Punch Like a Girl (8 page)

“She's in the waiting room with your family,” she says. “And she's fine, as far as I can tell. She's very concerned about you.”

I exhale sharply.

“You can see them soon,” she continues. “Dr. Balestra will want to check you over again, now that you're alert.”

The nurse hustles out through an opening in the curtains, clipboard in hand. Beyond the curtain, I can hear whispered conversations, footsteps, a long moan and the beep of machines.

I prop myself up with the pillow, even though every move feels like a fresh punch. I'm still wearing my T-shirt and jeans, although my shoes are gone. I feel a gauze bandage on the side of my head. My right hand is swollen. Wiggling my little finger hurts so much my eyes water.

A few minutes later a doctor comes in and introduces herself. Dr. Balestra is young, with black hair in a ponytail and a brief smile. She gets right to work, gently prodding my head and neck, checking my reflexes and asking if I know my own name and what day it is.

“I can remember everything,” I tell her. Every embarrassing detail.

She asks penetrating questions about how I got my injuries, which I answer as briefly as possible. I'm not proud of punching a Dumpster.

“Was there a weapon involved?” She probes my tender left ear, the one Jordan hit twice.

I flinch. “No. Why would you ask that?”

“It's procedure.” She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear as she bends over to examine the swollen fingers of my right hand. “I need to know whether to get the police involved. It seems like this other girl laid into you pretty hard. We can call the police if you want.”

“No.” My tone is firm. “It's over.” Ever since Neanderthal threatened to call the police, I've wanted nothing to do with them. Anyway, how could I charge Jordan when I punched the Dumpster? I'm such an idiot.

“Your choice.” She's still examining my hand. Then she says, “Well, you're lucky. Your injuries seem minor.”

“I don't feel lucky.”

“It all depends on your point of view.” She smiles. “You have a concussion. The prolonged loss of consciousness is a concern, but you seem to have no memory loss, slurred speech or other symptoms. We'll run further assessment tests and get your parents to keep an eye on you for the next forty-eight hours, but you should be fine. As for your hand…”

She touches it, and the pain is so bad I want to retch.

“I suspect a boxer's fracture.”

“A what?”

“A broken bone at the base of the small finger in the metacarpal neck, which extends from the wrist to the knuckle at the base of the finger.” She points.

“Don't touch it.” I shrink back.

“Okay. But we're going to need to set it.” She pats my knee, one place on my body that doesn't hurt. “The injury is typical for boxers, usually resulting from a straight punch. Is that what happened?”

I nod and look away.

“That's why there's so much swelling near the knuckle of your little finger. And this bump below the knuckle is likely the break point. Of course, we'll need to get an X-ray to confirm it.”

“Will I need a cast?”

She nods. “I can get you a soft cast. It's removable so you can shower. But I recommend no more punching, no high-impact sports, no weight-lifting—”

“What about soccer?”

“No way.” She shakes her head. “If you push this injury early, it'll make it worse in the long run. And you need to protect your head from further trauma. It can take weeks or months for a brain to heal. Better to take care and be patient.”

“Great.” I sigh. Just wait until the girls on my team hear about this.

Just then Alena pushes through the curtains, followed by my parents and even Joel. He was probably out with them when they got Alena's call.

I could do without Joel, but I'm happy to see Alena—finally. She's acting chummy with my parents, linking arms with them.

“I was afraid this would happen.” Mom untangles from Alena to grip my good hand, squeezing hard.

“How bad is it?” Dad's face is pale.

“I'm fine,” I tell them after Dr. Balestra introduces herself again.

Joel takes one look at my swollen hand and says, “What'd you do—punch a Dumpster?” Mr. Sensitive doubles up, laughing.

I frown. Of course everyone would know. Alena's never been able to lie to my mother.

“That's enough,” Mom says.

“Go wait in the hall, Joel,” Dad barks.

“It's a joke! Don't you get it?” Joel takes one look at Dad's flaming face and backs up. “Sorry, sibling,” he says without prodding from Mom or Dad before he wanders out. Could Joel be developing empathy?

As soon as Joel leaves, Mom hones in on me.

“I just don't understand how you got into another fight.” Mom pinches her lips together. “Why do you keep putting yourself in danger? I think you may need to talk to a therapist, Tori.”

“No, Mom. It won't happen again, really,” I plead, feeling awkward in front of Alena and the doctor.

“Well, the important thing is that you're going to be okay.” Dad turns to Dr. Balestra. “She is going to be okay, isn't she?”

The doctor answers all their questions while I'm stretched out on display. I'm glad when my parents stop fussing over me to go sign some forms with the doctor.

“At least we all agreed not to press charges.” I snort.

Alena frowns at my swollen hand. She dabs at the makeup under one eye, and I wonder if she's getting teary over me.

“You can sit, if you want.” I slide over to make room on the bed for her, even though it hurts to move.

“I don't want to sit,” Alena says, and I notice the tight line of her mouth.

“What's wrong?” I ask. “Did Jordan hurt you?”

“What? No! Because I didn't pick a fight with her.”

“But I wasn't—”

“Really, Tori? I know what I saw. These days, if anyone crosses your path, you fight them.”

“It's not like that.”

“But it is! Just like with that guy at the mall and Melody. It's like you think you're the Incredible Hulk, raging against anyone who pisses you off.” She flips her dark hair over one shoulder. “I don't understand what's happening with you!”

“So I should have done nothing?” I lift my head off the pillow, my neck straining. “Just let Jordan hit me? Should I also have let Melody run you down? And Neanderthal taunt Jamarlo?”

“You should have avoided it all! We could have made it to the car—I'm not that slow. Or headed back into the mall. Or called for help. You didn't have to hurt yourself.”

I drop back down on the pillow, scowling. “I have the right to defend myself,” I say, but I wonder if she's right. Maybe I'm too wound up to think clearly.

“Of course you do. But you're not the Hulk, Tori. You're as breakable as the rest of us.”

“I figured that out.” I raise my right hand off the blanket.

“So why do you keep getting into fights? I mean, this is me, Tori. You can tell me what's going on.”

“I don't know.” I sigh heavily, lowering my hand. “I guess I'm just…” I pause, searching for words. “Trying to stand up to the idiots I meet.”

“Seriously?” Alena gives me a skeptical look. “Why?”

“Why not?” We lock eyes. Her gaze is intense. Searing. I refuse to look away. How do I tell her that I'm trying to be strong so I don't feel weak? That I can't talk about Matt because I can't stand feeling helpless?

The nurse sweeps back the curtains around my bed. “Time for X-rays.” She pushes a wheelchair closer.

“I'll see you later then.” Alena shoots me a final, penetrating glance. “Call me when you get home.”

“You're leaving?” I try not to sound surprised. A month ago, both Alena and Jamarlo would have been at my bedside until the hospital released me.

“I have homework. Exams are soon, you know. Take care of yourself, Tori. I mean it.” She disappears into the hall.

The gap between Alena and me widens. It hurts more than my hand, but I don't know how to fix it.

I'm at the hospital for hours. Mom and Joel left after only an hour, heading to Glencrest Mall to pick up the Civic. That was after Mom and Dad lectured me for thirty minutes about the perils of fighting and the joys of alternative conflict resolution. Ironic coming from Dad, the former bouncer. Alena hasn't even texted to see how I am.

Because I have a concussion, I have to rest, and my broken hand will be in a cast for four to six weeks. The cast is a removable black sleeve that holds my pinky and ring fingers rigid at a weird angle, although I can sort of use the other fingers and thumb. I'm not looking forward to telling my soccer team that I can't play until the cast is off, and maybe not even then.

As Dad and I push open the hospital doors, I'm tired, sore and relieved to escape. The smell of disinfectant has seeped into my clothes, and I just want to collapse into bed. Outside, the air smells like flowers and the sun is still high in the sky, even though it's evening. The days are getting longer, but I still feel a heavy shadow over me.

Dad parked the
SUV
on a side street, since the lot was full. As we shuffle down the sidewalk, he finishes the last of his hospital food—his second hamburger. Joel would be going for his third.

A magnolia tree has littered the sidewalk with petals. Two kids skateboard by. Cars race along the street.

That's when I notice the black squirrel at the side of the road. He's splayed on his back, breathing hard in and out, his eyes glazed.

I stop, horrified.

A car must have hit him. I clench my jaw. What kind of person just abandons an animal when it's helpless and injured, gasping for breath?

Joel would poke it with a stick. Mom would tell me to keep my distance. Dad just keeps walking.

“Hurry up,” he calls. “Your mother's making dinner.”

My throat tightens.

Then Dad glances back and notices the squirrel.

“Oh, Tori.” He sighs. “There's nothing we can do.”

I stand motionless, watching the squirrel take its dying breaths.

When the squirrel goes limp, a large bubble lodges in my throat. I try to gulp it down and hiccup instead. The bubble stays, choking me.

“We can't leave it here,” I finally manage to say.

“You need to get home and rest.” Dad frowns. “Besides, your mother will kill me if you touch it.”

“It's not diseased.” I glare at him. “It was murdered.”

His eyes soften. “I have a plastic bag in the truck. You can use that to pick it up.”

FLUTTER
to move quickly and nervously

Dad digs a hole in our backyard garden, near the day lilies. I grip the bag that holds the dead squirrel with my good hand.

I remember the squirrel's eyes, glassy and vacant. I can't stop my hands from trembling.

Dad leans on the shovel. “Deep enough?”