by T. S. Easton
Luckily, Hannah and Georgie and Sophie are pretty good and I didn’t have to do too much except chat to Emily, the goalkeeper. She was all padded up and wore a helmet so it was a bit like talking to the Michelin Man. I told her I’d been boxing and she asked me if I was going to have an actual fight in the ring.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not even going to spar. I’m not very good. You have to be really fit to box properly.’ I didn’t want to say that my mother wouldn’t let me, but it struck me that there was no end to the list of excuses I could make about why I shouldn’t get in the ring.
‘I wondered if you’d been doing some exercise,’ Emily said. ‘You look fitter than you did, and you stand straighter than you used to.’
‘Really?’ I asked, turning around, now self-consciously stiffening my back.
‘Yeah, you used to slump about all the time. But now you stand straight. Like you’ve got more confidence and that.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, grinning.
‘Now watch out,’ Emily said. ‘Here comes Destiny.’ She didn’t mean in a metaphorical way either. I turned to see Destiny Abbot come charging towards us, tapping the ball along delicately as she ran. Maybe it was the unexpected compliment from Emily, maybe it was my newfound energy and discipline, but something made me run out towards her. Usually I’d just wait there and try to dive out of the way at the last minute. But today I didn’t. Today I challenged her.
Destiny seemed surprised to see me there. She tried to correct her trajectory but over-hit the ball slightly, losing control. I stuck out my stick towards it and, amazingly, made contact, tapping it back the other way. But Destiny was still coming towards me, unable to stop so quickly. My feet took over, Ricky’s drills coming back to me.
Left, left, forward and right.
I jinked past Destiny and raced after the ball, picking it up again before looking for someone to pass to. I could hear Destiny turn and charge up behind. Meanwhile, ahead, I saw three green bibs enclosing me. There was no way to get through. One of the girls was a little ahead of the others and sprinted towards me. I shaped up to take a big swing at the ball, and she paused, ready to try and block the shot. But I didn’t take it. Instead, I tapped it lightly to the right of her and ran past. She twisted to follow but stumbled and I was away. Another defender beaten.
‘Pass!’ I heard Hannah scream from the far side. The other two green bibs were closing on me. I didn’t have much time. I stopped and swiped the ball as hard as I could in Hannah’s direction. But I miss-hit it and it zoomed off in the wrong direction, slicing off forward instead of to the side. Dammit. I thought.
‘RUN!’ Hannah screamed.
‘RUN, FLEUR!’ Sophie screamed. I realised there was still a chance I could get the ball back. I darted after it, a green bib racing me for the prize. With a lurch of dread, I realised it was Bonita. She was going to beat me, surely. Even if we got there at the same time, she’d just knock me over. What was the point? Time to give up.
But strangely, I didn’t give up. In fact I found I was still running. And I tell you something even stranger. I was absolutely flying.
‘GO, FLEUR!’ Hannah screamed. ‘WIN IT!’
I got to the ball first, tapping it on a little, just as Bonita arrived. She slammed into me, all seventy-something kilograms of her. I stumbled, the shock juddering through my frame. But my legs held. All those squat thrusts had paid off. I carried on as Bonita stumbled and fell behind. Now it was just me and the goalie. I’d never been this close to the opposition goal before; it was a strange experience. I looked for someone to pass to. Two pink bibs were racing into position, but they’d be too late.
‘Strike, strike!’ Hannah cried.
So I did, I took up the position and just whacked it. Right through the astonished goalkeeper’s legs. No one was more surprised than me when the ball clunked into the back of the goal. Or maybe they were. There was a moment of silent bemusement around the field as everyone tried to get their heads around the fact that Fleur had scored a goal. Then my team erupted into cheers. They rushed over to pat me on the back. Hannah gave me a huge hug and lifted me off the ground in her enthusiasm. I think I was pretty cool about the whole thing, just leaping about, shrieking and waving my stick for three or four minutes, five, tops. I passed Bonita on the way back, wondering if she’d congratulate me. But she didn’t. She just barged me aside, her face red and furious.
Structural Meninism
The euphoria didn’t last long and it was a rubbish day at school on Friday. Blossom didn’t come in, and we had a stupid argument in PSHE. Chief Meninists William Capel and Ryan Cook were going on again about how there would never be complete equality because girls and boys were built differently and designed to fulfil different tasks. ‘It’s just basic biology,’ Ryan kept saying.
‘Women are designed to bear our children,’ William added.
‘Good luck with that,’ Bonita snarled. I hate PSHE. Especially when Blossom isn’t there. There was just the Meninists and Bonita. Bonita got really cross and said that women could do everything that men could. Or at least SOME women.
‘Some men are good at sport, some men aren’t,’ she said. ‘Some women are good at sport. Some women aren’t.’ She looked at me. I ignored her. I tended not to speak up in these situations. Blossom would have owned them. She would have run rings around Bonita and chopped the Meninists up into tiny bits. But I just let them talk their nonsense. What did I care what those idiots thought anyway? It wasn’t worth the fight.
On the way home I ran into Blossom just outside Tesco.
‘Are we still on for the Bluebell Road Film Club tonight?’ I asked.
‘Rom-com I suppose.’
‘Maybe.’
She shrugged. ‘All right then.’
‘Could have done with you in PSHE today,’ I told her. ‘The Meninists are back, and still awful. Going on again about men being physically superior.’
She snorted. ‘Why is it always the worst men who are so certain of their gender’s superiority?’
‘I feel like I let you down,’ I said. ‘You would have bashed them and boshed them but I just sat there and said nothing.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll bide my time then slit their throats when they least expect it.’
‘I should have said something,’ I said. ‘You must think I’m a terrible feminist.’
‘Of course I don’t think that!’
‘But I am. Remember that time we were doing Structural Feminism and I didn’t know what it was and wrote an essay about Naomi Klein’s house? And at first I didn’t even know who Naomi Klein was.’
‘You thought she was the blonde one from Little Mix,’ Blossom said, chewing her lip.
‘I did,’ I admitted.
‘You’re not a bad feminist,’ she reassured me. ‘At least you’re doing something.’
Blossom arrived at mine two hours later and was horrified to see Rocky V already loaded onto the TV.
‘Rocky V?’ Blossom exclaimed. ‘I thought he retired at the end of Rocky IV.’
‘You’re so naïve.’
‘How many Rocky films are there?’
‘Loads,’ I said.
‘So that’s it now? Just Rocky films, no more rom-coms?’
‘I thought you hated rom-coms,’ I said as I made the tea. ‘Each Reece Witherspoon film a brick in the patriarchal edifice?’
‘… ish,’ she said, looking supremely disappointed. ‘They can also be empowering, life-affirming expressions of what it means to be a young woman in the twenty-first century.’
‘So is Rocky.’
‘But five though,’ she whined. ‘I haven’t even seen three. Or two for that matter.’
‘You don’t need to,’ I said.
‘Why, are they all the same?’ she asked, settling herself down onto the sofa.
‘How dare you?’ I retorted. ‘I mean that each film is a masterpiece in its own right. Look, we can always skip the film and do some revision inste
ad?’
‘Fine, we’ll watch the film,’ she sighed and hit play.
And wow. I mean, wow! That was just the best Rocky yet. A Russian opponent this time, Ivan Drago. Bred and trained under laboratory conditions, specifically to defeat All-American hero Rocky Balboa. But all their technology came to naught in the end. All the bio-kinetic training machines in the world can’t beat punching a side of beef in a cold room behind a restaurant in Philadelphia. All the nutritional supplements and science pills on the planet can’t beat a bowl of Italian-American pasta sauce. All the skeleto-muscular training regimes in the universe can’t beat running up some museum steps, raising your arms and shouting in a croaky voice.
As we watched, I kept stealing glances at Blossom. She started off with a sour expression, checking her phone from time to time. But as the film went on I could see she was gradually getting into it. She put her phone down when Apollo Creed died. She let her tea grow cold as Rocky went through his final preparations for the fight of his life. And when Drago finally slumps to his knees, defeated, Blossom the pacifist internationalist leapt from her seat and screamed, ‘IN YOUR FACE, IVAN.’
I nodded in smug satisfaction. No one can resist the appeal of Rocky.
Ultimately of course, it’s all about heart. Passion. That’s how Rocky wins. Human desire, love, will defeat the robotic, joyless Russian science. There was one thing the scientists couldn’t design. The love of a good, slightly insipid, improbably named woman like Adrian.
That night I dreamed about fighting a Russian girl who looked a bit like Bonita but also a bit like Cara Delevingne. It was all a bit odd and confusing at one point when we ended up in a clinch and she tried to kiss me. But ultimately I beat her.
Appraisal
‘Why did the woman cross the road?’ Jordan asked a gaggle of boys before training started on Saturday. He had his back to me and the rest of them were furiously signalling with their eyes. Dan was cutting his throat frantically.
‘Who cares?’ he went on. ‘The important question is, how did she get out of the kitchen?’
There was a deathly silence.
‘Fleur’s behind me, isn’t she?’ Jordan asked sheepishly.
He turned to me. ‘Sorry, Killa,’ he said. ‘Just a little joke.’
‘You need to be careful about locking women in the kitchen.’ I smiled sweetly. ‘That’s where the knives are kept.’
They laughed at that.
‘What is this awful music?’ I asked as I stretched.
Ricky stared at me in shocked surprise. ‘This? It’s the Beatles, only the most successful band there has ever been. That’s John Lennon singing.’
‘No wonder they shot him,’ I said.
‘Right, for that, you can give me twenty, down on the floor.’ But I could see him trying to hide a grin as I dropped down.
‘You trained well today,’ he told me later as I was taking the wraps off. I was breathing hard and I could feel the sweat steaming off my hot skin. But I felt good. Ricky didn’t hand out praise lightly, and he was right, I had trained well today. He turned to go and I called out.
‘Ricky.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I was watching a video of Nicola Adams,’ I said. This was true, I had watched a lot of videos of Nicola Adams, but more videos of Rocky. And Million Dollar Baby again.
‘Nicola Adams. Yeah, fantastic isn’t she?’
‘She is. And Hilary Swank.’
‘Eh?’
‘Anyway, the point is that … I’m only asking. I don’t really think I. I mean I’m not really sure, but what do you think about me maybe … sparring some time?’
He narrowed his eyes.
‘You?’
‘Well why not? Because I’m a girl?’
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘Because … well, there’s not much to you.’
‘Have you not seen my guns?’ I asked, incredulous.
‘You’re a bit fitter than you were,’ he said. ‘But you’re not ready to spar.’
I breathed in sharply. ‘Is this because I don’t like the Beatles?’
‘Not just that. I don’t think you’re fit enough. Or heavy enough. I don’t know who to pair you up with.’
I paused for a moment and thought of Bonita and the awful Meninists. I wanted to stop feeling helpless and weak. I wanted to know that I could succeed at something difficult. Something that none of them could do.
‘Well?’ I asked. ‘What do I need to do?’
‘You’d need to train more often.’
‘What?! I’m cycling, I’m jogging. I’m doing weights …’
‘You need another session here once a week,’ he said. ‘Then I can spend a bit more time with you on technique, with the pads. Come on Wednesdays.’
‘Wednesday is Date Night,’ I told him. He shrugged.
‘Then you need to choose what’s more important to you.’ he said. ‘Boxing, or Date Night.’
Splintered Parmesan
On the next Date Night after exams George took me to a restaurant called period. Or at least that was my joke, which George disapproved of. The restaurant was actually called dot. On the sign at the front there was literally just a dot. It was angrily modern and situated on the B3576 between the squash courts and the Volvo garage. I read the menu with alarm. This restaurant was so happening it had moved right beyond shaved parmesan and had started splintering it. It also crushed fennel, bruised beef and ripped herbs. Even the vegetarian option was split lentils and came served with worried spinach. I’d be worried too in that kitchen.
‘Bruised beef,’ George said thoughtfully. ‘I think that’s steak. There’s also flattened spatchcock hen, pulped chickpea curry, whipped egg …’
‘You had me at steak,’ I said.
‘Hammered pork, shredded pork, twisted pork …’
‘Why are you still talking?’ I asked. ‘They have steak.’
‘Have you got your dress yet for the ball?’ George asked, putting away the menu.
‘No,’ I said, wincing at the memory.
‘I thought your mum took you to Brighton with her credit card,’ he said.
‘She did.’
‘But you came back empty-handed?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I came back with some twelve-ounce ProHit sparring gloves.’
‘And that’s all?’
‘No that’s not all,’ I said defensively. ‘I also bought a mouth guard.’
The waiter sidled up and asked if we were ready to order. I noticed he wasn’t carrying a pad. I was in a slightly naughty mood.
‘Mademoiselle?’ he said.
‘Madame,’ I replied haughtily. ‘We were married three weeks ago in Grenoble.’ The waiter glanced down at my hand.
‘The ring was accidentally swallowed by my dog, Ian Beale,’ I added. ‘We’re awaiting its return.’
‘The dog really is called Ian Beale,’ George said apologetically.
The waiter waited patiently. ‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘I’d like a starter of pounded chickpeas.’
‘You mean the hummus?’
‘Yes, that’s right, but please ask Chef to really smash those chickpeas good. I want them properly violated.’
‘Yes, Madame,’ he said and I felt I detected a slightly irritated tone. No one seemed to enjoy the Wednesday evening shift in this town, for some inexplicable reason. George was watching me carefully, presumably wondering if I was going to embarrass him again tonight. Or more likely HOW I was going to embarrass him.
‘And for a main course, I’d like the steak, please.’
‘The bruised beef?’
‘Yes, but I want it really hammered hard. Knock it silly.’
‘Yes, Madame,’ the waiter said, before turning to George gratefully. ‘And for you, sir?’
George paused for a moment.
‘I’d like the pulverised petit pois,’ he said.
The waiter looked confused for a moment. ‘Do you mean the pea soup, sir?’
‘Yeah, but totally squas
h those little guys,’ George said, looking straight at me. ‘Sit on them if you have to.’ I tried not to laugh. The game would be ruined if we acknowledged it. My tummy flipped gently as I remembered just why I liked this ridiculous boy.
‘And for your main?’ the waiter asked.
‘I’ll have the beef too.’
‘Bruised, sir?’
‘Bruised and battered,’ said George, handing the waiter his menu. ‘Hit it with everything you’ve got.’
‘So,’ he said, grinning as soon as the waiter had gone, ‘how did the exams go?’
‘Surprisingly well,’ I said. ‘Blossom and I temporarily suspended our Friday-night study sessions so we could get some actual studying done instead of just watching Rocky films. I think it paid off.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ he said.
‘Speaking of changes to schedules,’ I said, ‘could I … could we, talk about something?’
‘Sure,’ he said. I hesitated. I really wasn’t sure how he’d react.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘I’m on tenterhooks.’
‘Um,’ I said, thinking quickly. ‘Look, I know you don’t want to, but the thing is … I wonder if we could reconsider and switch Date Night to Thursdays from now on.’
He looked at me with a furrowed brow. ‘But Wednesday is Date Night. We’ve talked about this.’
‘We didn’t really,’ I said. ‘I suggested it, and you hummed and hawed, and we just left it. But boxing is important, and it’s the holidays soon in any case, so maybe this is a good time to adjust the schedules so they work better for both of us.’
‘This is so you can go and hit punch bags?’ he asked, checking his phone.
‘Basically, yeah. This matters to me.’ He looked up, perhaps taken aback by how assertive I was being.
