by Sarah Deming
“Hi, Mom,” she said uncertainly.
Her mother smiled and sipped from a mason jar. “Gravity Lynn!”
Gravity stepped inside. Her mother only used her middle name when she was in an excellent mood. She smelled the air again. Was it possible?
“Did you bake bread, Mom?”
Her mother rose from the couch, swaying only slightly, and carried the drink with her into the kitchen, from which she emerged with a thick slice of challah, smeared with butter. Gravity took it, despite the carbs. She could not remember the last time her mother had baked challah. She took a bite and paused, then chewed and swallowed. It took a second to identify the problem: she had forgotten the salt.
“And how are your culinary studies proceeding?” her mother asked.
“Um, okay. We’ve been learning about health department inspections and—”
“I should have gone to culinary school,” her mother said, flopping back down on the couch. “I would have been quite good. Look at this!”
She held up the yearbook, open to a page labeled “Domestic Goddesses.” It had pictures of girls in their home economics class. Everyone was white, and they all had this innocent, happy look. Her mother’s portrait was blown up in the middle of the page. Her hair was her natural brown, in a short bob that turned up at the ends.
“You look beautiful, Mom.”
Gravity wondered, as she always did with the old photos of her father, what had gone so terribly wrong.
Her memories of the golden days when her mother and father were together were as scarce and faded as those old Polaroids. Gravity tried not to call them to mind too often, because the more she thought of them, the less vivid they became. Soon they were no longer real memories at all but stories about memories she used to have.
She let herself go back now, to one of her favorites. It was a Saturday, because she and Mom had gone to synagogue. Gravity had paid extra attention, because the sermon was on Ruth. There weren’t that many stories in the Bible about women doing exciting things, but Ruth was different. She was brave and loyal. Even though she lost her husband, she stuck with her mother-in-law and traveled with her to another country. And when they got there, Ruth met this rich guy who owned the wheat field where she went to work, and he fell in love with her, and everybody lived happily ever after.
After the services were over that day, Mom had taken out the Bible and read Gravity the exact words Ruth spoke to Naomi:
Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.
Gravity memorized that because it was so beautiful. Dad had just reappeared, and he was trying hard to win Mom back, and that afternoon he had taken them out on a Circle Line cruise around Manhattan, which was the kind of touristy thing that real New Yorkers never do. Gravity loved it.
When their boat passed the Statue of Liberty, Dad had pointed and said, “Mira! The third most beautiful lady in New York.”
It had taken Gravity a second to figure out who numbers one and two were supposed to be, but Mom laughed right away, and she and Dad kissed a really sexy kiss. And Gravity had thought that it was just like in the Bible, that Dad would never leave them now but would go where they went and lodge where they lodged.
Gravity tried not to taint the memory with the bitterness of her present knowledge, but she felt some of the sunshine drain out of that old afternoon. So she put it carefully out of her mind.
Dad hadn’t loved them that much. It was okay. That was just the way things were.
Whither thou goest, I will go, she thought, bringing Lefty to mind. She would be loyal like that.
Her mother had drained the rest of the mason jar. She let out a theatrical sigh and said, “I should have been one of those chefs on TV! I would have been a natural. Do you know, Mr. Baird told me I had the kind of voice Broadway shows are made for? Look!”
Gravity smiled. It had been a long time since her mother had been in such a good mood. She had forgotten how pretty she looked when she was happy. She watched her leaf through the old yearbook, her shiny auburn hair falling in a wave across her smooth cheeks. She stopped at the section on the school plays and gazed adoringly at the photo of herself from her high school performance of The Miracle Worker, tracing one finger along the line of her dress and reading aloud the caption: “Eileen Berman thrills the crowd as Annie Sullivan.”
She looked up at Gravity abruptly and barked, “Look at all the great things I used to do!”
Gravity tried saying, “You still do great things, Mom!” but her mother just let out a bitter laugh and reached for the vodka.
“I was always gifted,” she said. “Daddy said I had the finest mind in the family.” She filled the mason jar halfway with vodka, added a splash of V8, and stirred it with a pickle.
Gravity stood there a moment, waiting for her mother to ask about Spokane or Tyler or why Gravity had come home, but her mother remained bent over the book. She rocked rhythmically in time to the warped Curtis Mayfield, moving her lips as she whispered the captions. It was a little frightening.
“I won’t be here long,” Gravity said, backing away. “I just came to grab some stuff. I have to go to Canada in a couple weeks.”
Her mother waved her hand toward the bedroom. “Help yourself.”
“Did any mail come for me?”
“Just junk.”
Gravity went over to the recycling bin and sifted carefully through the circulars and discarded bills—her mother generally threw bills out until they said “Final Notice”—but there was nothing from USA Boxing. It was irritating. She was supposed to have gotten the check three weeks ago.
She hurried into her and Tyler’s room, where she threw random stuff into a garbage bag, eager to get out before her mother’s mood worsened. When she had accumulated enough of her own clothes, she went to her brother’s drawers and cleaned them out too, because she wasn’t sure when they would be back. Then she grabbed the photos of their father from under the bed.
On her way out, she stopped again in the doorway and looked back.
“Bye, Mom. Can you please call or text if I get mail?”
“Sure. Take care.” Her mother did not look up.
“Auntie Rosa got Tyler glasses. I think he was having trouble seeing stuff on the board. We went to his parent-teacher conference and they said it was a big improvement.”
“Stay at Rosa’s as long as you want,” her mother said, waving a manicured hand. “I’m fine here.”
Gravity took a deep breath and gazed out the window, pushing down the anger that threatened to rise. The spider plants on the windowsill looked thirsty again, the tips of their leaves papery and brown. She ought to water them, but one more look at her mother convinced her to go. She couldn’t save everything.
Before she left for Cornwall, Gravity had sent an email to USA Boxing to complain about not getting her stipend check for March and to ask if they could maybe send one big check for both March and April. She also asked—now that she knew you could request roommates—if she could room with Kaylee or Sacred. She was happy to learn from Bonnie Rosario, who picked her up at the airport, that they had listened.
“I made sure they put you in with Kaylee, honey,” Bonnie told Gravity as she barreled down the Ontario expressway, her enormous breasts bouncing beneath the T-shirt that said “Most people wait their whole life to meet their favorite boxer. I raised mine.”
“Pendejo!” Bonnie shrieked, leaning on her horn. “These Canadians! They drive worse than they box.”
Bonnie was the Olympic team manager. That meant that she would travel with them to China and Rio, which made Gravity happy. She was the mom of the heavyweight champion, Bettina, but she treated all the boxers like they were her daughters. She had insisted o
n rescuing the Honduran featherweight, Miranda, from the airport, where she was stranded without her luggage.
“Kaylee is a good girl, just like you, honey,” Bonnie said, patting Gravity’s hand. “Like I always tell Bettina, you gotta stay clear of drama on the road. Don’t let any of these petty bitches drag you down.”
“No bitches! No drama! Entiendes?” Bonnie hollered into the backseat at Miranda. When Miranda shook her head, Bonnie translated heatedly. She kept up a steady stream of bilingual gossip and advice on the drive to the sports center.
That car ride would be the most Gravity would see of Cornwall, Ontario. The entire tournament took place inside a big sports center that the fifty-three women competitors—all national champions from North, Central, and South America—hardly ever left. Everything they needed was inside the vast complex: dorm rooms, a cafeteria, weight rooms, the auditorium in which the fights took place, even little lounges with televisions that broadcast a weird selection of Canadian stations.
When Gravity arrived at her room, Kaylee was already there, standing up on her bed, a towel spread underneath her feet to prevent germs, to hang a skull-and-crossbones flag on the wall. Kaylee’s blond braids and peaches-and-cream complexion reminded Gravity of Svetlana, but Kaylee was longer and stronger, and she had that something extra that marked her as a champion.
She turned to greet Gravity with an “Arrr! Ahoy, matey! Ready to set sail aboard the USS Beatdown?”
“I guess so!” Gravity said.
Kaylee hopped down from the bed. She grinned and said, “You’ll get used to me and my pirate ways. I’m glad we’re bunkmates. You kicked ass in Trials.” She handed Gravity a button with a skull and crossbones on it, and they headed to the cafeteria, which Kaylee called the mess hall.
The whole team was there, spread out between two tables with Bonnie and Coach Shorty. Everybody looked up and said hello when they arrived. Ruben “Shorty” Feliciano was barely five feet tall, with little glasses and a thin mustache above a permanent smile. Boca said Shorty had only gotten where he was because of political connections. Fatso just shrugged when his name came up and said, “He’s from Wisconsin. You ever heard of a great boxer from Wisconsin?”
Hopefully he would be a good head coach. You could never really tell what someone was like until they worked your corner.
Shorty caught her studying him and winked.
“Boricua?” he asked.
Gravity knew that word. It was Spanish for “Puerto Rican.” She replied with one of the few complete sentences she knew: “Mi padre es dominicano.”
“Oooh!” Shorty replied. “Dominicana!” He raised both hands in the air like she was dangerous and might shoot him.
She laughed politely.
He then launched into a rapid speech in Spanish that forced her to use one of her other complete sentences: “No hablo español.” It was a little embarrassing, being half Dominican and not speaking Spanish, but Gravity couldn’t help it. Rosa and Melsy always spoke English with her, and Spanish class at Grady was just too boring.
Shorty had a way of laughing that didn’t make her feel like he was laughing at her. He just patted her hand and said, “One day you learn, champ.”
Gravity could tell which of her teammates had moved up in weight and which ones had moved down by the amount of food on their trays. Aisha and Aaliyah were giggling as they fed each other strawberries. Kiki kept going back for more baked chicken and broccoli, and Bettina was eating like it was her job.
The girls who had cut weight to qualify looked miserable to varying degrees as they stared at their carefully measured starches and proteins. Paloma had always been sulky, but it was a real change to see Nakima so drawn and quiet. Poor Marisol was still a pound over and not eating anything at all.
Around her, the cafeteria buzzed with champions. Carmen Cruz was flitting among them, hugging the boxers and scribbling notes. The sight of her made Gravity think of Andre. She had shoved his creepy comment way down into the back of her mind, like spoiled milk she could not face dumping out. How could Carmen be friends—or more—with someone like that?
Gravity knew from Carmen’s tournament preview that Brazil and Canada were the only other nations besides the US to field full squads. The Brazilians brimmed with fighting spirit, their musical Portuguese echoing through the cafeteria as they laughed and ate. They were a rainbow of skin tones and hairstyles and sizes, but all wore the same crisp navy-blue tracksuit that said “BOXE BRASIL.” Gravity got excited just thinking about fighting them.
The Canadians were sitting nearby. Gravity peered at each woman, trying to figure out who was their lightweight. They looked just like Americans, except that all of them were white and some were speaking what sounded like French. This was surprising to Gravity, and she nudged Kaylee and asked, “Are we near France right now?”
Paloma heard this and laughed.
Kaylee, who was in the process of cleaning all her silverware with sanitizing wipes, said, “Matey, France is in Europe, across the stormy seas.”
Gravity said defensively, “I thought I heard French.” She had never been very good at geography.
Kaylee pulled up a map of Canada on her phone as Paloma continued to snicker. She showed Gravity where Quebec was and told her that a whole part of Canada had French as its first language.
“Your opponent is from there,” Kaylee added.
“Which one is she?”
“Annie. Blonde, second from the right.”
Gravity watched Annie eat. She remembered from Carmen’s tournament preview that she was a policewoman and mother of two. There wasn’t any footage of her online.
“Is she any good?”
Paloma broke in, saying, “She’s tough but old and slow.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
Paloma went on, her voice like a parent lecturing a child, “Argentina and Puerto Rico are skillful but they can’t go toe to toe. Mexico is strong but crude. Brazil is the one to beat.”
Coach Shorty stood up to address the table, flashing them all his signature grin. “Ladies! Trial scale is in the fitness room. Get good rest and we see you at the weigh-in at seven sharp. Conference room E.”
“Do not be late!” Bonnie added. “I will come to your rooms and dump a bucket of ice on you.”
“Fuck!” Gravity stared at the scale in despair. She was 133.5.
“Shit!” said Kaylee. “Lemme try.”
She took Gravity’s place. They both stared at the blinking digital display until it resolved. Kaylee was 113.4.
“Fuck!” Kaylee said. “I was on weight when I went to bed!”
“Are you sure it’s accurate?”
“I checked it against the trial scale last night. I was a hundred and twelve point two on both.”
“Could it have, like, broken overnight? Or maybe the floor in here is slanted or something?”
They looked at each other miserably, then back at the scale.
“I’ll run down and check again,” Kaylee said.
“Okay,” Gravity said. “In the meantime, we should start spitting.”
She grabbed an empty water bottle off the dresser and began to work up saliva, then spit it inside. By the time Kaylee came back, Gravity had managed to fill the bottle a quarter of the way. Her mouth felt cottony. She looked at Kaylee hopefully, but her roommate shook her head.
Gravity had already taken a shit that morning. She did not need to ask Kaylee if she had gone, because her roommate had used up two entire rolls of toilet paper. It must have been an OCD thing.
“Should we tell Bonnie?” Gravity asked.
“What’s she gonna do? Plus, she’ll just tell Coach.”
Everyone wanted to impress Shorty and get on his good side. The thought of making a first impression with her new coach as an overweight slacker was horrifying.
�
�Let’s make a sauna,” Kaylee said.
They dashed into the bathroom, where they turned on the hot water in the shower and the sink at full blast and put towels under the door.
“Do you have a plastic suit and Albolene?” Kaylee asked.
“Of course.”
They rifled through their luggage until they found their plastics. After they had stripped, slathered themselves with Albolene, and layered up, they went back into the tiny bathroom, which was already filling with steam. Since the light was connected to the fan, they shut it off and sat on the edge of the tub in the darkness, sweating and spitting into bottles.
“We’re lucky they have good hot water,” Kaylee said. “In Russia it was cold showers.”
“What was Russia like?”
“Honestly? It sucked. The beds felt like wooden boards. The girls were really tough, and we didn’t get time to recover from the jet lag. We all lost except Sacred.”
“Sacred is amazing.”
“She’s a beast,” Kaylee said. “I love her to death. Usually we room together, but Bonnie said you requested me and I wanted to get to know you better.”
“Wow! Thanks, Kaylee.”
Despite her anxiety about the weight, it was kind of fun just sitting there in the pitch dark and talking. It made Gravity think of being a little girl and building pillow forts with Melsy. They would lie inside them for hours, listening to music and gabbing.
“Most of the girls on the team now are cool,” Kaylee said. “And Bonnie and Shorty are great. The only one you have to watch out for is Paloma. She’ll stab you in the back if it would benefit her career.”
“I kinda got that feeling.”
“Last year? Paloma asked Aaliyah to help her get ready for the duals with Germany and Kazakhstan. Paloma promised Aaliyah one of her fights in the dual. Aaliyah flew out and gave her great sparring, then, when the time came, Paloma kept all the fights for herself. That’s why Aaliyah and Aisha can’t stand her.”
“Wow.”
