by T. S. Easton
‘Did you see that chap with the Tardis on his back?’ Pip asked as we walked. ‘Pure genius.’
‘I liked the airship race,’ Blossom said. ‘Especially when one crashed into the chandelier.’
I smiled contentedly and was about to reply when we were interrupted by a shout. ‘Hey, freaks!’
‘Drunks,’ Pip muttered. ‘Ignore them.’
‘Hey, you freaks!’ came another shout, followed by the unwelcome sound of boots running towards us. Brighton is a great town, but there are idiots here too. I turned to face them. There were four boys. They stopped a few feet away and looked us up and down. Suddenly I wished my dress was a bit longer.
‘How much, Blondie?’ one asked, looking right at my legs.
‘Show us your gun,’ another called to Blossom. A third whispered into his ear and the two of them fell about laughing.
‘Come on, Fleur,’ Pip said, tugging at my sleeve. ‘Let’s just keep walking.’
‘I like that dress,’ the first one said, pointing at me. He wore a black jacket and had clearly spent a lot of time on his hair. They couldn’t have been much older than fifteen.
‘It might suit you,’ I replied. ‘It’s designed to accommodate a giant arse.’ I felt strong. I was invulnerable. I wasn’t going to let these idiots ruin our night.
The leader sneered and stepped forward. Instinctively I lifted the cane but he snatched it from me and raised it high, threatening to bring it down on my head. Time slowed. I saw his other hand held a mobile phone, down by his side. He’d left himself completely unguarded. For half a second I hesitated.
Then Blossom squealed and the next thing I knew the boy was on the floor coughing and gasping for breath.
I’d hit him in the solar plexus: he wouldn’t be getting up for a while. I was exhilarated as I looked at the other boys. I shuffled my feet and found myself taking up my stance, bringing my fists up. They watched me closely. I raised an eyebrow. One of the boys took a step forward, and I felt a flash of alarm. I couldn’t fight all three of them. But, without once taking his eyes off me, he leaned down and helped his friend to his feet.
‘Come on,’ he said to his mates. And they shuffled away, dragging their injured companion off down the street.
‘That’s right,’ Blossom shouted after them. ‘You think girls can’t hit? You’re wrong.’
‘Shut up, Blossom,’ I said, beginning to shake as the adrenaline started to ebb. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
Punchdrunk
‘Boom, crack, smash. You biffed him and boshed him!’ Blossom cried from the back seat. ‘Take that, rapist!’
‘Blossom, it’s not cool. I just hit someone!’
‘It was self-defence, Fleur. Isn’t that right, Pip?’
‘Yep, saw it all,’ Pip confirmed.
Was it that simple though? I was in a daze, shivering and scared by what I’d done. But at the same time I felt excited. I hadn’t actually enjoyed the act of hitting another person, even if he deserved it, but I loved the sense of power. It was new for me. Where had that punch even come from? In the club, tapping away at big heavy bags, my punches felt weak and meaningless. But out on the street, I was suddenly Wonder Woman, Poison Ivy and Black Widow rolled into one.
While I was sitting there, my mind and body buzzing, Blossom was busy in the back seat texting people about what had happed. No one from school of course, just Magnet and her mates from the Socialist Action Group. But Bosford is a small town and word gets around. When I checked my Twitter before I went to bed I had forty-three notifications, all about the incident in Brighton. The story seemed to have been improved in the telling though. Someone had got the idea that I’d been attacked by a rapist and fought him off. Most of the chatter seemed to be on the lines of Fleur? Fleur Waters punched someone? How is that even possible? Verity texted me from New Zealand to tell me I rocked. I even got a DM from George asking if I was OK.
I was woken on Saturday morning by my phone ringing. I peered at the time blearily. Who would call at 7.53 a.m. on a Saturday? Who is even up at that time? It’s like the middle of the night. It was an unknown number, but I answered anyway.
‘Hello?’
‘Fleur? It’s Ricky.’
‘Oh, hi …’
‘Did you punch someone last night?’
‘You heard about that?’
‘Yeah, I heard about that.’
My brain scrambled to decipher his tone. I guessed he’d be impressed but something about his voice felt a bit off.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ I told him.
‘What’s that?’
‘That I’m ready to spar with the boys now.’
‘That’s not what I’m thinking,’ he said quietly.
‘Oh?’
‘I’m thinking I should kick you out of the club,’ he said.
I sat up in bed, my heart sinking. I couldn’t believe I was hearing this.
‘You know the rules,’ he went on. ‘What you learn in the club stays in the club. No one fights on the street.’
‘But this was different. I mean, what’s the point of me learning to box if I can’t use it to defend myself?’
‘You’re not the Karate Kid. It’s a sport, you’re supposed to do it in the ring. You could have seriously hurt that boy,’ Ricky said. ‘What if he fell and cracked his head?’
‘That wasn’t going to happen!’
‘I’ve seen it!’ he snapped. ‘I’ve seen it happen, Fleur. I’m sorry but I don’t think I have any choice. You’re out of the club.’ And then he hung up.
Boxing Clever
‘On the bright side,’ Mum said over breakfast, ‘this means you can come to Pilates with me.’
‘Great,’ I said, unable to hide my sarcasm. Mum, to her credit, was trying extremely hard to not beam with delight at the thought of me not boxing any more.
‘I’ll call Carole,’ she went on. ‘See if she can squeeze you in to today’s session.’
‘Marvellous,’ I said as she went off to find her phone. I sat at the table facing the window, looking out over the fields, toying with my cornflakes.
I still couldn’t understand it. Surely I was allowed to use my skills to defend myself? It’s not as if I was going around brawling in nightclubs. I’d been protecting myself and my friends from a potentially dangerous situation. Mum came back after a few minutes.
‘Carole says you’re in,’ she said, grinning like a loon.
‘Brilliant news,’ I replied. I gently slid the bowl of cornflakes to one side, then let my head fall with a thump down onto the heavy oak.
‘Come on, Fleur,’ Mum said. ‘Give it a try. You never know, you might enjoy it.’
I looked up at her and forced a smile. It wasn’t her fault. She was doing her best.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ I managed.
‘And one more thing,’ she added cheerfully. ‘At least this way all your Lycra won’t go to waste.’
Speaking of Lycra, I hadn’t realised there was so much of the stuff in in the world. There were literally acres of wobbly middle-aged flesh for it to cling to at Mum’s Pilates class. Mum introduced me to Carole of the Enveloping Aura before heading off to chat with her friends. There was some weird Bolivian pan-pipe music playing over the PA.
‘So pleased to meet you,’ Carole said, putting her head to one side and staring at me intensely, her ice-blue eyes burning into my soul. Suddenly I felt very stiff. ‘Your mother has told me so much about you.’
‘Has she?’
‘Yes, she tells me you’ve been stressed about life recently.’
‘Did she?’ I said in surprise.
‘You broke up with your soul-mate?’
‘I wouldn’t call him my soul-mate, but yes …’
‘Also that you have some issues to work through.’
‘She said that about me?’
‘You’ll find Pilates will help you work through your stresses. It’s not just a physical discipline, but an holistic approach to your whole l
ife.’
‘And it’s great for your core, isn’t it?’ I said, trying to steer her away from my emotional problems and back into the real world.
‘Yes,’ she said, leaning forward until her face was very close to mine. She pressed her hand against my abdomen and I shivered involuntarily. ‘Your core.’ Then she was gone, leaving me with a sense that something had just happened.
Mum wandered back over.
‘Isn’t she wonderful!’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘So in tune.’
‘Wish I could say the same about the music,’ I said.
I can’t say I found Pilates THE most fun I’ve ever had. It’s very slow-moving and just seems to involve putting yourself into awkward and slightly uncomfortable positions. Everyone was creaking and sighing so much it sounded like a slave galley. And at one point someone farted. But Carole kept telling us our cores were being worked and our auras cleansed. And frankly, by that stage she had us wrapped around her little finger.
So I didn’t hate Pilates.
But it wasn’t nearly as good as boxing.
They Say It’s Your Birthday
I think I possibly had the most underwhelming seventeenth birthday ever. My birthdays have always been low-key. Being born slap bang in the middle of the holidays means that either I am away for the day in question or everyone else is. It didn’t help that I was in a foul mood the morning before. Mum had tried to enthuse me, to no avail.
‘What day is it tomorrow?’ she’d asked, as I was eating breakfast.
‘Friday,’ I replied.
‘But what’s the date?’
‘Fourteenth of August.’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘It means this milk is past its use-by date,’ I said, pointing to the carton.
‘No. I mean, is there anything else significant about tomorrow?’
I took out my phone and checked the calendar. ‘Yes, it is significant,’ I told her through a mouthful of Shredded Wheat. ‘It’s International Left-handers Day.’
‘And your seventeenth birthday!’ Mum replied.
‘Whatever.’ I shrugged.
‘Honestly, Fleur,’ Mum said, sighing. ‘I do my best for you. I really do.’
Later, Blossom tried her luck and asked me to come on a march with her and the SAG group. It was about equal pay for women. ‘Come on, Fleur,’ she said. ‘If you don’t come I’ll have to walk with Magnet. You wouldn’t make me do that, would you?’
‘He’s your boyfriend,’ I said.
‘Exactly.’
‘Sorry, Blossom. I just don’t feel like it,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to let you down, but right now I don’t feel like doing anything except lying on my bed reading.’
She waited a while, and then she forced a smile. ‘OK, Fleur,’ she said. ‘Maybe see you tomorrow?’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
I knew I was acting like an idiot. But I was feeling miserable and the last thing I wanted was for Mum or Blossom to be all chirpy and snap me out of it. It’s like the more people try to make me think or feel a certain thing, the harder I fight against it. I certainly didn’t feel like celebrating, that was for sure. I got up early and went for a long cycle ride instead. At that moment I wasn’t sure what I wanted except that I needed to get away for a while, by myself. The air was still and mild and I had to keep my mouth shut or else I’d have swallowed a thousand bugs. Maybe that was one way to increase my protein intake.
I started out tense, angry and morose. Thinking about George and Mum and being thrown out of the club. I pushed hard, going up the hills in high gear, straining my thighs. But as I ticked off the miles, as my muscles loosened and my lungs started to burn, I found myself gradually sloughing off the mood. Breathing deeply, calming myself, working away the tension. I did fifty miles in a little less than four hours and was knackered when I got back but felt a lot clearer about what I was going to do.
I had to go back and fight for my place at the club. I couldn’t just give up. Tomorrow morning I was going to march down there and demand that Ricky let me back in.
I also had some bridges to mend. So when I got back to the house just before noon I was pleased to see Pip’s Clio pull up in the driveway with Blossom in the front passenger seat, gripping the dashboard for dear life. They got out and stood on the grass as I put away my bike.
‘How far did you go?’ Blossom asked, as Pip threw a tennis ball for a wheezing Ian Beale.
‘Fifty miles,’ I said.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘You’re amazing.’
‘I’m not amazing,’ I said, unclipping my helmet and turning to look at her. ‘I’m a terrible person, a bad friend, a rubbish daughter. And an awful feminist.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘None of those things are true. Why do you think you’re an awful feminist?’
‘Because I don’t go on marches like you,’ I replied. ‘I don’t deconstruct things. I make stupid jokes instead of being supportive. And I muted Emma Watson on Twitter.’
Blossom looked at me and shook her head. ‘This is what the patriarchy does,’ she said slowly. ‘It makes us doubt ourselves and argue with each other. Fleur, you are an excellent feminist. You’ve just taken a different route than me. Or anyone else. But that’s OK. There are thousands of different ways to be a feminist. And the great thing is, you get to choose which way works for you.’
As I stood and looked at my lovely friend, I burst into tears. It had been an emotional few weeks. The stress of exams, the break-up with George, being thrown out of the club, the tensions with Mum. Blossom walked forward and gave me a big hug.
‘You act like you don’t care,’ she whispered. ‘You act like you want to avoid confrontation, like you’re terrified all the time. But I know how tough you are, Fleur.’
‘I am terrified though,’ I said.
‘That’s OK too,’ she replied, squeezing me harder.
Afterwards we went for lunch in Brighton. Blossom paid. Then we sat on the beach for a while. But it clouded over in the early afternoon and so we went to the cinema. There was nothing we hadn’t already seen except for a Pixar thing so we went into that along with about a million tiny children and their tired-looking parents. It’s always like this in the holidays. But I don’t mind.
When we got back to Bosford, Blossom asked me if I wanted to go to Chickos.
‘Nah,’ I said. ‘I need to spend some time with Mum. I think she’s cooking me something special. Crystal meth, possibly.’
‘Wanna come over and watch a film later?’ she asked. ‘Rocky marathon?’
‘Maybe just one,’ I said. ‘Or two. I’ve got boxing tomorrow.’
She looked delighted and did a little dance.
‘What’s that brilliant Rocky quote?’ she asked. ‘About how hard you hit?’
‘It ain’t about how hard ya hit,’ I replied. ‘It’s about how hard ya can get hit. And keep moving forward.’
‘That’s how winning is done,’ she finished in triumph.
Showdown
I found Tarik outside the club. He was early, like me, and sitting with his back to the wall, in a sunny patch, reading an Enid Blyton novel. I sat down next to him and waited until he’d got to the end of the chapter before saying good morning.
Sharon turned up to open the doors and we went in and helped get everything set up. Laying out the skipping ropes, lifting the bags onto the wall brackets. Joe hobbled in soon after. ‘All right, Killa?’ he said to me. Ricky arrived a few minutes later and started assembling the ring. I went over to him, wanting to get this out of the way.
‘Ricky,’ I said, trying to stay really calm, ‘I’m sorry about punching that boy even though it was self-defence. But I love boxing. And I think I’m getting better at it. I think I’m fitter, and stronger, and more confident and happier and I think I am a boxer even if you don’t think I’m ready for sparring yet.’
Ricky stopped tightening the bolt he’d been working on and looked up at me, his customary grimace on his face. ‘I�
��m very pleased to hear all that, Fleur,’ he said. ‘And I’m glad you’re getting something out of this club. We get out what we put in. But one thing I didn’t hear you say you’d taken away from this club is the one thing I’ve been trying to teach you since you first arrived.’
My mind was blank. What did he mean?
‘Starts with a D?’
‘Dancing?’
‘Discipline! You want to be a boxer? Well, learn some bloody discipline.’ I could hear Tarik, Joe and Sharon shuffling about at the other end of the hall, chatting quietly, pretending they couldn’t hear us. Ricky glared at me. ‘That’s why you hit that bloke. Because you couldn’t control yourself. That’s why you keep dropping your guard. Because you’ve got no discipline.’
I swallowed. He was right. Discipline has never been my strong point. Or dancing, for that matter.
‘Two things,’ Ricky said. ‘If I ever see or hear of you fighting outside the club again, you’re out for good, straight away.’ I nodded. He turned away and got back to tightening the bolt.
‘What’s the other thing?’ I asked.
‘You can spar. If you still want to.’
‘What?’
‘You’re ready. Or you will be soon, if you work hard enough and do what I tell you.’
I suddenly felt swamped with emotions. Relief that I had been let back into the club. Surprise at this unexpected turn of events, abject terror at the thought of actually throwing punches in the ring. Or more likely being punched in the ring. ‘OK. Just tell me what I need to do.’
One of the Boys
I was nervous. Tonight was my first time in the ring. It was September, I’d come twice a week for the last three weeks and Ricky had finally agreed to let me in the ring for a ‘taster’, as he put it. He had paired me up with Joe, who had said he wouldn’t hit me. But I wasn’t quite sure I believed him. For all I knew, he wanted to get revenge for the time I’d put one on his buzzer. I stood with my gloves on, waiting for our turn, watching Jerome and Chris dance and jab as Ricky shouted encouragement or technical advice. Some of them looked terrifyingly strong, and so, so quick. Dan sidled up to me. ‘Erm, so no big deal but I’m getting married in a couple of months,’ he said. ‘I’m gonna organise a stag do. Just a few beers. Nothing special.’
