“On the West Side, at Huron Park.”
He gives me a skeptical look, and I sigh, tossing him Mom’s keys so quickly, he almost drops them.
“If you get us stopped for a speeding ticket, I’m going to kill you,” I warn as I open the door to the garage and head outside, the sound of my brother’s footsteps behind me.
Forty-Five
GROWING UP, I’D SEEN posters stapled to telephone poles around town advertising “Fight to the Death” contests. They were in bright neon colors—always at intersections right when you pulled off the highway, the aggressive capital letters and exclamation points demanding your attention.
I didn’t know what the contests entailed, but I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to fight so much they died.
And even after I eventually read an article about the amateur boxing contests in the newspaper, if you had asked me if I’d ever be watching one unfold in front of me, I would have laughed you out of the room.
But I’m currently pushing through a crush of sweaty cheering people who are watching two large guys dance and duck and grunt as they attempt to knock each other out.
I’d never admit it out loud, but I’m secretly relieved Charlie came. There’s no way I would have found this place on my own. And, of course, when we arrived, the first person I saw in the crowd was Johnny Casper. He didn’t see me because I shoved Charlie so hard in the opposite direction, he actually stumbled.
He turned around and scowled at me. “Sorry,” I muttered.
But right now, even if Johnny were standing two feet away from me, I don’t know if I could see him. Charlie’s trying to get us closer, but there are people everywhere, and I feel that familiar panic of being short in a crowd of people—stuck in a mess of torsos and shoulders. I’m just getting to the point where I think I’m going to scream when Charlie moves to the side and I realize we made it to the edge of the ring, right as one of the guys currently boxing falls to the ground, his weight slamming to the floor in front of me.
Charlie nods appreciatively. “Badass.”
“I don’t know why people like this.”
“?’Cause it’s sweet,” Charlie says, his eyes lighting up as the guy on the floor stumbles up and begins boxing again, only to get knocked out again—this time for good. He points to the scoreboard. “Finn’s up next.”
I look around at the rest of the crowd. It’s mostly men, but I see an occasional woman here and there. Most everyone has plastic cups of beer, and the floor is littered with cigarette butts.
People start cheering when a super-tanned woman in a bright-orange bikini comes out and makes a slow circle around the inner ring, holding a sign that reads ROUND 1 so that everyone can see it.
The announcer calls out, “And now our level-two finalists, up first . . . Finn Casper!”
At first I’m relieved he’s up, because as soon as he’s done, I can leave. But then I see him—shirtless, skull tattoo dark against his pale skin, his hair knotted up in a bun—lifting the elastic ropes at the edge of the ring. Someone hands him headgear, and my stomach knots as he straps it on. Even from the other side of the ring, I can make out his lingering bruises, his sinewy abdomen, his breakable bones.
I want to jump right up there and pull him out of the ring, take him away from here, never let him come back.
My eyelid twitches.
Charlie puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’ll be okay,” he says. “He wouldn’t have gotten this far if he didn’t know what he was doing.”
Finn waits in the corner, putting in a mouth guard, then sliding on his gloves. My eyes dart around the ring, and I see Johnny on the other side. He’s chewing something, his focus on the guy next to him, who’s stealthily counting out some money, which Johnny slips into his back pocket.
Everything around me suddenly seems louder than it was just a second ago, but I can’t make out any of it—it’s just a rush of noise.
I can’t tell if the tenor of the crowd is changing or it’s just in my head.
“And his opponent, Joe Castanelli!”
A guy with a shaved head climbs into the ring. They’re the same height, but Finn’s opponent looks like a bulldog, thick arms and thicker torso.
I hug myself harder.
Even Charlie looks uneasy.
The bell rings, and both boxers move forward. Finn’s jogging in place, while his opponent lumbers: slow, focused, and sure.
As the guy makes his first swing, Finn’s whole body arches back, graceful, and he throws a quick uppercut, hitting the guy in the ribs. The guy stumbles back a few steps, and in surprise, Charlie murmurs, “Finn’s really good.” The crowd cheers, and I look over at Johnny, his eyes locked on Finn, but I can’t watch him for too long, my eyes going back to Finn.
Finn dances around his opponent like David and Goliath, like Jack and the Giant, before throwing a right hook. This time the guy’s ready, jerking back, faster than I thought he could with all that bulk, and he quickly lands one right on Finn’s jaw.
I grip Charlie’s arm hard as Finn staggers backward. But even though Finn’s eyes are glazed, he catches his balance, pushing his shoulders forward, and before the guy can register, Finn hits back, knocking him right in the face.
The crowd erupts in more yelling, whistling, and Johnny hollers, “Get him, Finny!”
The giant wipes his face with his arm, and Finn leaps toward his opponent, throwing a light rain of punches against the guy’s gut.
The other guy is pissed now, and using all his mass, he launches himself at Finn, one huge fist meeting Finn’s face again. This time, Finn tumbles to the ground in front of us. I want so badly to close my eyes, but I can’t stop looking at the outline of his ribs, his chest heaving up and down, his eyes scrunched closed, the trickle of blood from his nose.
“Get up,” Charlie says under his breath as the judge begins to count, the crowd starting to count along with him.
Johnny pushes close to the side, yelling, “Don’t blow this, Finn!” The judge shoots him a stern look, and Johnny backs up, holding his hands in front of him.
The giant paces, restless, knocking his gloves together.
From the ground, Finn turns his head and opens his eyes. He sees me then, his eyes locking onto mine, and for the first time since I met him, the storm in them has calmed, now just the quiet still gray of a winter afternoon.
The judge finishes his count, declaring the giant the winner. I glance at Johnny and see the disgust and fury on his face as he shoves a big wad of money at a guy, then pushes away through the crowd.
I go back to Finn, holding his gaze, until hands lift him up, slinging his arm around a shoulder, Finn’s eyes fluttering shut and jerking back open, his gait woozy, and then I realize it’s my brother holding him up, that Charlie’s the one walking him toward me, that Charlie’s the one getting us home.
Forty-Six
WHEN WE STEP OUTSIDE, Finn still propped against Charlie, Johnny’s waiting across the parking lot, smoking. His eyes hone in on Finn.
“Shit,” Finn says under his breath, his body tensing. He turns to us. “I’ll talk to you guys later?”
“Sure,” Charlie says.
I give them both a hard look. “No.”
“Parker,” Finn starts.
Maybe it’s the sleepy glaze in Finn’s eyes or the way Johnny responded to Finn’s loss, but I’m not leaving him right now. I shake my head. “You’re coming home with us.”
“Johnny’s right over there. He’s got my truck keys. He’ll drive me home,” he insists, stepping away from Charlie. He’s gotten a little steadier on his feet.
“I see him over there, but um, yeah, NO.”
“Parker, if he wants to—” Charlie says, but I shoot him a glare that immediately shuts him up.
By this point, Johnny has stalked over to us. He drops his cigarette, grinds it out with the heel of his boot, giving me a long look and a nod before turning his attention to Finn. “What the fuck was that, Finny?”