Punch Like a Girl (22 page)

After my World History exam on Wednesday, the school hallways are quiet. The teachers are randomly patrolling, hushing anyone who speaks above a whisper, and the kids are either writing like mad in some classroom or studying in the library. I'm tired from trying to stay focused on details that don't seem to matter, but I still have two exams tomorrow. My head aches, and my eyes are dry. When I get to my locker, Alena's waiting for me.

“You need to tell Jamarlo about Matt.” She leans against the locker beside mine.

I dial my combination, groaning inwardly. “Let it go, Alena.”

“Tori, he's one of your best friends. He'd want to know.”

“But I don't want to talk about it,” I say, trying not to sound harsh. I open my locker and grab my bag. “Besides, he's been…different ever since that day at the mall.”

“So? If you explain what's been going on—”

“He's still upset with me, isn't he?” I ask, hoping to change the topic.

“A little, maybe.” Alena examines her nails. She hates gossiping about other people, which is one of the reasons I like her.

“Why?” I stare at her nails too. Now they're painted silver, with blue daisies on the thumbs.

Alena's dark eyes flash on mine. “Okay, but I'm only discussing this if you promise to talk to him.”

“Fine.” I roll my eyes.

She flips her hair over one shoulder and bends closer, like she doesn't want anyone to overhear, even though there's no one in sight. “You humiliated him at the mall with that—”

“Neanderthal?” I suggest.

“Yes, at the dress shop. He needed to deal with it himself.”

“But I was trying to help. That guy was a jerk!”

A line appears on her forehead. “Let me put it like this. You're tougher than Jamarlo, and he knows it. You shook his confidence.”

I shove my things into my bag, thinking about Jamarlo. “It was such a big deal to him?”

She nods. “He's a joker, not a fighter. You made him feel like your way is better.”

“It's not.” I shut my locker. “I'm only acting tough.”

“I don't know about that,” Alena says. “So when are you going to talk to him?”

I wish she'd stop pressuring me. “Soon,” I say, just as Principal Hendrick rounds the corner, his tie resting on his bulging stomach.

“You girls aren't supposed to be here.” He shoos us toward the exit.

“We were just leaving.” I'm glad for the interruption.

As he watches us head to the double doors, we pass the posters for the grade-twelve prom. The theme is “Paris Romance,” which makes me want to gag. Of course, there are no posters for the grade-eleven anti-prom: it wouldn't be subversive if it were advertised at school.

“And you're coming to the anti-prom, right?” Alena whispers.

I push open the heavy school door. The outside air is oppressively humid, and my head aches even more. “I told my parents I was going.”

“Great!” Alena bounces into the sunshine. “It's going to be a blast. You'll be happy you went.”

My stomach compresses into a tight ball. “I hope so.” I plod after her, squinting.

At the shelter later that day, the kids paint cutouts of a paper tree to assemble on the wall. It's part of Jia's make-our-own-garden project. Jonah happily paints the trunk with layers of black, gray and blue—the colors of Batman's cape, according to him. Rachel has painted most of the leaves in shades of green, with Manny's help, and is now painting red and yellow flowers. Manny tugs on the bottom of my shorts, leaving a splotch of paint behind.

“Can you draw me the shape of a butterfly?” His voice is solemn. “Casey would want Monty to be in our garden.”

“Sure, Manny.” I smile sadly, missing her still. “She'd like that.”

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.