Fight Like a Girl

by Sheena Kamal

  He knows I’m lying. I don’t know how. Maybe I was talking in my sleep. Maybe in my sleep I let all my secrets hang out to dry before shoving them back in again in the morning. Guys shouldn’t know how to read girl-secrets but Jason somehow does and it isn’t fair, because he doesn’t stop with just the one.

  “How did your dad die?”

  I say nothing.

  “Trish? Hey, talk to me.”

  You’d think that fear would make me keep my mouth shut, but it has the opposite effect. It makes me want to tell him everything. “I killed him,” I whisper. “I was driving and it was raining and I didn’t mean to, he just appeared out of nowhere, like he came at us—”

  “I don’t believe you! I don’t believe a word you say. Why are you lying?”

  Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up…

  “She told me to.”

  Damn it.

  There’s a coldness now as he takes his heat away from my side. He switches on his desk lamp. “I’m going to call the cops.”

  “And tell them what?”

  “You can’t…you don’t deserve this. You’re so stressed out, Trish. I’m going to call someone.”

  “No!” I get up. I see him there, looking so angry and confused, and I want his heat back, pressed into me, and I remember what it was like the night we had sex. Like I could stay here forever. I want it again, that feeling. So I kiss him, but he pushes me off.

  For the first time ever, it’s like he’s stronger than me.

  “I don’t want to take advantage of you,” he says, but all I hear is I don’t want.

  “It doesn’t feel right?” I sling his own words back at him and watch as I hit my target, centre of the mitt.

  He flinches. “Trish…your dad just died. You’re going through something and I don’t understand it at all.”

  I turn away. Suddenly, I can’t stand the sight of him. I feel stupid, so stupid, as I wrench the door open and rush down the stairs of his dorm.

  * * *

  Now there’s no anger keeping me warm, only shame and this feeling like I betrayed her. I can’t stand the thought. Who’ll take care of her if Jason calls the cops and they split us apart? I don’t even know who they are, but the thought of her alone is enough to make me feel sick to my stomach.

  Ma comes in from work just after I reach home. I don’t know where Ravi is.

  “Went to the bank today.” She takes out a few bills from her purse and puts them on the kitchen table for me. My arm is better, but it’s like she still sees me falling down the stairs every time she looks at me. I take the money, though. Slip it into my pocket and she nods, almost like she’s grateful. “You hungry?”

  “Yeah,” I say. I am. I realize I’m starving.

  She fries up some bake and cuts a block of cheddar into thin slices to go with it. As I watch her clatter about the kitchen, her movements slow but precise, my appetite vanishes—

  This is the last thing I made for him. Dad.

  —and I can’t swallow because he’s still here, hasn’t gone away, is in everything she does even with Ravi around. I look up from the bake to see her watching me, a strange sort of knowing look in her eyes. The money burns my pocket, sears through the lining to get at my bruised skin.

  “Do you remember your dreams?” I ask her, desperate for an answer, any answer.

  She looks at me for a long time, under the dent in the wall, now immortalized by the rolling pin she hurled at my head, just looks and looks and doesn’t end up finding what she’s searching so hard for. “You’re too weak for this country, girl.”

  Weak? Excuse her. Has she seen me train?

  She watches me eat every bite of the bake she put on my plate and is only satisfied when I press the crumbs to my lips and thank her. I hate the meekness in my voice, but it’s what she wants to hear. How dutiful I am, how grateful. How glad for all the sacrifices she makes for me, even the ones I don’t ask for.

  That releases her to bed.

  When she’s gone, I go to the cupboard and fill my pocket with salt. Later, in the bathroom, I put some of the salt in a glass of water and retch up everything I ate. Feel my strength return with every bite of food I bring back up. Like it’s poison, the food made by her hand turning to bile in my throat.

  I see my face in the mirror and, maybe it’s because a bulb or two have blown in here, but whatever it is, I have lost most of my colour. I look bloodless, pale, like my stores of melanin somehow deserted me. I look like her a little bit even. This is the face I wanted to tear off. Not Jason’s.

  * * *

  I’m sad about Jason. I text him to tell him I’m sorry leaving the way I did. He doesn’t respond after an hour, so I tell myself that he’s not my type. I mean, I don’t exactly know what my type is, but it’s definitely not a guy who doesn’t text back.

  Back in my room, I close the curtains. With my stomach empty I feel free, light. If the Brazilian girl was in the ring with me now, she wouldn’t stand a chance. I’d be so fast now. I put away the money, adding it to the stack of bills already in there. It’s more than I ever earned in my two years at Foot Locker, that’s for sure.

  For a moment, I stand in front of my closet. Just looking. The pink graduation dress hangs toward the back, looking more and more like a cake every day that goes by. When I slide my wiry body into it, it’s a sad cake that sags in the middle, like the baker dolloped extra icing on to hide how bad it is.

  I take a pair of scissors to it.

  In minutes, it becomes a pile of ragged pink strips shoved under my bed.

  Now I can turn back to the money I stashed. I put it all in my bag, every cent. It’s enough, I think. I already have the plane ticket in my name. This could get me through Florida. The insurance papers I photocopied from the ones Ma has in the bank are hidden in the deep sleeve pocket in my backpack. There’s my dad’s name again, right on those papers. I stare at it for a long time, then I put the papers back into the envelope.

  That night, I spill the salt from my pocket along the edge of the door to keep the dreams away. Look, I know it’s dumb but I do it anyway. It makes me feel better.

  * * *

  “Ravi,” I whisper, crouching beside the couch before I leave. His eyes are closed. I don’t know if he can hear me, but I’ve got to try. I don’t dare touch him, though. “Ravi, go away.”

  He doesn’t stir.

  “She doesn’t want you here. She won’t stand for it any more. Ravi, go home.”

  His eyelids flutter. I don’t touch him. “Go home, Ravi.”

  Still nothing. I look at the clock. I have to go.

  I tuck the envelope with Dad’s life insurance papers into his shirt, sling my backpack over my shoulder and leave without locking the door behind me. I want him to see what she’s done. I want him to know she doesn’t really want him.

  thirty

  Kru is unhappy I came with them to Florida. I guess he didn’t actually think I would. Imelda’s pissed. Amanda and Noor hugged me at the airport when they saw me, and we weren’t even clinching.

  I wait until the team has registered and weighed in, then slip downstairs to the registration desk. I give the man behind the desk my name. He says I’m not on the list. I say of course I am and show him the confirmation email on my phone from Kru, before he kicked me off the team. The man checks his list again, doesn’t see me. He calls a woman over. She’s got a lanyard with the tournament logo on it and, just below, the name Rashida.

  Rashida is the floor manager. She has dreads down to her waist, bruised elbows and a cut on her chin that can only mean one thing. She’s a fighter, too. I could tell her a sad story about how my father died and my mother has turned into an evil monster and I broke my arm and this guy I liked wouldn’t even have sex with me to make up for it and that I’ve been training for this for ages and Imelda shows up o
ne day and suddenly I’m on the outs…but she won’t care about any of that.

  She looks through her emails and finds a thread about me. “You were on the card, but your coach pulled you.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Says right here he did.”

  I shake my head. “Nobody told me anything.”

  “Well, that’s too bad because you’re not on the card anymore. We don’t have space for you.”

  “I came here to fight. I want a fight.”

  “Honey, this is not a game you want to play with me.” She stares at me, but I don’t flinch. The guy who called her over clears his throat, but neither of us pay him any attention.

  “All my paperwork was sent in. I’m ready.”

  “I can see that,” she says slowly. Then she points to a couch just off the lobby. “Go sit over there.”

  “I want—”

  “Yeah, I heard. What I want is for you to sit your narrow ass on that couch until I check on one of the other fighters who didn’t make weight. She’s gonna try again in an hour, and if she still doesn’t make it, you’re in. So don’t test me right now. I might be the best friend you ever had.”

  On the couch, I slink down into the cushions, pulling my hood up. My phone buzzes but I don’t answer. Kru, Amanda, Noor and Imelda walk right past without recognizing me. An hour passes, then another one. I’m hungry, but there’s no chance that I’m eating now. I fall asleep and when I wake up Rashida is standing over me, frowning. “Ready, huh?”

  “I am,” I say, clearing my throat and sitting up.

  “Good. Go weigh in then. And, after that, eat a couple sandwiches, would ya?”

  I can’t keep the stupid grin off my face as I promise that I’ll eat as many sandwiches as she wants.

  I make weight, then eat three tuna sandwiches.

  * * *

  The next day, my phone keeps ringing but I switch it off. I’m fighting a Sri Lankan girl from Iowa first up. I didn’t know there were Sri Lankans in Iowa, but now’s not the time to think about details like that. I see her shadowboxing in the locker room area. She’s shorter than me, but wider. Her neck and shoulders are powerful, but her legs are like sticks.

  I warm up with Noor and Amanda. They think it’s about solidarity. Kru’s holding mitts for Imelda, who pretty much ignores me. Maybe she’s hoping my crazy won’t rub off on her. They all get a sense of just what a crazy fucking bitch I am when Rashida comes in and calls my name, along with the Sri Lankan girl’s. Tells us we’re up next.

  Kru is so shocked he just trails behind me. Then I’m in the ring, doing my Wai Kru to pay my respects. While I do that, he seems to get a grip on himself and hops up into my corner. Something in his eyes promises we’re gonna have a talk about this later, but there is no later when you’re about to fight a Sri Lankan with toothpicks for legs and thick, muscular arms.

  “Don’t let her land any punches,” he says, before the bell goes.

  She comes at me from the jump. This is Noor’s style, too, so it’s like I’ve already sparred this girl a million times. I move my head just a fraction and feel her right cross go plowing past me, all power. She’s off balance, so I step to the left and get a swing kick in, right to her skinny thigh. Her knee buckles and she almost drops. I follow with a push kick to her belly and she falls on her ass, looking up at me, stunned.

  And never gets over that humiliation. She tries, but this is a lesson I’ve learned over and over, that when your confidence gets shook in the ring, there’s no coming back. The crowd flips on you in that moment.

  There’s no loyalty in a crowd.

  Loyalty doesn’t even have a place here. No matter if they were on your side at the beginning, they turn on you quick as lightning. They want strength. They want to see power. So I dominate her for the rest of the fight. She lands one solid punch, a hook to my jaw, and though my head spins, I have the sense at least to pull her in for a knee and push her back to take another swing to her thigh, working the same spot I first hit. Making the bruise bigger, redder, angrier. I work it till it turns purple and she’s out of breath from carrying her thick arms on those thin little legs and she’s almost grateful when the final bell calls it. Her arms are so heavy with defeat that when the ref throws my hand up at the end of the match, hers hang so low they might as well be planted in the floor covering.

  * * *

  Kru wants to have it out with me, but Imelda’s up next and he doesn’t have the time. Ma keeps calling, but I can’t answer. I feel her anger pulsing out at me. Junior calls, but I don’t know what to say to him, either.

  Nothing from Jason.

  Columbus is the only one I can bear talking to. “Where are you?” he asks, as soon as I answer. “Your mom is going crazy over here. You disappeared and she can’t find Ravi, either.”

  “I’m at a tournament. What do you mean she can’t find Ravi?”

  “He hasn’t been at your house since yesterday. You need to come back, Trish. Your mom—”

  I don’t want to hear about her so I hang up. Head downstairs with vague thoughts of finding something to eat. A wave of heat licks me from head to toe as soon as I step outside, so I retreat and eat at the hotel restaurant. Miami is in between hurricanes at the moment, so the sun is shining extra bright. It’s unbearable, this light in my eyes. Switching tables to the darkest corner of the restaurant helps a little.

  The team joins me. Kru sits across from me and watches me eat my burger. I don’t flinch. He sighs heavily. I think he’s starting to regret training girls in the first place, but we’ve all won our first matches so he’s battling with his pride, too.

  Pride wins out.

  He doesn’t curse me out, just says, “Don’t ever do that again.” And everything’s okay between us.

  The other fighters seem relieved. With our hair in braids, our hard thighs in satin shorts the brightest colours of the rainbow, the firm set of our mouths and the wildness in our eyes, we are all crazy fucking bitches here.

  * * *

  Imelda warms me up before my next fight. We’re good. I think she’s trying hard to make it like it used to be but I don’t care about all that because I’m about to get in the ring again and there’s no space inside me for anything but the rush. At the end of this fight there’ll hopefully be another, and at the end of that one a big black-and-gold belt. Noor got knocked out of the tourney an hour ago. Right now I’d rather die than be her.

  We were all out there cheering for her, but it wasn’t enough. She faced the Brazilian chick from Buffalo who’s fighting here too, and who I guess has it out for our gym because she demolished Noor in a series of clinches that sapped the strength from her body like it was wisps of cotton candy. Nobody could be bothered to feel too sorry for Noor, either, because we’re already looking ahead. Well, me at least. Imelda, I guess, is trying to be a generally better person (what a time for it, Jesus) and keeps sending Noor consoling smiles, even as she holds mitts for me.

  I push it all aside.

  My second fight is against a towering brunette who’s all leg and hair. Thin, ropey muscles on her legs and stomach and not a pinch of fat anywhere else. Hard look in her eyes. It should have been outlawed for her to fight based on weight rather than height. At least that’s what I think before the second round starts. The first round was solid and we both landed a few good points, but you could tell that she isn’t used to fighting someone who isn’t intimidated by her size. She tried to get me into a clinch a few times, but I’d just seen Noor fall for that and I didn’t let her anywhere close. I was ready for it, ready for this to be the longest fight of my life, to keep light, keep scoring.

  “Points,” Kru whispered to me, taking my head between his hands after the first-round bell. “Play this one smart, Lucky. Think about your injury, okay? Protect yourself.”

  But there isn’t time for that, because Amazon rushes me at
the third bell and I take a straight elbow to my nose. Blood gushes all over my face, my gloves when I bring my hands up, the mat when it drips down my chin. My eyes go soft, blurry. I grab the rope with one gloved hand but slip and go down to my knee. I see her over me and I think, yes. Do it. She sees the defeat in my eyes, that I’m ready for it, blood sticky on my face and my nose in the wrong place. Then she’s not there anymore. It’s the ref, pulling her away, calling the match.

  I feel Kru in the ring beside me before I see him, shouting about the illegal elbow. The other coach pulls Amazon down from her corner and shuffles her away from the ring.

  I win by disqualification. It doesn’t feel good, but I’ll take it.

  Imelda takes one look at my bloody face, goes pale and spontaneously develops cramps so severe that she goes upstairs, curls into the bathtub with a hot water bottle and won’t come out again no matter how hard Noor bangs on the door.

  When she does finally come out, there’s colour in her face again and she looks relaxed. I’m missing half of the painkillers that I’d left in the bathroom, the ones I stole from Ma’s hoard of extra-strengths, and I guess I know what happened to them. Relaxed Imelda is better than her other versions, but I wish she hadn’t popped so many of my pills. I could use some extra relaxation right about now.

  Kru’s guiding me to the doctor downstairs, but I can’t chance they’ll take me out of the tourney because of a broken nose so I leave him and am pushing my nose back into place with my hands. And if that pain isn’t enough, I’m spotting, even though I haven’t had a period in months. It happens sometimes while training, a blow will shake some extra blood loose down there and you just accept it and try to block better. But all this blood seems like a bad sign. I try to ignore it while I go down to the restaurant for dinner.

  Iron, I think, and always protein. So I order a steak, medium-rare, because I heard the man next to me order the same thing. When it comes, I’m not disgusted by the red meat like I usually am. Imelda takes one look at me chewing that juicy slab, cutting it into little pieces and scooping mashed potatoes onto the fork between bites, and she all but throws up. One second she’s there and then she’s not and it’s just me and Amanda. Kru has taken Noor for a walk to cheer her up. I don’t miss them. Sometimes it’s good to disappear.