Straight Punch

STRAIGHT PUNCH
MONIQUE POLAK

ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

Text copyright ©2014 Monique Polak

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Polak, Monique, author
Straight punch / Monique Polak.

Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN
978-1-4598-0391-6 (pbk.).
ISBN
978-1-4598-0392-3 (pdf)
ISBN
978-1-4598-0393-0 (epub)

I. Title.
ps8631.o43s77 2014             jc813.6           c2013-906642-x c2013-906643-8

First published in the United States, 2014
Library of Congress Control Number:
2013952980

Summary:
Tessa gets caught tagging and ends up in an alternative school
where boxing is a big part of the program.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Design by Teresa Bubela and Chantal Gabriell

Cover photography by Getty Images

Author photo by Studio Iris

In Canada:
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 5626, Station B
Victoria, BC Canada
V8R 6S4

In the United States:
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 468
Custer, WA USA
98240-0468

17 16 15 14 • 4 3 2 1

For my brother Michael, with love

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Prolo
gue

I tried to stop tagging. Okay, that isn't exactly true. I tried to stop
getting caught
tagging.

In Montreal, the cops come down hard on taggers. Especially repeat offenders like me.

The first time they caught me was two years ago. I was tagging the back wall of my school. Yeah, I know. Not too bright. Because it was my first offense, the cops waived the one-hundred-dollar fine—as long as I personally scrubbed the bricks clean.

Our principal supervised while I scrubbed. “If you ever deface school property again, Tessa McPhail”—he wagged a stubby finger in the air—“you're out. There's a waiting list of students eager to take your place at Tyndale.”

Six months later, the cops caught me again. I was down by the train tracks on de Maisonneuve Boulevard. This time, I had to pay the fine. Mom thought the fear of having to dish out another hundred bucks—and possibly being sent to youth court for a third offense—would put an end to my tagging career. She was wrong.

Tagging let me feel like an artist and a rebel at the same time.

I'd go out late at night, after Mom was asleep, and watch my back. I'd wear my black hoodie and black yoga pants. If I heard a car, I'd duck into the hedges.

But one night last June, I forgot to take precautions. I'd just tagged what looked like an abandoned shed down the block from Tyndale. I left my signature tag—a black
TM
—inside a black oval. It's my ironic allusion to the trademark sign you see on almost everything you buy—cereal, bread, even cans of spray paint.

I always make my
T
s and
M
s big and bold, which is also ironic since I'm neither of those things. I'm five foot two and on the quiet side. I get more experimental with my ovals. Sometimes I turn them into wreaths, sometimes constellations. That night, I made my oval from two slivers of moon that faced each other but didn't quite touch.

I was heading home when I spotted another tagger working on a garage door on Walkley Avenue. He was perched on a wobbly wooden crate. When I got closer, I noticed his turquoise feather boa. I knew it was Pretty Boy. We'd never met, but I'd heard of him—a flamboyant tagger with a feather-boa fetish—and I liked his work.

I looked up at his latest canvas—the garage door. The letters
P
and
B
were somewhere in there, but what knocked me out was this giant iridescent pink and turquoise butterfly with the face of an old, old man. The old, old man looked like he was about to take off on butterfly wings from the battered gray panels beneath him.

I just stood there and watched. Pretty Boy must've felt me watching, but he didn't say anything. Pretty Boy likes having an audience, though I didn't know that then.

He was adding lines to the old guy's face when the shouting started.

“That's my territory, faggot! Get the fuck outta here! Now!”

The person yelling was dressed all in black too. He was big—not just tall, but broad—with a pale face and dark flashing eyes. If I were Pretty Boy, I'd have taken off, even if it meant leaving my cans of spray paint behind. But Pretty Boy kept right on tagging. It was as if he hadn't heard a thing.

“I said
now
!” The voice sounded even angrier.

I still remember how my body tensed up. Fights freak me out. They have ever since the night Mom and I got caught in one of Montreal's goriest hockey riots. I can't even watch a fight on
TV
. If I don't turn away in time, my heart races and my palms sweat. Sometimes I actually start twitching, which is embarrassing when it happens around strangers.

That night, I could feel a fight—a big one—brewing. Pretty Boy was small and fine-boned—he'd be no match for this guy if things got physical.

I hustled into the shadows. If Pretty Boy moved quickly, he still might be able to get away. But Pretty Boy was adding another line to his old man's face.

I heard a crash as the big guy kicked over the wooden crate Pretty Boy was standing on. The crate went flying, and Pretty Boy fell to the ground. His scrawny legs made me think of that old game Pick-up Sticks.

The big guy laughed, but he wasn't done yet. He kicked Pretty Boy in the ribs, then straddled him. By then, I was twitching big-time. The big guy's eyes flashed even darker as he pressed his knee into Pretty Boy's skinny chest.

I fought the urge to turn away. I had to do something to help Pretty Boy.

“Stop it!” I yelled—or tried to yell. No sound came out. Just air.

That's when Pretty Boy looked over at me. I expected to see a look of terror in his eyes. But that wasn't what I saw.

Pretty Boy winked.

Was he out of his mind? Winking when he was about to get the beating of his life? What was he, some kind of masochist? The big guy leaned forward, breathing so heavily that the leaves on some nearby bushes rustled. He straightened, then swung his arms wildly. “Faggot!” He spat out the word.

I could see his face. Broad nose, leering mouth, sweat on his stubbly upper lip.

Pretty Boy must've seen all that too.

There was no way he was going to be able to unpin himself. Not from where he was, trapped underneath his attacker. But then Pretty Boy did something I would never have expected, not in a million years.

He threw a punch that flew up into the air, landing—
kapow
—under the big guy's jaw.

I may not have liked watching fights, but that time, I nearly yelped with pleasure.

“What the—?” the big guy said, rolling to the pavement.

When I heard the shriek of the cop car's siren, I knew I had to get out of there. The only way out was the way I'd come in—which meant I'd have to get by the big guy.

I took a deep breath as I stepped out of the shadows.

He was just getting up from the pavement. He didn't see me coming. Like he hadn't seen that punch coming from Pretty Boy. Just as I was trying to get by, he took one last wild swing at Pretty Boy and instead struck the side of my head with his fist. I fell to the ground too.

I have a vague memory—it feels more like a dream than a memory—of Pretty Boy trying to drag me away with him. “We gotta get out of here,” he said, but his voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.

I also remember the sound of a can of spray paint rolling rolling rolling along the sidewalk and landing by my elbow. The big guy and Pretty Boy were gone.

The cops asked me what day it was and what city we were in. I wouldn't tell them my name though.

“You gonna tell us who whacked you in the head?” one cop asked. “Was it the same guy who tagged this garage?”

“I didn't see a thing.” Talking hurt, but at least I had a voice again.

The other cop was in the cruiser, punching information into a computer. When he stepped out of the car, his hands were in his pockets. “We know who you are,” he said, shaking his head. “TM. We just found a fresh tag of yours a few blocks away. You may not know this, Tessa McPhail”—I tensed up when he used my name—“but we photograph tags, and we've got yours in our system. Your photo's in there too. Looks like this is your third offense. Tonight's gonna end up costing you another hundred bucks—and quite possibly a visit to youth court. I'll bet you didn't know that shed you tagged tonight belongs to Tyndale.”

My whole body went cold. Not because of the fine (though that sucked) or the threat of being sent to youth court (I'd heard from other taggers that you didn't get sent to youth court till your fourth or fifth offense). It was the principal at Tyndale I was worried about. “You're kidding,” I said.

“Why would I kid about something like that? That shed's a storage facility. I take it you go to Tyndale—otherwise you wouldn't keep tagging in the vicinity. That principal of yours…he's one tough cookie.”

The cop shook his head like he thought I was doomed. Then his eyes landed on the butterfly man. “Kind of interesting,” he said. “For graffiti.”

Chapter One

It doesn't seem fair that the school year in Montreal starts at the end of August. Not when most kids go back after Labor Day. It might have been less painful if the weather was miserable. But it was hot and the sky was robin's-egg blue. I folded down the sun visor.

My mom lifted one hand off the steering wheel and lowered her visor too. “You got yourself into this,” she said.

When I didn't respond, she said it again, only louder. “I said, ‘You got yourself into this.'”

I tried sinking lower in the passenger seat. You can't run away when you're in a moving vehicle. “You talking to me? I thought you were talking to the windshield.”

“Very funny, Tessa.”

Mom was pissed with me now, but she was the one who'd encouraged me to develop my artistic side. Even when money was tight, I had art supplies. She kept scrapbooks of every drawing I'd ever made. But I think if she'd known I was going to get into tagging—and that one day it would get me kicked out of high school—she'd have been less encouraging.

I turned on the radio.
Heavy congestion as usual on the Metropolitan eastbound. Watch out for a lane closure on Langelier Boulevard
. Even the traffic report was better than a lecture so early in the morning.

“Stay in your lane, you idiot!” Mom took one hand off the steering wheel again, this time to shake her fist at some guy in a white pickup truck. Usually Mom is like Dr. Banner—brainy and calm. Her evil Hulk only emerges on the Metropolitan Highway.

“Don't expect me to drive you every day.”

“I don't.”

“I'm only driving you today because it's your first day. And I might drive you now and then if the weather's bad. It's probably just as quick to take the metro—and I wouldn't have all this aggravation. I need to be at the bank at nine sharp. You nervous? You don't seem nervous.”

My mom can pretty much have a conversation by herself. Maybe that's why she never remarried after an aneurysm killed my dad before I was born.

“I'd be nervous if I were you,” she said.

I gave her a peck on the cheek when she pulled up in front of a narrow red-brick house. New Directions Academy was on a residential street in Montreal's north end. Montreal North is the neighborhood with the highest crime rate in the city. The Metropolitan Highway runs right through it, so even the residential streets stink of truck fumes. I'd never seen houses jammed so close together.

I thought I saw someone peer out from a crack in the curtains in the house next door, but when I looked again, the curtain was closed.

“Thanks for the lift.”

When Mom smiled, I felt a little sorry for not being the kind of daughter she must have wanted. The kind who didn't get expelled from high school or have burgundy hair. I'd dyed
my hair burgundy the previous summer. Cyrus loved it.

Mom ran two fingers over my cheek. “Promise me you won't get hurt, okay?”

“You worry too much.”

Mom's fingers were still on my cheek. “You can't blame me for worrying, Tessa. I know how much violence upsets you. I don't think you ever really got over that…that thing.”

Mom didn't like talking about the hockey riot any more than I did.

“Who knows?” I said. “Maybe this'll help. Unless, of course, it pushes me right over the edge.” I made crazy eyes to demonstrate.

“That's not funny, Tessa.”

I knew Mom was watching as I walked into my new school—I could hear the car idling at the curb—but I didn't look back.

The grass outside the school was brown and full of weeds. The concrete path leading to the front door was buckled and cracked. More weeds grew out from between the cracks.

I couldn't help comparing it with the lawn outside Tyndale—so green and neatly mown, it could have been AstroTurf. I'd never felt totally comfortable there, but now, looking at my new school, I was hit by a wave of nostalgia for my old one.

A guy was smoking on the creaky wooden porch. “Hey,” he said. When I passed him, I smelled alcohol. Could he have been drinking this early or was the smell left over from the night before?

“Hey,” I said without making eye contact.

“Welcome to Last Chance Academy,” he muttered.

There were only a dozen students at New Directions Academy, all in grade ten or eleven. Last Chance would actually have been a better name for the place—everyone here had been kicked out of someplace else. Either that or they couldn't hack it in a regular school. The students here were rebels or rejects. I may never have felt like I fit in at Tyndale, but I had a feeling I'd fit in even less at this place.

It was a locked facility. The woman who buzzed me in stood up behind her desk to shake my hand. She was tall with dark blow-dried hair and was dressed like an old-school flight attendant—in a matching tan skirt and jacket. She didn't look very old. Maybe being the receptionist here was her first job. A person has to start somewhere.

“Tessa, right?” she said, shaking my hand. “I'm Miss Lebrun. Welcome to New Directions. Did you remember your workout gear?”

I patted my backpack. “It's all here.”

New Directions wasn't just an alternative school. It was an alternative to alternative schools. Half the day was for academics. The other half was for boxing.

According to the brochure I'd downloaded, the school's boxing program was supposed to build character and self-confidence. It was also supposed to channel our energy in a positive way—whatever that meant.

It wasn't my choice to go to New Directions. It was the only alternative school in Montreal with a space open in the grade-eleven class. I hadn't been sent to youth court, but the principal at Tyndale had refused to give me another chance—even when I explained that being around kids who boxed might endanger my mental health.

“Jasmine!” Miss Lebrun called out. “Jasmine!”

An Asian girl peeked out of the kitchen at the end of the hallway. Her black hair was long on one side and buzz-cut on the other. She was holding a coffee cup. Even from down the hall, I could see that her fingernails were a shiny black. “Yeah, what is it?” She sounded bored.

“Jasmine. Come meet Tessa. I want you to give her a tour of the school. Now, please.”

Jasmine was dressed in skintight lime-green jeans. Her eyes were like a cat's, so light brown they were almost yellow. “Nice to meet you, Tessa,” she said, though she didn't sound like she meant it.

“Okay, let's get this over with. These are the two classrooms.” Jasmine pointed out two rooms off a long hallway that ran like a spine through the main floor. It was weird to see rows of desks inside a house. There were blackboards along the classroom walls and posters warning about the dangers of drugs and unprotected sex.

“What color is your hair really?” Jasmine asked me.

“Burgundy.”

“Are you telling me your pubes are burgundy too?”

“I didn't mention my pubes.”

“Do you always avoid answering questions?”

“Just the rude ones,” I told her.

Jasmine put her hands on her hips. I could feel her sizing me up. “I've seen your type before,” she said.

“What type is that?”

I figured her answer would have something to do with my hair color, but it didn't.

“You're a good girl,” she said, “trying to be bad.”

I didn't want to give Jasmine the satisfaction of knowing that was a pretty fair assessment.

I followed her to a narrow staircase by the kitchen. “The boxing gym's downstairs. The locker room's down there too. Do you have a lock?”

I shook my head. “I didn't think I'd need one. I thought…with only twelve students…” I was the sixth student in the grade-eleven class and there were six grade tens.

“There might only be twelve, but some of us have sticky fingers.” Jasmine giggled, which made me wonder if it was her fingers she was talking about.

From halfway down the stairs, I heard a steady pounding.
Ba dum, ba dum
, then twice as fast. Someone was hitting a punching bag.

“Something wrong?” Jasmine asked when I paused on the landing. I hoped she hadn't noticed me wince.

No one's getting beaten up, I told myself. Just relax—and whatever you do, don't start twitching.

“I'm fine. Totally fine. Are the bathrooms down there too?”

“Yeah, his and hers. We're lucky there're so few girls in this dump. Just you, me and Lady Di. You'll meet her later. She's absent a lot.”

The locker room had probably been a closet before New Directions moved in. The gray metal lockers looked as out of place here as the desks in the rooms upstairs. It was like seeing toilets in a kitchen.

A multicolored caterpillar was painted on the bottom of one of the lockers. Why did it seem familiar? I'd have liked to check it out, but Jasmine was tugging on my elbow. “C'mon, let's go see the gym. You'll like what's in there.”

Gym smells—
BO
, rubber mats and musty workout gear—seeped out from under the door.

The first thing I noticed was the boxing ring—and the guy in it. He was shadowboxing—taking little steps backward and forward, throwing punches in front of him and up into the air. He was concentrating so hard, he didn't notice us. Or else he was just pretending not to notice us.

“Eye candy. And he knows it.” Jasmine said it loud enough that the guy could hear her.

He smiled, but only for a second. He had a chiseled face, high forehead, straight nose, full lips. Because he wasn't wearing a shirt, I could see he was ripped. His chest muscles rippled with every punch. Eye candy was right.

“Hey, Jabbin' Jasmine,” a voice called out.

“Hey, Coach.” Jasmine's face looked different when she smiled. Softer.

The coach was sitting in a green plastic lawn chair by the back of the ring. “Gonna introduce me to your pal?”

“She's not my pal. She's the new student. Tessa something or other.”

The coach laughed. He obviously appreciated Jasmine's sense of humor more than I did. “Good to meet you, Tessa Something-or-Other. I'm Big Ron. You ready to start your boxing career?” he asked without getting up from his chair.

“Uh-huh.” Did I sound as nervous as I felt?

I followed Jasmine over to where Big Ron was sitting. He wasn't called Big Ron for nothing. The guy was the size of two regular Rons. I tried not to stare when he stood up to shake my hand. He waddled over, his face red from the exertion. This was our boxing coach?

“I'm lookin' forward to working with you,” Big Ron said, and I managed to mutter something about looking forward to working with him too.

Big Ron turned to the guy in the ring. “Nice work on your combinations this morning, Randy Randy.” Randy Randy? It wasn't hard to figure out how this guy earned his nickname. “Just make sure you keep your chin down. And don't forget to say hello to Tessa Something-or-Other.”

Randy licked the sweat off his upper lip. “Hi,” he said. “How 'bout we”—he paused—“we shake hands when I'm not all sweaty?”

“Sure.” My voice came out higher than usual. I was sure he'd seen me admiring his pecs.

“I gotta shower,” Randy said. “Miss Lebrun”—he paused again—“she gets pissed if we're late.”

“Miss Lebrun?” Did the secretary take attendance at New Directions?

“Yeah,” said Jasmine. “You met her upstairs. She's pretty strict about attendance and stuff, but don't worry. Miss Lebrun's okay.”

So, I thought, my new teacher looks like she's in her early twenties, and my boxing coach is so fat he can hardly move. What could be next?

Next came when I followed Jasmine back upstairs and into the grade-eleven classroom.

Miss Lebrun, who was standing by the blackboard, gestured for me to take a seat at the front.

The boy slumped in the desk next to mine had his head turned away from me, so I couldn't see his face.

But I recognized the turquoise boa.

What was Pretty Boy doing here?