*
The gym was a couple of blocks from the house—Patrick explained how to count city blocks. It was in an old warehouse, but it looked recently painted and it was clean, the air smelling of pine and lemon. Framed posters from old boxing movies were hung high up on the walls, circling the room. Patrick walked around showing us stuff: the boxing rings, his office—crammed full of files and an old computer, boxes of protein bars and weights and sweatshirts tossed in the corner. Kids stopped and talked to him as we passed, their faces eager when they showed him a few jabs or hooks. Heavy bags were strung from the ceiling and there were large balls in corners, mats stacked against the wall, boxes spilling over with boxing gloves.
Patrick grabbed a couple of pairs and got us to put them on.
He showed us a small bag in the corner, about head-height. He said it was called a speed bag and demonstrated how to stand and hit it so it kept coming back. It was amazing how fast he was, his hands a blur.
Then it was my turn.
I was awkward at first, had a hard time finding the rhythm. The more I hit, the more I fell out of sync. I looked at Patrick in frustration.
“Hang in there,” Patrick said. “You’ve almost got it.”
I tried again, tuned everything out, focusing on the ball, taking my time as I hit it with my right hand, then my left, then the right again. After a while my blows fell into a rhythm, an odd exhilaration flowing through my body each time I connected.
Dani picked it up right away, and Patrick went on about how she was a natural. “You’ve got talent, kid.”
Dani smiled for the first time in a long time, her face determined when she hit the bag, the sound strong and solid and powerful. Thwack, thwack, thwack.
I felt good for her, my fingers itching for my camera, but I hadn’t taken it out of my packsack since Brian had dropped it.
Even Courtney started to wake up when Patrick tied some gloves on her hands and showed her a couple of moves. She went over to a heavy bag in the corner and hit it in rapid succession, then kept hitting it over and over, frantic movements with no form, just hard punches that made a loud smack, her breath almost sobbing out of her with each blow. A couple of kids gave her curious looks but Patrick motioned them away. Tears were rolling down my face. Dani looked stricken too, watching Courtney take her grief out on the bag.
Finally she stopped. Still gasping for air, she turned to Patrick. “Can you teach us how to take care of ourselves?”
“Sure thing—no one will mess with you girls again.”
Again. I wondered how much he guessed or knew. Would he try to find out where we came from? I hoped not. Helping scared kids was one thing. He might not be so cool if he knew I was a murderer.
“Come on,” he said, like he sensed he’d freaked us out. “Let me show you the apartment upstairs.”
“What apartment?” Dani said, her voice suspicious.
“It’s part of the gym. Tenants just moved out. It’s not much, but you girls can stay until you get back on your feet. We’ll work something out for the rent.”
*
He was right, it was just a two-bedroom apartment above the gym—you could hear the thumping below, but I liked that, the comfort of the noise, people nearby. The kitchen had a few cupboards, a scratched-up counter in pale yellow, a single sink, a small fridge and stove, and a bathroom with tiles peeling back and a bathtub stained with rust. But there were three beds with sleeping bags, a couch with one of the crocheted blankets, and a couple of dressers.
“There’s some cutlery, pots, plates, things like that,” Patrick said.
“It’s perfect,” Dani said. “We really appreciate this.”
I pulled curtains away from the window in the back. It looked out over some houses. A woman was planting flowers in a box on her balcony. Our new apartment also had a small balcony, and I thought about getting Dani some seeds.
I looked far below. No one would be able to climb up there.
“Yeah, it’s perfect,” I said.
*
Two days later we were having breakfast with Karen and Patrick. I stared at the laminated card, studying the name.
“That one’s yours, Jamie.” Patrick passed Courtney a card. “This one’s yours, Crystal.” He gave Dani the last one. “And Dallas.”
We’d sat up and talked in the dark a couple of nights ago, discussing our new names. Courtney had picked Crystal, after Crystal Gayle. Dani wanted to be Dallas, after Mom’s favorite show. I’d wrestled with mine, testing the possibilities out on my tongue: Janine, Jennifer, Jewel, Jillian, Jocelyn, Jackie.
Finally Courtney said, “Jamie. You should be Jamie.” Since the day at the gym, she’d been talking more. “Like Jessie James.”
“The outlaw?”
She gave a wry smile. “Why not?”