Punch Like a Girl Read online

  At school the next day, I browse places to do community service, since I don’t want my parents lurking over my shoulder. Ms. Mink, the guidance counselor with the gaudy jewelry and excessive perfume, keeps a list of volunteer jobs; she’s always keen to “get students involved.”

  After I escape Ms. Mink’s nosy questions about how I’m doing in my classes, I sit at the bank of computers in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that look into the hall. I’m distracted by the people wandering past with boxes of fries from the cafeteria or cold drinks from the 7-Eleven in the strip mall across the street.The grid of wires embedded in the guidance-office windows makes me feel imprisoned, like I can’t be trusted beyond these walls.

  I watch Joel saunter past, acting the goof, as usual. He drops ice from his drink down the front of a girl’s shirt. Roger laughs like an oversized buffoon while the girl shrieks and swats at Joel, flirting madly. Another guy walks by with a swagger, just like Matt does. It’s not him, since Matt goes to the Catholic school with Melody, but the sight of that swagger knocks the air out of my lungs.

  I’m sucking in a breath, wishing I’d never met Matt, when I see Jamarlo with Alena. Jamarlo is gesturing wildly and grinning in a way that makes me miss him like crazy. He’s probably telling a hilarious story about what happened in class; he can make anything funny. I sigh and look down at the computer screen.

  I surf the websites of a few places to volunteer at. No way am I joining a decorating team for a health and beauty fair—I’ll never make flowers out of Kleenex. A job as a retail worker at a health center isn’t helping anyone out, other than saving the center from paying decent wages. And I can’t be a pet-therapy volunteer since I don’t have a pet to bring, although I briefly consider Joel for the role.

  I scratch at the prickly stubble on my head; it’s getting itchy as the hair grows in. At least my shaved head is attracting fewer stares at school. The gossip queens have found better targets.

  Then I find a volunteer posting that doesn’t look too bad:

  CHILD AND YOUTH VOLUNTEER

  Haven Women’s Shelter is looking for a volunteer to assist our child and youth workers with after-school and evening programs for children. The shelter supports and houses women and their children fleeing violence. This volunteer will provide support to the children living in the shelter and act as a positive role model.

  I lean back in my chair and stare at the screen. Children fleeing violence. Those kids would want my help—not like Jamarlo. Maybe I could even teach them a thing or two about standing up for themselves.

  I submit an application online and then head to class. Since I have to do community service, I’d rather it be at Haven.

  KiCK

  to use your foot as a weapon

  On Friday night, I’m hoofing a soccer ball at Alena, who’s warming up in net.

  The sun is low in the sky behind her, and her long shadow falls over me. When she drop-kicks the ball back to me, I hoof it again, aiming for the top-left corner. Alena jumps, smacking the ball out of bounds easily.

  “Good one,” I call, going after it.

  Alena used to be in rep soccer until she got trampled one too many times by aggressive forwards. Now we play house league together, with me as center defense and her in goal. Our team is strong this year, packed with girls who know how to handle a ball and have fun. Tonight the Screamin’ Demons—we named ourselves that because of our red shirts—will face the Babes in Blue, a nauseating name. Alena and I renamed them the Blue Bitches, since they somehow stack the Blue team every year with the same eight or so nasty yet gorgeous players.

  As I jog toward the ball, my shaved head attracts the usual stares from players as well as the few people gathered on the sidelines. When I spot Matt, pain registers in my chest, and my head throbs. Does he have to be here? Now?

  Matt looks like a young Leonardo DiCaprio, only with black hair and a smile that used to knock me horizontal. Right now he’s aiming his sickening smile at Melody, who just happens to be a hard-hitting forward on the Blue Bitches. She thrusts her boobs at Matt, tossing her blond ponytail and posing with her Barbie-doll legs.

  It figures they would hook up. Did he even wait until we were through?

  Matt does a double take at the stubble on my head. My limbs become gawky, and I stumble over my feet. Melody gives me a deadly glare. She probably thinks I want to get back with Matt, but I’m praying he’s turned off. I dribble the ball away, trying to act like he doesn’t threaten my world.

  When I veer back toward Alena, Jamarlo is leaning against the goalpost, chatting with her. As I near, Jamarlo’s eyes bore into me and then look away. Alena starts talking faster and waving her arms, like her Greek mother does when she’s upset.

  “Hey, Jamarlo.” I jog over, still shaky, and boot the ball so that it lands at his feet like an offering.

  He ignores it, his eyes anywhere but on me. “See you, Alena.” He turns toward the sidelines.

  “Wait, Jamarlo, just talk to Tori,” Alena pleads.

  “Why should I?” He turns back, his eyes flaming. “So she can make some lame excuse?”

  Alena puts her hands on her hips. “Don’t make a big deal of this, Jamarlo. Tori was just upset because of the break-up. Now she’s—”

  “Just leave it, Alena.” I press my lips together. I’ve been off my game this week, but he’s too pissed off to talk, and I hate listening to Alena argue for him to forgive me.

  Alena gapes at me. Jamarlo marches away, his back stiff.

  “I can’t stand this,” Alena calls to Jamarlo, but he just keeps going.

  “Neither can I,” I mutter. “But you know how he can hold a grudge.”

  “I know.” She sighs. Her eyes travel the sidelines and then flick back to me. “Did you see that Matt’s here?”

  “Yeah. This day keeps getting better.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” My jaw tightens. “We only went out for a couple of months.”

  “Yeah, but he was a jerk at the end. And you were upset after you saw him at Carmen Carter’s party last weekend—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Blood thuds in my temples, and I flash back to Carmen’s again: Music pounding as I duck into the basement washroom. A shadow on the stairs. Then someone pushing in behind me and slamming the door shut.

  Alena gives me a sideways look but says nothing. I’m relieved when she takes her position in net.

  I get in a few more practice kicks on Alena, although I’m distracted and miss the net. Then we join the rest of the team for the coach’s useless pep talk. “Play to the whistle and keep your eye on the ball,” she says, like we don’t do that already. When the ref blows the whistle to call the players to the field, I’m jittery and ready to run.

  As I head to my position, Melody crosses my path. Even though I don’t like her, I decide to warn her. We went to the same soccer boot camp a few times, and I once thought of her as a friend.

  I swerve to jog beside her. “Watch out for Matt,” I say. “He can get crazy when he drinks.”

  Melody’s pretty nose turns up, and her lips pull into a sneer. “He says the same about you.”

  As if. I veer away from her, shaken. Has he told her some lie about Carmen’s party? I try not to think about it.

  “What was that about?” Alena asks when I take my position in front of her.

  “Nothing.” I squeeze my hands into fists to stop them from trembling. “Melody’s being a bitch, as usual.”

  Unfortunately, the ref tonight is Nick, a balding Italian guy with a moustache who refuses to run with the play and rarely calls offsides—not good when you’re up against the Blue Bitches. Then I see Nick offering a flag to Jamarlo so he can be one of the linesmen; they know each other from the guys’ league. I start the game feeling like I’ve got an iron band tightening around my chest.

  The Bitches dominate our forwards from the start, blasting the ball into our end. When I stop it with my chest,
not caring if it hurts, Melody is in my face in a flash, pulling at my shirt and elbowing me harder than usual. Of course, the ref is too far away to notice her rough play, and the linesmen in our league don’t usually call fouls.

  “Back off,” I growl, shouldering her away from the ball. Warning her about Matt must have brought out her claws.

  I kick the ball to our best midfielder, but it’s back in our end in seconds. Over and over again, we can’t get it much past center.

  The next time I get it, Melody grinds her heel into my foot hard enough to make me yell out. Then she runs at Alena with the ball and kicks at the net. Alena dives and then curls her body around the ball.

  The play is supposed to end when the goalie’s got the ball, but Melody runs right over Alena, kicking into her gut and legs to get the ball loose.

  The ref is halfway up the field, oblivious.

  “Get the hell off her!” I hobble over on my injured foot, moving through the pain. Going after me during a play is one thing, but kicking Alena when she’s down?

  Melody lands another kick.

  Alena moans, but she refuses to let go of the ball.

  I push Melody hard with both hands.

  The ref ’s whistle screams. Finally.

  I turn to Nick, ready to hear him ream out Melody for running Alena down after she had the ball.

  I get a yellow card in the face.

  “Watch it, number 21,” Nick says to me.

  I get the warning, not Melody? Is he blind?

  From the sidelines, my coach protests the call, which is more than she usually does, but Nick ignores her. Jamarlo jogs toward Nick, probably to argue the call, but Nick orders him back to the sidelines.

  “Another yellow card and you’re out of the game,” Nick says to me, like I need to be told the rules by his stupid, lame-assed self. He pulls out a pocket notebook and records my supposed offense.

  Jamarlo swings by to check on Alena—who waves him away—before returning to the sidelines with his flag. Melody is on one knee, getting up slowly as if she’s hurt, but I catch the sideways smirk on her face.

  I want to scream at Nick, to rant about Melody’s dirty tactics, but I clamp my mouth shut so I don’t get another card. Then I march over to Alena and help her up.

  “You okay?” I ask as a few other Screamin’ Demons gather around, swearing quietly at Nick.

  Alena leans heavily on me to pull herself up. “Thanks. My knee feels like crap.” She winces as she bends it. “But I can still play.”

  “What is Melody’s deal?” I make a fist. My foot still throbs. “Someone should teach her how to play fair.”

  “Forget about her. She’s a jerk.” Alena grips my hand. “It’s just a game.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” I try to relax. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Play starts up with a penalty kick against Alena, who dives and misses the ball, probably because of her knee.

  1–0. For the Bitches.

  A few people on the sidelines cheer. I crush a few weeds with my heel.

  My next skirmish with Melody results in an out-of-bounds off her, so we’ll get the throw in.

  “Blue ball.” Jamarlo points the flag in favor of the Blue Bitches.

  “What?” I yell at Jamarlo. “The ball went off a Blue player!”

  “That’s not what I saw.” Jamarlo frowns.

  Melody smirks.

  “Are you talking back now?” Nick jogs over.

  “No, sir.” I kick at a patch of dirt.

  “You better not be.” His hand is on his shirt pocket, ready to pull out a card.

  “It’s fine, Nick.” Jamarlo refuses to look at me. Did he call against me on purpose? Or did he really think it was a Blue ball?

  Nick blows the whistle for play to resume.

  I try to calm down, forget about Jamarlo’s call and play by the book—I don’t want to risk getting another yellow card.

  I’m so busy trying to follow every rule that it’s easy for Melody to break free from me and run Alena into the dirt, scoring a second goal for the Bitches.

  When the half-time whistle blows, I’m shaking worse than before.

  During the break our coach tells us to “Keep up the good work” and then distributes orange slices, as if electrolytes will help against unfair play and biased refereeing.

  Beside me, Alena’s knee swells to the size of a grapefruit. Meanwhile, across the field, Melody flirts with Matt as if he’s the last man on a dying planet that needs to be repopulated, and Matt plays with her ponytail in the way I used to like. The pulsing in my head intensifies. Somehow, the good memories make it worse.

  “Melody can’t get away with running you down,” I say, passing Alena an ice pack from the coach’s cooler.

  “Will you just leave it, Tori?” Alena sounds pissed off. Who wouldn’t be mad, the way Melody has been going after her?

  Then I see Jamarlo laughing with a couple of girls from my team.

  “How can he laugh when you’re hurt?” I say. “He should be forcing Nick to listen, telling him to call fair.”

  “Come on, Tori. Jamarlo is only a linesman. You know the ref is always right, even when he’s wrong.” Alena lifts the ice pack off her knee, bends it and then grimaces.

  “Not today.” I march toward Jamarlo, but in seconds Alena is beside me, balancing her weight on one foot and yanking me back by the arm.

  “I said leave it, Tori!”

  “But I’m tired of people bullying us. We should do something—”

  “If you convince Jamarlo to talk to Nick, it’ll only make things worse. You know refs are egomaniacs, especially Nick.”

  “Fine.” I scowl. “We’ll just let Melody terrorize you on the field.”

  “Tori, don’t—” Alena begins, but I walk away from her.

  Play starts again, and Melody is in my face worse than ever. When she takes the ball off me yet again, I give up playing nice. I collide with her hard, my elbow out, giving her what she deserves.

  Melody lands on the ground, flat on her back.

  I pretend that it’s no big deal, that I didn’t even know it happened. I dribble the ball down the field until Nick’s whistle blows, harsh and piercing.

  I turn to see Nick staring me down, holding his damn yellow card above his head like a flag.

  “It was an accident!” I say. “She had the ball.” Why can Melody get away with rough play and I can’t?

  “Get off the field.” His moustache twitches. “Now.”

  I want to scream at him, argue his call. But instead I stride off, ignoring Melody’s smirk, Jamarlo’s cold eyes, Alena’s concern and the whispers from the other players.

  For the rest of the game, I seethe from the sidewalk near where I parked Dad’s Civic, since regulations banish me from the park for the rest of the game. Alena gets knocked down and scored on two more times. When Melody is rotated off, she snuggles up next to Matt, who actually seems to like cuddling the sweaty fiend. I make a fist, wishing I could banish Matt from my life.

  At the end of the game, Jamarlo helps Alena off the field and over to Dad’s car.

  “Why didn’t you stop Nick?” I say to Jamarlo. “What’s wrong with you?” I practically snatch Alena from him.

  He just turns away, frowning.

  “What’s wrong with you, Tori?” Alena pulls back. “You took out Melody on purpose. It’s a game, not a battle zone. This is exactly why I left rep.”

  “What?” I gape at her. “She deserved it! She was a brute for the whole game.”

  “So were you.” Alena hobbles to the passenger side of the Civic. “Let’s just forget it. I’m too tired for this.”

  As I fumble with the door handle, my head pounds. I can’t remember Alena ever being mad at me, and I’m not sure how to handle it.

  We don’t talk. Heaviness settles in my chest. I drop Alena off and head home.

  When I get to my room, I get a text from Melody. U had ur chance. Stay away from him.
r />   As if I want to be anywhere near Matt—or her. I toss my phone onto my bed, wishing I’d never given her my number back in boot camp.

  Later, in the upstairs bathroom, I lock myself in and dig out Dad’s straight razor.

  It’s not about kids with cancer this time. I’m just not finished with this look yet. It’s raw. Strong. Invulnerable.

  The lights above the mirror flicker. I end up with only a few nicks at the base of my skull. I climb into the shower and let the water wash the blood away.

  HOPE

  to wish for something desirable

  The location of Haven Women’s Shelter is secret. No one will tell me where it is until after my interview with the director of child care at an offsite office. I also need to undergo a police check—more than a little ironic after the Neanderthal incident.

  When I finally learn the address of the shelter, I discover it’s on a street near an elementary school where I used to play soccer. Who knew? I feel like I’ve been granted access to classified information.

  I start on May 28 after school. It’s the first day of sun after a week of rain—the soccer fields have been waterlogged and slippery. I approach the shelter, curious to see inside and eager to help.

  “Do you think working at a shelter is a good idea?” Mom had said that morning, which translates into I think it’s a bad idea.

  “Why don’t you coach a kids’ soccer team?” Dad had suggested.

  “Why don’t you let me make my own decisions?” I replied, which had shut Mom up and made Dad scowl.

  The building is at the end of a row of large old homes on a tree-lined street facing the school. Kids’ voices echo from the playground. The houses have wide green lawns and bright curtains—the typical cheery display for our suburbs.

  The shelter looks like the other houses except for the details. I notice cameras mounted at strategic locations, a high fence with a locked gate to the backyard, and a heavy steel front door. While I’m busy identifying the telltale signs, I thud into a man on the sidewalk.

  “Watch it!” I frown as my bag slides off my shoulder. Binders and textbooks fall out, pages flapping like clipped wings.