Punch Like a Girl

by Karen Krossing

  “She’s only seventeen and half your size.” Dad pokes a finger into Neanderthal’s beefy chest. “How could she break your nose?”

  “Geez, Dad!” I leap up and get forced down again. “They showed us how in the self-defense classes you made me take.”

  Dad’s neck muscles tighten, and I know he’s remembering his rant when I was in grade eight and developing boobs. Any girl of mine needs to learn how to protect herself, he’d said.

  Alena, who witnessed the rant, gives a vigorous nod. She came to self-defense classes with me, although she was always afraid to throw a punch.

  “Everyone calm down,” Mom orders, wedging herself between Dad and Neanderthal. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

  “Work it out with the cops.” Neanderthal grinds his teeth at Dad, who’s glaring over Mom’s shoulder at him. “Make the damn call now, or I will,” he tells the desk guard without taking his eyes off Dad.

  The desk guard sighs and reaches for the phone.

  Dad grabs it first. “No one’s making any calls,” he says. His face is flushed, and his look practically dares Neanderthal to come at him.

  “Enough theatrics,” Mom snaps. She slides one hand around Dad, pries the phone from his grip and passes it to the desk guard, her lips pressed into a firm line. “Call the police, if you must. Although we could talk out a solution in a civilized manner.”

  Dad glares at Mom. She ignores him. How did I end up in this mess?

  “That would save me some paperwork.” The desk guard grips the phone defensively.

  “Of course it would.” Mom smiles at the guard and then faces Neanderthal. “I realize that we got off on the wrong foot here, Mr. Rayfield. I can see you’re a respectable young man.”

  Not the approach I’d take. Dad scowls. Neanderthal’s eyes narrow, but he wipes at the blood above his lip as if he has a sudden urge to be respectable.

  “I wonder if you’d listen to a proposal.” Mom glances at the desk guard, who nods as if to say, Keep going, lady.

  Neanderthal’s in for it now. A “proposal” is one of my mother’s tactics to get what she wants.

  “Why should I?” Neanderthal grunts.

  “Please, hear me out. I acknowledge that Tori’s behavior was out of line, no matter what you did or didn’t do to provoke her.” My mother’s a middle-school teacher, and she knows when to pull out the teacher talk.

  Neanderthal nods dumbly.

  “And there should be a consequence for such behavior, maybe something like”—she pauses—“community service?”

  Neanderthal scowls. “What good will that do?”

  “It’ll teach Tori that punching you was going too far.” She glances critically at me.

  I look away.

  Neanderthal tilts his head to one side, examining me.

  I resist the urge to point out that Neanderthal started it all, so why am I the only one to be punished?

  “You mean like working in an old folks’ home or something?” Neanderthal’s girl asks. “She could work at that place where your grandfather—”

  “I don’t want her near him.” Neanderthal scowls again, like I’m the dangerous one.

  “We can work out an informal arrangement,” Mom says. “We don’t need to get the police involved. After all, they may question how such a small girl could hurt such a large man.”

  Neanderthal’s eyebrows rise. I want to point out that size has nothing to do with throwing a good punch, but I bite my tongue.

  “Even if we call the police, and they do arrest her,” Mom continues, “it’ll likely never go to trial. So if you and I work out a solution here, we can control the terms.” She goes on about how community service would teach me to face the consequences of my actions. “My husband and I would personally oversee her community-service hours and make sure they’re completed.”

  “You expect me to believe that? I’m not stupid, you know,” Neanderthal says, although the thick eyebrows, dull eyes and half-open mouth suggest otherwise.

  “Of course you aren’t.” Mom keeps a straight face. “But if you agree to community service, you have my personal assurance that she’ll complete it. I’ll even provide you with proof—maybe with signed time sheets from wherever she volunteers? And you won’t need to waste your time at a court hearing. It’s a win-win. Shall we say a hundred hours?”

  Neanderthal stares down my mother. “That’s nothing,” he says. “Double it.”

  As if he could do the math. But I don’t care what the number is. If my parents are overseeing it, there’s no way I’ll have to do community service for an act of self-defense. I mean, maybe I shouldn’t have hit him, but Neanderthal is a complete homophobe and a bully.

  When the deal is done, I’m finally sprung from the security office. Mom and Neanderthal settled on 175 hours of community service, to be monitored by my parents. Even though I hated being talked about like a dog that’s getting punished for drinking the toilet water, I’m grateful Mom’s tactics kept the police at bay.

  “We should call the cops on him,” I say to Mom once we finally part ways with Neanderthal and his girl.

  We head toward the closest mall exit.

  “That guy was a jerk.” Alena looks suitably offended.

  Jamarlo frowns down at his high-tops.

  Dad trails two steps behind, glancing back at Neanderthal. I’m sure he’d love to go at him, and I’d bet on Dad to win even though he’s older and has a bit of a paunch. Dad used to be a bouncer, so he knows how to fight.

  Mom purses her lips. “You’re lucky you got out of it with just community service.”

  “That was a brilliant idea, Mom. I won’t have to do it if you’re monitoring it.”

  “You most certainly will.” She stops to stare at me. “Down to the last minute.”

  My friends glance at each other.

  “What?” Why is she turning on me?

  “I didn’t want to get into this in front of your friends, Tori, but your dad and I are more than a little worried about you. First you shave your head in the middle of the night, and now this? I can protect you from police charges, but I can’t let you get away with punching a stranger at the mall. What were you thinking?”

  Alena studies the floor tiles. Jamarlo looks grim.

  I feel like I’ve been punched by my own mother. “But he—”

  “Don’t make excuses for your behavior.” Mom frowns. “Maybe community service will help you realize the consequences of your actions. As for why you’re acting so strangely…well, we can have a long chat about that at home.”

  God, no. My face heats up. I need some serious Alena-and-Jamarlo time to help me through this injustice. I grab my friends’ arms and pull them with me to walk way ahead of my parents.

  “Victoria.” Mom’s voice is stern. “I’m only doing this because I care. You’ll understand when you’re a parent.”

  As if. I ignore her, even though she keeps pace behind us.

  “That was insane,” Alena says. “And now you need to do community service? Even though you were in his face, what about him?”

  “I wasn’t in his face,” I say. “I was protecting us from an asshole.”

  “Of course.” Alena glances at Jamarlo like he might explain. “Listen, I know the break-up with Matt rattled you, so if you ever want to talk…”

  Why does everyone want to talk? I frown at Alena and then weave my fingers into Jamarlo’s.

  “Hey, Jamarlo, were you actually going to try on that dress?” I smile. “Because it would have suited you.”

  “Tori—” Alena begins.

  “Alena, there’s nothing to talk about,” I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. “Really.”

  Jamarlo pulls away from me. “What’s wrong with you?” His eyes are dark. “Why did you leap in front of me? I could have handled that guy!”

  I stare, confused. “I didn’t mean—”

  “It doesn’t matter what you meant, Tori. It’s what you did. You mouth of
f for me, but I can take care of myself.”

  “I know that!”

  “Then why didn’t you stop when I told you to?”

  “I was trying to help.” My jaw clenches.

  “Help me look like a wimp?” He spins away, hands in the air.

  “Jamarlo,” Alena says, “give her a break. She’s been through a lot—”

  “Yeah? So have I. In case you didn’t notice, Tori just made me look like a wuss!”

  “But Jamarlo—”

  “Forget it, Tori.” He walks away. “Just do me a favor. Get it together before you hurt someone else.”

  Another punch. My gut aches. My own people are beating me when I’m down?

  “Jamarlo, wait,” Alena calls. But he keeps going.

  I want to run after him, crack a joke so we can laugh it off, tell him it was all a mistake. But the pressure in my head increases again, and I feel the weight of my mother’s hawkish stare, her talons ready to snatch me up and whisk me home for an endless lecture.

  I march to the exit before she can make another scene.

  BURNED

  to be exposed to heat long

  enough to force a change

  On Tuesday evening, I slip into the kitchen from the carport, where I parked Dad’s Civic. My sweat from soccer practice has cooled, leaving my skin clammy. With Alena smoking hot in goal and me a wall of defense, we’re ready for our first game of the season.

  I dump my bag in the corner by the cappuccino maker and inhale the scent of pepperoni. At the table, Joel, my annoying dork of a brother, and his friend Roger are gulping down the remains of two double-cheese, meat-loaded pizzas. Roger sits like a lump in front of his plate while Joel leans his pointy elbows on the table. I can hear Mom and Dad talking in the living room, settled in for their end-of-day chat. If I’m lucky, I can avoid the conversation about community service that’s been on repeat since yesterday—as well as any comments about my shaved head.

  After I shaved, I had to endure a barrage of questions from my parents: “Why did you shave it?” “For charity.” “In the middle of the night?” “I couldn’t sleep, so I shaved my head. What’s the big deal?”

  Since the mall, the questions have gotten more intense: “Why did you feel the need to punch that man?” “Come on. You know he was a jerk.” “Didn’t we teach you to handle conflict in other ways?” “You did, Mom, but Dad’s been known to throw a punch in his time, and no one made him do community service.”

  Leaving my cleats on, I pull out a chair across from Joel and Roger and snatch a slice before they’re all gone. I sink my teeth into the cheesy goodness as my butt hits the chair—eating food is the only way to claim it when Joel and Roger are around.

  “Hey, younger sibling.” Joel kicks me under the table.

  I’m still wearing my shin pads, so I ignore him. Pestering me until I flip out is one of Joel’s favorite pastimes—a pleasure I try to deny him as much as possible.

  “How’s it going?” I ask Roger with my mouth full.

  Roger nods and chews. “Nice hair,” he grunts. It’s not a come-on—more of an observation.

  “Thanks.”

  “That’s not what the parental units said,” Joel says to Roger. He grins, taking a swipe at my head, but I lean my chair back, balancing on the two rear legs—one of my standard defensive moves.

  Joel is sixteen months older than me and only one grade ahead in school. He should be finishing high school in June, but he’s not that motivated, even though he’s brilliant in math and science. Instead, he prefers to play practical jokes on his teachers, flirt with the grade-eleven girls who fawn over him—a disgusting spectacle—and challenge Roger to burping contests in the cafeteria.

  “Tori tried to get arrested yesterday,” Joel says. “It was pretty messed up.”

  “Shut up, Joel,” I say between bites. I don’t need to listen to crap from him as well.

  “Really? What happened?”

  “Nothing.” I give Joel a change-the-subject-or-face-your-doom look.

  “She punched some jerk at the mall.” Joel snorts when he laughs. “I wish I could have been there. Apparently, he was six feet tall and built. Tori took him out with one punch.”

  “Impressive.” Roger stuffs in more pizza.

  “And stupid,” Joel adds.

  “You would know stupid, Joel,” I say. Not that I need Roger’s approval, but I don’t mind having someone on my side for a change.

  “What I don’t get is why you got so pissed off.” Joel smirks. “Hey, maybe Mom could sign you up for some anger-management classes. I wonder if she’s thought of that yet.”

  I silently count to ten, determined not to let him get to me.

  When I grab a second slice of pizza, Roger freezes in mid-chomp to stare at the final piece, sitting alone in one of the boxes. He glances at Joel, who sizes him up.

  They trade maniacal smiles.

  I take a massive bite, gripping my slice tighter. Anyone who believes in the possibility of world peace hasn’t seen my brother and his friend fight for the last of the pizza.

  When Roger reaches for it, Joel slaps his hand away, and the battle begins. Soon they’re knocking over kitchen chairs and wrestling on the floor, grunting and laughing. It’s like having an Ultimate Fighting match in our kitchen.

  “Cut it out,” I say when they bump against my chair. I used to wrestle with my brother, but I’ve matured.

  When Mom and Dad arrive in the kitchen, I’m hoping they’ll be too distracted by Joel and Roger to lecture me. Dad hauls Joel off Roger, grunting with the effort. Joel, lean and lanky, lands a last punch. Roger, round and gelatinous, lumbers to his feet.

  “What have we told you about fighting in the kitchen?” The tone of Mom’s voice makes them blink and glance around at the scattered chairs and pizza boxes on the floor. “You could’ve hurt each other!”

  “Or broken something.” Dad gives Joel a slight shake before releasing him.

  “Sorry ’bout that.” Roger rights a chair.

  “Me too.” Joel grabs the last slice of pizza, which has fallen upside down on the floor, and shoves half of it into his mouth. Nice.

  “I expect both you boys to clean up. And if we catch you fighting again…” Mom targets them with her full-on teacher glare until the air between them sizzles.

  Roger shrinks. Joel nods dutifully, still chewing.

  Mom turns on her heel, letting her threat hang. “Tori,” she calls on the way out, her voice ominous, “come into the living room when you’re done. We need to chat.”

  Not again.

  “A little roughhousing is one thing, but this is too much,” Dad says to Joel, gesturing at the pizza boxes, the toppled chairs and the kitchen in general. “You should be grateful for what we give you. I didn’t have nearly as much as you when I was a kid.” He trails Mom into the living room.

  My ungrateful brother smirks at me like he’s enjoying that I’m about to be railed. “Hasta la vista, baby,” he says in his Terminator voice, his mouth still full.

  I take as long as I can to remove my cleats, socks and shin pads. When I hope Mom has forgotten about me, I breeze through the living room, aiming for the stairs to the second floor.

  “Where are you going?” Dad asks.

  “I’ve just got to change out of these clothes.” And take a shower, check my messages, do my homework and go to bed without any conversations about shaving or community service.

  “Not so fast.” Mom pats the couch beside her. “Sit down.”

  I trudge back. Mom’s at one end of the couch, and Dad’s at the other. I perch on the arm of a leather recliner near Dad.

  “I still can’t get used to that haircut.” Mom shakes her head, eyeing me. “I know you wanted to donate you hair, but I still don’t understand what possessed you to shave it all off.”

  I shrug. “Like Dad said, it’s just a phase. Don’t worry about it.”

  “It makes you look…” She pauses.

  “Tough,”
Dad finishes, sounding a little proud.

  “I guess it does.”

  “Yes, well…” Mom frowns. “We wanted to talk because we found you a community-service job.” She holds out a flyer. The headline reads You Can Help. There’s a photo of a scrawny cat.

  I cringe.

  “The humane society would be a good place to do your hours. We know you like animals.”

  I picture cleaning out poop from hundreds of cages while imprisoned dogs and cats stare at me with gloomy eyes. “Not when they’re waiting to be put down.” I can imagine staging a massive rescue of the caged animals. “I don’t even get why I need to do any—”

  “Don’t start that again,” Dad says. “Your mother promised you’d do community service, and you’re going to do it.”

  Great. Now he’s onside with Mom. I hate when they get along.

  “But it’s not fair.” I raise my voice. “Why should I be the only one punished? Neanderthal started it.”

  “Neanderthal? Mr. Rayfield has a name, Tori.” Mom gives me a disapproving look.

  “Who cares what his—”

  “You may not agree with his opinions,” Mom interrupts, “but he didn’t hit anyone. You did. Really, Tori, we’re struggling to understand what’s going on with you. Help us out here.”

  “But he was talking crap about Jamarlo. Why can’t you—?”

  “And that was a good reason to break Mr. Rayfield’s nose? You could have notified the manager, called 9-1-1, left the store. There were so many other choices.”

  “You might have been hurt.” Dad stands and paces, his eyebrows knotted. “You should be more careful.”

  “Like you, Dad? I could tell you wanted to go at him.”

  “But he didn’t,” Mom says. “Tori, you can choose a place to do community service by the end of this week, or we will. Either way, you’re going to do your 175 hours. It’s for your own good.”

  “But Mom—”

  “Listen to your mother.” Dad’s voice is firm.

  I take one look at their faces and swallow my words. What’s the point in arguing when they can’t hear me? Life is full of injustices. This is one battle I’m going to lose.