The Knockout

by Sajni Patel

  Maybe because we’d never been this close, nearly alone in a bedroom? Maybe because he actually conversed with me in more than four-word increments?

  Amit looked a little like he could have a side modeling gig. He had that tall height, dark skin, broad chest and shoulders, chiseled cheeks and jaw, curly modelish hair, and full lips that stretched perfectly when he smiled or twisted his mouth. Wait, twisted?

  I dragged my eyes back up and yep, he only curled the corner of his mouth when we were staring at one another. I grinned and squeaked a lame, “Hee.”

  Oh, god! What was that!

  He tried not to laugh, but utterly failed and I lightly punched his arm. “Ow. What was that for?” He rubbed the spot, feigning injury.

  “Continue,” I said instead. “Please?”

  He nodded and started speaking again. He’d mastered math. It bowed so obediently and willfully to his command, displaying its inner depths for someone as mathematically challenged as myself to comprehend.

  “Does that make sense?” he whispered.

  “Yes. Why are you whispering?”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “Am I? Cuz you are.”

  He cocked his chin at Lily and her fluffy nest. She had her knees to her chest, body slanted, and slept on her pile of plaid pillows.

  “She’s faking it,” I muttered.

  “Are you willing to test that theory?” he asked, a devious glint in his eyes.

  My eyebrow quirked up. “You’re asking for trouble.”

  “Well, it’s rude to invite me over and then fall asleep.”

  “True. Seeing that she offended you, how shall we proceed?”

  “Take her Twinkies.”

  “Ooh, yes. If she’s faking she’ll never stand for that.” I tiptoed toward Lily on the plush, gray carpet and eased open the drawer where her secret stash lay hidden beneath empty, multicolored folders.

  She didn’t twitch.

  I reached in and rescued a Twinkie, the wrapper crinkling as loud as a blaring TV. I froze. She didn’t stir. I stood up and shrugged at Amit. She really was asleep. How rude of her.

  I tossed him the Twinkie and snatched his textbook off the desk, opening it immediately to the chapter he pretended to have read. My eyes skimmed over the detailed program in his flat notebook, the one he’d written and was looking at rather than paying attention to what I’d been going over this entire time.

  “What’s this?”

  “Nothing,” he said, suddenly at my ear, and grabbed the notebook from my grasp.

  “What is it?” I repeated, trying to take it back.

  Amit was about half a foot taller than me, and his arms were extremely long. So when he held the notebook behind his back, I couldn’t reach around his slight turns.

  “Why are you so interested?” he jested.

  “Why are you so secretive?” I countered and stopped, my hands on my hips. “You know? I could beat you up and take that.”

  “Probably. But you have to respect my boundaries.”

  “You were pretending to study with me but writing this. I deserve an answer.”

  He smirked and held the notebook above his head. “I guess punch me if you must, but—”

  Enough talking. I went straight for his armpits. No, not a punch, although getting punched in the armpits sounded like a bad way to go down. I tickled hard and he succumbed in half a millisecond, trapping his laughter behind clamped lips so he didn’t wake up Lily.

  He blocked the assault by turning or swiping his arm down, but never tickling back.

  “You’re going to regret this, Kareena Thakkar,” he promised.

  “No, you are for working on something else when you were supposed to be studying with me.”

  “Don’t tickle unless you’re prepared to be tickled.”

  “That’s not fair,” I hissed when he did a surprise maneuver and ducked under my arms, lifted me off the freaking floor, and dropped me on the bed like a puppy. I glared at him, baffled.

  “See, don’t mess—” he began, turning from me to slip the notebook back into his backpack. But I was faster than him, and nimble. He didn’t stand a chance.

  I snatched the notebook and scurried into the corner of the bed before he turned and said, “Hey!”

  “Shhh . . .” I held a finger to my lips and tilted my head toward Lily.

  But Amit couldn’t take a hint. He slid across the bed just as I twisted away. How did we get in this position? The position of us on a bed. The position of his chest against my back, his arm around my waist trying to weasel through my hold where I kept the notebook tight against my chest.

  “What are you two doing?” Lily asked, an impish smirk glowing against her tan skin.

  I froze, wide-eyed. Amit eased away from me and we sat up, our backs hitting the wall behind us.

  “I’m not moving,” he declared, holding out his hand.

  “If you don’t tell me what this is, I’m going to assume you don’t need tutoring,” I said firmly.

  He dropped his head, his knees bent and his hands dangling over them in defeat. He grunted, “It’s a program.”

  “Duh.” I flipped through the dozens of pages, noting where the writings were scribbled junctions when he must’ve hurried and the areas that were marred by gray where he must’ve erased over and over. This was, by far, the lengthiest and most detailed coding I’d ever seen.

  “What is this?” I asked, wondering if he actually needed tutoring. Then again, just because he wrote a freaking long program didn’t mean it worked or even made much sense. Also, who wrote programs on paper?

  “A project I’m working on.”

  “For class?”

  “No. For work and for myself. I have to work out these things in my head by writing them out.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought you did data collection for work.”

  He gently took the notebook back. “It’s like there’s a furious accumulation of coding pieces that appears in my head and gets stuck there. I used to think it was residual things I’d learned in school, but new things appeared, and it started to drive me nuts. So I wrote them out to get them out of my brain and after a few months, I realized they fit together.”

  “Like a puzzle?”

  “Yeah.” He flushed.

  “And it makes sense?”

  “They turn into unfinished, complicated programs. From there, I figure out the missing pieces and when it’s all complete and functional, I feel as if the giant ball of pressurized code leaks out.”

  “Is this the one?”

  “The one? No. There’s been others before and I’m sure many more after this one is done.”

  “What will this program do?”

  He shrugged, but by the way his jaw clenched, something told me he knew. Which begged the question: “So, why are you slipping in comp-sci?”

  He quickly replied, “Uh. It’s the basic stuff. My brain only has so much room.” He jumped to his feet, the bed depressing then rising back up. “I should go.”

  “Why?” I asked, not wanting him to leave.

  “You should stay,” Lily added as she stretched and yawned.

  “You’re clearly in need of sleep,” Amit stated.

  She shrugged. “Kareena will be up. She always ends up staying awake after I fall asleep. You’re welcome to stay. You can sleep over, if you want.”

  “What?” we both exclaimed.

  “My parents don’t care.”

  “My parents do,” I refuted, then looked at Amit. “No offense.”

  “None taken. My parents would be mad if I stayed over.”

  “You guys talk like your parents have to know.”

  “I’m sure my mom will eventually talk to your mom and something like . . . ‘How Amit doing?’” I imitated Lily’s mo
m’s slight Filipina accent and then my mother’s more Southern drawl, “Who’s Amit?” And going back and forth, added, “That boy from school who came over to study. He end up spending the night with your daughter in my daughter’s bedroom.”

  “Well, first of all.” Lily held up a finger. “My mom’s accent is way thicker. And second, she’s asleep by now. She knows we’re not doing anything. You guys are gross. Get your heads out of the gutter.”

  “Thanks for the invitation, but I should go. I have work in the morning,” Amit quickly said and rushed out.

  I jogged after him and held the front door open. “Are you mad at me?”

  “No. No,” he breathed out. “I’d never be mad at you. Why would you think that?”

  “Because I read your program.”

  “No. It’s fine. I just have to go.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “I just don’t want you to be mad is all.”

  “Are you sure it’s not because you want me to spend the night?” He flashed that eye-reaching, soul-piercing smile.

  I swallowed in spite of myself. “No.”

  He laughed. “I’ll see you Tuesday. Lunch study session.”

  “Yeah, right. You don’t need my help.”

  “It’s like how you get the complexity of physics and differentials but can’t get a grip on derivatives.”

  “All right. See you in the library at lunch.”

  “And Tuesday is Cultural Heritage Day.”

  “So?” I feigned disinterest.

  “Are you wearing something Indian?”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm . . .” I huffed indifferently.

  He scratched the back of his neck. “Well, maybe you’ll change your mind.”

  “Why? Because I should be more Indian?”

  “I don’t understand that question. I only meant, I bet that a bright salwar kameez would look amazing on you.”

  Oh . . .

  “Not that you have to wear a dress. Technically, you’d be wearing pants . . . and now I’m babbling . . . okay. I’m going to go. I had fun, though. Goodnight, Kareena.”

  My heart sort of tumbled around in my chest. “Me too. Bye, Amit.”

  I locked the door behind him and found Lily in bed, on her side, waiting for me. “So . . . you two would make an adorable couple.”

  I threw a pillow at her face.

  Seven

  The occasional TV shows I watched with Papa were a blur. The music raging through my earbuds during runs and shadowboxing was a blur. Spending hours trying to convince people to sponsor me was a blur. Shopping for new gear and cringing at the accumulating prices was a blur. Even homework and school were a blur. Training was not, and never had been. It couldn’t be. I had to be alert and I had to remember everything. My body, my muscles, had memory and they knew how to react and take hits before my brain registered the situation.

  Whatever tiredness I felt, whatever stress, anxiety, worry, what-if’s, low self-esteem, nervousness, fears . . . it all joined together during practice. These small and large flames of personal issues swarmed through my brain and collided into one, gigantic ball of fire. I used it like a laser beam, extremely potent power on a very narrow and straight path, and aimed it all into Muay Thai. The sport of my heart enabled me to vent. The drive and strength I needed came together with every punch and kick.

  Most people saw violence, anger. I saw passion, skill, relief.

  “It’s because Muay Thai is your calling,” Mama said over a quick breakfast.

  “No. My calling is computer science. That’s going to be my major.”

  “Why?” She looked at me with a very calm, interested look.

  I stumbled over my thoughts. “What do you mean, why?”

  “Why major in that?”

  “I can’t major in Muay Thai, Mama.”

  “But you can go to the Olympics.”

  “That’s a dream, a possibility. The statistics of probability lie in computer science, in programming. I can train as hard as I can in Muay Thai, doesn’t mean it’ll go anywhere.”

  “Except USMTO,” she corrected.

  “Yes, that.”

  “And maybe the World Championships.”

  “Okay, that too.”

  “And maybe the Olympics after that.”

  “Mama,” I groaned. “That’s still a possibility. I’m not saying it’s not going to happen. But if I major in programming, then I will get a degree and find a job. I can support us.”

  She reached over the counter and touched my hand. “How did I get a child like you?”

  “I’m pretty sure I gave her to you,” Papa chimed in.

  Mama laughed and waved off his remark. “You have to follow your passion, to try to make it into a lifelong thing, not a temporary hobby.”

  “I won’t give up Muay Thai. I can go to college and train. And if the Olympics happen, then that’s even better. But my eggs are dispersed in different baskets.”

  She didn’t listen to me; I could tell from the way her daze took over. “I was a natural in biology. I loved dissecting and working on cadavers. Molecular biology came to me with ease. Everyone knew I’d be a surgeon,” she said softly, sadly.

  But she wasn’t a surgeon. She’d gotten pregnant with me and had complications and she had never pursued med school. Her hand tightened over mine. “Pursue your dreams, no matter the variables, no matter the chances, just try. Okay? I didn’t try hard enough, and I regret it to this day.”

  “You had a baby and got sick, then Papa got sick. It was circumstantial.”

  “It was never because of you or Papa, beta. Don’t ever say that or think it. It was because I went easy on myself and made some mistakes in school and gave up.” She took in a huge breath and released it, her chest deflating. “Indians tend to push their kids, huh? I push you, not to be perfect or do exactly as I say, but I will always push you to be your best. As long as I live, I will not shut my mouth on the subject. Now get your homework done and don’t forget, you have a chiropractor appointment today after school.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Oof. I left my purse in my room. Can you bring it for me?”

  “Yes!” I called back and jogged to their bedroom at the end of the hall.

  “And my compression socks?”

  I rummaged through the left side of my parents’ dresser, Mama’s side, and found a pair of her black compression socks that she’d started using a few months ago to help with the circulation she needed while standing up during both her jobs. I grabbed her one and only purse from the nightstand, accidentally catching one loop instead of both. It fell sideways and the contents spilled out.

  I dropped to my knees and quickly scooped everything back inside and checked beneath the bed to make sure nothing had slid into the darkness. Something had. Mama’s checkbook. It burned in my hand, a fire of information.

  My parents kept insisting that I needed to know only so much, but truly, I needed to know if we could afford this. This USMTO thing, this pursuing passion over practicality, even pursuing college.

  I knew I shouldn’t. Mama would be pissed. But I had to know how much of a strain I was.

  So I glanced over my shoulder to check the doorway and then flipped open the checkbook. My new gear had made a large, one-time dent that made my heart drop into my stomach, but my chiropractic and massage appointments pounded out a hundred bucks each. They weren’t covered by insurance. Papa’s consolidated medical bills were spun out in payments of four hundred each, going as far back as this checkbook. His meds were another thing, and food, and electricity, and water, and phone.

  Tears stung my eyes as I skimmed down the numbers to the last one, the current balance of only eighty-three dollars and nine cents. Payd
ay was next Friday, an entire eleven days away.

  Crap.

  My heart cracked and sank into the pit of my being. How did Mama keep everything together? She didn’t even have money for today’s appointment.

  “Kareena?” she called from the foyer.

  I sniffled and blinked away tears, hurrying to Mama and handing her the socks and purse.

  “Thank you.” She sat on a chair and tugged on the tight, restrictive socks. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. I don’t think I need to go to the chiropractor today. I’ve been doing Muay Thai all these years and never needed one.”

  “No, you go. Coach has a valid point. You can’t take these beatings and not take care of yourself better. Besides, you’re training extra hard now.”

  “I just had one last week. Maybe once a month is okay? And massages, too, at the most, once a month?”

  She gave me that don’t-argue-with-me-look that all mothers magically develop the moment their child comes into the world. “They charge thirty dollars for cancellations within twenty-four hours. I’m not wasting thirty dollars. We’ll discuss having less appointments later on.”

  “It’ll get expensive,” I pushed out the words, little devilish paper cuts all over my tongue.

  “I’ve worked something out with the offices. Don’t worry.” She touched my cheek. “That’s not your job, huh?”

  Then why did my body feel numb and empty?

  -

  I wasn’t into doing lunges across the school parking lot and avoided Lily in between classes. I didn’t even have it in me to brush off Travis when he purposely walked into me just to put his hand on my back. I mindlessly walked toward the library where Amit waited.

  His hair was done in its typical modelish fashion, but instead of the usual nice work clothes, he wore a classy, semi-shiny dark-blue kurta pajama. My breath stopped dead in my throat. His smile was brilliant as ever, but it quickly faded when the crowd thinned. His eyes darted to Travis . . . and the arm that snaked behind my back.