Punch Like a Girl (3 page)

I look away.

Neanderthal tilts his head to one side, examining me.

I resist the urge to point out that Neanderthal started it all, so why am I the only one to be punished?

“You mean like working in an old folks' home or something?” Neanderthal's girl asks. “She could work at that place where your grandfather—”

“I don't want her near him.” Neanderthal scowls again, like I'm the dangerous one.

“We can work out an informal arrangement,” Mom says. “We don't need to get the police involved. After all, they may question how such a small girl could hurt such a large man.”

Neanderthal's eyebrows rise. I want to point out that size has nothing to do with throwing a good punch, but I bite my tongue.

“Even if we call the police, and they do arrest her,” Mom continues, “it'll likely never go to trial. So if you and I work out a solution here, we can control the terms.” She goes on about how community service would teach me to face the consequences of my actions. “My husband and I would personally oversee her community-service hours and make sure they're completed.”

“You expect me to believe that? I'm not stupid, you know,” Neanderthal says, although the thick eyebrows, dull eyes and half-open mouth suggest otherwise.

“Of course you aren't.” Mom keeps a straight face. “But if you agree to community service, you have my personal assurance that she'll complete it. I'll even provide you with proof—maybe with signed time sheets from wherever she volunteers? And you won't need to waste your time at a court hearing. It's a win-win. Shall we say a hundred hours?”

Neanderthal stares down my mother. “That's nothing,” he says. “Double it.”

As if he could do the math. But I don't care what the number is. If my parents are overseeing it, there's no way I'll have to do community service for an act of self-defense. I mean, maybe I shouldn't have hit him, but Neanderthal is a complete homophobe and a bully.

When the deal is done, I'm finally sprung from the security office. Mom and Neanderthal settled on
175
hours of community service, to be monitored by my parents. Even though I hated being talked about like a dog that's getting punished for drinking the toilet water, I'm grateful Mom's tactics kept the police at bay.

“We should call the cops on him,” I say to Mom once we finally part ways with Neanderthal and his girl.

We head toward the closest mall exit.

“That guy was a jerk.” Alena looks suitably offended.

Jamarlo frowns down at his high-tops.

Dad trails two steps behind, glancing back at Neanderthal. I'm sure he'd love to go at him, and I'd bet on Dad to win even though he's older and has a bit of a paunch. Dad used to be a bouncer, so he knows how to fight.

Mom purses her lips. “You're lucky you got out of it with just community service.”

“That was a brilliant idea, Mom. I won't have to do it if you're monitoring it.”

“You most certainly will.” She stops to stare at me. “Down to the last minute.”

My friends glance at each other.

“What?” Why is she turning on me?

“I didn't want to get into this in front of your friends, Tori, but your dad and I are more than a little worried about you. First you shave your head in the middle of the night, and now this? I can protect you from police charges, but I can't let you get away with punching a stranger at the mall. What were you thinking?”

Alena studies the floor tiles. Jamarlo looks grim.

I feel like I've been punched by my own mother. “But he—”

“Don't make excuses for your behavior.” Mom frowns. “Maybe community service will help you realize the consequences of your actions. As for why you're acting so strangely…well, we can have a long chat about that at home.”

God, no. My face heats up. I need some serious Alena-and-Jamarlo time to help me through this injustice. I grab my friends' arms and pull them with me to walk way ahead of my parents.

“Victoria.” Mom's voice is stern. “I'm only doing this because I care. You'll understand when you're a parent.”

As if. I ignore her, even though she keeps pace behind us.

“That was insane,” Alena says. “And now you need to do community service? Even though you were in his face, what about him?”

“I wasn't in his face,” I say. “I was protecting us from an asshole.”

“Of course.” Alena glances at Jamarlo like he might explain. “Listen, I know the break-up with Matt rattled you, so if you ever want to talk…”

Why does everyone want to talk? I frown at Alena and then weave my fingers into Jamarlo's.

“Hey, Jamarlo, were you actually going to try on that dress?” I smile. “Because it would have suited you.”

“Tori—” Alena begins.

“Alena, there's nothing to talk about,” I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. “Really.”

Jamarlo pulls away from me. “What's wrong with you?” His eyes are dark. “Why did you leap in front of me? I could have handled that guy!”

I stare, confused. “I didn't mean—”

“It doesn't matter what you meant, Tori. It's what you did. You mouth off for me, but I can take care of myself.”

“I know that!”

“Then why didn't you stop when I told you to?”

“I was trying to help.” My jaw clenches.

“Help me look like a wimp?” He spins away, hands in the air.

“Jamarlo,” Alena says, “give her a break. She's been through a lot—”

“Yeah? So have I. In case you didn't notice, Tori just made me look like a wuss!”

“But Jamarlo—”

“Forget it, Tori.” He walks away. “Just do me a favor. Get it together before you hurt someone else.”

Another punch. My gut aches. My own people are beating me when I'm down?

“Jamarlo, wait,” Alena calls. But he keeps going.

I want to run after him, crack a joke so we can laugh it off, tell him it was all a mistake. But the pressure in my head increases again, and I feel the weight of my mother's hawkish stare, her talons ready to snatch me up and whisk me home for an endless lecture.

I march to the exit before she can make another scene.

BURNED
to be exposed to heat long
enough to force a change

On Tuesday evening, I slip into the kitchen from the carport, where I parked Dad's Civic. My sweat from soccer practice has cooled, leaving my skin clammy. With Alena smoking hot in goal and me a wall of defense, we're ready for our first game of the season.

I dump my bag in the corner by the cappuccino maker and inhale the scent of pepperoni. At the table, Joel, my annoying dork of a brother, and his friend Roger are gulping down the remains of two double-cheese, meat-loaded pizzas. Roger sits like a lump in front of his plate while Joel leans his pointy elbows on the table. I can hear Mom and Dad talking in the living room, settled in for their end-of-day chat. If I'm lucky, I can avoid the conversation about community service that's been on repeat since yesterday—as well as any comments about my shaved head.

After I shaved, I had to endure a barrage of questions from my parents: “
Why did you shave it?
” “
For charity.
” “
In the middle of the night?
” “
I couldn't sleep, so I shaved
my head. What's the big deal?
”

Since the mall, the questions have gotten more intense: “
Why did you feel the need to punch that man?
” “
Come on.
You know he was a jerk.
” “
Didn't we teach you to handle
conflict in other ways?
” “
You did, Mom, but Dad's been
known to throw a punch in his time, and no one made him
do community service.
”

Leaving my cleats on, I pull out a chair across from Joel and Roger and snatch a slice before they're all gone. I sink my teeth into the cheesy goodness as my butt hits the chair—eating food is the only way to claim it when Joel and Roger are around.

“Hey, younger sibling.” Joel kicks me under the table.

I'm still wearing my shin pads, so I ignore him. Pestering me until I flip out is one of Joel's favorite pastimes—a pleasure I try to deny him as much as possible.

“How's it going?” I ask Roger with my mouth full.

Roger nods and chews. “Nice hair,” he grunts. It's not a come-on—more of an observation.

“Thanks.”

“That's not what the parental units said,” Joel says to Roger. He grins, taking a swipe at my head, but I lean my chair back, balancing on the two rear legs—one of my standard defensive moves.

Joel is sixteen months older than me and only one grade ahead in school. He should be finishing high school in June, but he's not that motivated, even though he's brilliant in math and science. Instead, he prefers to play practical jokes on his teachers, flirt with the grade-eleven girls who fawn over him—a disgusting spectacle—and challenge Roger to burping contests in the cafeteria.

“Tori tried to get arrested yesterday,” Joel says. “It was pretty messed up.”

“Shut up, Joel,” I say between bites. I don't need to listen to crap from him as well.

“Really? What happened?”

“Nothing.” I give Joel a change-the-subject-or-face-your-doom look.

“She punched some jerk at the mall.” Joel snorts when he laughs. “I wish I could have been there. Apparently, he was six feet tall and built. Tori took him out with one punch.”

“Impressive.” Roger stuffs in more pizza.

“And stupid,” Joel adds.

“You would know stupid, Joel,” I say. Not that I need Roger's approval, but I don't mind having someone on my side for a change.

“What I don't get is why you got so pissed off.” Joel smirks. “Hey, maybe Mom could sign you up for some anger-management classes. I wonder if she's thought of that yet.”

I silently count to ten, determined not to let him get to me.

When I grab a second slice of pizza, Roger freezes in mid-chomp to stare at the final piece, sitting alone in one of the boxes. He glances at Joel, who sizes him up.

They trade maniacal smiles.

I take a massive bite, gripping my slice tighter. Anyone who believes in the possibility of world peace hasn't seen my brother and his friend fight for the last of the pizza.

When Roger reaches for it, Joel slaps his hand away, and the battle begins. Soon they're knocking over kitchen chairs and wrestling on the floor, grunting and laughing. It's like having an Ultimate Fighting match in our kitchen.

“Cut it out,” I say when they bump against my chair. I used to wrestle with my brother, but I've matured.

When Mom and Dad arrive in the kitchen, I'm hoping they'll be too distracted by Joel and Roger to lecture me. Dad hauls Joel off Roger, grunting with the effort. Joel, lean and lanky, lands a last punch. Roger, round and gelatinous, lumbers to his feet.