Straight Punch (5 page)

Chapter Six

From the stairway, I could hear Big Ron's booming voice. “It's easy to be a boozer,” he was saying, which is how I knew he was talking to Whisky, “but it's hard to stay disciplined and lead the clean life. What you need to look for are natural things that make you feel good. Not phony, masking things like alcohol.”

Whisky must've been glad when I walked into the gym. If not for me, Big Ron's lecture would have gone on even longer. Whisky nodded in my direction without missing a beat on the punching bag. When he socked the bag hard, I twitched. Luckily, the twitching didn't last very long.

I thought since it was Saturday, Big Ron might go easy on the warm-ups. But he didn't. This time, I knew better than to argue when he lost count of the number of jumping jacks I'd done.

I needed to stop to catch my breath after those jumping jacks. “Do you come in every Saturday?” I asked Big Ron. Even after knowing him for only a week, I'd already
figured out that the one way to get a break was to get him talking.

“Not every Saturday. I may be obese, but that doesn't mean I don't have a life. I got friends, I go out on a date
now and then. But when I can, I like to keep the gym open Saturdays. Do a little extra work with a newcomer like you. Keep the troublemakers off the streets—and away from all manner of poisons.” He jerked his head toward Whisky.

“So I guess you really enjoy training teenagers…”

I was trying to come up with another question when Big Ron gave me a stern look. “You wouldn't be trying to distract me, would you, Tessa Something-or-Other?”

“Uh, of course not.”

“All the same, gimme another twenty jumping jacks.”

After leg stretches, we worked on my fighting stance. “Soon that position'll become automatic,” Big Ron said. I could have told him about how I'd gone into fighting stance when I'd argued with Cyrus, but I didn't feel like sharing personal stuff with Big Ron.

Big Ron also wanted to see my straight punches. “Still a little stiff,” he said. “You need to loosen up. That's important when you're throwing your punches but also when you're getting punched. If you're stiff, the impact is a helluva lot worse. When you're relaxed, you absorb a blow—like a sponge.
I bet you never thought you'd be learning how to take punches, did you, Tessa Something-or-Other?”

I had to admit, Big Ron was right.

Whisky was still whacking the bag, throwing body shots. “These are my favorite,” he said when he caught me looking at him. “They do a lot of harm, and they don't leave marks.”

Whisky was sober. Otherwise, his punches would've been sloppy. But I still smelled alcohol. That's when I realized it had to be coming from his sweat. Imagine drinking so much that even your sweat smells like booze!

Whisky wiped his forehead with a hand towel he took out of his backpack. “I'm going to the
dépanneur
,” he said, reaching for his baseball cap. “I need something to drink.”

“You better be getting Gatorade—not beer,” Big Ron called out as Whisky shut the gym doors behind him.

I was practicing straight punches in front of the mirror. “Back foot in!” Big Ron bellowed. “Rotate those hips!”

He leaned forward, resting his chin in his hands. “There's something I been meaning to ask you, Tessa Something-or-Other.” Big Ron looked right at me, and his voice was softer than usual. “I notice you get kinda jumpy here. I saw you twitch before when Whisky was hitting the bag. You freaked out when I grazed your jaw the other day. I'm going to be straight with you, 'cause that's the way I am. I'm thinking you been smacked around. You want to talk to me about it?”

“Nope,” I said as I threw another straight punch.

“Are you telling me you were never smacked around?”

I let my hands drop to my sides. “That's exactly what I'm telling you.” I really hoped that would put an end to the discussion.

Only it was obviously against Big Ron's philosophy to give up without a fight. And not just in the boxing ring. “So why the hell are you so jumpy?” he asked.

I took a deep breath. “I was trampled during the 2008 hockey riot.”

Big Ron gestured to the lawn chair next to his. “Why don't you have a seat,” he said, “and tell me what happened.”

I didn't feel like giving him the details. It was too personal. On the other hand, I didn't see how I was going to get out of it. I decided I'd tell Big Ron something but keep it short.

“I was with my mom. We got separated in the mob. Two guys got into a fight. One landed on me.” There—that was all he needed to know.

“Landed on you?” I had the feeling he was trying to picture it.

“Yup. I was pretty bruised up afterward, but nothing was broken.”

“Uh-huh,” Big Ron said. I could tell he knew there was more to the story.

“My mom got hurt too. She was trying to reach me when some guy banged into her. He broke her glasses and her cheek got cut up. There was a lot of blood…”

“A lot of blood? And you were only…what, eleven? That must've scared the daylights outta you.”

“It did.”

“I'm guessing you felt responsible.”

“I did.”

“So you think that's why boxing makes you jittery?” I felt Big Ron watching my face, waiting to see my reaction.

“I guess.”

He looked me in the eye again. “I don't.”

“What do you mean, you don't?” I hoped Big Ron would know from the way I said it that I didn't like him prying into my personal history.

“I mean I don't. I've worked with a lot of teenagers in my time. The ones that are jumpy like you, they've been beaten up—or else they've seen someone else get beaten up. And I mean really beaten up.”

When I crossed my arms over my chest, I could feel my shoulders tensing up again. “I don't know what you're talking about. Would you mind if we got back to my workout?”

Big Ron shrugged. “Whatever you say, Tessa Something-or-Other. Whatever you say.” He got up from his chair and waddled over to his supply closet. He rummaged inside for a minute, then turned and threw me a pair of black boxing gloves. The gloves were so worn, they were duct-taped together in a few places. “Put those on,” Big Ron said. “I think you're ready for the punching bag.”

Whacking the bag was more work than punching air, but it also felt better than I'd expected. “How come when I punch the bag,” I asked Big Ron, “it doesn't make the
bam-bam
sound it makes when Whisky does it?”

“Give it time,” Big Ron said. “Lots of things take time, Tessa Something-or-Other.” Was it my imagination or did he look at me a little too long when he said that?

Big Ron counted out each punch. “Not so fast,” he said when I hit the bag too soon.

At first, I counted in my head too, but then I stopped counting and tried to concentrate on just the punches. It took
a while, but I started to get the rhythm. So what if my
punches still didn't make the sound Whisky's did?

One memory had come back to me during Miss Lebrun's writing exercises. I never expected that another one would come back when I was hitting the punching bag. But that's exactly how it happened.

If I'd picked the number thirteen out of Whisky's cap, I might have remembered this scene instead. It was the summer after middle school, before I started at Tyndale. This girl named Rachel was staying with her grandparents, down the street from us. I knew there was something strange about Rachel, though I didn't know what. She had dark eyes that went all bulgy when she talked about her favorite subject: the weather.

Rachel didn't just talk about the temperature and whether or not it might rain. She talked about stuff like barometric pressure and the humidex, which is an index used in Canada to describe how hot the weather feels to the average person. I know because Rachel explained it to me. Lots of times.

Rachel's grandparents sent her to the local day camp—probably because they couldn't bear listening to her babble all day. Rachel and I were in the same group at camp. It was Mom's idea that Rachel and I walk home together since we lived so close to each other. I tried getting out of it, but Mom insisted. “Rachel needs a kind friend,” she said. “You be that friend, Tessa.”

So I got stuck walking home from camp every afternoon with Rachel. Which is how I learned about barometric pressure and the humidex.

“What's up, Weathergirl?” That's what the other girls in our group called her—Weathergirl.

Rachel wouldn't even realize they were teasing.

“Nothing much,” she'd say, flashing them her goofy smile. “What about you?”

That would only make them meaner. They'd follow us down the block. “You know what you are, Weathergirl?” they'd call out. “You're a freak!”

“You're no better,” they'd say to me. “You're friends with a freak.”

I wanted to tell them I wasn't really friends with Rachel. But I could never say it—not in front of Rachel.

I'd tug on Rachel's arm to make her walk faster, but she'd say, “Don't!” and shake my hand away. Rachel didn't like it when people got too close—not even her grandparents.

“Well then, hurry up!” I'd hiss, but she'd turn around, checking to see if the girls were still there—which just gave them time to come closer.

One afternoon, two of the girls sprinted ahead of us. I didn't understand what they were up to until they stopped and turned around, their eyes shining. That was when I realized Rachel and I were trapped. Four girls had formed a circle around us.

“What's wrong with you exactly, Weathergirl?” Angela, the leader, asked.

“There's n-nothing wrong with me.” Rachel didn't sound so sure about it.

Angela stepped closer to us. Then she looked at her friends, telling them something with her eyes. They tightened the circle around us.

“She doesn't like it when people get too close,” I said, but that only made them laugh.

Rachel's dark eyes bulged, this time from fear.

“Leave us alone!” she called out.

One girl took her phone out from the back pocket of her shorts. I didn't think much of it at the time.

Angela wasn't the first one to lay a finger on Rachel. It was Megan, Angela's second in command. Megan flicked Rachel's elbow. It couldn't have hurt, but Rachel cried out just the same.

The circle closed in tighter.

“Crybaby!”

“Loser Weathergirl!”

“What's wrong with you, Weathergirl?”

They weren't after me; they were after Rachel. When I turned my head, I could see a narrow opening in the circle, right behind me. If I was quick, I might be able to get away.

Angela and Megan and another girl were blocking Rachel's way. Even if Rachel was fast—which she wasn't—she wouldn't have been able to escape.

Angela was the one who spotted the giant wheeled recycling bin at the end of someone's driveway. “Get that bin!” she shouted to one of the others.

I didn't know what they wanted with the bin. I didn't care. All I cared about was getting away from Angela and her friends—and from Rachel. I remember thinking that everything that was happening was Rachel's fault.

No one seemed to notice—or care—when I made a run for it. I could hear Rachel blubbering. “Don't!” she kept saying over and over again.

I ducked behind a parked car. My heart was pounding, and I needed to catch my breath. Besides, if I'd kept running, I might have drawn attention to myself.

The other girls were laughing, jeering. “Is that a cumulus cloud?” one of the girls shrieked. “Well, is it?”

The bin was so big, it took two girls to turn it over to keep it from moving.

By that point, Rachel had curled up on the ground in the fetal position, so it took only one girl—Megan—to shove Rachel into the recycling bin.

Angela supervised, hands on her hips. “Let's take Weathergirl for a ride!” she squealed. Three of the girls hurled themselves against the bin and started pushing it down the street, faster and faster. The sounds of the plastic wheels jiggling over the pavement and the girls' screams drowned out Rachel's sobs.

That was when I took off. I didn't see the rest until later—on YouTube. By then, Rachel's grandparents had sent her home.

“Why aren't you punching?” Big Ron was asking me.

I didn't know how long I'd been standing there, my hand over my mouth.

“I think I need a break,” I told Big Ron.

Only it wasn't the boxing I needed to recover from. It was the memory of my own weakness.

Chapter Seven

“So how you liking New Directions?”

I nearly fell off my seat on the metro. I was on my way to school and I'd been sitting next to a scrawny guy in a black baseball cap for at least two stops. How could I not have recognized Pretty Boy?

“Where's your boa?” I asked him.

“I keep it in my backpack when I take public transport. Sometimes it's better to keep a low profile. So how are you liking New Directions?”

“It's a hellhole, but I guess I'm getting used to it. How 'bout you? You seem to like it—except for your sleep disorder.”

“It's better for me than my old school. The kids there didn't think much of my feather boa, if you know what I mean. And Big Ron's been good for me.”

“I know. I saw you punch out that guy—the one who was sitting on top of you. You were pretty impressive.”

“Oh, him…garden-variety homophobe. I tried to drag you away before the cops showed up.”

“I remember—kind of. Thanks for trying.”

The metro stopped at the Côte-Sainte-Catherine station and more passengers got on. Pretty Boy gave his seat to an elderly woman with a cane. The woman didn't bother to thank him. She just plunked herself down on the seat. I hoped no one would trip over her cane.

Pretty Boy grabbed the metal bar so he could steady himself when the metro lurched forward.

“I've seen your tags,” he said. “TM, right? In the trademark oval? I like the concept. Is that what landed you at New Directions—tagging?”

“Yup. You too?”

Pretty Boy looked away. “Yeah,” he said to the silver metro doors, “that and some other stuff.”

We sat in silence as the stops went by.

We got off at the Pie-IX station. “Gimme a second,” Pretty Boy said when we were approaching the escalator. He reached into his backpack for his feather boa.

I hadn't seen this one before. It was bright orange. “Nice,” I told him.

He draped it twice around his neck, then let it hang down his back.

When we reached the block where New Directions was, we could see the woman from next door outside, sweeping her walkway. She shook her head when she noticed Pretty Boy's feather boa.

Pretty Boy grabbed one end of the feather boa and waved it at the woman. “Good morning to you too!” he called out.

It was only seven forty. Jasmine and Whisky were waiting on the porch. Whisky reeked of alcohol and cigarettes. I had a feeling Big Ron wouldn't be too pleased.

“You gonna let us in or what?” Whisky said to Pretty Boy.

Pretty Boy checked the time on his cell phone. “Big Ron and Miss Lebrun'll be here by five to eight. That's only fifteen minutes. Besides, you smell like you could use some airing out.”

“Come on,” Whisky said, using one hand as a visor. “The sun is killing my eyes.”

Pretty Boy sighed as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of wire, coiled up tight. He uncoiled the wire, straightening it with his fingers. “The things I do for my peeps,” he muttered as he headed for the narrow walkway between New Directions and the house next door.

Whisky flipped open his phone. “I'm timing you, Pretty Boy!” he called after him, laughing. “Your record is four minutes, twenty seconds.”

Pretty Boy beat his record. Exactly four minutes and twelve seconds later, the front door to the school flew open and there was Pretty Boy, his orange boa draped over his shoulders. He extended one arm toward us like a ringmaster introducing a circus act.

Neither Big Ron or Miss Lebrun said anything about it when they turned up—Miss Lebrun on her bike, Big Ron in a pickup truck—and we were already inside. Pretty Boy had turned on the coffee machine in the kitchen, and Miss Lebrun poured herself a cup.

Big Ron opened the fridge and took out a carton of orange juice. The fridge smelled sour. “Maybe you should go home and sleep it off,” Big Ron told Whisky.

“This miserable place is my home,” Whisky said.

Jasmine pretended to play the violin, slicing the air with an imaginary bow.

I sat down at the table next to Jasmine. “How come you're not wearing your precious ring?” she asked me. “I hope no underage delinquent stole it.”

“I decided to take a break—from the ring. I'm sorry for freaking out the way I did. I was an idiot.”

Jasmine flicked at a bit of dirt on the kitchen table. Her black nail polish was starting to chip off. “No biggie,” she said. “We're all idiots sometimes. Welcome to the club.”

Whisky leaned back so far in his chair that the front legs lifted off the ground. “I'll bet you anything Miss Lebrun was never an idiot. Anytime. Right, Miss Lebrun?”

Miss Lebrun smiled. “That's right, William.”

Though I'd never have admitted it to anyone else, I was actually starting to look forward to Miss Lebrun's writing exercises. I liked starting my day on paper. Miss Lebrun had told us she got some of her ideas on her bike rides to school.

That morning, she told us to write the numbers one through twenty-five down the side of a page. “We're doing a list. Are you ready?” Sometimes I thought Miss Lebrun needed to ease up on the coffee. “Lists are a useful remedy for writer's block,” she continued.

As usual, Pretty Boy was slumped over his desk. Now he looked up from his morning nap. “Who said we had writer's block?” he asked.

“You want us to make a list of everything we want for Christmas?” Di called out. She was sitting to the other side of me. “I could do that list easy. I want a new jean jacket and an iPod. And one of those charm bracelets the Westmount girls wear.”

“I had a different sort of list in mind,” Miss Lebrun said, “though your idea has possibilities, Diane. Today, I want you each to write a list of how you spend your time. All the things you do in a day—or a week. How we spend our time says a lot about us—about our values. Just make your lists as quickly as you can, without thinking too much.”

“I like that part,” Pretty Boy said, and the rest of us laughed.

“You can even repeat items on your list,” Miss Lebrun added. “The main thing is not to censor yourselves.”

Whisky made a snorting sound. “You mean Randy can write
getting laid
twenty-five times?” he asked.

“It's better than writing
getting loaded
twenty-five times,” Randy called from the back of the room.

“All right, gentlemen,” Miss Lebrun said. “Let's settle down and get to work.”

I wrote
Making out with Cyrus
, but then I crossed it out.

I was still ticked off with him. After I'd left the park that night, he'd followed me for a while, walking a few steps behind me, but I'd ignored him, and eventually he gave up and turned around. Though it didn't make sense, I was mad at him for that too—for abandoning me.

So I wrote
Tagging
instead. Only writing that seemed weird too. I hadn't tagged in ages. Not since the police had picked me up that night in June. Mom had made me promise to stop. So far, I'd kept my word.

Looking at art books.

Looking at books about street art.

Watching people.

Taking the metro.

Doing chores around the apartment. Dishes. Laundry.

The list was getting easier. I liked the feeling of my pen moving almost like a paintbrush across the page.

I heard Di drop her pen on her desk. I was surprised she had finished the exercise so quickly. I thought she did everything in slow motion.

When I turned to look at her, she was getting up from her desk. Her shoulders were hunched, and she had one hand over her mouth. My first thought was that something she'd written on her list had upset her.

Miss Lebrun, who had been writing her own list, looked up too. “Diane, is there someth—?”

Di rested one hand on my desk. Then she rushed to the front of the classroom where Miss Lebrun's desk was.

Di's hand was still over her mouth, but now she made this gross gulping sound. The color had drained from her face, and her hand was so pale it looked like you could see through it.

That's when I knew Di was headed to the black metal garbage can next to Miss Lebrun's desk. The one where we dumped our apple cores and wadded-up chewing gum.

Di's arm shot out as she reached for the garbage can and lifted it from the ground.

Then she vomited—a jet of yellow and white that looked like chewed-up corn and smelled worse—right into the can.

“Basket!” Whisky called out.

By then, Di was on her knees, doubled over the garbage can. She'd finished vomiting, but her shoulders were still heaving.

Miss Lebrun leaned over Di and patted her shoulder. “It's okay,” Miss Lebrun told her. “Everything's going to be okay.”

Pretty Boy scooped up the garbage can without saying a word and left the room. I could tell from the way he was scrunching his face that he was trying not to inhale.

Di wiped away the vomit around her mouth. When she could stand again, she followed Pretty Boy out of the room. She must have wanted to rinse out her mouth—and her peasant blouse.

Before the door closed, we heard Pretty Boy say, “So, Lady Di, what's it gonna be? A boy—or a girl?”