Punch Like a Girl (10 page)
“I'm sad because when the butterfly left, you cried. Maybe if I hadn't shown him to you, you wouldn't be hurting now.”
“But I loved Monty!”
“I know. And I loved showing him to you. That's why I'm happy. Because when you saw the butterfly, you spoke to me.” I smile. “I like when you talk.”
“You do?”
“Yup. I like it so much that right now, my happy feelings are bigger than my sad ones.”
“I like talking to you too.” She throws her arms around me again, but this time she's not shaking.
I give Casey a final hug and disentangle from her.
Rita nods at me. “Thank you again. I seem to be saying that a lot to you today.”
“I like helping.” I shrug, embarrassed. Then I say to Casey, “Talk to you tomorrow?”
“Okay.” She wipes her eyes.
Ten minutes later I head out the back gate, which opens onto the sidewalk. I've got Rachel's hastily scribbled card in hand; she wanted to get back to the sprinkler more than she wanted to draw. Across the street, Mr. Manicure, the tidy neighbor with the trim fingernails, is cutting the grass with a noisy electric lawn mower. Apparently, he prunes his yard as well as he trims his nails. When he sees me coming, he waves and turns off the motor.
I wave back and keep walking.
“You work at the shelter?” he calls across the street.
He knows it's a shelter? I try not to show my surprise.
He grins, heading across the street toward me, stripping off his gardening gloves one at a time. “We all know it's a shelter. I mean, look at the cameras.” He points to the one above the gate to the backyard. “It's pretty obvious.”
I glance at the shelter and then back at him, feeling uncomfortable. He's right, but Peggy told me not to talk about it.
For the safety of the residents
, she said.
“Yeah, I know all the people there.” He steps too close, and I can smell his musky aftershave mixed with the scent of gasoline. “Peggy Epstein tells me about them. Rachel is a sweet girl, and Casey too. Do you know them?”
I step back. Is this guy a creep or just sickeningly nice? “Uh, I've got to go.” I hurry away without glancing back.
“Okay. Bye, Tori.”
Did I tell him my name?
From now on, I'll be avoiding that guy.
Getting ready for school the next day is worse than usual.
Joel takes more than his share of time in the bathroom, and when I do get into the stinky, soggy mess he leaves behind, I slip on the wet floor and whack my sore hand on the edge of the counter. I can't easily shave my head with my broken hand, even though my hair is growing in. In front of the mirror, I find that my concealer refuses to hide the cut over my left ear.
Dad has already left for his shift, and I'm waiting for Mom to holler up at me to come for breakfast. When she squeezes into the bathroom with me, I'm surprised.
“Are you going to be okay today?” she asks.
She's wearing dress pants with a neat crease down each leg, high heels and a freshly ironed shirt. She smells like perfume and coffee, and in the mirror beside me, her makeup is good enough to make me feel like a preteen trying to do my face for the first time.
I dodge around her to grab my concealer off the counter. “Why wouldn't I be?” I dab more on the cut and blend it in. I don't want people yapping about it at school. I'm wearing a loose, long-sleeved black shirt that hides most of the cast, even though it's warm again today.
My mother smooths in the concealer behind my ear.
I jerk away. “I can do it.”
“I know.” She frowns at me in the mirror. “Just stay out of trouble today. Dad and I don't know what to expect from you next. I still think a therapist would be a good idea.”
“Forget it, Mom.” I roll my eyes. “There's nothing to worry about.”
“Is that so? You hardly eat anymore. You're withdrawn, and you're always preoccupied.” She waggles her schoolteacher finger at me. “Maybe you're having trouble with something or someone? Maybe a boy? If you won't talk to a therapist, you could at least talk to me about whatever's going on with you.”
In the mirror, my face goes white. “I'm fine, Mom.” Like I'd ever talk to her about Matt.
She studies me and then glances at her watch. “I have to get to school. We'll talk later,” she says, like it's decided.
Not if I can help it.
I endure the kiss she plants on the top of my head and lock the bathroom door after she leaves. I know she means well, but my mother talks more than she listens, and she's a control freak. The middle-school kids she teaches don't dare cross her, and at home she runs our lives too. Sometimes I can handle it, but mostly I just want her to let me live my own way.
I sweep my concealer off the counter and into my makeup drawer. I hope this lousy start to the day isn't a sign of what's to come.
As I'm heading toward World History, sweating in my cast and long-sleeved shirt, I see Jamarlo with Carmen, who's in my class. She's dressed in a faded jean jacket, white jean cutoffs and ripped black tights. He's in a leopard-print hoodie, jeans and his trademark fedora. They're melded together in a parting kiss, with her hand on his waist and his arm stretched to her shoulder, since she's taller than him. She's leaning down to reach his lips.
Since I have to walk right past them, I figure, what the hell? Why not break the silence?
I tug my sleeve down lower over my cast and say, “Hey, Jamarlo.”
Maybe I call to him out of habit. Maybe I just miss him too much.
I keep walking, since I don't want to hassle them or deal with Jamarlo's wrath, but before I get much distance between us, Jamarlo and Carmen pull apart, looking startled.
Carmen blinks rapidly, as if she's just waking up. “Check out that cast!” she says, disentangling from Jamarlo and drying her lips on the back of her hand.
“Whoa!” Jamarlo says, as if he hasn't been refusing to talk to me for weeks. “What happened to your arm?” He plays with Carmen's bobbed, white-blond hair, twirling it between his fingers like he's proud to have access.
“Uhâ¦it's my hand.” I'm thrown off by how easy it was to get him to talk to me. “I slipped on the soap,” I lie. “Showering is a dangerous occupation.”
“Did you hit your head too?” Carmen points to the cut above my ear. Obviously, my concealer is failing.
“Uh, shaving accident,” I say.
“Yeah?” Jamarlo links fingers with Carmen and tugs her closer. He glances up and down the hall as if he's checking out who's noticing them together.
“Uh, yeah.” I'm glad he's got a girlfriend, but he could at least pay attention to me when I'm trying to make up with him.
Carmen cracks her gum. I don't want to know where she stashed it when they were making out. “I never got why you shaved your head,” she says.
Carmen can be tacky and insensitive, like when she told Alena that she would be pretty if she wore more makeup. I also blame Carmen for inviting Matt to her party. But I'll endure her for Jamarlo.
“Just a haircut that got out of hand,” I say.
“Tori likes the tough-girl look.” Jamarlo grins, but his tone has a raw edge to it. “She thinks she can beat up guys twice her size.” He pretends to punch me.
I pretend to duck. It's our usual game, even if it feels a bit off. “Size doesn't matter.” I keep my tone playful, teasing. “You should know that, Jamarlo.”
Carmen laughs. Jamarlo loses his grin. I guess we're not back to joking yet.
“I'm kidding, Jamarlo.” I force a laugh too, but it sounds as if I'm choking.
“I know that.” His dark eyes are on mine. He frowns.
“Yeah, well,” I manage to say, “I've got to get to class. See you later.”
He nods, still frowning.
I duck into World History and head to the back of the room. What just happened? Jamarlo and I may be talking again, but we're not okay.
A few minutes later, Carmen enters the room and slides into a seat beside me. I wish she'd sit somewhere else, but I'm not that lucky.
“Settle down, class.” Mr. Hadley pulls down the screen at the front of the room. “Today we're going to talk about some of the key passive-resistance movements that occurred after
1945
.”
I usually like Mr. Hadley's discussions, but today I'm hoping for a long movie so I can think about what happened with Jamarlo.
Carmen leans over to me and whispers loud enough for others to hear, “So do you and Matt want to come over this weekend? Jamarlo and I are having a few couples to my place since my parents are away.”
Hell, no.
My throat goes dry. I swallow hard. “We broke up,” I say. Obviously, Jamarlo hasn't been sharing info about me.
Mr. Hadley sits on the edge of his desk. “The best-known movements are those led by Mahatma Gandhi in India, Martin Luther King Jr. in the United States and Nelson Mandela in South Africa. More recently, the
2011
Egyptian revolution used a campaign of civil resistance to overthrow President Hosni Mubarak.”
“Yeah, but we can fix that.” Carmen winks. “Matt's a nice guy.”
Nice guy? My hands clench, but it hurts my sore fingers. I get a flash of our first date, when he took me to the Keg for dinner. Matt insisting on opening the car door for me. Matt raving about my gorgeous hair to the hostess, the waiter, anyone who would listen. Matt trying to order for me. Matt going on about how he's going to be a vetâhe adores animals tooâand I could be his assistant. Then, I was flattered that he'd even noticed me. I didn't know he thought he owned me.
Mr. Hadley is still talking about nonviolent conflicts. “We'll be watching a video called
A Force More Powerful
over the next few classes, but first I want to talk about how Gandhi resisted British rule. Who can tell me what they know about it?”
As Mr. Hadley tries to extract answers from the class, Carmen starts whispering about how sexy Matt is and how she used to have a crush on him in middle school.
“Anyway,” she continues, “Jamarlo really wants you to come. Alena and her new guy may be there. Maybe I can hook you up with someone else?”
“No, thanks,” I say through gritted teeth. Is Alena with her physio guy now?
Mr. Hadley appears in front of our desks.
“I assume you girls are sharing your thoughts about Gandhi's resistance movement?” He taps his pen against my unopened binder.
A few people laugh.
Carmen chomps on her gum and says nothing.
I sink low in my seat. I like Mr. Hadley, so it feels rotten to be scolded by him.
“I thought so. Pay attention, girls.” He wanders to the front of the room, explaining how Gandhi opposed the British by declaring a law unjust and then purposely breaking it, letting himself and his followers suffer arrest, physical abuse and even prison. “The idea was that, ultimately, the oppressors would get the message and do what's right.”