Straight Punch (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Six

Florence had organized the first town hall meeting. She also organized the second one. That was where she explained to the crowd how Pretty Boy and I had helped rescue her son from two guys who'd been bullying him ever since she'd enrolled him at St. William's School.

Eddie had never told her about the bullying—he knew how much she wanted him to succeed at the school. She even admitted she might have contributed to Eddie's stress by pressuring him to do well. Eddie had been so resentful, she explained—and I noticed how she didn't look away from the audience when she said this part—that he'd even staged a robbery at his own house. And as if that wasn't bad enough, she added, he'd shredded the sunflowers in her garden. I thought the robbery part of the story was way worse than the sunflowers, but from the way Florence told it, the flowers meant a lot to her.

Of course, she added, Eddie was getting professional help. She had also asked Big Ron to give him private boxing lessons on Saturday mornings. She even said she was considering signing up for boxing lessons herself. I was starting to think maybe Florence had a crush on Big Ron. After all, if there was one thing I'd learned since coming to New Directions it was that anything was possible.

Big Ron organized an exhibition match to mark the end of the fall term. We were going to be up against students from the West Ridge boxing team. Not only did they have high-class uniforms in their school colors, they also had a coach named Henry, who'd been on the Canadian Olympic boxing team in 1976. I think even Big Ron was intimidated.

I'd been sparring pretty regularly by that time, but always with Jasmine.

In the afternoon, after the guys had fought, I'd be up against an unfamiliar opponent. “Just keep your guard up, Tessa Blue-Rings, and do your octopus thing,” Jasmine told me.

There was an emcee from the boxing federation, three judges and a scorekeeper.

Everyone had come to watch. Mom had booked the afternoon off work. Miss Lebrun had brought her little boy. Florence and Eddie were sitting in the first row of the makeshift stands. Lady Di was next to them, Ruger by her feet, his eyes already focused on the ring. At the back, I saw the reporter from the
Montreal
Gazette
who'd interviewed Pretty Boy and me.

The emcee had brought his own microphone. “In the red corner, in the fly-weight division, representing New Directions Academy and weighing one hundred fifteen point two pounds, we have Tessa Blue-Rings. This is Tessa Blue-Rings's inaugural fight.” The emcee's voice bounced off the walls. “What you may not know about Tessa Blue-Rings is she's also an artist whose work you can see in photographs at Galerie Tableaux on Sherbrooke Street.” Big Ron must have got the emcee to add that to my introduction.

I waved at the crowd. I hoped they couldn't tell how nervous I was.

They clapped. Someone whistled. I knew it had to be my mom or Randy. Ruger barked.

“And in this corner, hailing from West Ridge School, and weighing one hundred seventeen pounds, with a record of two wins, no losses and one knockout, we have Lydia the Lynx. Check out that boxing kimono, will you?”

Lydia the Lynx was wearing a satin kimono with a giant golden lynx silkscreened on the back. Three golden tassels hung from the sides of her boxing shoes. I knew Pretty Boy would be envious.

The audience clapped even harder for Lydia.

This was a new kind of nervous for me. Death wasn't flashing before my eyes the way it had been at the corner of St-Mathieu Street. But humiliation was. Not to mention serious pain—and, quite possibly, disfigurement.

“Settle down, Tessa Blue-Rings,” Big Ron called from the corner. He must've seen how jittery I was.

The jitters slowed me down, making it harder to step away from Lydia's dance moves.

“Go get her!” a woman called from the crowd. Was that Lydia the Lynx's mom? She sounded bloodthirsty.

Lydia threw a stiff right-hand punch. I saw it coming, but I didn't get away in time and I didn't have my guard up quite right. She hit me in my temple and I fell over, wheezing. I had to get up, but I couldn't. Not yet.

I was only half aware of the ref, throwing down his hand as he counted. “One!” he shouted. Then, “Two!” He seemed to be counting in slow motion. “Three!”

I staggered to my feet. The ref looked me in the eye. I knew he was checking for blood. I gulped. I wanted to say I was fine, but the words were stuck in my throat. “Take a few steps toward me,” the ref ordered, and somehow I did.

“Rotate those hips,” Big Ron shouted. “Settle down!”

Only there wasn't time to settle down. Lydia was coming at me again. This time, she knocked me over again with a left hook to my jaw.

When I closed my eyes, I saw the brown spots on her lynx kimono.

The ref was counting again. “Five! Six!”

I could just lie there on the mat. Past the count of ten. What would be so terrible about that? Lydia could have a third win and second knockout on her record.

“Tessa Blue-Rings!” I heard my friends call.

I got up at the count of seven.

“Show me the Tessa Blue-Rings I know and love!” Big Ron told me just before the bell sounded for the second round.

I was tired, but I was breathing better. Maybe I'd finally started to settle down.

“Focus!” I heard Big Ron call, and I did.

Lydia extended her arm for a right hook, but I ducked. Then I came back at her with a three-punch combination.
Bam, bam, bam
. Oh, that felt good.

My muscles were loosening up. I was boxing better.

Maybe I was overconfident. Lydia knocked me down again. But this time, I was up before the count of two.

If I wanted to win, I'd have to knock Lydia out in the third and final round. Maybe, I thought, just maybe…

No one was more surprised than me when I knocked over Lydia. I looked in her eyes as she tumbled to the mat. Mostly, I saw surprise—until that moment, she hadn't taken me seriously as an opponent—but what startled me was the fear. Lydia was afraid of
me
! I nearly laughed out loud.

Looking back, I think it was the fear that made her angry. Lydia was back on her feet by the count of three, and then she came at me, pouncing, pounding, raging like a crazed lynx.

“Go get her!” the bloodthirsty woman called again.

“Go, Tessa Blue-Rings!” voices shouted.

“Protect yourself, Tessa Blue-Rings!” That was definitely my mom.

“Lydia the Lynx! Lydia the Lynx!” other voices chanted.

My arms were flailing. That was partly my strategy, but mostly that I was getting more and more tired. Focusing was harder.

“Work your combinations!” someone called. I couldn't recognize voices anymore—or even if the advice was for me or Lydia. Either way, I had to work my combinations.

Left uppercut, right uppercut.
Bam, bam
. Then a straight punch to Lydia's rib cage. I could feel my boxing glove hit flesh. Lydia fell into a heap on the mat. This time, she was up by the count of four.

She took a few more swings at me. One grazed my jaw.

Then the buzzer sounded and the round was over.

We touched gloves.

Lydia was panting. “Not bad!” she said, wiping her face with the back of her boxing glove.

“That one was yours,” I told her, “but I'll be back!” I said it loud enough that my friends could hear my Schwarzenegger imitation.

The three judges handed their scores to the scorekeeper, who handed them to the emcee. I watched him unfold the pieces of paper and scan their contents.

The audience fell silent as the emcee cleared his throat. “We have,” he said, “a unanimous decision. All three judges came up with the same score. Two rounds to one for Lydia the Lynx! Our winner today is Lydia the Lynx!”

I clapped as hard as anyone else. Not just for Lydia, but for me too. I'd done okay. More than okay.

Randy wanted to give me a hug. He looked insulted when I pushed him away. “Maybe later,” I told him. “After I shower.”

Big Ron kept pounding me on the shoulder till I finally asked him to stop.

Lydia was posing for photos with her trophy and her coach, Henry.

I was more than a little surprised when Henry said he wanted a word with me. Big Ron backed away. Afterward, I realized he probably knew what was coming.

“Blue-Rings,” Henry said, pumping my hand. “I was pretty impressed by what I saw in the ring today. Terrific work in there. Great comeback. Listen, I heard your mom is here,” he said, looking around for her.

My mom was just coming over to congratulate me—and inspect me for injuries. “I'm Tessa Blue-Rings's mom.”

I couldn't help laughing when she said that.

Henry shook Mom's hand too. “I was just telling your daughter how well she did in there today. I'd like the opportunity to work with her. You probably know I was an Olympic contender myself.” Henry's chest swelled up when he said that. “I'd like to train her, bring her along. West Ridge offers sports scholarships, and I'm pretty sure we'll be able to offer one to Tessa”

I saw Mom's eyes brighten, her lips quiver. She was about to say something, but she decided to hold back and let me handle this.

I looked over at Pretty Boy, who was joking around with Randy and Whisky. Jasmine and Di were huddled in a way that made me think Jasmine was probably giving Di life advice. Ruger was listening too. Big Ron was showing Florence how to rotate her hips when she punched. It was the first time I'd seen Florence smile. Eddie caught my eye and gave me a thumbs-up.

“I'm totally honored,” I told Henry. “I know it would be a great opportunity. But the thing is…I'm good where I am right now. Really good.”

Acknowledgments

I could not have written this book without the help—and inspiration—of my boxing trainer and friend, Ron Di Cecco. Thanks also to my friends the Behrendts, for introducing me to Big Ron, and to Thomas Kneubuhler and Monique Dykstra for their insights into the world of photography. As always, thanks to Viva Singer for letting me talk out yet another story. I'm also grateful to Mary Frauley and Elaine Kalman-Naves for helpful input when I needed it. Thanks to the entire team at Orca Book Publishers, especially my editor, Sarah Harvey, who, like Big Ron, pushes me to go farther than I think I can.

And, as always, thanks to my husband, Michael Shenker, and my daughter, Alicia Melamed, for being in my corner. I love you both with all my heart.

Monique Polak is the author of fifteen novels for young adults. Her historical novel
What World is Left
won the 2009 Quebec Writers' Federation Prize for Children's and Young Adult Literature. Monique has been teaching English literature, creative writing and humanities at Marianopolis College in Montreal, Quebec, since 1984. She is also an active freelance journalist whose work appears regularly in the
Montreal Gazette
and in Postmedia publications across the country. Monique is also a columnist for the ICI Radio-Canada program
Plus on est de fous, plus on lit!
Monique lives in Montreal with her husband, a newspaperman, and has a grown daughter. She has been taking boxing lessons since 2011.