Fight Like a Girl

by Sheena Kamal

  Work drills and drills and drills.

  Spar with the best in the gym, who give you their everything because they can smell the hunger on you and they want to give it to you because everybody knows that there’s nothing else but this.

  Where you give Kru your everything because even though he’s got woman troubles, you’re not gonna be part of them.

  This is the part where you lose yourself to that hunger and even though they say you gotta give them the whole of what you got, your one-ten, it’s really about taking. You’re taking everything they have so they, all of them in your ratty little eastside gym with the duct tape peeling off every hastily repaired surface, can live for a moment in your glory.

  When you come alive in the ring and hear the crowd chant your name.

  When you hold that gaudy-ass belt up over your head and know this moment is yours and no one can ever take it away from you.

  * * *

  Florida is in a couple days and people are definitely noticing the bruises. The ones on my arms and legs are a sinister rainbow of red, purple, yellow, green. Every colour you can imagine is represented somewhere on my body. But I’m looking at the ones on my neck in the gym mirror out on the training floor. Junior’s mom said a soucouyant was biting me, and I can see now why she’d think that, what with the marks on my throat, all angry and red.

  Then I turn away, back to the giant tire in the middle of the floor, squat in front of it and lift it, exploding up on my haunches, my shoulders working in sync with my hips to throw it forward. It slams into the mat in front of me and I grin at the sound, moving with it to start all over again.

  Jason’s not around. So it’s Ricky who holds mitts for me in the ring to work my precision. We’re grunting through combos until we’re both lathered in sweat and the humidity is rising up from the gym floor to meet the drops of perspiration falling from our brows. “Killer,” he says. “Killer instinct.”

  “I think you’re ready, Lucky,” says Kru, who looks over from the floor. I may be banged up, but I look tight and everyone at the gym knows it. I smile so wide you can see all my teeth, which I still have. (Unlike some of the others.) It seems like everyone on the street knows it, too. A group of girls at the train station eye-fuck me and I can tell they’re thinking of starting something. Usually I turn away from girls like that, they’re not worth the trouble, but today I stand and stare at them, daring them closer. The train comes and takes them away, but I saw the look in their eyes, I saw the leader, the big one with the thin hair, think twice.

  Ma looks at these bruises on my neck but says nothing. She can’t see the ones on the rest of my body because I’ve taken to wearing sweats inside the house, no matter what the thermostat is set to.

  “How is school?” she asks.

  “Good.” The teachers have given up on the graduating class. They know we’re not listening to them anymore. If we don’t have it by now, we’ll never get it in these last six weeks before school ends. Homework is a joke, but I still pretend to do it every day to make Ma happy. “I got accepted into Ryerson. The letter came in the mail last week.”

  She lights up, grabs me by the shoulders, then remembers my acromioclavicular separation when I wince. “I’m so sorry, baby.” She clutches me to her. “I’m happy for you, though! Ryerson! That’s where you want to go, right?”

  I nod and pull her fingers away from me. I don’t want her to touch me. It feels so different from when she used to rub coconut oil through my hair. It’s like something about me has changed, or maybe something about her has. Her nails are too sharp now. I can feel them even through my sweatshirt. But we’re still close and I see her eyes on my skin, just below my ear.

  She says nothing about the marks on me but I know she’s worried because she cooks day and night, it seems. She cooks like a woman possessed by the spices in her cupboard. You want this? You want that? I’ll make it right now, straight away.

  She gives me iron tablets one day. “Your iron is low.”

  What is she talking about? How could she know?

  After that she tries to get me to eat this gross blood pudding. I gag on it. It tastes fresh and nasty in my mouth. I watch as she eats the portion on her plate, spreads it on a cracker and shoves the whole thing in her mouth. Even Ravi seems disgusted, but he’s even weaker than I am so he can’t say anything.

  My lunchtime Desis are horrified by me in a T-shirt, I can tell. “Earth to Trisha,” says Parminder, the loudest one in the group. That’s not saying much, as they’re all pretty loud when they want to be. But Parminder is by far the loudest. I look up from my cards. “How’s your arm?” she asks.

  Unconsciously, I rotate my shoulders. The muscles of my biceps press against my shirt. The girls stare at the veins in my arms, the type you usually only see on very hot guitar players. “Good.”

  We go back to our cards, but I can feel them sneaking glances. Sharp eyes in their soft faces. Soft bodies, too, moving like sludge through the hallways. They pick up other topics. Everyone got into the university of their choice, except for Rina, who chose to take a year to work and go to beauty school instead. Her dream is to wax the hair off of ladies while they scream (I assume) and we all pretend we don’t pity her, but we do. Even me, covered in bruises.

  I run into Mr. Abdi in the hall outside the English department. There’s something haunted in his eyes when he looks at me. “You alright, Trisha?”

  “All good, Mr. Abdi.” This is the second time I’ve said this today, that I’m alright. “I was wondering…the soucouyant book…can I borrow it? I can give it back next week.”

  He goes into the office and comes back out with the slim novel. “Here, you can keep it. I insist. I love that book, you know. Maybe it will spark something for you the second read—if you make it all the way through. It’s about time we get some more diverse literature into the hands of students, teach them about other kinds of stories. Show them they have a place in the world of storytelling, too.” He rambles on for a bit about this diversity stuff and says things like “representation” and “inclusion.”

  Yeah, okay.

  I clutch the book to my chest. He can’t stop looking at my neck. I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt and bunch it around my shoulders. “I’m training a lot,” I explain.

  “Maybe you should make another appointment with the guidance counsellor. It might be good to talk to someone about…your training.”

  He sounds like Jason.

  I go to the gym and there’s just something about my focus that’s not showing up anywhere else. If I’m weak, it’s everywhere but here. Which is strange, because everything at the gym reminds me of Jason. Speaking of. He’s been trying to reach me but I still don’t know what to say. I ignore all his calls, his texts. Sometimes I want to talk to him so bad, to just chill in his dorm for a bit, but it’s impossible after what he said about my training.

  I’m thinking maybe he quit the gym for a while, but then there’s the fighter’s demo for the upcoming season. I’m wrapping my hands for a little sparring session and feel like someone’s watching me.

  Jason.

  He looks tired, but alright. He nods to me once, then turns to say something to Kru. Then they both look at me. I continue wrapping and step into the ring with Amanda like there’s no one else in the world but me and her.

  Kru keeps staring, though. As if he’s considering me. Doubting me.

  I find Jason after, in the men’s change room. “What did you say to him?” I push him. Not hard, but hard enough. We’re alone, so it’s fine.

  But apparently it’s not fine to him. “Don’t touch me if you’re gonna do shit like that,” he says. He goes to the door. “I told him the truth. Something’s up with you. I don’t think you should be fighting.”

  “Stay out of it!” I push him again. He doesn’t like it, but we aren’t in the ring and he won’t do anything about it when
we aren’t geared up.

  “I will from now on. You need help. You hit your head one too many times or something.”

  What, so I’m brain-dead now? I’ve got CTE like those football players? Chronic traumatic ence-something (I can’t remember exactly—but that DOES NOT mean I actually do have CTE).

  “Wait,” I say.

  He turns. “What?” He looks really angry, for some reason. I don’t know why. If anyone has a reason to be mad, it’s me. Talking to Kru behind my back like a snitch? That’s just straight-up wrong. If he really cared about me, he wouldn’t have said anything.

  He waits for a moment, but I guess I don’t have anything to say to him, really, so he just leaves.

  I wish I could talk to him without fighting.

  A minute later Ricky comes in, sees me on the bench. I’m wide open, legs apart, like I’ve just been hit. “I would,” he says, smirking, “but you’re not my type.”

  For the life of me I can’t think of a comeback. I try real hard, but my mind can’t seem to hold on to anything right now.

  “Kru wants to see you,” says Ricky. I wait till he leaves, then I knock on Kru’s door and stick my head inside. I see him put a photo back into his desk drawer. He shuts the drawer and clears his throat. There’s a spreadsheet open on his computer screen and a selection of vitamin water on the shelf behind him.

  My mouth is dry, but my palms are sweating. I’m still wearing my hand wraps, but I wish I’d taken them off. From the way that Kru is not looking at me, I already know what he’s going to say.

  “Trisha…”

  He never calls me this. Well, not never. The last time was when he found out my dad died and he said Trisha, I’m sorry. But I can’t remember any time before that, it’s been so long.

  “Look, I’m just going to tell it plain. You’re off the card for Florida. Trisha, I’m sorry.” There it is again.

  I stagger into the room. “Kru, please don’t.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s not the right time. I already pulled you.”

  “Well, put me back!”

  “No.”

  “Is it because of Jason? Because, Kru, I think he’s mad at me because I broke up with him. He doesn’t know anything!”

  He blinks. I don’t think he even knew there was a thing between me and Jason, though it was obvious to just about everyone else.

  This scorned woman line doesn’t work on him. “You can still come with us to Miami but no fighting.”

  “Kru, I swear I can do this.”

  “I know you can. I wouldn’t have put you on the card if I didn’t think so. But I’m not going to let you this time. We’ll get you ready for the next tournament. You can come with us to support. The team would like you there.” He says this last part quietly. He never speaks to me this way. With caution.

  I can’t be in here anymore, so I leave. Outside, in the back lot, I put my fist into the brick wall. Blood wells at my knuckles and there’s a sharp stab in my wrist but the pain is nothing new. I feel it and I know I’ll feel it more in a minute, but for right now I barely let in anything but the rage. I don’t even feel the cold, which still lingers even though it’s supposed to be spring.

  There’s a sound behind me like the clearing of a throat. Imelda’s standing there, looking at me. I didn’t even hear her approach. “What?”

  “Kru told me that I’m replacing you in Florida. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  Imelda is replacing me? What a surprise.

  “Yeah, I look it, don’t I?” I bite out.

  She doesn’t flinch, just stares at me with those big blue eyes that seem to follow me wherever I go. I try to push her from my mind, even though she’s right in front of me. I can’t help picture her with Kru in Florida. Without me. Imelda, Amanda and Noor competing for a belt.

  “You should take care of that hand,” she says. “I hope you still come with us for the trip, Lucky.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Whatever.” She frowns, not liking what she hears in my voice, but I’ve just about had it with people messing with me. I don’t care if she likes it or not.

  “You’re a crazy fucking bitch, aren’t you?” she says suddenly. It’s the most un-Imelda-like thing I’ve ever heard anyone say, least of all Imelda herself. Outside of the gym walls, it seems like we’ve become different people, the two of us. And maybe everyone else goes through this metamorphosis, too. Slip off one face and put on another. What do any of us know about each other, other than what we learn in training? I used to think it was our real selves that came through on the mat, in the ring. Hide away all the masks under a layer of hand wraps, keeping them bound until you leave again.

  But now I feel like an idiot because Imelda standing there and calling me a crazy fucking bitch like it’s nothing says that everything we are in the gym together is just a big fat lie. She had no trouble taking my spot in the tournament, either. I imagine that Noor and Amanda would be better. That they’d turn it down, but I know they wouldn’t. A chance to win a belt? Make Kru proud? Nobody’s saying no to that.

  “Go eat something, Lucky. You’re too skinny.” She walks away and it’s a good thing, too, because I want nothing more than to show her what this skinny fucking crazy bitch still has left.

  Fuck her, I think, as I watch her go, her red hair streaming behind her. Fuck her and Kru, too. That nickname has never seemed more like a joke. Lucky, huh? When have I ever been that? Ma says I was born at three forty-eight on a Monday morning. The witching hour, and that could explain it all. I’m nothing but black magic, dark portents, bad juju. Take your chances on anyone but me.

  My hand stings but at least there are no broken bones. Maybe just a sprain if I’m lucky, which, clearly I’ve never been. I don’t want to put my fist into another wall. No way. I want the feel of skin tearing. I want to see fear. I want to see my rage reflected back at me.

  That’s what I want.

  My phone rings. It’s Jason.

  twenty-nine

  Jason comes down to let me into his dorm, and I’m still thrumming with anger. The spring chill froze it in place inside my body, but as I follow him up the stairs I feel it thaw and run warm again. We take the back stairs, but don’t pass anyone on the way up. He tells me earlier the term is ending and most of the other students in his dorm have already started moving out. But he’s got late exams, so he’s still here for another few days.

  I’m tired. My anger has now run right through me and disappeared. Just one look at his sleepy face and red-rimmed eyes and I know I don’t want anything to do with his pain, even with all he’s taken away from me.

  When he sees my hand with cuts on my knuckles already scabbing over, he blinks back shock and rummages through his drawer until he comes out with a box of tiny bandages. None of them are big enough to cover the cuts, but he layers a few over my hand anyway. He puts the box away. We don’t say anything for a long time. I don’t want to tear his skin off and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, I just feel…I just feel.

  Imelda was right. I am a crazy fucking bitch.

  Finally: “He took me off the card for Florida. You did that.”

  He has the decency to look ashamed. “I was worried about you. He asked me how I thought you were looking out there at the demo and I couldn’t lie.”

  Everyone’s so worried all of a sudden that I wonder where it’s all coming from. Ever since Dad died the world’s turned upside down.

  Jason takes my hand. “Does it hurt?”

  I shake my head. “Not much.”

  “So tough,” he grins. “Here.” He hands me a Tylenol. I wash it down with some water. “You should go home and get some sleep.”

  “I don’t want to go home.”

  He doesn’t look at me for a while. Like Kru in the office.

  I just sit there like
a loser until he pulls back the covers on his tiny bed and gets in, leaving a space for me. When I get in, his arms come around me and he presses a kiss to my temple, where that girl hit me once. The exact spot my headgear had slipped and lost me the fight, her fist plowing straight into the soft tissue there.

  “You’re burning up,” he says, reaching over to open a window.

  Am I? I don’t feel hot at all.

  A breeze comes through. The room is so tiny that it takes no time at all to cool it down. For just that moment it feels like we’re the only two people in the world. Everything feels sort of smudgy, like we’re in a painting or something. Not in the real world. I slide a hand under his T-shirt so I can feel the muscles in his back. It still feels nice.

  We fall asleep just like that.

  * * *

  I’m dreaming. Floating in a sea of red. I feel something bite me and, with a slap, pull my hand away to find a dead mosquito. The slap wakes me, but it takes a full minute to figure out where I am. I hear someone breathing nearby and I am seized with this feeling. Like I’ve got to be quiet, or else. Shhh, if you stay still like that no one will notice you. He won’t hit you if he doesn’t know you’re here. If he doesn’t know you’re here, he’ll only see her. I shut my eyes tight, but I still see the red.

  I hear a voice. “What’s wrong?”

  I don’t open my eyes or move.

  “Hey, Trish?” I feel someone stir beside me. In the bed, beside me. Then Jason’s hand rests on my arm and I relax. “Want me to call your mom? You’re so hot. I think you have a fever.”

  “No, don’t call her!” I say. I can’t help the fear in my voice. I know he’s heard it, too.

  He pauses. All his attention focuses on me in the dark. “Is there something wrong? Trish?” When there’s no response, he brushes a lock of hair from my face. “How did you hurt your arm?”

  “Fell down the stairs.”