. It feels nice to fall into oblivion.
He kisses me again, just a quick one. “Nothing to be sorry about. It’s just, we both have enough going on; I don’t want you to have to deal with that stress.”
“What stress?”
“Of having sex.”
I didn’t think we were anywhere near having sex, but Ricky looks so worried and concerned about me that I don’t push it.
“Did you go that far with your ex-girlfriend?” I ask.
“Yeah, but we were both seventeen.”
“So you’ve done it before.”
“Just a couple of times.”
I look away. “I don’t want to know.”
“The third time—”
Three isn’t a couple. Three is a few. Three is three.
“The third time, the condom broke and we had to get the morning-after pill and it was a whole nightmare. We blamed each other and nothing was the same after that. I don’t want that for us.”
“Was it worth it?”
“No, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. It’s not worth it. Not right now …” He’s getting upset. “I want you to feel totally safe with me. I don’t want there to be anything weird between us. Ever.”
“Ricky,” I say, tears in my eyes, “the only time I feel okay is when I’m with you. I don’t have anything else. I’m sorry if that scares you. My family’s messed up; school’s messed up. You’re the only place.”
“I know—for me, too. I can’t screw this up.”
He kisses my tears away, and I run my fingers through his soft, thick hair while he closes his eyes and nuzzles my neck. “I wish I could forget all about the diner,” he says. “Just a blank sheet covering up those memories.”
I close my eyes and sink into him. “I wish you hadn’t been there, but thank you for being there, thank you.”
He presses kisses along my cheek and ear and nose and mouth. “It’ll be all right,” he tells me.
Anyone else would be lying. When Ricky says it, I believe him.
When it’s time for me to go, I feel restless, unproductive. I haven’t gotten the kind of endorphin rush I’m used to getting with Ricky. Kissing was great, but without martial arts or some kind of workout, I’m on edge.
My original plan was to teach him how to fight me for real. How long do I have to wait?
Ricky offers to drive me home, but I’d rather walk. I have all this unspent energy coiled up inside me, so I call home and tell them I’ll be a bit late.
I walk past boarded-up stores and security grates pulled down and a few low-rent bars with the names of beer brands lit up in neon in the windows. The cars that were there the first time I came to Ricky’s with my apology cookies are still there, seemingly in the exact same locations, with the exact same flyers jammed behind their windshield wipers. The only difference is now they’re slick with melting snow, proving that the seasons have changed and the world’s gone by all around them.
Flyers are stapled to wooden telephone poles, too, with tear-off phone numbers dangling down, advertising the same things from September: “Accent Elimination,” “Work from Home” scams, and “Ladies Only!” events.
“Ladies Only!” for what? I wonder this time. There’s no mention of a particular bar. I tear it off the pole for a closer look and realize with a start it’s been waiting for me to notice it for months. It’s been waiting for me this whole time to come back and find it.
Amateur Fight Nights!
Ladies Only!
Must be 18!
$100 cash
www.me-owfightnights.com
After dinner I lock my bedroom door, boot up my computer, and type in the (admittedly bizarre) Web site address. An embedded, low-res video starts up the second I enter the site. I fumble to turn the volume down.
The camera work is all over the place, trying to look gritty and real. Six female fighters pose awkwardly onstage at some underground bar. Men on all sides of the ring surround them.
The women look like reanimated dead strippers: caked-on makeup, ridiculously long nails, high heels and push-up bras, barely-there miniskirts and visible thong straps.
The Web site promoter looks like Matthew McConaughey’s shorter, evil twin; he speaks with a drawling southern accent.
“Before you begin, state your name and age for the camera,” he says. He joins the contenders onstage and holds a microphone right up to their lips.
“I’m Mercedes and I’m nineteen,” says one with a Minnie Mouse voice. Her skin is rough-looking and her eyes are black and soulless, like flies crawling around a pile of dog shit. (If she’s nineteen, I’m prenatal.)
“I’m Peaches and I’m twenty,” says the other. Maaaaaybe.
“Welcome to Kitty Kat Fights,” says the promoter. “Where scratching, hair pulling, and straddling is not just encouraged, it’s required, ladies. Meow-ow-ow.”
Oh, kill me now.
The male audience cheers. I want to stop watching, but I can’t. I want to see them fight.
“Each bout is ten rounds, each round is ninety seconds; last girl standing per fight makes a hundred bucks cold, hard cash.”
The camera pans over to a girl wearing sweatpants, sneakers, and a T-shirt. I lean forward in my chair. That’s more like it. That’s what I would’ve worn.
“What do you think of her outfit?” the promoter asks, holding his microphone out to the audience.
The men are not pleased. “Booo!”
“Is this your first time here, honey?”
She nods coquettishly and bites one of her fingers.
He chuckles and addresses the crowd again. “We have a virgin!”
Cheers and leers from the men.
“Okay, let me tell you how this works, sweetheart. You gotta ditch that ponytail, fluff your hair, roll down the top of your pants so we can get a peek at your panties, and tie that shirt in a knot above your belly button. We’re looking for sexy kittens, not dykes. And ice those nipples for the boys at home.”
Ewww!
“Don’t come back until you learn how to dress.” The men verbally assault her off the stage.
Furious, the designated tomboy pushes “Mercedes” on her way offstage. Mercedes pushes back. They take a couple wild swings at each other—awful form, no training whatsoever—and then fall on the floor and start rolling around. The camera circles them and then zooms in for a close-up as they lean in to kiss each other! Just as their lips touch, the image cuts off abruptly and a new link appears, directing me to a paying site to finish watching.
I shut the computer off, incensed.
I knew it was dumb the second I saw their clothes. I should’ve closed out of the screen as soon as the video started. Of course it was sex related. The only way female fighters could possibly interest anyone is if there’s a chance they’ll rip each other’s clothes off. Nobody will just let us fight.
I want to hurl my computer monitor to the floor, but I don’t want to draw attention to myself or have to explain what I was doing at that site. With each breath tearing through my lungs, my pretend heart shrinks, crushed by a vise into something even harder and more compact than it already is.
I go downstairs and spend twenty minutes beating the hell out of the punching bag in the garage. I picture Daryl in his ski mask, eyes hollow and empty. I picture the cops storming the place. I picture the stupid women in the videos, and I picture guys at home in their rooms watching the videos online, drooling over the images and reaching for their credit cards with sweaty hands.
<
br /> I fight them all in my head, over and over, but it doesn’t make a dent in my frustration. Not even close.
AT SCHOOL THE NEXT DAY I FEEL CALMER, MOSTLY BEcause I’ll be seeing Ricky. It’s enough to know he’s somewhere in the school, going through the motions, hearing the same bells and announcements, keeping my heart safe for me. I’d like to return the favor, but I don’t think his is in my chest. The ticktocking thing I’ve been carting around isn’t human; it’s not even a heart. Sometimes I think it’s a bomb.
Ricky should be over his/our cold soon and up for a real sparring session, no holding back. I need it now more than ever.
Right before counseling, we take a private moment in the hallway again. He makes sure we’re far enough around the corner from Mrs. Hamilton’s office that there’s no way she can see us, and then he kisses me hello.
“Hey, cutie.” His voice sends a delicious feeling through my body, like pouring warm apple cider down my throat and feeling it spread through my limbs.
“What’re you doing for Thanksgiving?” I ask.
“My mom’s giving a speech or something at the parade, and my dad and sister are gonna be home, so that’s cool.”
“Very cool. Your dad’s on leave?”
“Yeah.”
I’m happy for him but sad for me—guess we won’t be hanging out.
“I’m not really into football, though, so I could sneak out after we eat on Thursday.”
“Yay.” We kiss.
“What about you? Gobble gobble?” He pretends to devour my neck.
“My mom’s taking Hunter to look at colleges in DC, so it’s probably pizza this year.”
Mom and Hunter’s flight is at 6:00 a.m. on Thanksgiving Day. They got a ridiculously cheap deal. After my attempt to “run away,” which is still what they think I was doing, Mom offered to cancel the trip, but I can’t handle any additional guilt, so I told them to go.
I have a nightmare around four, right as they’re preparing to leave for O’Hare.
I dream I’m under the table at the diner, nothing new, but when I stand up and look out the windows, I see the paramedics trying to revive a bloody gunshot victim. They charge the defibrillator, three times, four times, and that’s when I realize it’s me. I watch my own blue-tinted corpse get zipped into a body bag and taken away on a stretcher.
When I wake, Hunter’s by my side, holding my clammy hand in his firm, dry one.
“Same one as last time?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Do you want us to stay?” he says. “Seriously.” He looks almost as pale and haggard as I do. I want to tell him, “Yes, stay. I can’t sleep if you’re not in the next room, because who will help me? Who will take care of me?”
“No, you should go; it’s okay. I’ll be fine,” I insist.
“I don’t even want to go.” He rubs his face and swipes tense fingers through his hair. He looks miserable, which surprises me and gives me something besides my dream to focus on.
“Why not? Don’t you want to see Mom’s old school?” She was magna cum laude at Georgetown University in the eighties, majoring in art history. Which kind of begs the question, What is she doing as a concierge at a hotel?
“I’m sure it’s a good school, but …” Hunter’s shoulders lift and fall, like a pile of dead leaves kicked up by the wind and resettling, flatter than before.
“She’s kind of obsessed with you going there,” I mention.
“Her friend is like head of alumni relations; she scored us a meeting with the dean, and a great hotel deal, and a tour with a guy who’s going to be interning at the White House, and I should be excited, but …”
“Two buts in a row.”
“I’m just not sure about going away for college. I know I should want to, but I’m just not sure.”
“You’re so good at school, though.”
“That’s ’cause I like school.” He smiles sadly. “Don’t make that face. I like seeing my friends all day and learning and being on teams, you know?”
“You could get in anywhere,” I tell him.
“I know I could get in somewhere. It’s the ‘anywhere’ that bothers me.”
Mom comes up the stairs and pokes her head in my room. “Imogen, why are you up?” she asks, standing in my doorway. “Hunter, are you all packed? Time to go.”
“She had a nightmare,” he says, annoyed.
“Oh, dear. Are you okay?” Mom walks in and smooths the hair back from my forehead. I dodge her hand, pissed that she wants to help now, right when she’s leaving. She lives downstairs, like a landlord. She doesn’t get to help right now.
“It’s nothing. Have a safe trip. Have fun,” I say, and Hunter gives me a sympathetic look behind her back.
“We’ll call when we get there. Dad’s ordered a great meal for Thanksgiving, all the works, and hey—no cleanup.”
I force a smile. She smiles back, looking strained around the eyes.
Children’s Home Rule number two: Children will keep their rooms organized and clean.
Easy. There’s nothing in my room.
I lug the vacuum upstairs and go over the carpeting three times, until the stripes all line up in perfect rows. I throw my sheets in the washer and fluff my pillows. I dust my shelves and nightstand.
Cleaning used to feel satisfying. I liked knowing I’d be sleeping in a soft, cottony bed, liked knowing it was clean because I’d put effort into it instead of waiting for Mom to do it.
Now I don’t register anything I’m doing. I move like an automaton. Cleaning’s just another way to kill time, so I won’t have to go downstairs.
Dad and I eat in front of the TV, passing around containers of turkey slices and buttered rolls. We watch four different football games. Because of his job writing about sports, we get stations like ESPN Full Court and ESPN Game Plan and all the sports packages. If we plan it right, we won’t have to exchange more than two words the entire holiday weekend.
I think about us sitting there, like father like daughter, both of us fake. Me with my fake heart, him with his wrong life. Did he wake up one morning missing something, the way I did? Can he even tell? Does he realize what we’re lacking?
When the doorbell rings, I’m up like a shot.
“Expecting someone?” Dad sounds hurt and surprised, like our spectacular family-bonding meal has been interrupted.
“Just Ricky. We’ll be in the garage, okay?”
“You can work out on a full stomach?”
“We’ll warm up first,” I say and open the front door.
But Ricky of course has to be polite and insists on going in the living room and saying hi to my dad.
(Children’s Home Rule number 1: Children will greet their parents when they enter the home, and say good-bye to them when they leave.)
They chatter inanely for ten minutes, and it hits me.
The reason Ricky doesn’t have to follow the Children’s Home Rules is because he already does, and Mrs. Hamilton knows it. Ricky is actually respectful to everyone; he’s the version of me I was only playing at all these years.
When his grandmother tells him to do something, he does it. He takes his shoes to the rummage sale, and he buys them back later. He takes out the garbage for his mother. He cleans the kitchen and he cleans his room because those are things you do, as part of a family, when no one’s watching; you don’t do them half-assed and then brag about them just to earn your next belt color.
I think of Grandmaster Huan telling the beginner belts, “Martial Arts is a code. Martial Arts is a way of life, not to be picked up and dropped when it’s convenient.”
“Ricky hates football,” I announce at last.
“Oh,” says Dad, picking up the remote. “Sorry. We can change it.”
“That’s okay,” says Ricky, giving me a hard look. It pisses me off that he’s so respectful to my dad and I’m not, that he’s more of a martial artist than I am, and how with this one look he’s called me on it.
A
half hour later we finally escape to the garage, and Ricky sets his gym bag down and reaches for my hand.
“Hey,” he says, drawing me in for a kiss. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
I’m still annoyed so I break it off.
He’s surprised. “What’s wrong?”
“Let’s fight,” I say, bouncing lightly back and forth on the balls of my feet. Between the diner, that pathetic Kitty Kat fight club, and the fact that I haven’t been to class in months, I’m itching for a beat-down. His or mine, it doesn’t really matter. “Try to punch me in the face.”
Ricky laughs.
That nervous habit of his has got to go.
“Come on,” I say, waving him near. “Just try.”
“Right now?”
“Well, what did you think we were training for? I want to know what it’s like to be in a real fight.” My adrenaline, always rushing beneath the surface, dictates my words.
“Right. Ricky Ricardo punches the helpless little white girl. And then my mom’s out of the election.”
“I won’t tell anyone how it happened. I’ll say I got jumped downtown. And that’s assuming you’ll even land a punch.”
“I’m twice your size and weight,” he scoffs. “I could pick you up and haul you over my shoulder right now.”
“So try it, then! I’ve already punched you. I know what I’m doing.”
“Yeah, when I wasn’t expecting it,” he snaps.
I remember the fortune cookie he made up on our date: “You’ll be sucker punched in the face by a really cute girl.”
He doesn’t count my punch. He was impressed it hurt so much, but he doesn’t count it. It was a sucker punch, not a real punch. I cheated. That’s what he thinks. That I’m “cute.” An adorable spitfire he can use to learn how to fight. An ineffective little girl who’s kidding herself and has been for years.
“You won’t fight me for real? You think you have to hold back?” I say, incredulous.
He won’t look at me. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You don’t think I could hurt you?”
“This is stupid.”
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