Punch Like a Girl

by Karen Krossing

  I take my cue from Nancy, who nods. “I can stay,” I say. If Casey is so desperate to keep me here, I guess she’s not blaming me.

  “Okay.” Casey continues drawing.

  Nancy gives me a subtle thumbs-up. She moves to a chair across from Casey and leans her elbows on her knees. “Casey, I’d like to talk about what happened with your father,” she begins. “I know it may be hard, but I need to know what he did when he was alone with you. Can you help me?”

  Casey nods. We both keep drawing. I’m adding detail to Monty’s wings, inwardly horrified at the thought of what Casey may say.

  Nancy begins asking questions. Slowly, Casey explains how her father escaped through the forest with her to a shed in someone’s backyard.

  “He was mad that he couldn’t get to his car,” Casey says.

  “Why couldn’t he get to his car?” Nancy asks.

  “There were people in the way.”

  “Did anyone see you? Maybe someone from the house?”

  “No. The shed was far from the house, behind a big bush with purple flowers.”

  “What did he do in the shed?”

  Casey doesn’t answer for a few moments. I keep my crayon moving across the page, but I’m hardly seeing what I’m drawing. Casey looks at her mother, and her eyes fill with tears. “He still wanted to get to his car, but he didn’t know how. Then it got dark and I got hungry. He made me eat stale crackers and other bad stuff from the recycle bin in the shed. I didn’t want to, but he pushed it all in my mouth until I threw up.” Her voice breaks.

  My stomach clenches.

  “Oh, baby.” Rita slides closer to Casey and strokes her arm. Then she says to Nancy, “It’s something Stewart used to do—force us to eat, especially when we weren’t hungry. It was one of his ways of controlling us, and it usually happened before he”—she sucks in her cheeks—“before he hit me.”

  The orange crayon trembles in my hand. Stewart Foster is one messed-up man.

  Nancy nods sympathetically. “Then what happened, Casey?”

  Casey adds another line to her picture of Monty. “He said I had to eat bad food because I was a bad girl.” Her crayon snaps in two.

  “Listen, Casey,” Andi interrupts. “You’re a very good girl. Smart and brave too. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes.” Casey’s voice cracks. Her eyes are wet.

  “I know this is hard, but you’re doing an excellent job, Casey.” Nancy’s voice is gentle. “Can you tell me what happened next?”

  Casey picks up one piece of the purple crayon. “He said that soon we were going to a place where it never snows and the sun shines all the time. I asked if Mommy was coming. He said Mommy didn’t want to. I started to cry. He got mad.” Casey pauses.

  “What did he do next?”

  Casey presses harder with the crayon. “He yelled and held my throat too tight.”

  I gag, remembering Matt’s arm pushed into my windpipe, silencing my screams. My back pressed against the cold washroom tiles.

  “Then he pushed me in a corner and told me to go to sleep. He said he had to find a way to get to the sunny place called Cuba.”

  “What did you do?” Nancy keeps her voice calm.

  “I wanted to stay with Mommy. So I tried to be brave like Tori.” Her little hand finds mine, and I hold on tight. “When he got sleepy, I sneaked to the door so that he didn’t notice.” Casey’s voice gets louder. “Then I opened it, but he tried to pull me back inside. I screamed and screamed. He put a hand over my mouth, so I hit him on the nose with my hammerfist, just like Tori showed me. Then I ran until I found some people who called the police.”

  Casey’s body is shaking. Rita wraps her arms around Casey, who still clings to my hand, and they rock slowly.

  “That was a very brave thing to do,” Nancy says.

  Casey clutches her crayon. I nod, grateful that she learned the hammerfist so well, grateful that I taught it to her in the first place.

  Nancy asks her a few more questions about when the police arrived. Then she says, “Thank you, Casey. You did a wonderful job of telling us what happened. Would you like to go home with your mother now?”

  “Yes.” Casey untangles from me. She drops her crayon and picks up her picture of Monty, which is dark with heavy lines. “Are you coming to the shelter soon?” she asks me.

  I nod. “I’ll be there Monday. I promise.”

  “Okay.” She takes her mother’s hand.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Andi says, “and arrange a ride for you, if you want.”

  Then Casey and her mother are gone.

  “You certainly have a way with children.” Nancy shakes my hand. “Thank you. I know that wasn’t easy.”

  “Sure.” I look down at the picture I drew. At the top, Monty is flying with his torn wing. Casey and I are below him—me with my bald head and injured hand. Casey’s mouth is open as if she’s singing.

  QUAKE

  to tremble uncontrollably

  Nancy walks me back to the lobby. She explains how I may be called as a witness in Stewart Foster’s trial.

  “I’ll do what I can to help.” I concentrate on placing one shoe in front of the other on the polished industrial floor. Casey may think I’m brave, but inside I’m a quivering mess. How can men like Casey’s father and Matt exist? Will I ever be rid of them?

  In the lobby, my parents are chatting with Rita while Casey hides behind her mother’s leg. I’m surprised to see Mom gripping Rita’s hand sympathetically.

  “I admire your strength,” my mother says as I approach. “Your daughter is lucky to have you.”

  How would Mom know anything about Rita or what she’s been through?

  Then Mom and Dad notice me, and I’m swarmed.

  “Are you okay?” Mom’s lips brush my cheek.

  “We hear you were a big help.” Dad wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me in tight.

  “I tried.” I smile at Casey, who’s small next to my father. My legs shake, my arm itches inside my cast, and I feel drained.

  “Your daughter is incredible,” Rita says. “So generous and determined.”

  “Yes, she is.” Mom gives me a worried look.

  I wish this conversation would end.

  Rita gestures at the scrum of reporters still waiting outside the main entrance. “Shall we do this?” she asks Andi.

  “Sure.” Andi nods. “I’ll escort you to the car.”

  “Thanks, although there’s something I’d like to say to them.” Rita lifts Casey, who buries her face in her mother’s neck.

  I know how she feels. I don’t want to face the reporters either.

  The three of them head out.

  “Are you ready to go too?” Mom asks.

  I nod, watching the reporters advance toward Rita and Casey like a pack of wolves. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Outside, the air is heavy and humid. The reporters have already surrounded Rita, howling their questions. “How is Casey-Lynn?” “Why did your ex-husband abduct her?” “Will charges be laid against him?” When they see us, the frenzy intensifies, and we can hardly move.

  Casey is still hiding her face. Rita steps forward boldly, holding up a hand for silence. I’m amazed when the reporters obey.

  “I’d like to publicly thank everyone who searched for my daughter,” Rita says. “Police officers, neighbors, friends and complete strangers—you all helped to bring Casey-Lynn home safe. In particular, I’d like to thank Tori Wyatt, whose quick thinking alerted the police to the situation immediately and who has continued to be a great support to Casey and me.” Rita clasps my good hand and pulls me into the uncomfortable scrum. “Thank you.” She smiles.

  I blink into the camera lenses aimed at me, wishing I could disappear.

  The reporters bombard me with questions. Do I consider myself a hero? What prompted me to stand up for Casey? Can I describe the events at Mill Pond Park?

  I’m speechless. If I’m such a hero, why do I feel so scared inside? />
  “People are calling you a witness with a conscience.” Janice Reese’s voice rises above them all. “Would you agree with that assessment?”

  I push through the reporters, followed by my parents, and flee to Mom’s SUV.

  By the time we get home, the lack of sleep is catching up with me. I stagger to bed and stay there for the rest of the day, tossing between the sheets and drifting in and out of consciousness. When I finally emerge, Mom tries to force me to talk about my feelings, Dad repeatedly offers to make me an omelette, and Joel cracks stupid jokes to try and make me laugh. I retreat to my room as soon as I can.

  Monday comes, and I have to face my unfinished homework and the last week of classes before exams. There are also messages waiting on my phone, which seems to have dried out, probably because my mother set it in a bowl of rice to draw out the moisture.

  Alena sent a text on Friday night during the search: Why r u always taking off on me? Where r u?

  I also have a missed call from Jamarlo, which could be good or bad, depending on his mood. And a few happy texts from people who heard that Casey was found or who saw me on TV with Rita.

  Who says tv makes people look fat? Alena wrote. U looked great! Call me back already.

  It’s good to hear from Alena, but mostly I’m glad there’s no message from Matt. I exhale slowly, hoping he’ll leave me alone.

  Then I see a new text from Melody. Skank. He never liked u. No one likes a whore.

  Is she a fool? Doesn’t she see what a creep he is?

  I drop my phone on the floor and stomp on it until the screen cracks. Who needs a phone anyway? I have enough to handle without Melody reminding me of Matt.

  I walk to school by myself. At my locker, I notice people watching me and whispering.

  “That’s her,” a girl in grade twelve says. “The one who saved that kid.”

  “Cool.” Her friend examines me as if she’s wondering how a puny thing like me could save anyone.

  I wish they’d just leave me alone.

  I’m jittery as I dump my bag in my locker. I’m missing Jamarlo and Alena—the way we always used to meet up before first class—when they both arrive from opposite directions.

  I can’t help smiling.

  “There’s the hero.” Jamarlo struts toward me, his brimmed hat low over his eyes and a half grin on his face. “Listen, the Avengers called. They want you to join their team.”

  “And take your place?” I pretend to punch him.

  He pretends to duck.

  For a moment, it feels like everything’s back to normal.

  “Where have you been, Tori? I’ve been trying to reach you!” Alena hugs me and then kisses both my cheeks.

  “Sorry, I was—”

  “She forgot about the little people,” Jamarlo says, the harsh tone creeping back into his voice, reminding me that things still aren’t okay between us. “Her eyes are on bigger fish.”

  “Like shark?” Alena smirks at him.

  “Like your face,” Jamarlo teases.

  Alena puts her hands on her hips and pretends to be offended. “Are you calling me a fish-face?”

  I want to wrap my arms around them both and pull them in for a group hug, but I’m not sure if Jamarlo would tolerate it.

  “What’s going on?” Carmen strolls toward us, ready to break up our trio.

  Alena gives Carmen a friendly smile. Jamarlo dives deep into tongue action with her. I step back. Who needs to watch them slurp out each other’s tonsils?

  “Well, time for class.” I grab my books and shut my locker.

  Carmen detaches from Jamarlo. “Hey, Tori,” she calls. Her lips are still wet. Gross.

  “Hey, Carmen.” I tense up, ready for her to say something insulting.

  “Good job with that kid.” She gives me half a salute. “You’re like a real live hero or something.”

  “Or something,” I say. Then I leave for class.

  Later that day, on my way into the shelter, Peggy calls me into the office and closes the door.

  “Did I do something wrong?” I can’t handle more trouble right now.

  “Why would you ask that?” Peggy gives me a quizzical look and sits on the edge of her neat-as-a-pin desk. She picks up the phone, presses a few buttons and then says, “Can you ask Rita to come to the office?”

  I fidget with the straps on my cast and shift from foot to foot. “What is this about?”

  Peggy straightens her shoulders. “I just thought you should know that Rita and Casey will be leaving us soon.”

  “What?” I gape at her. “Are you kidding?”

  “I know you’ve become quite close to them, and I’m breaking protocol by sharing this news with you, but your situation is unique and we decided—”

  There’s a quick knock on the door and then Rita steps into the room, shutting the door behind her. Her hair has been dyed three shades lighter, to a golden brown, and it’s cut in a tidy bob. I’ve never seen Rita look so good.

  “Did you tell her?” she asks Peggy.

  “I was in the process.” Peggy presses her lips together.

  “She said you’re leaving with Casey. Is it true?” I ask Rita, trying not to think about how much I’ll miss Casey.

  “Unfortunately.” Rita’s eyes get misty. “Casey and I will be starting a new life. A new apartment in a new town. It’s part of a relocation plan the police suggested.”

  “But it’s not fair that you have to leave,” I say. “Casey’s father is in custody. The police—”

  “The police have charged him. There will be a trial, including our video testimony. Stewart will get some jail time. But then what?” Rita shakes her head. “What if he gets out one day? What if he’s released on bail? We need to move now, while he can’t track us.”

  I shudder. “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Rita says, “but even if I did, I couldn’t talk about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Rita and Casey have to cut all ties with the people they know, even change their names.” Peggy pauses. “They can’t leave a trail to follow.”

  “It’s all a little overwhelming”—Rita grips my hand—“and we’ll miss friends like you terribly, but it’s the right thing to do.”

  I blink back tears, not sure what to say. That they should stay because I want them to?

  “This is all confidential,” Peggy says, “but we wanted you to know.”

  “When are you leaving?” I can’t imagine not seeing Casey here at the shelter every shift.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” I swallow.

  “I had to tell you.” Rita embraces me and then pulls away to examine my face.

  “Does Casey know you’re leaving?” I ask.

  “Yes.” Her eyes are sympathetic. “We thought it would be better if she knew, so she can prepare for it, if possible.”

  “You can say goodbye to her today.” Peggy’s voice is gruff. “Just keep it quiet. The other kids don’t know.”

  I leave the office in a daze and wander to the school-age room at the back of the building. The door is open a crack, and I see Casey doing a jigsaw puzzle on the floor with the other kids. Her shoulder-length hair has been styled into a pixie cut. Maybe Sal’s mother has been here with her scissors.

  I lean against the doorjamb and watch Casey pick up a piece and try to fit it in. It’s only been a few weeks since I met her, but she’ll leave a massive hole in my life when she goes. With her around, I feel more focused, stronger.

  “What’s wrong?” Sal appears in the hallway beside me.

  I step backward, keeping a good distance between Sal and me. I don’t want any more disturbing moments like in the ravine. “I’m not supposed to talk about it,” I say. “Peggy’s orders.”

  “Well, if Peggy’s giving orders, we’d all better listen,” he jokes, probably to lighten my mood.

  “No kidding,” I say. Then the tears come, without asking.

  Not now, I think. B
ut tears aren’t rational.

  “Hey, it’s okay.” Sal’s voice cracks. He pats my back with his big hand a few times, and I’m more than a little surprised when I let him. Maybe because he smells good, like oranges. He must have been preparing a snack for the kids.

  I lean my head against him and try not to gasp for air when I sob. He holds me tentatively. I only come up to the middle of his chest. His arms could wrap around me twice.

  “You okay?” he asks when I get control again.

  I have a fleeting thought that I wish we could be more than friends.

  “I don’t know.” I wipe my eyes, being careful not to smudge my makeup, and then ask, “Do you think Casey will be okay?”

  Sal pats my back again and retreats a step, like he’s trying not to crowd me. “Well, she escaped her father, got interviewed by the police and is still talking.”

  “She is?” I say.

  “Yup.” He sweeps his bangs off his face, grinning. “When I arrived today, she told me she has a haircut like Tori’s.”

  “Yeah?” I manage half a smile. Her pixie cut is hardly a shaved head. “Thanks, Sal.” My chin trembles.

  We lock eyes until a wail from the preschool room breaks the silence.

  “You’d better go,” I say.

  “Yeah. Before there’s a meltdown in there.”

  Then he’s gone, even though I wish he wasn’t.

  I head into the school-age room to share one last afternoon with Casey.

  “Great! Tori’s here,” Jia says when she sees me. “Now we can make those Rice Krispie squares.”

  The kids cheer, even Casey.

  “Sounds good,” I say, amazed by how life continues relentlessly no matter what horrible things happen.

  We head to the tiny residents’ kitchen, beside the main kitchen where Sheerma is making dinner. Rachel tries to take charge of making the Rice Krispie squares, but Jia reins her in. Jonah wants to stir the melting marshmallows “faster than Superman can do it.” Manny and Casey can’t see into the pot, so they share a chair beside the stove while I stand nearby, making sure no one falls.

  At one point, Casey runs her tiny fingers over my head. My hair has a few days of growth; I haven’t shaved since late Friday night.