Punch Like a Girl
PUNCH
LiKE
A
GiRL
KAREN KROSSING
OÂ RÂ CÂ AÂ Â Â BÂ OÂ OÂ KÂ Â Â PÂ UÂ BÂ LÂ IÂ SÂ HÂ EÂ RÂ S
Text copyright © 2015 Karen Krossing
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Krossing, Karen, 1965â, author
Punch like a girl / Karen Krossing.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN
978-1-4598-0828-7 (pbk.).â
ISBN
978-1-4598-0829-4 (pdf).â
ISBN
978-1-4598-0830-0 (epub)
I. Title.
PS
8571.
R
776
P
85 2015
j
C
813'.6
C
2014-906681-3
C
2014-906682-1
First published in the United States, 2015
Library of Congress Control Number
: 2014952065
Summary
: After Tori is sexually assaulted, she tells no one and her rage and confusion erupt into violent behavior that mystifies her friends and family.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover design by Chantal Gabriell
Cover image by Shutterstock and iStockphoto
Author photo by Owen Captures (
owencaptures.com
)
| ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS PO B OX 5626, S TN . B V ICTORIA , BC C ANADA V 8 R 6 S 4 | ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS PO B OX 468 C USTER, WA USA 98240-0468 |
18 17 16 15 ⢠4 3 2 1
For my girls
Table of Contents
BEAT: to get seriously pummeled
BURNED: to be exposed to heat long enough to force a change
KiCK: to use your foot as a weapon
HOPE: to wish for something desirable
CRASH: to execute a spectacular failure
PiPED: to get hit by a lead pipe (or feel like you were)
FLUTTER: to move quickly and nervously
BAiL: to abandon a crappy situation
RiSE: to get up and move the hell on
SPEAK: to engage in conversation
QUAKE: to tremble uncontrollably
EXPLODE: to be forcibly propelled in multiple directions at the same time
I wake in the dark, breathing hard, my hair tangled across my face, strands caught in my mouth. Not even sleep can slow the constant pounding in my head.
My eyes water. My nose runs. I kick against the sheets wrapped tightly around my legs. As I sweep the hair off my face, I fight the urge to retch.
When my stomach settles, I stumble across the hallway to the upstairs bathroom. The light from the streetlamp falls across the double sink. I stare into the mirror, repulsed by my hair.
It has to go.
First, I tie off two ponytails, each more than eight inches long. Next, I cut close to the scalp with Mom's haircutting shears and lay two hunks of curly, blond hair across the back of the toilet.
The girl in the mirror still has too much hair.
I hack at the tufts with Dad's electric clippers. Why can I still feel Matt's fingers stroking my hair, praising it?
It's your best feature,
he used to say.
Sobs rattle my chest. When the clippers become too dull to cut, I toss them in the sink, cracking their plastic casing.
Dad will be pissed, but I don't care. I empty the drawers until I find his straight razor and shaving soap.
I cry out when the razor slices my skin just above my right ear. Blood trickles down my neck. A stain spreads slowly across my lacy, white pajama top.
When my head is shaved raw, I stop.
A tough girl glares back at me from the mirror.
The next day, I let Alena run her hand over my freshly shaved head.
“Geez, Tori.” She bumps into a display of spring sandals. “It's smooth, like satin.”
It's Monday after school, and we're strolling through Glencrest Mall, heading for the post-office counter inside the drugstore. I'm wearing low-rise skinny jeans with a yellow H&M sweater and ballet flats. A typical outfit for me, but it feels off, like it doesn't suit me anymore.
“And you're just going to mail your hair to some company?” Jamarlo touches his stumpy dreads protectively.
“Yup.” I hoist the oversized envelope under my arm. “They make wigs for kids who've gone bald, so I couldn't resist,” I say for the hundredth time today.
“Kids with cancerâhow sad.” Alena fingers her own hair as if she's ready to cut it off and hand it over. Her dark Mediterranean waves are forcibly straightened each morning. “But won't you miss your hair? It was a guy magnet.”
“So what?” I say. “Those kids are facing worse than I am.”
Jamarlo raises his eyebrows. Alena glances at me.
“I mean, I'm healthy, and I live in a suburb where nothing bad is supposed to happen, in a house where the fridge is always full.” My voice catches. “Life is great for people like us. That's why we have to give back.”
Alena squeezes my arm in that concerned way she has. “I get that you've got a big heart, but does the head shaving have anything to do with Matt? He was crazy about your hair, but you didn't need to shave it to chase him away.”
“Yeah, the knee to the groin was clear enough.” Jamarlo winces.
“Matt has been erased from my memory banks.” I ignore the pressure building inside my head. How can I talk about what happened when even thinking about it makes me sick? “I'm off the market until the guys our age are mature enough to date,” I say.
Alena snorts. “Maybe in ten years, if you're lucky.”
Jamarlo shoots us a pissed-off look. “We're not all jerks.”
“Of course, you're the one exception.” I drape an arm over his shoulder. He's only a bit bigger than me, which isn't saying much, since I'm five feet tall and I weigh ninety-nine pounds after a plate of spaghetti.
“Damn right I am.” Jamarlo nods, still frowning.
“What exactly did Matt do at Carmen's party on Saturday night?” Alena asks as we turn into the drugstore. “You haven't said. I mean, he showed up with Melody, but you'd broken up with him a week before, soâ”
“We argued. I kneed him. It's over.” I force my voice to stay steady, tenderly prodding the razor cut above my ear.
“Butâ” Alena begins.
“You know, it isn't easy to get rid of hair. In the end, I had to use my dad's straight razor.” I blabber on, not mentioning how freaked out my parents were when they saw my head at breakfast. How Mom almost spilled her coffee down her blouse, and Dad choked on his toast. “Did you know that women who were accused of sleeping with German soldiers during the second World War were forcibly shaved in Paris after the war? Mr. Hadley told us about it in World History.”
“Brutal,” Jamarlo says.
Alena wrinkles her nose. At least she's stopped asking questions.
We don't have to wait long at the post-office counter. When the clerk gives my head a hostile look, I practice my new don't-mess-with-me stare on her. I guess my fake-polite face disappeared with my hair. Then I watch the clerk place my package in the outgoing bin; suddenly I'm desperate to be rid of it.
As we wander out of the drugstore, I'm dizzy. We pass a café with giggling girls at one of the tables. When scrawny Jamarlo struts for them, the girls whisper and turn away. It's roughâJamarlo is friends with a lot of girls, but no one wants to date him.
“Bald can be sexy,” he says once we pass the girls. “Except for Britney Spears during her cosmic meltdown. I'd give her a two out of ten on the female bald-o-meter.”