by Silva Hart
He rises and enters a ring with a black kid who’s new to the gym. The kid is short, stocky, barrel-chested, and about my age. He seems on the serious side, wary, as if life’s done him wrong one too many times, so he can no longer trust. As he moves, he keeps dropping his guard. Ivan goes easy on him but still gets the lesson taught.
After they’re done, One-Eyed Mike hands the kid a jump-rope. The kid grimaces but gives it a try. He’s never done it before from the looks of it, but he keeps at it until he can get a few rotations in before the rope tangles around his sluggish feet.
Throughout the day, guys come and go. One-Eyed Mike walks around doing his job, taking care of his clients and his place.
He’s strict about no-smoking in the gym and also doesn’t like smokers standing out front. He says the place looks intimidating enough without jacked-up guys hanging around blowing smoke rings and looking gang.
I go around to the back and am surprised to find the new kid standing in the lot. The back of the building has parking for three cars, but a rusty green dumpster takes up one of the spaces. One-Eyed Mike’s burgundy Pontiac sits in another space. That thing is probably older than me.
As soon as he sees me, the kid puts his head down and starts kicking at the weeds poking through the cracked macadam. He’s shelled up, I get that. Hell, that’s me every day at school.
“Hey,” I say and light a cigarette.
He nods.
Okay, so he doesn’t want to be bothered. I can respect that. I lean against the building and enjoy the sensation of filling my lungs then watching as the smoke swirls away in the fall breeze.
He wanders closer before asking, “You fight in those Friday night matches?”
“When I need the money.”
“What’s it like?”
“You can make decent cash. Especially if One-Eyed Mike puts you in early and you can stay in. Winner advances to the next round. Ten rounds total.”
“Is there a ring?”
“Nah, it’s in the basement. The crowd kind of makes the ring.”
“Ah.”
“You thinking of trying it?”
“Maybe. I need dough but don’t know if I can win anything yet.”
Something’s broken his confidence. When that happens, it’s tough to get back.
I think back on the day I first stumbled into this gym looking like I’d been caught between two colliding eighteen-wheelers. And that was even after I’d healed enough to move. I swear I had a broken finger, a hyper-extended elbow, and some cracked ribs just to name a few things. I may have even had a concussion for all I know. What I do know is I thought I was going to die that day. Stupid Tony. A man has to be a real tool to do what he did to a scrawny fourteen-year-old kid.
When I’d walked through the door, the guys hadn’t even asked. They’d just taken me in. It had been exactly what I needed. This kid has the same haunted expression I had.
I stick the cigarette in my mouth and extend my hand. “I’m Jett.”
“Dair.”
“Dare? As in Daredevil?”
“Dair as in Dairyl. My mom decided to put an ‘L’ on the end of the word ‘dairy’ for some stupid reason.”
“Darryl is badass. He was my favorite on The Walking Dead. You watch that? Shame they ruined it.”
His face goes stony, and he shakes his head. He takes a deep drag as he scuffs at a weed. “I go by ‘Dair.’”
Okay, so he’s touchy about his name. Whatever. “Where’d you fight before?”
“Hannigan’s.”
That’s on the other side of the city. Hannigan’s is maybe one step up from One-Eyed Mike’s but still not ritzy by a long shot. Word has it One-Eyed Mike and Hannigan used to be buddies, but a night of drinking with poker and a woman drove them apart. Probably no one but them will ever know the full story.
“I’ve mostly been training and learning. We spar, but I haven’t been in a match or anything yet.”
One-Eyed Mike always says you can put people in the ring too early. Hannigan must feel the same way. “Why’d you leave?”
He snorts. “You saw me in there. I suck. I want to get good.”
“You got your swings down. You just need to work on your feet. How long have you been there?”
“A year now.”
Yeah, okay, I can see his point.
“How about you? How long you been coming here?” he asks.
“Four years now.”
He’s quiet, appearing to mull this over.
“Hannigan’s have anything like the Friday night fights?” I ask.
“Nah, Hannigan keeps talking about it, but he’s too chicken shit. Keeps telling everyone One-Eyed Mike is sure to get busted any day now.”
“I don’t think so. It’s invitation only. The place is tighter than a 1940s speakeasy.” I don’t know what makes me think of that except they’re both underground and illegal.
It gets a laugh out of him though. “A speakeasy, huh? Didn’t they get raided?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “So, what do I need to know about this place?”
I get his question. I’d ask the same thing if I was starting at an unknown place. “Memorize the rules. One-Eyed Mike likes to hear people recite them like they’re the Ten Commandments or something.”
Dair chuckles again. He seems more relaxed now, the shell softening. “Good to know.”
“Stay out of Mac’s way. That guy’s a straight-up asshole.”
“Which one is he?”
“The stringy one that looks like a meth addict. He’s a regular at the Fridays. You’re definitely going to need footwork if you go up against him. The guy is like punching a gummy bear.”
Dair laughs. “Damn, bro. A gummy bear? Does he always win?”
“Not always.”
“You beat him?”
“Yeah.” I can’t help but feel a puff of pride. “Ivan’s a good guy. He’s the giant Viking. Knows a lot. He’ll help you out with anything. That guy can hit. Terry’s the red-headed college kid. He’s got a martial arts background. I’ve never seen him Fridays. They’re all good guys, actually. Except Mac. He’s a troublemaker.”
“Got it.”
“One-Eyed Mike is a great coach. He can be a hard-ass, but the guy standing across from you in the ring isn’t exactly going to go easy on you either. How’d the jump-roping go?”
He shakes his head, grimacing, “I hate jumping rope. I’m not some five-year-old girl on a school playground.”
“Nah, it takes stamina, man. Jumping rope will condition you fast and keep you on the balls of your feet, which is where you need to be. I used to hate it too, but it’s the best exercise for boxing. It helps your balance, footwork, and breathing all at the same time.”
He snorts. “We could walk around in high heels. That’ll keep us on the balls of our feet too.”
He has a sense of humor. That’s good. It’s probably helped him through a lot of tough times. When life pounds the shit out of you, sometimes humor is all that gets you through. I could probably use more of it.
I like Dair. I don’t usually click with people, but he’s easy to talk to. He’s hiding something. But aren’t we all? I know a past when I see one. The kid has definitely taken some hard hits.
“One-Eyed Mike makes us walk around on the balls of our feet sometimes,” I say.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, it conditions your calves and gets you off your flat feet. Try it.”
He raises himself and tiptoes in a circle before coming back down laughing. “Bro, I feel like a damn ballerina. This place sure is different from Hannigan’s.”
“And that’s why you’re going to become a better boxer.” We had ground out our butts a while ago, but I’m enjoying his company. “Come on, I’ll show you a few pointers.”
Chapter 9
He gets up on the balls of his feet and totters after me. The kid is a character for sure.
One-Eyed Mike glances over at us as we come in then goes back to instructin
g the two sparring in the ring. Dair and I go to the row of heavy bags that line half a wall.
“Let me see your stance,” I say.
He drops into a wide, flat-footed hunch. It’s all wrong. I bite back asking him what the hell they’ve been teaching him at Hannigan’s and give his shoulder a shove instead. He’s as stiff as a store mannequin and falls out of his pose.
I strike my stance. “Try pushing me.” He does, my torso gives but my feet stay planted.
“Damn, bro, you sure you’re not the gummy bear?”
“Give it a try. Slide your feet closer, stand straight, and loosen up.”
He tries following what I say. This time when I give him a shove, he does better. We practice that, and by the end of an hour, he’s getting it.
I can tell One-Eyed Mike is keeping an eye and an ear on us. We must do okay though because he doesn’t interject.
“Thanks, bro,” Dair says.
“No problem.
“Guys weren’t so free with their advice at Hannigan’s. It was kind of every man for himself.”
“I hear ya.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Yep.”
It’s getting late and everyone is packing up. I help One-Eyed Mike hang up jump ropes and put weights back on the stands. Why the hell people can’t put their weights back is beyond me. You get the weights. You use them. You put them back. What’s so difficult about that?
When we’re done, One-Eyed Mike goes into his office. With nowhere to go, I slump on the bench against the wall. After about thirty minutes, One-Eyed Mike comes out. He stops in front of me. “Time to lock up, Jett.”
I stare at the floor with my hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets.
“I see,” he says. “Follow me.” Figuring he’s leading me to the door, I get up and trail after him, wondering where to go for the night. At least I have the Mustang.
He leads me to a little room that holds two metal gym lockers and a cot on which a pillow sits atop two neatly folded green army blankets. “You can stay here tonight.”
Gratitude floods over me, but I can’t get the words out around the lump in my throat.
“There are some toiletries in the lockers. Feel free to use them.” He turns and leaves without waiting for an answer.
A shower sure would be great, so I gather some soap and a towel from the locker and go to the changing area. After lathering from head-to-toe, the hot water washes over me, rinsing the scents of bitterness, sweat, and Lexi down the metal drain.
It’s nice to have the place to myself. Quiet and safe. I could get used to quiet and safe. But getting used to things … that’s what makes you soft and gets you into trouble. Settling onto the creaking cot, I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
One-Eyed Mike lets me stay at the gym all weekend without a word about it. In return, I clean the place between workouts. Hell, I even drag out a bucket to mop the floors and wipe the equipment down with sanitizer, which I’ve never seen One-Eyed Mike do. The bathroom and shower areas are spotless, which is something new as well.
It’s almost noon on Sunday when Mac shows up. His steps are slightly unsteady as he passes me while I’m applying yet another layer of duct tape to a ripped heavy bag.
“Don’t start with me, Mac,” Ivan’s unmistakable voice rises above the normal gym din.
One-Eyed Mike marches over to them. “What’s going on here?”
God, why doesn’t he make things easier on himself and everyone else and throw Mac out already?
“Are you drunk, Mac?” One-Eyed Mike asks. “You smell like a brewery.”
“No, I’m not drunk,” Mac says with a broad smile. “I’ll tell you what I am though is hungover as shit. Me and some guys went out and had ourselves a little fun last night is all. You should see the beauty I landed. She’s a wildcat.” He whistles. “Damn, if I’m not lucky.” He looks pointedly at me, and I clench my fist around the heavy roll of tape to keep from throwing it at him.
“Well, I can’t have you injuring yourself while you’re here. You need to go home and sleep it off.”
“What I need to do is sweat it out of my system. Come on, I’ll be fine.”
One-Eyed Mike shakes his head. “Nope, not today. Last thing I need is an insurance claim.”
“Are you kidding me?” Mac’s smarmy smile slides to a sneer. They lock eyes. After several beats, Mac holds up his hands and spreads his thin lips into a sarcastic grin. “Fine. Whatever. You’re the boss, man.” He snatches his duffel bag off the floor before banging out the door.
It’s rumored that One-Eyed Mike and Mac have some kind of history, something about Mac helping One-Eyed Mike get the funding to open this place, but Mac seems more trouble than he’s worth.
By the end of the weekend, Mom hasn’t contacted me once. But even more surprising is that Lexi hasn’t either. Why she seems to have tagged me as one of her possessions just a couple days ago still has me confused. And I don’t like being confused.
My best guess is she had a fight with billionaire daddy and wanted to get back at him by getting it on with the school bad boy. At any rate, it’s not like she’s serious about the relationship. How could she be? So, nothing to get hung up on. I wish more than once that I’d thought to get Anna’s number.
Monday morning, ditching school is tempting, but I want to see Anna more than I want a lackluster day of doing nothing and potentially signaling the truancy officer to Mom’s house. On the way, I swing into the Quickie Mart for a bottle of mouthwash and some deodorant, two things the lockers don’t hold, and use their disgusting bathroom to freshen up.
In the school parking lot, cigarette smoke curls around my head as I steel myself for the day of boredom that stretches ahead. I want to go in there about as much as I want to take a hammer to my kneecap.
Wait, is that Anna? She weaves through the crowd wearing tight, faded jeans and a black tank top with a white button-down shirt hanging over it, open and loose. I flick the butt away, get out of the car, and follow her.
Coming into the building is worth it when, in homeroom, she gives me a smile and a wave and walks to where I’m sitting. “Your eye looks better.”
“Yeah.” I’m nothing but nonchalant.
“What are you doing first period?” Mischief tugs at the corners of that broad, beautiful mouth threatening to unleash that dazzling smile on me once again.
I cock my head. “What did you have in mind?”
“I could use a smoke, if you have any.”
“Sure.”
“Where can we go?”
“When the bell rings, follow me.”
And there it is, that smile that turns my insides to sweet, melted ice cream and makes anything she wants worth whatever it costs. The morning announcements seem to last forever. Finally, we’re released.
“Jett?”
I groan. Lexi appears at my side. Why the hell is she so persistent? Why doesn’t she crook her manicured finger at any of the passing boys who has a far better future than I do? Or, better yet, go bug golden-boy Galloway who was so concerned about her last Friday night.
I glance back at Anna and see a cloud pass across her face before she ducks her head and turns, merging into the stream of students heading in the opposite direction. Damn Lexi.
“I’m sorry I didn’t text you all weekend. My stepmom took my phone as punishment for the party and—oh my God, Jett! What happened to your face?”
I’m surprised at the question, since she asked me that same thing Friday night. So I was right. She was that drunk. I shouldn’t have done anything with her. I should have insisted on taking her straight home.
“Hey, Lexi,” Carlton Galloway interrupts, ignoring me. “Great party Friday night, huh?”
“Sure,” she says. Her voice and body language give him the brush-off, but of course he doesn’t take the hint.
“The guys are coming over tonight. You and Brianna should come. My dad just set up this vintage arcade room for me. It’s got Whac-A-M
ole, Pac-Man, Joust, everything. You have to check it out.”
She gives him a polite smile. “I’ll ask Brianna.”
“Bring anyone you want.” He slides a sideways glance over me from head-to-toe. “I mean from the squad.”
As if I might darken his marble threshold.
“Maybe,” is all she says before turning back to me and hooking her arm through mine. “What were you saying, Jett?”
Carlton turns a full on look at me that could freeze a bird in flight. My fists clench. If he wants a piece of me, I’m ready to give it to him. He wants to. I can see it. But all he says is, “See you later, Lexi.”
“Yep,” she says with barely a parting glance.
Carlton stalks away.
“So, what happened?”
“I had a fight,” I sigh, knowing now that she probably doesn’t remember anything that happened after the police broke up the party. Maybe even before that. I wonder if she remembers calling me to come rescue her but don’t want to ask.
“And you lost?” she asks.
“One of them,” I say, clenching my jaw. Why doesn’t she have any clue how annoying she is? And how am I going to explain this to Anna? If it weren’t for Lexi, I’d be outside with Anna under the baseball dugout right now looking into those melty chocolate eyes and trying to make that stunning smile bloom.
“Ooo,” Lexi squeals, gazing up at me as we walk to class. “How many did you win?”
“Two.”
She wraps both hands around my bicep and squeezes. “Is that good?”
Does she seriously have to ask that? Does she think she could get through more than one? “Yes.”
“When’s the next one? I want to watch.”
“Can’t,” I shrug. “It’s invitation only.”
“Then invite me, silly,” she says. When I don’t say anything, she steps away in a pout and goes into her class. Good, maybe she got the hint this time.
In English class, Mrs. Kroft reviews The Outsiders.
“How about you, Jett,” she asks. “Does this seem like a realistic story to you?”
Realistic? Hell, it could be my life. I shrug. “Sure.”