Punch Like a Girl Read online

  I draw the outline of a butterfly for Manny and then one for me. He paints his butterfly rainbow colors. Mine is decorated with straight, purple lines.

  When Rachel sees our butterflies, she makes one too. Even Jonah does, a gray-and-black one that looks somewhat like a bat.

  Jia tapes the cutouts to the wall as soon as they’re not dripping. “It’s beautiful!” she exclaims when the wall garden is filled with butterflies.

  Rachel nods. “Casey would be happy.”

  “She’d love it,” I say. I’m amazed that, after all they’ve been through, these kids radiate such kindness.

  “I miss her.” Manny grips my hand.

  “We all do, stupid.” Jonah whacks his brother, but not hard enough to earn a time-out from Jia.

  “Where do you think Casey is?” Rachel asks.

  It’s the same thing I’ve been wondering. What town are they in? Have they found an apartment? Has she made friends at school? What is she doing right now?

  “Who knows?” Jia grips her shoulder. “But wherever she is, I’m sure she thinks about you too.”

  As Jia begins Homework Club, I take the brushes to the washroom in the hall to clean up. When I look in the mirror, I’m surprised how gray I look, with big circles under my eyes and smudged mascara. My hair has grown to almost half an inch. My cast has paint on it. I don’t look tough, just sad and unkempt. Too pathetic for anti-prom.

  My stomach squeezes tighter. Should I shave my head for anti-prom? I can hardly style it when it’s so short. What should I wear? I have to look tough enough to survive anything that might come at me.

  I finish washing the brushes and step into the hall, tumbling into Sal, who’s carrying a cardboard box of picture books.

  “Whoa, sorry.” He swerves around me. “New donations.” He rattles the box, grinning. “I guess it’s story time.”

  I step backward and try to sound cheerful. “Sounds good.”

  His grin fades. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “Are you sure? Because you usually clench your jaw like that when you’re upset.”

  “I do?”

  “Yeah.” Sal puts down the box and leans against the wall. “So what is it? I mean, if you want to talk.”

  “Well,” I say, “I’m upset about this party I’ve promised to go to, even though I’d rather avoid it. It’s just going to be…” I trail off, surprised that I’m so comfortable spilling my guts to Sal.

  “Does this have anything to do with that guy you’ve been avoiding?”

  “A bit.” I stare at him. He remembers that?

  “Well, you don’t have to go, but if you do, make sure you’ve got some good friends there to help.”

  Like you, I think. But I don’t dare ask him to come with me. I mean, I’d like him there, as a friend, but asking him is too scary, too complicated.

  “I will,” I say, and then I duck into the school-age room for the end of Homework Club.

  After my shift, I hurry home, heading straight for the upstairs bathroom and Dad’s electric clippers.

  I start on my left side. Since I’m using my left hand, I’m a bit sloppy, leaving a shaved patch shaped like a Nike swoosh above my ear. I’m about to shave a second strip when I get an idea.

  Using the edge of the clippers, I widen the swoosh into a stylized wing.

  Not bad, I think.

  I shave the rest of my head down to quarter-inch stubble and then attempt to carve a matching wing on the right side. When I get the wings mostly even, I stand back and take a look.

  My stubble sparkles blond in the overhead light. I have to turn sideways to see my wings. One is larger than the other and lopsided.

  I practice my don’t-mess-with-me glare in the mirror.

  Maybe I can be as strong as Casey thinks I am.

  CLENCH

  to hold tight

  Sensation Alley sounds more like a strip bar than an underage club.

  There are six steps up to the club; it’s in a row of shops on High Street where a mega video store used to be. Alena is tottering up the last few steps in four-inch heels, with Daniel and me gripping her on either side. She’s happily missing the point of an anti-prom in a poufy yellow dress that would suit Belle from Beauty and the Beast.

  When I arrived at her place earlier, she said, “I was trying to decide between a beaded, pink strapless and a purple, one-shoulder maxi until I found this beauty at Value Village—only twenty bucks!” She twirled, making the crinoline underskirt flare out.

  “What a deal.” I’d tried to sound supportive as she towered over me in her heels.

  Daniel is wearing a T-shirt from Tiny Tom’s Donuts with jeans and a patient expression. Once again, I think he may be good enough for Alena.

  I considered dressing in army gear to look tough, or a nondescript black dress to blend in. In the end, I chose both tough and camouflage: a belted burgundy minidress with a black spider-web pattern and long sleeves that partly cover my cast, and pointy black flats with a nonslip tread—good for kicking or fleeing.

  We’re fashionably late, thanks to Alena’s bad directions, and the party sounds like it’s well under way. The bass from the dance music thuds in my chest, reminding me of the blaring tunes at Carmen’s party. I hesitate on the last step, clutching the railing and scanning the room for Matt, until Alena yanks me through the doorway and past a thug in a black T-shirt labeled Security.

  We walk under a banner announcing the anti-prom and into the crowd. The place reeks of cologne with an undercurrent of sweat. The walls are mirrored, and the floor is black tile. The purple lights are dim enough for people to act like fools on the dance floor, and a mirror ball makes the room feel like it’s spinning unpleasantly.

  On one side of the room, there’s a guy serving drinks from behind a bar and a refreshment table piled with platters of snacks. No booze, of course, although the smell is in the air, so it’s been smuggled in somehow.

  On the other side, a hired DJ blasts tunes from a raised platform that could also house a band. One corner of the room is cordoned off with a rope so people can pose for a photo in front of a backdrop of King Kong on the Empire State Building. I don’t know what Carmen and the other planners were thinking.

  “Let’s find Jamarlo,” Alena shouts into my ear. Then she’s towing Daniel and me through the crowd on the dance floor.

  Alena’s dress is the fanciest by far, and there are no rented tuxes. I grip her arm as she pulls me past guys in funky shirts grooving with fashionistas in tight, low-cut dresses and even black leather outfits. I see a guy from my math class wearing jeans and a snowboarding hat. A few girls are in casual American Eagle gear; another is in a hijab.

  The crowd is wired on sugar, loud tunes and whatever else. I hold my broken hand close, wishing I’d asked Sal to come.

  Then I spot Jamarlo, and I can’t help but gape. He’s wearing the red, strapless dress I teased him about trying on in Felipe’s Glam Boutique, with Doc Martens and his trademark fedora—a black one—over his stumpy dreads.

  “Shit! Look at Jamarlo!” I yell over the music.

  Jamarlo struts toward the stage, waving at everyone. The crowd parts for him, and he’s so outlandish that people laugh and smile. It’s strange, but he looks more masculine, and more confident, in this dress. As he leaps up the two steps onto the stage, Carmen joins him. She’s in a sequined white tux with tails, accented with a jeweled cane, white short shorts and knee-high white boots. Her bleached-blond hair and her whole outfit glow purple in the lights.

  Together, they’re stunning.

  Carmen signals the DJ, who turns the music down.

  Jamarlo whips the mic off its stand. “Hey, grade elevens! Guess who’s your MC for the night?” He sets his hat low over his face and moonwalks across the stage; he’s been practicing that move for eons.

  The room explodes with cheers, yelps and hoots. Jamarlo bows and then attempts to curtsy.

  “I can’t believe him!” I sh
out to Alena and Daniel.

  “He’s gorgeous!” Alena shrieks. “Would you do that?”she asks Daniel.

  “No way.” He shakes his head and watches Jamarlo with something like admiration.

  “First order of business is to thank the organizers”—Jamarlo motions toward Carmen with a flourish—“the supreme party queen Carmen Carter and her team!”

  Carmen gives a Queen Elizabeth wave, and the crowd goes wild. As Jamarlo tips the mic toward her, she lays an arm across his shoulders.

  “Who says we have to wait till high school is over to celebrate?” She fist-pumps the air. “Let’s party!” She gives Jamarlo a long kiss on the lips.

  The crowd hoots again.

  After the kiss, Jamarlo’s grin is huge. “So we’ve got DJ Malcolm Mix taking your song requests, and a photo booth to capture your memories with King Kong. Also, anyone who wants to be in the alternative-fashion contest, head to the stage in fifteen minutes. Party on!” He swings the mic back in its stand and slides off the stage with his arm around Carmen.

  “Carmen knows cool,” Alena yells at me as the music resumes full volume. “Or maybe she just makes things cool.”

  I nod. “Like Jamarlo.”

  “No kidding!” She beams. “Let’s go find him.”

  “I’ll get us some drinks.” Daniel heads to the bar, after he gives Alena a peck on the cheek that makes her flush.

  We have to fight our way to Jamarlo and Carmen, who’ve been swarmed. By the time we get close, Daniel has returned, cradling three glasses of soda.

  “Thanks,” I shout, taking one as Alena snuggles against him with her drink.

  When Jamarlo finally sees us, he dives through the throng.

  “You like?” He strikes a pose, tipping his hat.

  “God, yes!” Alena hugs him.

  “You’ve got guts.” Daniel fist-bumps him.

  Jamarlo’s eyes land on mine and hesitate.

  “Look,” I call over the music. “About that guy at Felipe’s. I’m sorr—”

  “Forget about it.” His eyes slip to Alena and then back to me. “I get it.”

  “You do?” That was easy. I wonder why until I notice Alena’s guilty expression.

  “You told him?” I turn on her, ready to unleash my inner demons on her head, but I’m suddenly relieved that Jamarlo knows about Matt and that I don’t need to say it out loud again.

  “Told him what?” Daniel and Carmen say at the same time and then look at each other in surprise.

  “Nothing much,” Alena says. “Jamarlo and Tori just had to work out this thing.”

  “Cool.” Carmen nods. Then, before I can stop her, she’s rubbing her hand over my shaved head, fingering the wing designs. “Nice hair.”

  “Uh…thanks.”

  She’s the first one who has commented. Even Alena and Jamarlo haven’t said anything yet.

  “This party is awesome, Carmen,” Alena gushes.

  “Yup.” Carmen reaches into her shirt to adjust her bra strap. “High school is crap, but there are perks.”

  I smile. It’s as close as Carmen can get to sentimental.

  As we chat about her King Kong inspiration, a good feeling washes over me. The world can be amazingly bleak and harsh, but this party has a random togetherness that feels okay.

  When Jamarlo and Carmen leave to organize the fashion contest, Alena begs me to go to the washroom with her. She walks one step ahead of me, raving about Daniel as we weave our way toward it. I bump into Joel, still in his rented tux but without his prom date.

  “Why aren’t you at prom?” I say, losing track of Alena. Only a few hours ago, Dad was taking photos of Joel and his date, a grade-eleven fangirl, in the front garden.

  “I knew this would be better.” He eyes a nearby girl in a dress that barely covers her important bits.

  “It’s for grade elevens only.” I’m suddenly protective of this party and even the people at it.

  “Relax, Tori. Carmen will bend the rules for me. It’s not like I’m graduating.” He fishes an ice cube out of his drink.

  I frown. “Joel, if you shove that down any girl’s—”

  “Trust me. I won’t make a scene.” Still holding the ice cube, he plucks the flower from his lapel and tucks it behind my ear. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, sibling.” He winks and then disappears into the crowd.

  I shake my head and aim for the washroom, looking for Alena. Onstage, Jamarlo has the mic again, and he’s talking about how we’ll vote on outfits by applause. Personally, I think he should win the fashion contest.

  The washrooms are behind the stage, down a long corridor near the back door. On the washroom doors are signs that say this is an LGBTQ event, so the washrooms are gender neutral. I bet this was Carmen’s idea. I’m gaining a new respect for her.

  I push open the door, holding my breath at the scent of crap and perfume. Alena’s not inside. Maybe the stink overwhelmed her. I peek under the stall doors for her high heels. No luck. The washroom is emptying out—maybe because of the fashion contest.

  Then a loud thud from the last stall gets my pulse racing. A girl squeals like she’s in pain.

  “Stop it!” Her voice is urgent.

  I recognize the voice but can’t place it.

  There’s another, harder thud, and my good hand forms a fist.

  “What’s going on?” My voice wavers.

  I’m stepping toward the stall, not sure what I’m going to do, when the door bursts open and Matt tumbles onto the floor—on top of Melody.

  Her dress is open, and his hand is on her neck. His white dress shirt is unbuttoned and untucked. They reek of booze.

  “Get off her!” I screech, and dive at him. Melody’s been a bitch to me, but I can’t watch him hurt her.

  I rip his hand off her neck and pummel his head with the side of my cast, not caring about the pain coursing up my arm. My cell phone falls from my pocket and gets kicked into a stall.

  “What the hell, Tori?” Matt lashes out, knocking me to my knees near the row of sinks before he leaps to his feet. His face is red, and there’s a scratch on one cheek. “I knew you were jealous, but this is insane!”

  Melody tugs her dress closed. Her face is pale. Her eyes avoid mine as she flees the washroom, tottering on high heels.

  I rise slowly, body tense, not daring to glance away from Matt. The fluorescent light by the door flickers. Outside, the crowd hollers. In the stall behind Matt, my phone vibrates.

  “You’ll pay for this, Tori.” Matt rubs his head, scowling, but his eyes travel my body like he’s assessing every bit of it.

  My lungs empty of air. I know that look.

  I sprint for the door with Matt right behind me. When I push it open, he grabs for me, hooking his fingers under my belt. I claw at him until I’m free, ending up in the hall by the back door with Matt blocking the way to the club. Beyond him, I can hear Jamarlo’s voice over the mic, followed by loud cheers.

  “You shouldn’t mess with me, Tori.” Matt saunters closer, his face in shadows.

  The scent of his cologne sickens me. I scramble backward, banging my cast arm hard against the wall and reaching for the knob to the back door with my good hand. When I get the door open, I burst into the unlit lane and run.

  The night air is cold. My eyes take precious seconds to adjust to the darkness. I crunch over broken glass and splash through a puddle near a pile of crates.

  When I reach a main street, I’m breathing hard, my sides aching. I lean against the window of a vacuum-repair shop to catch my breath. What have I done? Will he come after me?

  Then I hear footsteps coming from the lane.

  I flatten against the glass, wishing I could melt into the shop.

  Matt steps into the light, his shadow lengthening on the sidewalk.

  My limbs stiffen. He glances around and sees me.

  I take off down the street.

  “Get back here, Tori!” He pounds after me.

  EXPLODE

  to
be forcibly propelled in multiple

  directions at the same time

  My arms pump. My lungs burn.

  I race past several people and one, two, three darkened storefronts, faster than I’ve ever run.

  Matt’s feet batter the pavement behind me.

  I veer around recycling bins, between parked cars and onto the road. I can never run fast enough or far enough. I’ll never be free of him.

  My head spins. I want to throw up.

  I stumble and fall, bracing for impact, ready to fight until my breath fades.

  Matt plows into me. I land a feeble punch. He grabs my shoulders and shakes until my head is Jell-O.

  “You think you can hit me and get away with it?” he roars.

  I used to wonder the same thing.

  The lights from a coin laundromat brighten the street. A tiny man limps out, gawking.

  “Go away, old man,” Matt snarls, and the man scurries inside, still staring uselessly.

  Words have left me. I hang in Matt’s grip and aim a kick at his shin, but he blocks me. He drags me toward a narrow alley beside the laundromat.

  “You need to learn who’s in charge,” he says.

  My leg scrapes painfully against a car bumper. A car travels past, headlights abandoning me.

  The alley is a dead end. It smells like piss and rot. Matt drops me beside a Dumpster.

  “Now we can be alone.” He knees me in the gut twice. “It’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

  I take in the pain, let it sit in my gut, wrap around my neck, eat away at my soul. Then I kick back, aiming for his ankle, as if it will matter.

  Matt steps aside, his laughter dark and cruel. “That’s what I like about you, Tori. You never give up.” He punches my left eye, and I can feel it start to swell. Then he pulls me up and presses me against the brick wall of the laundromat, crushing his hard body into mine.

  I squirm, but he has me pinned. His fingers push up my dress, find my thigh. His boozy breath fills my lungs. I close my right eye—the left one is swollen shut now—and try not to feel.

  A noise grows in the street. Voices.

  I strain to hear. Matt doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy grinding against me.