There used to be a boxing team at Mercer. That just totally sucks—the one sport I would try out for, and it doesn’t exist anymore. But there’s a couple heavy punching bags left, a speed bag, one of those bags on a bungee cord that you’re supposed to set swinging and dodge around and hit, and jump ropes, and free weights.
When I got in the corner, I pulled a couple of ratty gymnastic mats off the floor and stacked them behind the heavy bag to help minimize the swaying. When I first found this place there was a decent pair of boxing gloves in one of the old lockers, and I got some tape off the PE teacher’s cart once when he wasn’t looking.
I took off my shirt and started taping my hands. I like to punch the bag with the gloves; it feels more disciplined, like a ritual, like warfare. But I tape my hands anyway because some days the gloves feel too cushioned. It feels like you’re not really hitting things, and I miss the ache in my hands and the scrape of the bag against my knuckles. So sometimes I take the gloves off and finish with my taped hands.
I already knew it was one of those days.
I pulled on the gloves, using my teeth to close the Velcro. Before I could start punching, the door banged and a familiar shuffle-lope crossed the floor.
“How’d it go?” Clay asked.
“Fine.” I dropped a shoulder and sunk a punch into the bag. Then I followed it with a combination jab and hook.
“Yeah,” Clay drawled out the word, sarcastic. “You seem fine.”
“It sucked, but nothing I can’t handle.”
Clay dumped his backpack on the floor and leaned against the flat wall of bleachers. “So tell me. What sucked the most? He’s got you pretty short-chained.”
I fired another combination into the bag, not surprised that Clay saw it, the thing I hated most. That I was Michael’s dog. “I have another job after their practice.” I tipped my head at the whistles and yelling coming from behind the gym.
“What is it?”
“Going to the mall. To get clothes.” My fist slammed the canvas bag.
“Wait”—Clay stepped behind the bag, moving the mats—“they’re buying you clothes? And paying you?”
“Yeah. Cyndra’s idea. She says my look isn’t right.”
Clay shook his head. “Then this is more than fighting someone. It’s bigger than that.”
“Maybe.”
“Cyndra. Damn.”
“She’s Michael’s girlfriend.” I had to state the obvious, since he had a stupid-ass grin plastered across his mouth.
“Playing dress up with you,” Clay retorted. “You realize to play dress up, you’ve got to get naked, right?” He whistled low and shook his head again. “Cyndra Taylor. Fine as fine print.”
He said it like poetry. Like it wasn’t supposed to make sense except on a gut level. Or lower.
“Tool,” I said.
“Douche.”
He held the bag for me for a few minutes while I punched.
“Will you come by after she’s done with you?” he asked when I stopped. That stupid smile tugged at his lips.
I felt a matching smile pull at the corner of my mouth. “Boy, if she even starts, you won’t see us for a week.”
Clay smiled and slapped my glove. He somehow hoisted his overstuffed backpack without tipping over.
“See you in the morning.”
The smile was still on my face when I faced the bag again. Without the rumbling volcano in my chest, I was able to focus on pure technique, slow and measured.
The feeling of a clean punch sailing straight and driving into the bag with my shoulder behind it. I switched legs and arms, aiming punches higher and lower on the bag, now punching through my shoulders and my hips, now rocking forward on the balls of my feet. Techniques I’d picked up from the library computers, watching those cage-fight clips and reading tip-a-day blogs.
I took a break and started working the speed bag. I’m not very good at it, but every now and then I can get it to make that repetitive ba-da-pa ba-da-pa patter that sounds like a ball dribbling superfast.
I got some water and went back to the heavy bag. I shored up the mats and started punching again. This time I focused on sequences, on combinations and rhythm. Rocking around the bag, I started hearing a beat. I accelerated, pushing out triple punches and jabs. Moved in closer, hugging my elbows tight to my sides and shooting punches and jabs and drop-shoulder uppercuts into the bag.
And then it happened. It always does. I started to feel great. I started to feel like I could do anything, fight anyone, punch until the heavy bag’s chain broke. I lowered my head and started to imagine the bag was something else. Someone else.
I took off the gloves and kicked them aside. With each punch, a hiss eked out from between my teeth. The hisses became grunts, and I hit harder and faster. I lost track of time and stopped when the joy passed, stopped when I couldn’t hit anymore and could barely lift my arms.
I leaned against the mats and panted, tilting my head back against the canvas.
“Damn.” It was drawn out in two syllables—day-um—like a southern hillbilly.
A couple of girls stood in the doorway. They were backlit, the light gleaming through the insides of their thighs, shining along the curves of their waists. I couldn’t see who they were and hoped that they could see me as indistinctly. I dragged an arm across my face and stood up.
“Woo, baby,” one of them said. It didn’t sound like Cyndra, but they were here because of her or because of Michael.
I picked up my shirt and threw it on. Grabbed the gloves and retreated into the locker room. Hopefully it didn’t look like a retreat.
My bag was already stashed back there, so I flipped on the shower, locked the door, stripped off my clothes, and stood under the pelting water. I let the water run into my eyes.
I was so tired I didn’t want to think about the girls waiting outside. I had felt good at last, punching until I couldn’t lift my arms anymore. I didn’t want to think about how long they had been standing there. Or if they planned to make a habit out of showing up.
I draped my towel over the window and got dressed again. My bag banged against my back as I walked across the gym floor and climbed the steps. I thought they were gone until I stepped outside.
The football jocks and their girls lounged against their cars.