Punch Like a Girl (4 page)

“What have we told you about fighting in the kitchen?” The tone of Mom's voice makes them blink and glance around at the scattered chairs and pizza boxes on the floor. “You could've hurt each other!”

“Or broken something.” Dad gives Joel a slight shake before releasing him.

“Sorry 'bout that.” Roger rights a chair.

“Me too.” Joel grabs the last slice of pizza, which has fallen upside down on the floor, and shoves half of it into his mouth. Nice.

“I expect both you boys to clean up. And if we catch you fighting again…” Mom targets them with her full-on teacher glare until the air between them sizzles.

Roger shrinks. Joel nods dutifully, still chewing.

Mom turns on her heel, letting her threat hang. “Tori,” she calls on the way out, her voice ominous, “come into the living room when you're done. We need to chat.”

Not again.

“A little roughhousing is one thing, but this is too much,” Dad says to Joel, gesturing at the pizza boxes, the toppled chairs and the kitchen in general. “You should be grateful for what we give you. I didn't have nearly as much as you when I was a kid.” He trails Mom into the living room.

My ungrateful brother smirks at me like he's enjoying that I'm about to be railed. “
Hasta la vista
, baby,” he says in his Terminator voice, his mouth still full.

I take as long as I can to remove my cleats, socks and shin pads. When I hope Mom has forgotten about me, I breeze through the living room, aiming for the stairs to the second floor.

“Where are you going?” Dad asks.

“I've just got to change out of these clothes.” And take a shower, check my messages, do my homework and go to bed without any conversations about shaving or community service.

“Not so fast.” Mom pats the couch beside her. “Sit down.”

I trudge back. Mom's at one end of the couch, and Dad's at the other. I perch on the arm of a leather recliner near Dad.

“I still can't get used to that haircut.” Mom shakes her head, eyeing me. “I know you wanted to donate you hair, but I still don't understand what possessed you to shave it all off.”

I shrug. “Like Dad said, it's just a phase. Don't worry about it.”

“It makes you look…” She pauses.

“Tough,” Dad finishes, sounding a little proud.

“I guess it does.”

“Yes, well…” Mom frowns. “We wanted to talk because we found you a community-service job.” She holds out a flyer. The headline reads
You Can Help
. There's a photo of a scrawny cat.

I cringe.

“The humane society would be a good place to do your hours. We know you like animals.”

I picture cleaning out poop from hundreds of cages while imprisoned dogs and cats stare at me with gloomy eyes. “Not when they're waiting to be put down.” I can imagine staging a massive rescue of the caged animals. “I don't even get why I need to do any—”

“Don't start that again,” Dad says. “Your mother promised you'd do community service, and you're going to do it.”

Great. Now he's onside with Mom. I hate when they get along.

“But it's not fair.” I raise my voice. “Why should I be the only one punished? Neanderthal started it.”

“Neanderthal? Mr. Rayfield has a name, Tori.” Mom gives me a disapproving look.

“Who cares what his—”

“You may not agree with his opinions,” Mom interrupts, “but he didn't hit anyone. You did. Really, Tori, we're struggling to understand what's going on with you. Help us out here.”

“But he was talking crap about Jamarlo. Why can't you—?”

“And that was a good reason to break Mr. Rayfield's nose? You could have notified the manager, called
9
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1
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1
, left the store. There were so many other choices.”

“You might have been hurt.” Dad stands and paces, his eyebrows knotted. “You should be more careful.”

“Like you, Dad? I could tell you wanted to go at him.”

“But he didn't,” Mom says. “Tori, you can choose a place to do community service by the end of this week, or we will. Either way, you're going to do your
175
hours. It's for your own good.”

“But Mom—”

“Listen to your mother.” Dad's voice is firm.

I take one look at their faces and swallow my words. What's the point in arguing when they can't hear me? Life is full of injustices. This is one battle I'm going to lose.

At school the next day, I browse places to do community service, since I don't want my parents lurking over my shoulder. Ms. Mink, the guidance counselor with the gaudy jewelry and excessive perfume, keeps a list of volunteer jobs; she's always keen to “get students involved.”

After I escape Ms. Mink's nosy questions about how I'm doing in my classes, I sit at the bank of computers in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that look into the hall. I'm distracted by the people wandering past with boxes of fries from the cafeteria or cold drinks from the
7
-Eleven in the strip mall across the street. The grid of wires embedded in the guidance-office windows makes me feel imprisoned, like I can't be trusted beyond these walls.

I watch Joel saunter past, acting the goof, as usual. He drops ice from his drink down the front of a girl's shirt. Roger laughs like an oversized buffoon while the girl shrieks and swats at Joel, flirting madly. Another guy walks by with a swagger, just like Matt does. It's not him, since Matt goes to the Catholic school with Melody, but the sight of that swagger knocks the air out of my lungs.

I'm sucking in a breath, wishing I'd never met Matt, when I see Jamarlo with Alena. Jamarlo is gesturing wildly and grinning in a way that makes me miss him like crazy. He's probably telling a hilarious story about what happened in class; he can make anything funny. I sigh and look down at the computer screen.

I surf the websites of a few places to volunteer at. No way am I joining a decorating team for a health and beauty fair—I'll never make flowers out of Kleenex. A job as a retail worker at a health center isn't helping anyone out, other than saving the center from paying decent wages. And I can't be a pet-therapy volunteer since I don't have a pet to bring, although I briefly consider Joel for the role.

I scratch at the prickly stubble on my head; it's getting itchy as the hair grows in. At least my shaved head is attracting fewer stares at school. The gossip queens have found better targets.

Then I find a volunteer posting that doesn't look too bad:

CHILD AND YOUTH VOLUNTEER

Haven Women's Shelter is looking for a volunteer to assist our child and youth workers with after-school and evening programs for children. The shelter supports and houses women and their children fleeing violence. This volunteer will provide support to the children living in the shelter and act as a positive role model.

I lean back in my chair and stare at the screen.
Children fleeing violence
. Those kids would want my help—not like Jamarlo. Maybe I could even teach them a thing or two about standing up for themselves.

I submit an application online and then head to class. Since I have to do community service, I'd rather it be at Haven.

KiCK
to use your foot as a weapon

On Friday night, I'm hoofing a soccer ball at Alena, who's warming up in net.

The sun is low in the sky behind her, and her long shadow falls over me. When she drop-kicks the ball back to me, I hoof it again, aiming for the top-left corner. Alena jumps, smacking the ball out of bounds easily.

“Good one,” I call, going after it.

Alena used to be in rep soccer until she got trampled one too many times by aggressive forwards. Now we play house league together, with me as center defense and her in goal. Our team is strong this year, packed with girls who know how to handle a ball and have fun. Tonight the Screamin' Demons—we named ourselves that because of our red shirts—will face the Babes in Blue, a nauseating name. Alena and I renamed them the Blue Bitches, since they somehow stack the Blue team every year with the same eight or so nasty yet gorgeous players.

As I jog toward the ball, my shaved head attracts the usual stares from players as well as the few people gathered on the sidelines. When I spot Matt, pain registers in my chest, and my head throbs. Does he have to be here? Now?

Matt looks like a young Leonardo DiCaprio, only with black hair and a smile that used to knock me horizontal. Right now he's aiming his sickening smile at Melody, who just happens to be a hard-hitting forward on the Blue Bitches. She thrusts her boobs at Matt, tossing her blond ponytail and posing with her Barbie-doll legs.

It figures they would hook up. Did he even wait until we were through?

Matt does a double take at the stubble on my head. My limbs become gawky, and I stumble over my feet. Melody gives me a deadly glare. She probably thinks I want to get back with Matt, but I'm praying he's turned off. I dribble the ball away, trying to act like he doesn't threaten my world.

When I veer back toward Alena, Jamarlo is leaning against the goalpost, chatting with her. As I near, Jamarlo's eyes bore into me and then look away. Alena starts talking faster and waving her arms, like her Greek mother does when she's upset.

“Hey, Jamarlo.” I jog over, still shaky, and boot the ball so that it lands at his feet like an offering.

He ignores it, his eyes anywhere but on me. “See you, Alena.” He turns toward the sidelines.

“Wait, Jamarlo, just talk to Tori,” Alena pleads.

“Why should I?” He turns back, his eyes flaming. “So she can make some lame excuse?”

Alena puts her hands on her hips. “Don't make a big deal of this, Jamarlo. Tori was just upset because of the break-up. Now she's—”

“Just leave it, Alena.” I press my lips together. I've been off my game this week, but he's too pissed off to talk, and I hate listening to Alena argue for him to forgive me.

Alena gapes at me. Jamarlo marches away, his back stiff.

“I can't stand this,” Alena calls to Jamarlo, but he just keeps going.

“Neither can I,” I mutter. “But you know how he can hold a grudge.”

“I know.” She sighs. Her eyes travel the sidelines and then flick back to me. “Did you see that Matt's here?”

“Yeah. This day keeps getting better.”

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn't I be?” My jaw tightens. “We only went out for a couple of months.”

“Yeah, but he was a jerk at the end. And you were upset after you saw him at Carmen Carter's party last weekend—”

“I don't want to talk about it.” Blood thuds in my temples, and I flash back to Carmen's again: Music pounding as I duck into the basement washroom. A shadow on the stairs. Then someone pushing in behind me and slamming the door shut.

Alena gives me a sideways look but says nothing. I'm relieved when she takes her position in net.