Straight Punch (7 page)

Chapter Ten

Mr. Turner loved the idea. He'd come to New Directions for a meeting with Miss Lebrun and Big Ron, but when Miss Lebrun mentioned my plan, he wanted to meet right away with all of us.

“We'll make it an open house,” he said, rubbing his head. “What the people in this neighborhood need is information. We'll do it next Tuesday night. That way it'll be a preemptive strike. Can I count on all of you to be present—and also to help prepare for the event?” he asked us. He was so excited that when the back of his shirt came untucked from his slacks, he didn't bother tucking it back in. “What we need is to get the neighbors on side. I'd like to hear any of your suggestions.”

Randy raised his hand.

“Yes, Randall?” Mr. Turner said, nodding at Randy.

“I'm thinking…” Randy began. Ever since Jasmine had mentioned that Randy was
LD
, I'd started noticing how he spoke more slowly than any of us, as if he had to translate the words in his brain before he said them. “If this is about public relations”—Randy paused—“well, it might be a better move”—he paused again—“to make some of the students stay home.”

Randy turned to look at Whisky, who glared back at him. They might have shaken hands after their sparring match, but we all knew they hadn't really settled things.

Di was looking down at her belly. It still looked perfectly flat to me. But maybe she was wondering whether she should stay home too.

Miss Lebrun cleared her throat. “I think it's important that each and every one of you is here on Tuesday night. You're all part of New Directions.” She gave Randy a steely look when she said that.

After Mr. Turner left, Miss Lebrun organized us into teams of two. Pretty Boy and I were in charge of décor. “What I'd really like,” Miss Lebrun told us, “is for the two of you to do some paintings. We could hang them on the walls. Right now, all we've got are posters about the dangers of drug abuse.”

“And the importance of safe sex,” I added.

“That too,” Miss Lebrun said. “By the way, I have a little surprise for you two.” She gestured for us to follow her to the supply closet at the back of our classroom. “There was a little extra money in the budget, so Mr. Turner gave me the okay to buy some art supplies.” She reached deep into the closet, lugging out four giant canvases and two boxes filled with tubes of acrylic paint.

Pretty Boy sighed. “Thanks for thinking of us, Miss Lebrun, but we're not into the kind of art you hang on walls. Right, Tessa?”

“Percy's right.” I felt like a fraud though. The closest I'd come to doing any art since getting busted in June was messing around with the cover of my journal. I'd glued a sheet of art paper on top of it, then sketched out a wreath of boxing gloves and colored them in with magic markers. The whole project had taken about half an hour.

But then my eyes landed on the tubes of acrylic paint, lined up in a neat row and sealed in shrink-wrap. I'd never been able to resist brand-new art supplies. Saturday mornings when I was growing up, Mom would ask, “If you could be anywhere in the world today, where would it be?” I could have said Paris or the North Pole, but I always came up with the same answer: the art-supply shop downtown.

Mom and I would wander up and down the aisles, and then, before we left, she'd let me choose one thing. When I was little, I'd go for paint-by-number sets—and, once, a paint-your-own-umbrella kit—but later I graduated to sketch pads, canvases and tubes of acrylic paint. Just like the ones Miss Lebrun was tempting me with now.

“Maybe,” I began hesitantly, hoping Pretty Boy wouldn't get too upset over what I was about to say, “well, maybe we could try to work on some canvases. Just this once. It could be an experiment—and a way of supporting the open house. What do you say, Percy?”

“I'll think about it.” It was more than I'd expected from him.

But then Pretty Boy raised his fists to his face as if he was defending himself in a fight. “And for fuck's sake, will you quit calling me, Percy?”

There was going to be a boxing demonstration at the open house. “I could use Randy and Whisky for that,” Big Ron said. “If the two of you think you can behave yourselves.”

“Of course we can,” they said at the same time. I figured they liked the idea of showing off their boxing skills.

Big Ron also came up with the idea of offering a short, basic boxing lesson to people who wanted to try it out. “I want them to understand what it really feels like to box,” he said.

The grade tens complained about getting stuck with the gruntwork. Miss Lebrun had made them responsible for cleaning up the school and organizing snacks. “No junk food!” I'd heard her warn them. “We want to send the message that we promote healthy habits here. I'm thinking apples, cheese cubes, maybe some plain popcorn. The low-sodium kind.”

Jasmine and Di were handling publicity. They designed a poster of their own and plastered it all over the neighborhood.
Miss Lebrun had also warned us not to tear down any of the posters for the meeting on the Thursday night. She said that would send a bad message. “All voices deserve to be heard,” she told us, “even ones we may disagree with. It's called democracy.”

Pretty Boy grumbled when she said that, but he stopped tearing down the other posters.

Mr. Turner popped by more often now that we'd begun to prepare for the open house. Pretty Boy and I had decided to collaborate on one of the paintings. We wanted to try combining our two styles, and I was psyched about it. We were going to do a background of corporate logos and my trademark sign and, over that, Pretty Boy's butterfly people.

“What I like,” Pretty Boy had told me, “is the juxtaposition of two worlds: the corporate world that's everywhere around us, and our inner worlds, where we're trying to become who we're meant to be.”

I must've looked at him funny when he said that. “What's wrong?' he asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “I just didn't know you were so deep.”

Pretty Boy winked. “I told you, I like to keep a low profile.”

We were sitting on the floor, prepping the canvas, when Mr. Turner walked by. “I was thinking,” he said, “of some ideas for the two of you. A little inspiration, if you catch my drift.”

“We've got plenty of inspiration of our own,” Pretty Boy told him.

“But thanks anyhow,” I added.

Mr. Turner didn't get the message. Even principals can be obtuse, I guess. “What I was thinking was maybe you could do a portrait of two boxers—a boy and a girl—shaking hands. An image like that…well, it would convey an important message and help with public relations.”

“The thing is,” I told Mr. Turner, “we've already come up with a plan of our own.”

“The thing is,” Pretty Boy added dryly, “you can't go telling artists what kind of art to make. Art is an expression of a person's soul.”

Mr. Turner looked hurt. “It was just a suggestion,” he said.

Pretty Boy dipped his paintbrush into the primer. “Don't worry about it,” he said. “All voices deserve to be heard—even ones we disagree with.”

“It's called democracy,” I added.

It was pouring, so we took our break in the kitchen. The grade tens had cleaned out the refrigerator. When Pretty Boy opened it to get some apple juice, the air smelled like bleach,
not moldy food. Overall, it was an improvement. We talked mostly about the open house, which was coming up in less than a week. Jasmine wondered whether the woman from next door would show up.

“Of course she'll come,” Pretty Boy said. “A snoopy bitch like her won't be able to resist.”

“Language, Percy!” Miss Lebrun said, raising her eyebrows.

Di didn't think the woman would turn up. “She doesn't really want to change her opinion about us.”

I agreed with Di. “If she won't come to us, we should go to her,” I suggested.

“What do you have in mind exactly?” Jasmine asked.

“We could go over there and personally invite her to the open house.”

“Don't look at me,” Pretty Boy said. “I'm not going over there.”

“I wasn't looking at you,” I told him. “She might remember that you gave her the finger.”

“Or that he destroyed her precious sunflowers,” Di said.

“Why does everyone keep pinning that on me?' Pretty Boy asked.

“You should go,” Jasmine said to me. “With Randy. Just make sure
you
do the talking. The lady may not have all day.”

Randy was eating an apple. “Hey,” he said, “play nice.”

“Playing nice,” said Jasmine, “is overrated.”

A half hour later, Randy and I were standing on the front porch of the house next door. “I feel like a Jehovah's Witness,” I told him.

“I should've worn a suit,” Randy said. I was too surprised to laugh. It was the first time I'd ever heard him crack a joke.

It was a warm day, and the living-room window was open. We could hear the whir of what sounded like a sewing machine. Then the whirring stopped and we heard a woman's voice. “You see how hard I work,” she was saying. “I never even take a day off from all this damn sewing. And you know why? So you can keep going to that school! Don't you understand it's your only ticket out of this lousy neighborhood? You're staying in that school, and I don't want to hear another word about it.”

Someone answered in a softer voice, but we couldn't make out the words.

Randy nudged my elbow. “Maybe we should…come back later.”

I thought we should get it over with. I rang the doorbell. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Get the door, will you?” we heard the woman shout. “It's probably someone who needs alterations.”

I saw a finger push aside a corner of the lace curtain in the door window. Then I saw the top of a head of messy brown hair. A few seconds later, the door opened.

A boy in what looked like a private-school uniform—white shirt, navy tie, gray flannel pants—peeked out. He looked like he was around twelve, and he had his mom's dandelion hair. His eyes darted back and forth between me and Randy. “Can I help you?” he asked. At least he had better manners than his mother.

“We…uh…” I was starting to sound like Randy. “We go to the school next door, and we wondered if we might talk to your mom.”

“I'm sorry,” the boy said, and he looked like he meant it, “but I don't think she wants to talk to you.”

“Eddie!” his mom called from the back of the house. “Who's at the door? Is it a customer?”

“Nobody!” the boy called back. “Just some kid selling chocolate bars. I told him we didn't want any.”

“Well then, Eddie,” I said, handing him the brochure Jasmine and Di had printed up about the open house, “could you give her this? And could you let her know we'd really like her to come to our open house next week?”

“You could come too,” Randy told Eddie.

Eddie looked up at Randy. I knew he was admiring Randy's muscles. “You do boxing?” he asked in a low voice.

“Yup,” Randy said.

“Can you beat someone up?”

I could see Randy considering the question. “It would depend on if I had to.”

Eddie looked over his shoulder. There was no sign of his mom. “What if you had to?” he asked.

Randy grinned. “Well then I could.”

Eddie shifted from one foot to the other. Then he looked at me. “Do girls box too?”

“Yup.”

“Is it fun?”

Until that moment, I hadn't thought about whether boxing was fun. Mostly, when I thought about boxing, I thought about how hard it was, how tiring, and how much I still had to learn. I still had trouble remembering how to put my hand wraps on right.

“Well, is it?” the boy asked.

“Boxing's cool,” I told him. And I realized I meant it.

Chapter Eleven

“I guess…” Randy said as we headed back to New Directions. He let his voice trail off.

“What do you guess?” A conversation with Randy required more patience than I had right then.

“I guess that didn't go too well.” He sighed as if he was relieved to have got the thought out.

“It went okay. Eddie seems like a decent kid. I'll bet he gives his mother the brochure.”

“She'll tear it up,” Randy said.

“How do you know?”

“That's how people are.” Randy paused, searching for the right words. “They make their minds up and then they won't budge.”

“I hope you're wrong.”

Randy stopped when we reached the sidewalk. He put his hand on my elbow, as if he wanted his touch to tell me something. “People make up their minds about me,” he said finally. He didn't sound sorry for himself—more like he was reporting a fact. “They think I'm dumb. Good-looking, but dumb.” Then he looked right at me. It's not easy to stay calm when a guy as hot as Randy is staring into your eyes. “Is that what you think?”

“Of course not. The dumb part, I mean.”

I wondered if he could tell I was lying.

Maybe because I was so focused on Randy's hotness, I didn't notice Cyrus at first. Or maybe it was because I didn't expect Cyrus to be standing in front of New Directions. Of course, he was lugging his tripod on his back. I hadn't seen him for nearly three weeks. For a while I didn't even answer his texts or phone messages. We'd only just started talking again.

“Could you…uh, please, get your hands off my girlfriend?” Cyrus caught my eye when he said
girlfriend
. I guess he was checking to see if the term still applied. I wasn't sure if it did. I hadn't completely forgiven him after our fight at the park.

Randy let go of my elbow. “Who're you?” he asked Cyrus.

Cyrus's face was sweaty. I wondered if it was from the heat or if knowing Randy was a boxer made him nervous. Or maybe it was because Randy was hot.

“I'm Cyrus. Tessa's boyfriend.” He shot me another look.

There was nothing wrong with Cyrus's build, but next to Randy he looked scrawny. Then again, most guys would look scrawny next to Randy.

“We were just talking,” Randy told Cyrus. “I'm Randy.” He extended his hand to shake Cyrus's.

“Tessa mentioned you.” I knew Cyrus was remembering Randy's nickname. He shook Randy's hand, mostly because he had no choice. “Good to meet you, man.” Then Cyrus leaned in to kiss me. I could have ducked, but I got caught up in all the things that were familiar about Cyrus—his voice, his smell, the way he ran his fingers through his curly hair when he talked. Not to mention that he'd obviously gone out of his way to come to New Directions, wanting to make up with me.

Still, when our lips met I couldn't help thinking that Cyrus was acting like a dog marking his territory. He'd basically peed on my leg. I didn't appreciate being treated like a hydrant.

Randy's phone vibrated. “Hey, babe,” he said when he took the call. He walked to the corner of the yard, leaving me and Cyrus alone outside the school.

I wanted Cyrus to come in and meet the others and see the canvases Pretty Boy and I had been working on, but Cyrus said there wasn't time. “I really wish I could. Next time, okay?” He squeezed my hand. “Besides, I've got a surprise for you. We're going somewhere special.”

I ran inside for my backpack. Jasmine and Di must've been watching from the window. “That your cameraman?” Di wanted to know.

“Why didn't you bring him inside?” Jasmine asked. “You afraid one of us hotties'll steal him?”

When I got back outside, Cyrus slung his arm around my waist.

When I turned to look behind me, I could see that Jasmine and Di were back in the window. I waved up at them. I hoped they thought Cyrus was cute.

He pulled me closer as we walked down the block toward the metro station. “I hope you're not giving that Randy guy the impression you're interested in him.”

“I'm not interested in him. We're just friends.”

Cyrus stopped walking and turned to look at me. “You sure?” I could feel him watching my face. Now he was acting like he was a lawyer and I was a witness on the stand. I didn't know what felt worse—being treated like a fire hydrant or like a criminal.

“Of course I'm sure. Don't be a jerk.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” he said, totally ignoring that I'd called him a jerk. Still, I hoped he'd gotten the message.

There was a green space across from the metro. It was too small to be called a park, although it had a slide and a rickety set of swings. I spotted Whisky on one of them—not swinging, just kicking the dirt under it. A guy I didn't know was with him. I was about to shout hello, but then I saw the guy hand Whisky a paper bag. When Whisky took a swig, I knew there was booze in it.

Cyrus noticed them too. He tugged on my hand. “Let's speed it up,” he whispered to me. “It's a rough neighborhood.”

I didn't tell him one of the guys went to New Directions. Cyrus would only use it as another argument against the school.

“So where are you taking me?” I asked when we were walking through the turnstiles at the metro station.

“Don't you want it to be a surprise?”

When we got off at Berri-UQAM and switched to the orange metro line, I guessed we were going to Chinatown. Cyrus knew I loved Chinese food.

“All right.” Cyrus threw his hands up in the air. “I give up. We are going to Chinatown. But not to eat—at least, not right away. I found this guy who manages a building there. He's letting me have access to the roof.” From the excited way Cyrus was speaking, I knew the arrangement he'd made had something to do with photography.

“If the weather's right on Saturday,” he went on, “I'll get to spend the whole day shooting. I checked the forecast and there's supposed to be a mix of sun and cloud—not too sunny though.”
I knew from hanging out with Cyrus that photographers felt the same way about full sunlight as vampires did. “Wait till you see the view, Tessa. It's gonna blow you away. These are going to my best photos ever.” I'd never noticed before how fast Cyrus talked. Maybe it was because I was comparing him with Randy.

I didn't say what I was thinking—that maybe he was getting a little ahead of himself here. Cyrus had arranged a photo shoot. The Magnum Photos agency hadn't phoned to sign him up.

“How'd you talk the building manager into it?” I asked when we were sitting on one of the benches, waiting for the next metro, and Cyrus finally let me get a word in.

“It helped when I mentioned I could pay him a hundred dollars for his trouble. He introduced me to the security guard who's going to let me go up to the roof.”

I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket, and I took it out to check the display. It was my mom, writing to tell me she'd defrosted spaghetti sauce for supper. I texted her back to say I was with Cyrus and that we'd be eating in Chinatown.

Cyrus was leaning over my shoulder, trying to read what I was writing. I hit Send and put the phone away.

“Who was texting you?” Cyrus's tone bugged me. It sounded
as if he thought he had a right to know.

“Nobody.”

“You obviously weren't texting nobody. Who was it, Tessa? Was it Randy? Randy Randy?”

That made me laugh.

“Show me your phone, Tessa.”

I shook my head. “Cyrus, do you have any idea how crazy you sound?”

Cyrus looked down at his sneakers, then lifted his head and looked back at me. “Maybe I am a little jealous. It's just…you're hanging out with all these new kids…and then there's Randy…”

I knew I was Cyrus's first serious girlfriend. I just hadn't realized he was so insecure. Since getting angry didn't seem to be working, I thought I'd try a different strategy. “You need to work on your jealousy issues. Besides,” I told him, “I have a thing for you. Not Randy.”

Cyrus gave me a little smile. “You're right. I'll work on it.” He paused. “So who were you texting?”

I almost laughed. “You call that working on your jealousy issues? It was my mom!”

“How come you won't show me your phone then?”

I pulled the phone out again and flashed it in front of Cyrus's face. “There! I'm showing it to you now, Cyrus.”

I watched his eyes scan the tiny screen. It would have been a good time for him to apologize for acting like a lunatic, but he didn't.

I probably shouldn't have agreed to go with Cyrus to Chinatown. I knew we were having problems, and I didn't like him acting like he owned me, but I wasn't ready to break up with him. Maybe I liked the
idea
of Cyrus more than I actually liked
him
.

We got off at the Place d'Armes stop. I swear I could smell fried eggrolls from inside the station. When you took the escalator up and exited on St-Laurent Boulevard, you could have been in Hong Kong, not Montreal. Ducks with goose-bumpy skin and long skinny necks hung upside down in store windows. Outside, there were racks filled with giant prickly vegetables I'd never tasted and didn't know the names of.

Cyrus said I had to see the rooftop where he'd be doing his photo shoot.

When we showed up, Mr. Lee, the security guard, was in the lobby, drumming his fingers on the high desk in front of him. He seemed glad to see us. I guess not that much happens when you work security. “This your lady?” he asked Cyrus. The ring of keys hanging from Mr. Lee's belt jangled as he stepped out from behind his desk.

“My name's Tessa,” I told Mr. Lee.

“You got yourself quite a boyfriend,” he said. “He takes charge. Young men like him, they go places.”

I knew from the way Cyrus shifted his shoulders that he was basking in the compliment. “Look, Mr. Lee,” he said, “I was hoping you'd let me take Tessa up to the roof. So I could show her the view.”

“Show her the view, heh? I guess that could be arranged.”

Mr. Lee looked at Cyrus and Cyrus looked back at him. I could tell they were communicating, but I didn't know about what—until Cyrus reached into his front pocket, where he keeps his wallet. I felt sorry for Mr. Lee when he accepted the twenty-dollar tip Cyrus handed him.

The transaction didn't seem to bother Mr. Lee. “Go right up,” he said, gesturing to the bank of elevators in the middle of the lobby.

Mr. Lee lifted his chin to the row of closed-circuit
TV
monitors by his desk. “I'll be keeping an eye on you two lovebirds.”

We took the elevator to the tenth floor. From there, we had to take a long, narrow flight of stairs to the rooftop. I ran straight up. I'd never have been able to do that before I started training. Cyrus stopped twice to catch his breath. “Must be all this equipment I'm carrying,” he said when I looked down at him from the landing.

There was a Do Not Enter sign on the door that led to the rooftop, but I pushed it open anyhow. Even ten floors up, I could smell eggrolls.

The roof's surface was covered in tar paper with gravel sprinkled over it. When we walked, our feet made crunching sounds. Someone had set out two lawn chairs. I wondered if he'd also paid for the privilege.

Cyrus took my hand and led me to the far edge. “You were right,” I said. “The view's amazing.” Below us, not too far in the distance, was the St. Lawrence River.

The view reminded me that Montreal was a giant island.

“Now look this way.” Cyrus put his hand on my waist and turned me a little to the left.

In front of us was another building. It was about the size of the one we were in—or, in our case, on. There was nothing beautiful or remarkable about the other building. It was made of gray stone. “So?” I said to Cyrus.

“That's what I'm going to be shooting.” Cyrus grinned.

“Are you telling me you spent a hundred and twenty bucks so you could photograph some old gray building?”

“Look at it, Tessa. Really look.”

So I did. This time, I noticed two pigeons pecking each other on one of the windowsills.

“What do you see?” Cyrus asked.

“I see two pigeons on a windowsill.”

“You're getting warmer. Tell me what else you see.”

“I think I see a spider plant in another window. And a tall lamp. Cyrus, are you going to be taking photos of what you can see in that other building's windows? Is that even legal?”

Cyrus laughed. “Of course it's legal. Besides, I'm not looking for anything kinky. It's an office building, Tessa. No one'll be there over the weekend except maybe a janitor. What I'm interested in is the lonely
feeling
of an empty building—that spider plant you mentioned, the lamp, a desk with nothing on it or piled high with papers. With my telephoto zoom, I'll be able to see inside a lot of windows.”

“Hmm,” I said. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all.

“Of course, I'll need better light than we've got today. Hold this, will you?” Cyrus handed me his tripod. He took out his camera and started snapping photos of the building across from us.

“I thought you said the light wasn't right.”

“It isn't,” he said as he continued snapping. “This is just a
test shoot
.” He kneeled down to get another angle.

Because I knew this could take a while, I went to sit down on one of the lawn chairs. Sitting felt good. My muscles were sore from working out.

“Careful with my tripod!” Cyrus called out.

“I'm getting hungry,” I told him.

He wasn't listening. This was one of those times that Cyrus's commitment to his photography got on my nerves.

“I'm getting hungry,” I said again.

When Cyrus didn't answer, I got up from the lawn chair and walked over to the other side of the roof. From here, I could see all of Chinatown. The giant gold-and-red decorative arch on St-Laurent Boulevard, the neon restaurant signs with Chinese lettering, the square where people practiced tai chi on Sunday mornings. A garbage truck was making its rounds. A woman dragging a green garbage bag rushed to get it to the curb in time.