Straight Punch (13 page)

“Behaving inappropriately around me?” I leaned across the table toward Cyrus. “Are you talking about Randy Randy?”

“Even just his nickname…” Mom said.

“For god's sake, Mom, it's a nickname! Randy Randy happens to be a decent guy. You were talking to his parents at the open house.”

“I was?”

“If anyone's been behaving inappropriately, it's Cyrus. He's obsessed with Randy Randy. Jeez, Cyrus,” I said, “I wish you'd stop being such an idiot.”

Cyrus crossed his arms over his chest. “I don't think I'm being an idiot. I saw how close Randy Randy gets to you, and I could tell from your body language he was making you uncomfortable. That you didn't know how to deal with him.”

“Since when did you get to be an expert on body language?” I was so angry, I could have spit at him. Then he could interpret the meaning of that particular bit of body language!

Mom tried patting my hand again, but this time, I pulled my hand away. “Tessa…” Mom paused, and I knew it was because she had something else to say but was weighing whether now was the right time to say it. “On my lunch hour today, I did some research into homeschooling. I think that with a little support, I could help you finish the school year at home. You wouldn't have to travel all the way to Montreal North…” Mom let her voice trail off.

“This isn't about traveling to Montreal North, Mom, and you know it. I want to finish my year at New Directions. You two might never understand this, but I'm starting to like it there. A lot.”

It had been a long night, full of emotion, and I could feel tears welling in my eyes. But there was no way I was going to cry in front of them. So I grabbed my backpack from the floor and took off.

I could have slammed the door behind me, but I didn't want to do that either. I wanted Mom and Cyrus to know I could control myself—and my own life.

I heard Cyrus hurrying down the stairs behind me. “Wait up, Tessa!” he called.

I felt his hand on my shoulder. “I'm only trying to protect you.” He said it in a soothing voice, like he was a sane person talking to someone who wasn't. “It's hard for me to see you hanging out with lowlifes at that school…”

I turned around to face him. “Lowlifes?” I swear I could feel the anger surging through my body like an electric charge. “How dare you judge my friends like that!”

And then I did something I probably shouldn't have. Only I couldn't stop myself. I was too angry.

I took a swing at Cyrus. A tight hook to the body that socked him right in the stomach. He was so busy trying to get his tripod out of my way, he forgot to protect himself. I felt the soft flesh of his belly give way under my knuckles.

I didn't feel bad when Cyrus whimpered. I also didn't wait for him to recover.

“We're through,” I told him, though I guessed by then Cyrus had figured that out for himself.

My heart was pounding like a drum—even my eyeballs felt like they were vibrating in their sockets.

That punch had taken me by surprise as much as it had Cyrus. I hadn't known I had it in me. I also hadn't tried to stop it. I'd let my anger and frustration rule me.

Big Ron was always saying boxing wasn't about violence. But I'd used the skills he'd taught me to hurt someone, and in the moment I'd done it, it had felt good. Amazing, even. Could Cyrus be right? Was boxing making me more aggressive?

It was only when I got to the end of our block that the tears came.

Chapter Twenty

A person in control of her own life should not be blubbering in the street like some kid in grade two. A person in control of her own life should know where she is heading. Or at least have a general sense.

But I had no idea.

My first impulse—after I blew my nose and wiped the tears off my cheeks—was to go to New Directions. But it was past ten, so that didn't make much sense. It did make me realize, though, that in some strange way, I felt at home at New Directions. Maybe it was because I'd started to care about the other kids who went there. Hadn't I just called them my friends? Maybe it was because I'd gotten to know their stories. I'd never felt that way before about a school. Not even when I was in elementary school, back before I'd ever broken a rule.

So I just wandered around our neighborhood, pulling myself together and trying not to think about how I'd lost control and punched Cyrus. I tried distracting myself by checking for new tags—there was nothing interesting. When I was on streets with lots of houses, I wondered about the people who lived in them. Maybe everyone had a story, not just the troubled teens who went to New Directions. Were there other girls like me—learning to stand up for themselves, sometimes tripping up along the way?

That reminded me of a framed picture in our living room. Mom took it the day I learned to walk. Maybe all these years later, I was still learning.

I didn't plan to go to the Villa-Maria metro station—I just ended up there. I also didn't plan to take the metro and get off at Chinatown. It just happened. I only knew I had to keep moving. Movement—even the gentle sway of the metro car—helped me think.

Once I got there, I realized I had no idea what I'd do if the restaurant was closed—or if Jasmine wasn't working. All I knew was if I could choose anyone to talk to right then, it would be her. So when I approached the dumpling house and saw all the lights were out and the front door was barred, I suddenly felt sadder and more tired than I had all day.

Some shops on St-Laurent Boulevard were still open. A calico cat blinked at me from behind a grocery store window. If Florence saw that cat, I thought, she'd be on the phone, lodging a complaint with the health inspector.

I scratched the window where the cat was and he blinked again.

A moment later, he took off, his patchwork tail swishing behind him like a giant feather.

Because I had nothing else to do and nowhere else to go, I walked into the grocery store. I reached into my pocket for change so I'd be able to buy something. An Asian man looked at me from behind the cash register.

“I like your cat,” I told him.

“What cat?” he said.

Maybe he thought I was the health inspector.

I walked to the back of the shop where the refrigerator was. There was still no sign of the cat. I was reaching in for a water bottle when Jasmine came around the corner. She was carrying a wire shopping basket filled with fruits and vegetables. Part of me envied her independence. Part of me was sorry that she had to buy her own groceries. She looked tired.

“Hey,” I said when I spotted her.

“Did they like your speech?” Jasmine asked. She didn't seem surprised to see me.

“I don't know for sure, but I think so. A couple of people said they wanted to take their names off the petition. What is that thing anyhow?” I pointed to a vegetable—or was it a fruit?—in her basket. It was shaped like a cucumber, only it was mint-green and had a bumpy skin.

“It's a Chinese delicacy,” Jasmine said. “Bitter melon. I like it stir-fried with eggs for breakfast. My mom used to make it.” She looked down at the floor, and I wondered if she was remembering her mom.

“Is it hard?” I asked her. She gave me a puzzled look and I realized she thought I was talking about the bitter melon. “No, no, not that,” I said. “I mean…not having either of them anymore.”

“Very,” she said. “But I'm used to it now. A person gets used to things.”

“
I never knew my dad.” It wasn't something I told a lot of people.

“Never?” Jasmine seemed surprised.

“Never. He died a few weeks before I was born. Brain aneurysm. My mom says he was a lovely guy.”

“My dad used to sing me Chinese songs. He had a terrible voice.” Jasmine looked at me like she was seeing me for the first time. “Sorry about your dad,” she said.

“I guess I've gotten used to it. Like you said. So, you heading home?” I asked.

“Home?” she said with a hard laugh. “Nah, I'm killing time.”

“And buying groceries.”

“Yeah,” she said, “and buying groceries. Otherwise, there won't be anything to eat. What about you, Tessa Something-or-Other? What are you doing out so late?”

I put up my fighting guard when she called me that.

Jasmine laughed.

“I'm killing time too. Mom trouble.” I felt bad after saying that. Jasmine probably wished she had a mom—even one
who got on her nerves the way mine sometimes did. “And boyfriend trouble. You might find this hard to believe, but I just punched my boyfriend.”

“Did he deserve it?” Jasmine asked.

“I guess. It felt good at the time. But afterward, I bawled like a baby.”

Jasmine nodded. “That happens. It happened to me the first time I went into the ring. You get an adrenaline surge when you're fighting, then when it's over, you bawl your head off. It's perfectly normal, healthy even…How's your boyfriend?”

“I didn't stick around to find out. I should probably phone him later.”

“Ever had a bubble tea?” Jasmine asked me when she was paying for her groceries.

“Bubble tea?”

“I guess that means no.” Jasmine grabbed my hand. Then she pointed to a tea shop across the street. It was so small you could have walked by it a thousand times without noticing it. “My treat,” she said.

Someone who didn't know us might have thought we were two ordinary teenage girls without a care in the world.

“Those bubble teas look like slushies,” I told Jasmine when we squeezed into the tea shop and spotted an old couple sipping bubble tea through straws.

Jasmine snorted. “Do not compare bubble tea with a slushie. A slushie is a North American abomination. Bubble tea is an Asian delicacy.”

“What
isn't
an Asian delicacy around here?” I asked.

Jasmine ordered two bubble teas from the girl behind the counter. They really did look like slushies, but I didn't want to risk offending Jasmine by saying so again.

“Bubble tea was invented in Taiwan,” she told me.

It was so sweet it made my teeth tingle—and not in a good way. Then, when I took another sip—I knew if I didn't, Jasmine would take it personally—I nearly choked on something rubbery. I spit it back into the glass.

Jasmine laughed. “I should have warned you,” she said. “It's got tapioca pearls in it.”

The tapioca pearls took some getting used to. Still, it was
nice to be sitting with Jasmine on two tall stools in the window of the tea shop. “So,” she said, tapping her fingers on the counter. “I thought you were gonna dump your boyfriend a while ago.”

“I was. It's just taking longer than I expected.”

“You afraid to be alone? Is that it?” Jasmine asked.

“Maybe.”

“We're all alone,” she said, taking a long sip of bubble tea. “Each and every one of us.”

“Who knew you were such a philosopher?”

“Must be Big Ron rubbing off on me.”

We laughed so hard, we nearly choked on our tapioca pearls.

Jasmine groaned when her cell phone rang. “It'll be my aunt. Telling me she won't be home until tomorrow morning. And that we're out of milk. Or juice. Or eggs.”

She let the phone ring a few more times before she took it out of her purse.

But when she looked at the display, she said, “It's not my aunt. It's Di.”

She smiled when she took the call. “Hey, Di,” she said. “Isn't it way past your bedti—?” Jasmine's face froze.

I could hear Di sobbing on the other end of the line.

“Okay, stay calm.” I got the feeling Jasmine was saying it as much to herself as to Di. “I've been doing some reading. Some bleeding is normal. It's called
spotting
. We'll be right there.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Jasmine flagged down the first cab that came by. “Royal Victoria Hospital,” she told the driver as we piled into the backseat. “Now!”

“Yes, ma'am.”

The driver didn't stop for the yellow light on René Lévesque Boulevard.

“Is she already at the hospital?” I asked Jasmine.

“She was on her way to the emergency room.”

“So you've been reading up on…spotting,” I said. The cab was going so fast, St-Laurent Boulevard was just a blur of lights.

“I found a used copy of
What to Expect When You're Expecting
at a garage sale.” Jasmine made it sound as if she wouldn't have bought it otherwise.

“I thought you thought she should have an abortion.” I whispered it, in case the driver was listening.

Jasmine gave me a sharp look. “What I thought doesn't matter much, does it?”

“Okay, okay.”

The driver left us at the emergency-room entrance.
An old man wearing a wrinkled hospital gown and hooked up to a portable
IV
drip was standing outside, smoking. I thought
about Whisky and his dad, both addicted to cigarettes.

I followed Jasmine to the reception desk. Every face we passed was strained and tense. I knew my face looked like that too.

A Plexiglas wall separated us from the receptionist. She was filling in a chart. Jasmine spoke to her through a round opening in the Plexiglas. “We're here to see our friend Diane Braithwaite.”

“She's already inside.” The receptionist pointed to a gleaming metal door at the end of the hallway. Her face didn't give anything away.

“Is the baby okay?” I asked.

“I'm afraid I can't give you any information.” The receptionist looked at me and then at Jasmine. “Only one of you can go in at a time,” she said. Then she picked up her pencil and went back to her chart.

“You go,” I told Jasmine when we reached the metal door. Even from outside, we could hear machines pinging. “You two are best friends.”

The silver door flew open as a nurse exited.

“Out of the way, please,” someone else said. Two cops were helping an orderly wheel a gurney into the emergency room. Someone was strapped onto the gurney. I saw blood. My stomach lurched, and I turned away.

Jasmine grimaced. Before the door could close behind the gurney, she looked over her shoulder both ways, then tugged on my hand and dragged me inside with her. There wasn't time to object or point out that we were breaking hospital rules.

We heard Di's sobs before we saw her. I looked down the hallway and spotted the toes of a pair of silver cowboy boots sticking out from behind a long green curtain. “She's in there,” I told Jasmine.

We rushed over and pulled open the curtain. Di was lying on a gurney, wearing a hospital gown; her legs were covered with a white hospital sheet. Her face was almost as white as that sheet. Her whole body was shaking.

Big Ron was there too. He was resting one of his giant paws on her shoulder. “Everything is gonna be okay, Lady Di,” he kept saying. He looked worried though.

Jasmine wanted to hug Di, but Big Ron stopped her. “Better not do that,” he whispered. “She's still a little tender down there.”

“Okay, I found you some water.” Randy poked his head in from behind the curtain and held out a paper cup with water in it. Pretty Boy was behind him.

Randy handed Di the water. She took a tiny sip.

Randy came to stand next to me. I could feel the heat from his body.

“Is the baby okay?” Jasmine's voice broke. She pushed her hair out of her face, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Later, I wondered if she'd been crying.

Di shook her head and sobbed some more.

A nurse and a doctor came into the curtained-off cubicle. “Some of you are going to have to wait in the waiting room,” the nurse said, but at least she didn't sound annoyed.

Jasmine stayed with Di. The rest of us filed out of the cubicle. But we didn't go to the waiting room the way the nurse had told us to. We just stood outside the cubicle in a sad, quiet clump. The nurse was too busy to notice.

“Can you tell us what happened, Diane?” we heard the doctor ask.

Di's words were punctuated by sobs. Randy and Pretty Boy both took a few steps down the hallway. I knew they wanted to give Di some privacy.

“It started with these terrible cramps,” Di said.

“Abdominal cramps?” the doctor asked.

“Yeah, and in my lower back too. Like when I get my period, only worse. Then I noticed the spotting.” Di sniffled. “So I came straight to the hospital. It's what they told us to do at prenatal class.”

Di hadn't told me she'd been going to prenatal class. My heart was breaking for her. Even before her baby was born, she was trying to be a good mother. I knew it was because she wanted to be a better parent than her own parents had been.

“Did anything happen after that?” It was the nurse talking now. Her voice was gentle, but I could feel her digging for information.

“The cramps got so bad I could hardly move.” Di's voice had turned eerily calm. “I swear, I thought I was going to die. I went to the bathroom. Just outside the emergency room. I…I never saw so much blood. It was everywhere. I made a terrible mess. And I think I saw—” And now Di exploded into tears. She cried so hard, the green curtain shook.

Neither the doctor nor the nurse asked Di what she thought she had seen. I didn't want to imagine it.

“These things happen, unfortunately,” the doctor said. “I'm going to need to examine you. Are you okay with that, Diane?”

Di whimpered during the examination.

The doctor whispered some instructions to the nurse. I leaned in to listen, but I couldn't hear what he was saying.

Ten minutes later, the doctor emerged from the cubicle, his face grim. That's when I knew for sure Di had lost her baby.

Miss Lebrun showed up about fifteen minutes later, carrying her bicycle helmet. Her face was flushed and she was out of breath.

“Sorry it took me so long,” she told Big Ron. “I had trouble finding a babysitter.”

Miss Lebrun had a baby? How could she not have told us that?

“I'm going to go in and see her,” Miss Lebrun said.

I nudged Big Ron. “I didn't know she had a baby.”

“He's not exactly a baby anymore. The kid's almost seven.”

Big Ron must've seen me trying to do the math in my head. If Miss Lebrun was twenty-three, maybe twenty-four tops, she couldn't have been any older than…

“She was seventeen when she had him,” Big Ron said.

The same age as Di.

No wonder Miss Lebrun had been looking out for her.

Di was going to need some surgery that was standard procedure after a miscarriage. The surgery was scheduled for the next morning, and if everything went well, she'd be released from hospital that afternoon. Miss Lebrun wanted to stay overnight at the hospital, so we sat with Di while Miss Lebrun called her babysitter.

Di tried to sit up a little on the gurney. “What about Ruger?” she managed to ask.

“Won't the people at your house look after him?” I could tell Miss Lebrun was trying not to say
foster parents
.

Di bit her lip. “They won't be happy about it. They only let me bring Ruger with me on condition that I'd be the one looking after him.”

“Don't worry about Ruger. Someone's already offered to look after him,” Big Ron said.

Di slumped back onto the gurney. “Who?” she asked.

Big Ron grinned. “Mr. Turner. Turns out he's got a thing for pit bulls. He and his wife are thinking of getting one of their own.”

Because there was so little room in Di's cubicle, we took turns going in to tell her we were sorry.

Pretty Boy was first. “Look,” I heard him tell Di, “maybe it's better this way. Maybe there was something wrong with the—”

Di cut him off with her sobbing. But it was Jasmine who sent Pretty Boy packing. “Would you take your sweet ass out of here this instant?” she said. “That's the very last thing Di needs to hear right now.”

“Okay, okay, I'm really sorry.” Pretty Boy sounded almost as nervous as he had the night his brothers were hassling him. “But there's just one more thing—”

“Well say it then!” Jasmine barked.

Pretty Boy lowered his voice, but we could all still hear him. “I just want to say I love you, Di. We all do. That's why we're here.”

I hadn't cried when I heard Di had lost her baby. But now—when Pretty Boy said that—I couldn't seem to stop.

Because there weren't any rooms available, Di had to sleep in the cubicle. We helped make Miss Lebrun a nest from two vinyl chairs and as many blankets as we could find. “Don't worry about me,” she said as she swept us out of the cubicle. “I'll be fine.”

We were too wired to go home, so we all said yes when Big Ron suggested we have a cup of tea in the hospital cafeteria. But because it was late, the cafeteria was closed.

We settled for vending-machine tea. Big Ron insisted on treating us. He emptied six whole sugar bags into his Styrofoam cup. If he ever went on a diet, he could start by using Sweet'N Low.

Jasmine bit her lip. “What if Di gets really depressed? Some women have a hormone surge after a miscarriage.”

“Since when,” Big Ron asked, raising his eyebrows, “do you know so much about pregnancies and miscarriages?”

“She's been reading up,” I told him.

Big Ron slurped his tea. “If she does get depressed—and it may not happen,” he said, “you guys'll be there for her. Just like you were here for her tonight.”

“Did you know Miss Lebrun had a kid?” I asked Jasmine and Pretty Boy.

“Why's it such a big deal to you?” Jasmine asked instead of answering my question. I decided that meant she knew. Pretty Boy said he hadn't.

I tried to find the right words. “It's just that…I guess I thought I knew her.”

Big Ron rubbed his hands on his thighs. “People are entitled to some privacy,” he said.

Pretty Boy twirled one end of his electric-blue feather boa. “Does that mean you're keeping secrets from us too, Big Ron?”

Big Ron took another slurp of tea. “I got no comment,” he said. Then he looked at his watch. “I nearly forgot to tell you guys something. Since Miss Lebrun is gonna be late for school tomorrow, you'll be spending the whole day in the gym with me. And Tessa Something-or-Other,”—he looked over at me—“I think you're about ready for a little sparring. Jabbin' Jasmine, you're gonna have to promise to be gentle.”