It looked like a draw to most watchers.
Suddenly guys from other schools were joining in. Squaring off in little groups scattered around the patio and pool, shirts off, taking turns punching each other in the gut. Sometimes there were two, or even three pairs going at once. Guys who didn’t go to the same school matched up. Michael partnered with a golden boy—someone from another school who almost looked like his equal in looks and popularity.
Michael’s punch drove him to the ground.
Mike-Lite and Dwight punched. Dwight toasted him. Beast was unstoppable, and soon people stopped calling him out. He put on his shirt and came back to lean against the low wall.
“Good job,” Cyndra told him. Beast smiled like she’d kissed him.
I felt my ribs, because part of me wanted to go take a few shots. Because I felt like shit for all of it. For being Michael’s friend or muscle for hire. For sleeping with Cyndra, who just wanted to win a bet. For being someone who felt out of place here unless punches were being thrown.
But I didn’t go out. Mostly because I guessed it was what Michael wanted. And it’d look like boasting, which only shows people that you’ve got something to prove.
And I didn’t have to prove a goddamn thing to anyone here.
The music got louder. Guys who’d been hitting each other a moment before were smiling, arms draped over shoulders. They stood around with their shirts off for the girls, and fewer and fewer went out to play the game.
I guess they’d had enough.
I exhaled and leaned over, elbows on my knees. It was probably a good thing no one had remembered me or decided to try their luck, because I wasn’t sure I would be able to stop with just one hit.
“Don’t breathe a sigh of relief yet,” Cyndra murmured. “Dwight’s burning you up.”
I glanced at him. He rolled meaty shoulders forward, crunching his pecs. He glared at me, gum snapping in his jaw.
Air huffed through my nose. “He’s gonna have to do more than glare.”
It was like he heard me, because he pushed through a small clump of people and stood across from my perch.
“Let’s dance,” he grunted.
I couldn’t help it. I laughed, because he sounded so lame—like a pretend mob boss.
The crowd, mostly kids from Mercer, got quiet fast.
I guess hanging with the in-crowd only went so far. To them, maybe I’d always be a psycho.
Good.
“Promise not to step on my toes, honey?” I spat a swig of beer on the ground by his feet.
His eyes got smaller.
“One Hit,” he said, like I didn’t understand. “You and me.”
I shook my head. “Oh, I don’t think I’ll be able to limit myself.”
Michael cleared people off the center of the patio, making a larger space for the contest. “Come on, Jason.”
I gave my beer to Cyndra and slid off the wall. Some Mercer kids were murmuring to kids from other schools standing near them. Giving them the backstory.
Dwight took up a narrow stance. I stood across from him, putting my uninjured ribs in front.
“Who goes first?” he asked.
“I don’t care.”
“Fine. I’ll go first.”
I tensed up my abdomen. But he didn’t move. Just stood there.
“What’s the holdup, dick?”
His eyes got so small, I thought they’d disappear.
“I’m waiting for you to take off your shirt, asshole.”
“Oh, so that’s what this is all about. You got a crush?”
His fist dodged out an inch or two before he stopped himself.
Damn.
“No.” He shook his head like a giant struggling with a thought. “You have to take your shirt off, otherwise you have an unfair advantage.”
“Yeah. Because this T-shirt is made of Kevlar and is really gonna pad the force of your punch.”
He just shook his head again, and I knew that he didn’t just want to punch me, he wanted to make me do it—make me take off the shirt, too, because he’d been there. He knew I didn’t want to. And I couldn’t walk away. Or if I did, where would I go? Walk myself down this mountain? Past the security guards?
A switch flipped inside me. This incandescent anger burning in every socket just winked out, leaving me cold, hard. Like a blade. I didn’t care about any of it anymore. I began to pull at the neck of my shirt, bunching it to drag over my head.
“Wait,” Michael said. “Put your shirt back on, Dwight. Just do it that way.”
Dwight cut resentful eyes at Michael, but did as he was told. Then we squared off.
Dwight’s fist plummeted toward me. I held my arms down and let it come, tensing up just in time. It slammed into my stomach, but skittered toward my hip, almost like he’d tried to reposition after sending it out. It looked okay, made a nice chunking sound, even made me rock to the side a bit. But it was nothing.
I didn’t make any noise and didn’t move. Just waited for him to stand back and drop his hands.
“Here it comes,” someone said.
Sometimes it’s like time slows down. I glanced at Dwight’s face and saw hatred there. Remembered all the times Michael had waved Dwight away to make room for me: in class, at lunch, during break, at the party.
I’d taken his place. Which I didn’t even want.
I dropped my eyes to his abdomen—imagined all the things I hated positioned there.
My fist pumped out straight, turning and driving at his stomach.
He blocked. This was no longer a game.
Dwight’s fist followed the block, driving high at my injured ribs.
I pivoted inside his punch and swept my arm around his block, trapping his arm at his side and squeezing the elbow locked.
I rabbit-punched him, hard and fast, digging up with each strike to his abdomen.
He grunted and tried to bear-hug me, clawing his free arm over me and rolling out of the armlock.
I dropped, shot a hand on his throat, and lunged beside him, pivoting his head and weight over his heel. My inside foot swept behind his heel. I slammed him to the ground. Punched him in the face.
Stood up.