Cold Fury (3 page)

Willy huffed out a derisive little laugh. “I’ll tell you one thing about your daddy. Anthony Rispoli was a
smart
fighter. He ever found himself in a tight corner, he got himself the hell out of there, fast.” He leveled an unblinking gaze at me and said, “Ever happens again, girl, you better run, too.”

“But Willy . . .”

“But nothing. Know what they said about Muhammad Ali, the greatest heavyweight of all time? That he could sting like a bee, but first they said something else . . . ‘floats like a butterfly.’ Think about it. A butterfly doesn’t punch, doesn’t stand there like a statue getting its brains beat out. That wise little bug flaps its wings and hurries out of trouble. And that’s what a good boxer does, too . . . learns to get far away without getting hit. That’s what those brains are for, girl.”

As the years passed and I continued under Willy’s tutelage, he stressed it to me over and over again, along with the other important points of pugilism—that it’s a thinking person’s game rather than a punching person’s, its tried and true rules must be followed at all times, and that respect for one’s opponent lies at the heart of the sport. His opinion was that fighting belonged only in the ring, while using violence to settle a real-life dispute was wrong except in rare circumstances like self-defense. In those cases, where an opponent follows no rules and therefore deserves no respect, it’s every man—or girl—for himself.

It became my opinion too, and he and I became friends. Actually, more than friends—Willy became family. It’s ironic, then, that he taught me what would become the most important skill I possess in trying to find my actual family.

Not just how to fight, but to run for my life, so that I could live to fight another day.

2

WHEN IT COMES TO A THRILLER,
whether it’s a book, movie, or TV show, it always starts with a big, wild action scene—think of a frenetic car chase with blinding sunlight flashing from a pair of Lamborghinis as they soar high in the air and then hurtle down the type of street that exists only in San Francisco or the Alps, the incline as steep as driving off the face of a mountain—and then segues into a familiar tale of uncovering clues. The hero, dogged by a shady past or personal demons, turns out to be an intrepid latter-day Sherlock Holmes, as the gun he discovers in a drawer leads to a footprint in the garden which leads to a safety deposit box in Zurich, where the villain is discovered counting cash or cuddling diamonds or something.

What that type of fiction never shows is a hero with a really sedate, boring past who knows absolutely nothing about anything that’s happened.

Also, that some of the most important clues are wedged inside of her own head.

Now that I’ve began to sift the past for any signal or sign of what happened to my family, I’ve begun to remember things not only about them but me, too—especially about a cold blue flame that now seems ubiquitous, as though it has always been with me. I remembered its first, brief appearance in the beat-down with Uh-Oh, which walked me forward to an equally odd situation that occurred only a couple years later, when I was ten.

My best friend (actually, my only friend; more on that pathetic situation soon) was Gina Pettagola. One afternoon following school, as we strolled home together, a trio of older girls who lived in the neighborhood cornered us; Gina called them the “Three Muskaterribles” because they were always together and, well, because they were terrifying bullies. They were lumpy, smelled like cigarettes, two of them had red hair, and the last one, the leader, sported a single black eyebrow; it joined in the middle like an angry, fat caterpillar. She particularly disliked Gina, because even then Gina was the most gossipy person I (or perhaps all of Chicago) knew. She was also the most perfectly put-together ten-year-old—clothes, hair, shoes, and so on—which I think annoyed Caterpillar Girl even more, who tended toward black concert T-shirts and jeans with safety pins in weird places. As the Three Muskaterribles surrounded us, Caterpillar Girl popped a fist against an open hand and said, “You got a big mouth, you know that, hairdo?”

“Who, me? Why, what . . . what did I say?” Gina stammered.

“She knows,” the first redhead said.

“Yeah, look at her. She’s full of shit,” the other redhead said.

Caterpillar Girl moved closer. “You want to act like you don’t know, fine with me. All that matters is I’m gonna shut that yap of yours once and for all.”

I could see Gina was being honest, that in her constant stream of gossip she had no idea what Caterpillar Girl was referring to. That’s when I realized it didn’t matter, and that she probably hadn’t said anything at all—the Three Muskaterribles just wanted to pick on a pair of little girls, and who better than a petite, perfectly coiffed chatterbox and her skinny shadow friend. And then Gina did what she does best—started talking. It was a friendly, nervous chatter that I think was designed to lighten the moment, except it came off as, well, gossip, and before she could finish her sentence—“Besides, we wouldn’t want this to get around”—Caterpillar Girl punched her in the mouth. Gina grunted and lost her balance, stumbling toward one of the redheads, who grabbed her and spun her to the other one, who pushed her at Caterpillar Girl. She yanked Gina into a headlock, and I saw tears mixing with a line of blood at her lip.

I knew that from a purely visible standpoint, I posed no threat.

I was in a stage of growth where things were a little out of whack—arms long and skinny, hair thick and bushy, and the first hints that my nose would soon begin to bloom like a weed in a flower garden. Plus, I’d begun to perfect the art of fading into the background, chameleon style. But now Caterpillar Girl turned to me, leering with waxy teeth, jerking Gina around while saying, “What about you, toothpick? For having such a loudmouth friend, you don’t seem to say much.” She was so close that I could see pinpoints in her eyes, dark and feral, brimming with the joy of imminent violence.

“Uh-Oh,” I muttered, thinking of a past sparring match gone wrong. Willy’s rule about fleeing an impending beat-down was precisely what I wanted to do, realizing with a shudder just how large, mean, and broken these girls were. They intended to do real harm to Gina and me. I didn’t want to desert her, but I was growing more and more jittery with a need to run for it.

“Check it, the mute can talk,” Caterpillar Girl said, squeezing Gina’s neck tighter as she produced a cigarette and tucked it between flabby lips. “Uh-oh is right, princess,” she spat, smacking Gina hard, and then, “Uh-oh!”—
smack!
—“Uh-oh!”—
smack!
—until my friend’s face was sweaty-pink and tears jumped quietly. Her eyes found mine as she clawed feebly at Caterpillar Girl’s headlock grip, and it was that look—choking terror at being trapped—that caused the cold blue flame to flicker in my gut.

It was stronger than it had been two years earlier, more encompassing of my body and brain, as if it had grown along with me. It didn’t leap so high as to infiltrate my eyes as it does now, but it leaped high enough, calming me down while pissing me off.

Before I could stop, I cleared my throat and said, “Let her go or I’m going to kick your ass. I mean it.”

Caterpillar Girl looked up with the kind of grin that creases a face when a person is happily surprised. She shoved Gina to the ground, hitched up her jeans, and lit the cigarette. Coming close, she blew foul smoke into my face, and then held the tip of the cigarette inches from me. I felt the heat of it on my cheek as she hissed, “What are
you
gonna do, hard-ass? Spit it out before I burn my initials into your—” And it was her turn not to finish a sentence since my left fist cracked her nose twice, and my right once more. She staggered and fell on her butt, and when the bigger of the redheads made a move, I pivoted so quickly, fists raised, that she stopped in her tracks.

“Sara Jane . . . ,” Gina said quietly, her voice tight with alarm.

I turned to Caterpillar Girl, her nose gushing red, her right hand holding a small knife as sharp as a steel icicle.

She touched her face, looked at her sticky hand, and said, “You little bitch. I’m bleeding.”

I heard the truth in my voice and felt it in my gaze when I said, “That’s just the beginning. Take a step with that knife and I’ll hit you so fast and so hard that one eyebrow will become two. I don’t want to, but I will.” My fists were curling and my body was relaxed because I was a good boxer—maybe better than good, a natural like Willy predicted. If she made a move, I was ready. It became sort of a weird staring contest until Caterpillar Girl swallowed thickly, averting her eyes, and put away the knife.

“Aw, screw these two. They’re not worth it,” she said, her voice shaking, and marched away with the redheads in tow.

Gina and I were quiet, watching them go, until she said, “What just happened?”

“I guess they changed their minds,” I said, checking myself for the chilly flame, which had blown out without my notice.

She looked at me with her particular Gina-smirk. “You mean
you
changed their minds. You’re a weird kid, Sara Jane. You know that? In an okay way.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“God, I can’t
wait
to tell people about this!” she exclaimed, spitting blood.

“No, Gina,” I said, my other natural inclination kicking in—never, ever being the center of attention. “It . . . it could get back to my parents. They’d be really mad if they knew I was fighting on the street. Please? Just keep it between us?”

She sighed, touching her purple lip. “Okay. I guess I owe you one for saving me like some kind of supergirl.”

“It’s not like that,” I said, shaking my head, thinking of the lesson I’d learned the hard way (thanks, Uh-Oh) that there was a time to run and a time to fight. “I just . . . happen to know how to box.”

It was true, and I had Uncle Buddy to thank for it, since he was the one who introduced me to the sport. In fact, at one time, I had a lot to thank Uncle Buddy for. He was always there for me and always listened closely.

Sometimes he paid even more attention than my parents.

My mom is a schoolteacher and her philosophy is that knowledge, in all its forms, whether academic or life lessons, is power. Uncle Buddy adopted that philosophy and perverted it, trying to draw information from me. He listened sneakily, between the lines, hoping to learn things about my mom and dad that I didn’t know I was telling him; sometimes I wonder if I ever unknowingly gave something away that contributed to their disappearance. I have—correction,
had
—much to thank Uncle Buddy for, but now gratitude has been blotted out by deceit.

God, I really do hate him.

Actually,
hate
is not a big enough word.

I hate-fear-for-my-life-tremble-in-my-boots at the mention of his name.

I’m sure, or almost sure, or sure enough, that he viciously betrayed my family. Whether or not they’re alive, one thing is certain—everything changed forever on a recent rainy night, and so did I. Before my mom, dad, and little brother disappeared, I was someone who faded into the background—at school, with other kids, in the neighborhood—trying strenuously not to draw attention to myself. It’s who I was and how I was raised, which are basically the same thing.

Now it’s different.

Now I kick ass first and ask questions later. And if the tables turn and I’m the one getting her ass kicked, I find a place to hide, or way to escape. I have a lot of things to be grateful to Uncle Buddy for, but probably the last thing he taught me is the most valuable: when it comes to staying alive, I can trust only myself.

All forms of betrayal are poison.

Whether it’s being used as fresh meat in a boxing ring or violating the code of decency that dictates sidewalk behavior, it creates a bitter protective crust over a person’s soul. Having my secret fears and self-doubt used as currency against me as Uncle Buddy did was a transgression so deep that it has infested me with a true, pure hatred. It has sparked a flame of desire for vengeance that’s stronger than any silly, lingering feelings of affection I once felt for him.

That flame is lit in me now, and it’s burning blue and cold.

3

THERE WAS NO DOUBT
in my mind who I wanted to talk to after the earthquake of my first real kiss in the seventh grade.

It was exciting, traumatic, and so, so weird, all at the same time.

I knew Uncle Buddy would give me his undivided attention.

That milestone smooch was applied by Walter J. Thurber, who was known for his yo-dude-floppy-hair-skater-boy look. It should’ve occurred to me that any kid who dressed like that but never actually rode a skateboard might have issues. Then again, we were thirteen, and he was the most popular kid in school, and I was not. Even then, I sensed something inside myself that made me feel disconnected from the cliques inhabited by my classmates. I knew that if I put myself out there more, I could probably have just as wide a social circle as anyone else. But the overwhelming desire to be included and liked that operated the motors of most kids just wasn’t in me. I was content to sit back and let the world come to me; if it did, great, and if not, well, that was okay too.

Later, when I realized who my family really was, and what that cold blue flame in my gut really meant, I would begin to understand why I was so different.

My parents didn’t help the situation.

They were overprotective in a way that made me feel like I was made of glass.

They were so family oriented that chatting with neighbors over the picket fence was regarded as a waste of time.

We spent every holiday with my grandparents and Uncle Buddy . . . and every non-holiday, and every weekend, and most weeknights. And the thing is, I loved being with my family because they were funnier and smarter and more interesting than most other kids’ families. It’s true that if I talked about a classmate’s parents—for example, what a kid’s dad did for a living—my own parents showed little interest, even wondering aloud why I cared about someone else’s personal business. But they weren’t being dismissive or rude. They were just being themselves, which was extremely private, and they encouraged Lou and me to be private, too. My dad was strict when it came to us talking about what
he
did for a living, which never made sense to me, since he and Grandpa Enzo and Uncle Buddy were bakers—there wasn’t much to tell about cookies, cakes, and pies. But my dad would just shrug and say, “You never know what means something to other people.” The result was that most of my time outside school was spent almost exclusively with my family.