His Heart

by Claire Kingsley

  The adrenaline racing through me made my heart pound. Limbs tingle. Anticipation thrummed through my whole body. It was no longer nervousness. It was excitement. The fuel I would use to power through this match, lending strength to my body and mind.

  The whistle blew.

  We stalked each other in a slow circle for a few seconds. Charlie was an offensive wrestler, so I wanted to beat him to the first take-down attempt—put him on the defensive. Lowering my center of gravity, I charged in and wrapped my arms around his torso, keeping my head against his ribs. He sprawled his legs backward, but I drove in and spun, trying to get around him. He resisted, but I was a hair faster. I got a hand on his leg and pushed the advantage.

  Three seconds later, he was on his back. Take-down, green.

  He flipped to his stomach but I clung to him like glue. My breathing quickened and my heart raced, muscles straining. He was strong, his counter moves effective. I got his leg again and moved forward, trying to keep him from getting to his feet. He stretched his arm across my face, pushing me away. The strain pulled my neck, but I simply drove harder.

  His stomach hit the mat as I got his leg out from under him. Moving fast, I hooked one arm and leg and pushed, trying to roll him to his back. One heartbeat later, he shifted his weight and spun, getting behind me.

  Reversal, black.

  Long arms, all muscle, strove to control me. Move me. Turn me over. I fought back with everything I had. He tried for a half-nelson, but I got free. Twisted, spun.

  The whistle blew, ending the first round.

  We stopped and got up, and I walked a few steps, shaking out my arms. Ground my teeth into my mouth guard. The crowd cheered again, but I kept my mind focused on the battle. On Charlie. On winning.

  Round two had me in bottom position—on my hands and knees. Charlie’s ear to my back, hand on my wrist, his other arm around my torso. The whistle blew and I exploded to my feet. Charlie got his arms around my waist. He was strong enough to pull me to the side, making it hard to keep my balance. I pushed against his hands to break his grip, keeping my center of gravity low. My height made me look scary, but it could be a disadvantage if I didn’t shift my weight in time.

  I broke his grip and spun, then took him to the mat. Take down, green. He answered with a reversal, getting behind me and taking control.

  This was going to be too close on points. I needed to pin him to win.

  We struggled against each other, sweat dripping, making our limbs slick. My chest burned with effort. I could hear Coach’s voice yelling instructions—sprawl, spin, turn, drive, drive, drive.

  Neither of us could maintain a pinning move for more than a second. He tried for a cradle, but I overpowered him before his grip locked. I almost had him in a half-nelson, but he countered and broke free. We were both the best, at the top of our game. So evenly matched no one watching us could predict who would win.

  I knew. It was going to be me.

  The whistle blew and we shook out our limbs before the third round. This would be where mental toughness came into play. We were both getting tired. Three minutes doesn’t sound like a long time, until you spend every second of it fighting against someone hell-bent on making you submit.

  My turn for top position. I knelt behind Charlie, putting my ear to his back. Hand on his wrist. Other arm around his torso. I could see the sequence of moves in my mind. Feel the power in my body.

  The whistle blew again. Charlie wasn’t going down without a fight. He tried to stand, but I got hold of his ankle and hauled his leg back while driving my body forward. For a second, I had him where I wanted him, but he twisted, his strength matching mine.

  The blood rushing in my ears drowned out the noise of the crowd. My body strained, my lungs burning for more air. The two of us fought like gladiators, as if our lives were on the line, not just a title.

  He was strong, but I knew his tactics, remembered how he’d beaten me last year. He always went for a cradle. I kept him from getting a grip on me, always countering. I lost track of the points we scored on each other, but I knew it was still too close. I needed to pin him.

  I broke his grip yet again and got to my feet. I was getting to him, getting in his head. Frustration showed plain on his face. The round was halfway over, and he was slowing. Fatigue setting in.

  I could have wrestled ten more rounds. Energy poured through me, despite my fast breathing and pounding heart. A sense of elation filled me. Almost euphoria. I had this. I could do it.

  He went for the takedown and I let him have it. Spun around and got behind him for a reversal. I wasn’t just going to pin him. I was going to own him.

  Before he could counter, I got control of his arms. Flipped him over into a double arm bar. Few moves are as painful and demoralizing. I kept the pressure on his shoulders, pressing his back into the mat, his arms stretched out. He grunted, trying to break free. But there was no way—not without dislocating both arms.

  The ref dropped to the mat, lying on his stomach, swishing his hand back and forth, palm down. Not quite a pin. I pushed harder, drawing on every last bit of strength I had left. Sweat rolled down my face; my muscles burned. My chest was on fire, my heart crashing against my ribs.

  Smack. The ref’s hand hit the mat. Pin.

  I let go and moved so Charlie could get up. He unwound himself and shook out his arms. Blood pounded in my ears, throbbing in my temples. I sat on the mat for a few seconds, catching my breath, letting it sink in.

  I’d won.

  Charlie reached out a hand to help me up. I took it, meeting his eyes in thanks. Respect. We shook hands and the ref came to take my wrist. Raised my arm above my head.

  My heart wasn’t slowing, my breath coming faster. Why did my chest hurt so much? Spots of black floated across my vision, followed by sparks of light. I blinked hard, only half hearing the announcer say my name. I tried to find my parents in the crowd, but everything was blurry.

  Sudden agony hit me, like I’d just been stabbed. Sharp pains radiated across my chest, down my arm. I cried out, cradling my arm to my body. The ref stepped in. A hand touched my back. Voices, asking me if I was okay.

  The pain was unbearable. My legs gave out and I crumpled to the ground. I couldn’t think. It was like my entire chest was caving in, my heart bursting apart.

  Darkness came for me and I rushed to meet it. Anything to stop the unrelenting pain.

  3

  Brooke

  February. Age sixteen.

  My phone buzzed with a text. I bit my lip, my tummy swirling with nerves. It was Liam.

  Liam: Hey, Bee.

  He kept calling me Bee. Not just the letter B, but typing it out like that. Bee. No one had ever nicknamed me before. It did funny things to my insides.

  I glanced over at our picture from the Valentine’s Day dance. I was wearing a dress borrowed from his sister Olivia—fitted shimmery silver bodice with a floor-length pale pink skirt. Liam in a rented tux. We were standing in front of a garish photo backdrop featuring a fake Hollywood sign and a lot of silver and gold stars. It was still a little hard to believe that night had actually happened. That he’d taken me to a dance, in that dress.

  Nice things didn’t happen to me very often, and that night was one I knew I’d cherish forever.

  Me: Hey. What’s up?

  Since the dance, Liam and I had hung out a little bit—and texted a lot. He texted me in the morning before school, often going to his window to wave at me from next door. We texted in the evenings, sometimes just a message or two back and forth. Other times for hours on end, keeping us both awake late into the night.

  We saw each other at school, and he didn’t hesitate to talk to me. Apparently my bleak social standing didn’t mean anything to him. But school was busy, and there were always other people around. He was nice to me, and he certainly made going to school a hundred times more bearable. But I lived for his text messages.

  A crash rang out downstairs, followed by the muffled sound of yel
ling. I didn’t want to know what my mom and her boyfriend, Paul, were doing down there. It could be as simple as one of them accidentally dropping something. Normal people dropped things, right? Or they might be drunk off their asses, stumbling around the house like idiots.

  My phone buzzed with Liam’s next text, but I went to the door and laid down on my stomach so I could sniff beneath the crack. A hint of cigarette smoke, like always. But no cloying weed odor mixed in. Damn.

  If they were stoned on weed, they’d be relaxed—maybe even happy. Drunk meant sloppy and probably angry. They always fought when they drank. Of course, it was just as likely to be a mix of cheap beer and whatever else they could get their hands on. They made half-hearted attempts to hide their drugs from me, but I wasn’t stupid. And when they were mixing things, it was the worst. I never knew what I’d get. Angry but half-passed out? Happy but manic? Last week my mom had gone on a drug-induced spree—I didn’t know what she’d taken—and painted all the walls downstairs peach.

  It was hideous, but she’d thought it was the best idea she’d ever had.

  I got up and brushed off my jeans, then grabbed my phone.

  Liam: Can you hang out?

  Biting my lip, I stared at my phone. Could I? Sometimes sneaking out was easy. If Mom and Paul were high enough, they wouldn’t even notice me. But Mom could also get mad, and if she got mad, she got mean. It was always a risk.

  But worth it if Liam was asking.

  Me: I’ll try. Meet you out front.

  I never let Liam come up to my door—always found excuses to meet him outside. Even the night of the dance. Olivia had invited me to come get ready with her, and I’d jumped at the chance. I didn’t want Liam to see how I lived—didn’t want him to know where I really came from.

  I grabbed a coat and crept down the stairs. The stench of stale cigarette smoke and mildew permeated the air. We lived in a nice neighborhood, with pretty houses. This one had been pretty too, when we’d first moved in. It wasn’t anymore—at least not on the inside.

  The stairs descended directly into the living room, and there wasn’t much ground to cover to reach the front door. If only I could get to it without them noticing.

  No sign of them in the living room, just the usual piles of clutter. Ashtrays. Empty beer and soda cans. Food wrappers. Once in a while I cleaned up, but I hadn’t bothered lately.

  The sound of voices drifted from the kitchen at the back of the house. From where I was standing at the bottom of the stairs, I couldn’t see back there. But there was a clear line of sight from the kitchen to the front door.

  I took a deep breath. I’d just have to chance it.

  Careful not to step on anything that might make noise, I tip-toed to the door. You’d think as out of it as my mom usually was, she’d be oblivious to the random crinkle of a candy wrapper. But she had an uncanny knack for hearing me move around the house.

  “No!” My mom’s voice made my back clench painfully.

  “Come on, babe,” Paul said. His words slurred together. “Upstairs.”

  Giggles. Groans.

  Oh god. Either I’d make a break for the front door, or haul ass back upstairs and put on headphones. Listening to my mom and her boyfriend have drunken sex was one of the most horrifying parts of my life. And it happened way more often than I wanted to admit.

  Front door it had to be. I hurried forward and started to open it.

  “Brooke!”

  Mom’s voice again. I froze, my hand still on the doorknob.

  “Where the fuck you think you’re going?” she asked.

  “Outside.”

  “Like hell,” she said. “Did you do your homework?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t just leave.” She stumbled toward me. “I’m your mother, Brooke.”

  I’d never understood why she felt the need to remind me of who she was as often as she did. I’d been hearing that my whole life—I’m your mother. She threw it around like a title, as if mother was the same thing as queen. When she was sober enough to notice I was around, at least.

  “I know, Mom,” I said, trying to keep my voice meek. She was on the edge, teetering between blowing me off and deciding I needed punishment for opening the front door without her permission.

  Paul stood in the background, his eyes half-lidded, his arms crossed over his chest. I guess I was lucky in that he left me alone—Mom’s boyfriends always did. Whether she made sure of it, or she somehow chose guys who had no interest in her underage daughter, I didn’t know. She dated some dirtbags. It could have been a lot worse.

  But none of them ever tried to stop her when she got violent with me, either.

  “Where you going?” she asked again.

  “Just outside, Mom,” I said. “Maybe for a little walk.”

  “What? It’s getting dark. Who you going with?”

  Fuck. I didn’t want to tell her it was Liam. If she thought anything was happening between us, she’d forbid me to see him. It wouldn’t matter how many times I told her we were just friends. He’d taken me to a dance, and ever since then, she’d been watching me with a wary look in her eyes, like she expected me to announce I was pregnant any second.

  She was obsessed with making sure I didn’t get knocked up, as if me reaching adulthood without procreating was the primary benchmark of her parenting success. Since my eleventh birthday, she’d been warning me about the dangers of boys. Strange, coming from a woman who was almost never without a live-in boyfriend. She would break up with one and, within days, she’d be madly in love again, shacking up with some new douchebag.

  She’d gotten pregnant with me at sixteen, and had told me many times how it had ruined her life. I suppose her strictness when it came to boys might have been a sign that she cared about me. Although, growing up hearing I was a mistake hadn’t done much for my self-esteem.

  But if I lied to her, and she caught me with Liam, it could be worse. I turned to face her so I could see her eyes. They were glassy and bloodshot, but too clear for her to be wasted. Desiree Summerlin was never really sober—there had been brief times in the past when she hadn’t been using, but they had never lasted. When you were raised by a drug addict, you learned to see the degrees of intoxication. If she was on the brink of oblivion, I could have said anything, knowing she wouldn’t remember it later. But there was too much understanding in her eyes, and in this state, she’d know I was lying.

  “Liam,” I said. “But Mom, we’re only friends. We’re not doing anything wrong.”

  Her hand hit my face before I realized it was coming. The slap stung a little, but she was too wobbly to hit me very hard. I moved with the blow, hunching to the side and covering my head with my arms in case she wasn’t finished.

  “Don’t you back talk at me,” she said. “I’m doing this for your own good, don’t you know that? I’m your mother. I won’t let you be some slut who spreads her legs for any boy that smiles at her.”

  “I’m not, Mom,” I said, keeping my arms over my head. “I’m still a virgin.”

  “Liar,” she said, spitting out the word.

  “I swear, Mom,” I said. “I swear it.”

  Footsteps went up the stairs. I guess Paul was getting bored watching his girlfriend smack her daughter around.

  “Wait, where you going?” Mom asked.

  “Upstairs,” Paul said. “Come on, Desiree.”

  “Watch yourself,” Mom said to me. “You fuck up your life now, and I won’t help you. You’ll be out on your ass, you hear me?”

  I wanted to say, Promise? But I kept silent.

  She went upstairs, stumbling up the first couple of steps. I waited until she was out of sight, then slipped out the door as quietly as I could manage.

  Fresh air. The breeze against my face. The evening air felt so cleansing, like it washed away some of the filth I lived in. My cheek stung, heat blooming across my skin, but I didn’t think it would leave a mark. And at least I was out for a while.

  I went q
uickly up the driveway and rounded the corner. Liam leaned against the fence post a few feet away.

  “There you are, Bee,” he said. “I thought maybe you changed your mind.”

  “No, just… had to deal with my mom.”

  He gave me a crooked grin. “No big deal. I have an idea. Let’s go.”

  He took my hand and the feel of his fingers twining with mine made my heart jump. We went toward his house and up his driveway, stopping at his pickup truck. My eyes darted to the lights in the upstairs windows of my house as he opened the passenger door for me. I’d get in trouble if I got caught leaving with him.

  Screw it. I’d just have to hope I didn’t get caught.

  We drove through town, stopping at a burger place to get cheeseburgers and fries to go. Then Liam drove us down a long two-lane road, winding through the desert hills.

  “Where are you taking me?” I asked. “I feel like we’re either going out to some secret party spot, or you’re going to murder me and hide the body.”

  He laughed. “Neither. There’s just a cool place out here I want to show you. No parties or murders involved.”

  Liam turned off the road, his truck kicking up dust. The land went up in a sharp incline before leveling off at the top. He stopped, parking in an open area.

  “Come on.” He got out and grabbed the bag of food.

  I followed him to the back of the truck. We both climbed in and sat with our backs against the wheel wells. He dug into the bag and handed me a cheeseburger.

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Did you look up yet?”

  Raising my face to the sky, I gasped. Outside the city and absent the glow of lights, the sky was an enormous swath of black peppered with stars. I’d never seen so many stars in my life.

  “Wow,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “This is probably dumb, but I like to come out here at night. It’s so quiet and you can’t beat the view.”