Toronto Collection Volume 2 (Toronto Series #6-9)

by Heather Wardell

  Several times I'd nearly pointed out that my running and the previous move hadn't exactly left my legs feeling like they'd been on vacation, but each time she'd thanked me or cheered me on right when I was about to complain and then I hadn't felt able to. But I'd been so achy last night I'd barely been able to fall asleep and I couldn't imagine how I'd motivate myself to go running alone tomorrow. I had to, though, or else I'd have to tell Andrew I hadn't run because I'd helped Amanda and I didn't want to admit I'd caved in so completely.

  She hadn't even pushed me to cave; after her text message that said she understood why I couldn't help she hadn't said another word. I'd applied all the pressure myself, and I hated it. But even though my exhaustion and pain last night I'd known I'd have felt even worse if I'd been selfish and not helped. I could help, so I had to.

  "No, it was fine," I said lightly, hoping she'd move on. "But once the runs get longer I might not be able to do it again."

  "Not a problem." She waved a mittened hand. "James and I are fine now. But I can't believe you're really doing the marathon. Good for you."

  I felt embarrassed but pleased at her genuine awe. "Thanks."

  She shook her head. "That Andrew guy must be seriously cute."

  He was, but that wasn't why I was doing it. "It's not about that. I just think I want to do something big and dramatic."

  "Well, running that far is big, for sure. I hope you don't pass out or something. James says sometimes people keel over at the end."

  My happy feelings drained away. Could we not go five minutes without hearing another piece of James's dubious wisdom? "Well, Andrew says I won't if I train right. Which I will."

  "What does that involve?"

  I explained, trying to be brief, but I wasn't brief enough because she cut me off by shaking her head. "I'm getting tired just listening to that. You'll be so busy with it." She grinned and elbowed me. "But what if I need you?"

  Her tone was joking but I didn't see any humor. If? Of course she'd need me. To move boxes of James's stuff back and forth, to listen to her complain about him, to act like her crazy relationship was normal and healthy.

  There wasn't anything healthy about it. For her or for me.

  Chapter Nine

  At the end of March, I finally made myself do what I'd been dreading for ages: call a meeting of the graduation committee. After school let out I sat in my room beside Veronica waiting for Amanda to show up. We chatted a bit, about how her son's recently broken arm was doing and about how I had run for forty-five minutes straight the night before and still couldn't quite believe it, then she sighed and cut to the chase.

  "Look, Megan, we might be better off without her. I know she's your friend so I'm sorry to say that, but it's true. She's late for our first meeting, and I can't imagine her doing much of anything even when she does show up. And after the holiday concert mess--"

  I heard heels clicking on the hall floor and raised my hand to stop her, and sure enough Amanda arrived seconds later.

  "Sorry I'm late," she said, not sounding it. "Have you figured everything out without me?"

  "No, we were waiting." Veronica's voice was cool.

  "Oh." Amanda dropped into a chair on my other side. "Well, let's get this done."

  Sitting between them, feeling their dislike of each other rippling back and forth through me like a sickening tide, I cleared my throat and said, "I did a little work on my prep time today," then presented the list of tasks I'd put together.

  "We need to decide on a decoration theme then get the decorations. The whole evening's schedule needs to be put together, since every class always does a little skit or something, and we have to make up and photocopy the program once we have the schedule done. The grade eight teacher picks the valedictorian but we should make sure he does, and there's also refreshments after and getting a guest speaker to come in since Colette liked that last year."

  My coworkers sat in silence a moment, then Veronica said, "I do appreciate the work you did, but since it's not until June, do we really need to get this detailed now?"

  "Of course we do," Amanda said before I could answer. "We just have April and May, really, because June gets crazy."

  She was right, but I couldn't help thinking that if Veronica had said we were wise to start this early Amanda would have insisted it was overkill.

  As if to prove this, Amanda said, "But we don't need to do the actual work yet. We can just decide who's doing what. I can handle decorations. I'm good with color." She glanced at her pale pink sweater and rich purple skirt then her eyes flicked to Veronica's gray blouse and black pants. "Okay?"

  Veronica, clearly recognizing the dig, straightened in her chair. "Works for me. I'd rather put the program together anyhow to make sure it's perfect."

  Her tone was casual but we all knew to what she was referring. Everyone on staff helped out with the holiday concert in December, and Amanda had been given the task of making the program. She'd left it to the last minute then had tried to get me to do it for her on the day, but I hadn't been able to because I was helping set up the gym for the performance. Rushing to complete the task she'd had weeks to do, she'd somehow managed to make four hundred copies without noticing that she had listed the date as December 53rd and left a very crucial letter L out of her "Greetings from Toronto Public!" heading. The snickers of the parents and older students had at times threatened to drown out the concert.

  She'd never spoken of it, except her sharp "I wish you'd helped me" right afterwards which had made me feel awful, and I didn't want her to talk about it now either since I couldn't imagine anything less than a screaming match would ensue. "That works," I said quickly so Amanda couldn't respond. "So Amanda's got the decorations and Veronica will make the program." I glanced back at my list. "I'll get the schedule together." I knew I'd hate doing it, since it required getting all the classroom teachers to actually commit to what their classes would be doing, but it needed to be done soon so the program could be created. "And I'll make sure Carl picks his valedictorian and arrange the refreshments and see who I can find to be a guest speaker."

  As I finished, I realized how badly off-balance the division of labor was. The other two must have noticed as well, so surely they would say something.

  They did.

  "Works for me."

  "Good enough. I'm having dinner with James so I'd better get going."

  They left and I sat staring at my list. How did I always end up doing so much more than my share?

  In my mind's ear I heard my mom clicking her tongue disapprovingly at my 'bean-counting', but for once it didn't immediately make me feel guilty. I hadn't complained or forced Amanda and Veronica to do anything else so I didn't need to feel bad, but there was no harm in acknowledging it to myself: I was doing more than my share, and I didn't like it.

  Chapter Ten

  Our April family dinner was a little less formal than usual, since we ate it sitting in the hockey-arena-turned-MMA-ring awaiting Brandon's first official fight. Brandon came out long enough to accept our good wishes and steal a handful of my fries over my protests, then went back to the dressing room to do whatever he had to do to prepare.

  Kim took a bite of her hot dog and closed her eyes in bliss as she chewed. Once she'd swallowed, she said, "I love junk food."

  I laughed at her dreamy tone, but Mom said, "Are you sure it's okay for you to eat that?"

  "Can't see how it could undo heart surgery to eat a hot dog."

  "But it's not good for you."

  "Getting beaten up tonight is good for Brandon, though?"

  "That won't happen," Mom said firmly. "He trains too hard for that. He's at that gym all the time. Besides, it's different. He's a boy."

  I had heard "he's a boy" as an excuse for everything from Brandon stealing my chocolate bunny at Easter to why as a teen he'd had no curfew when Kim and I had to be home by eleven, and I hated it. Kim clearly did too, because she said, "His opponent's also a boy, Mom. One of them's going to get bea
ten up."

  "It won't be Brandon. It's different, Kim. You're my daughter! Of course I worry about you."

  I sat eating my own hot dog with no maternal scrutiny and wondered why she never seemed to worry about me.

  Kim took another bite, but the joy was absent from her face, and then she crammed the remaining hot dog into her mouth all at once.

  Mom clicked her tongue. "If you're going to eat that sort of thing, a little feminine grace wouldn't hurt."

  Kim washed the hot dog down with a sip of the water she'd been given even though she'd asked for a Coke then said, "This doesn't seem the right place for feminine grace. Whatever that is."

  She had a point. We were surrounded by guys wearing t-shirts emblazoned with pictures of their favorite fighters or fight slogans, a beer in every hand and a goofy grin on every face.

  Before Mom could find an answer, Kim said to me, "How's the running going?"

  "Really well, thanks," I said, surprised she cared. "I've been at it for four weeks now and tomorrow I'll do a full hour for the first time. Oh, and at our speed workout last week on the last interval I actually beat Andrew."

  "Because you cheated."

  I jumped, then turned in my chair and smiled at him. "Well, yeah. I saw a chance to take off before you were ready, so I went with it. Not like I could beat you in a fair race."

  He smiled back. "You might one day. Do you mind if I sit with you?"

  "Of course not." I introduced him to my parents and Kim, then said, "You don't need to do anything with the fighters?"

  He shook his head. "None of the guys I help train are fighting tonight."

  "In that case, stay here and help us understand what on earth is going on." Kim gestured at the large TV screen showing past fights. "It just looks like raw violence to me."

  He tipped his head from side to side. "There are moments of that, sure, but there's a lot of strategy too. And I'd be happy to explain it."

  I joined in their discussion as he explained the chokeholds and other techniques of fighting and what we were likely to see, but I watched Andrew rather than really pay attention. When we'd met I thought he seemed sad. I'd gotten used to it, but it seemed worse tonight. His smiles definitely never reached his eyes.

  "And what does your girlfriend think of you fighting?" Kim said after Andrew described his victory in his last fight. She no doubt meant to sound flirtatious, but her bubbly tone just sounded ditzy.

  Andrew shifted back slightly in his chair. "I don't have one any more."

  Clearly he didn't want to discuss it, but Kim hadn't been out in the world much for the last year and she didn't seem to recognize his reluctance. "She dumped you because you fight, right?" She gave him a big grin, which he didn't return.

  "Kim, come on," I began, afraid she was right, but Andrew took a deep breath and said, "It's okay. No, actually. Unfortunately, she... passed away. Her car slid off an icy road."

  I had not seen that one coming.

  Even my socially awkward sister knew she'd made a mistake. "I'm sorry, Andrew. I shouldn't have--"

  He shook his head. "It's normal conversation. It's just... I don't talk about it much."

  "When was it?" I said softly. "If you don't mind saying."

  "A year ago Christmas."

  "On--"

  My mother cut herself off but Andrew obviously knew where she was going. He'd probably been asked the question far too often. "Yes, actually on Christmas Day."

  I bit my lip. How awful. Brandon must have known about it, but since it didn't directly involve him he wouldn't have cared. But I did.

  "Her poor parents," Mom breathed.

  Dad, king of reading the newspaper front to back every day, said, "Wait, that sounds familiar. She was trapped in the car, wasn't she? And then afterwards that AdultAlert foundation got started."

  Andrew nodded. "The foundation was Rhiannon's idea. She wrote about it in the car, and we followed her plans to get it going. Her parents and her best friend and I are on the board of directors."

  "That's a great group," Dad said. "We donated last year after they helped our neighbor find his wife who'd wandered away from home when her medication made her loopy. Remember, Enid?"

  Mom nodded. "Congratulations on making something good from that tragedy."

  "Thank you," Andrew said, sounding like one of the chokeholds he'd explained to us was firmly locked around his neck.

  The poor guy. No wonder there was still sadness in his eyes. Merry Christmas, your girlfriend's dead.

  Chapter Eleven

  Fortunately my parents stopped grilling poor Andrew about his late girlfriend and instead returned to grilling him about their son's upcoming fight. I listened, trying in vain to think of something I could do or say to take away even a bit of his pain, until the first fight began.

  I'd seen lots of fights on television at Brandon's insistence, but watching it in person, hearing the grunts of pain and the thunk sound of flesh being kicked, was far more intense. I frequently wanted to punch Brandon myself but I surprised myself now by being worried about his well-being.

  Mom clutched Andrew's arm, ignoring the fight. "He'll be okay, right? Brandon won't get hurt. Will he?"

  One fighter landed a vicious punch to the other's jaw, which staggered his opponent. He leaped forward to take advantage of the situation, but the opponent managed to recover and drive his assailant away with a flurry of punches.

  "Well," Andrew said, "I have seen a few broken bones, but the odds are he'll just have bruises and maybe some cuts."

  Mom collapsed back in her seat, fanning herself, and Dad said, "Enid, come on. He'll be fine. And a few bruises will just toughen him up."

  We nearly had our own fight right there in the stands as Mom's eyes flashed and she turned on Dad, but Kim's shriek of "Look at his face!" distracted them.

  Indeed, part of that flurry of punches had caused some significant damage. The poor guy's cheekbone was puffing up so quickly we could see it getting bigger second by second, and in moments his eye was swollen shut.

  The crowd shouted encouragement, and the brave guy kept trying, but after a few seconds the referee paused the action so the doctor could check out the injury and the doctor ended the fight right then and there.

  "Well, that's good," Mom said over the mingled cheers and boos, watching the guy's crew argue with the doctor to no avail. "At least someone worries about the health of the fighters."

  "Everyone does," Andrew said, surprised. "They don't want him to quit unless he really has to, but they definitely care. A fighter who gets badly hurt can't fight or even train right for ages, and nobody wants that. It's violent, yes, but it's not uncontrolled. It's more about pushing your limits than about getting beaten up."

  His gaze moved to me and he smiled. "Like with running. Go hard but don't overdo it."

  I rolled my eyes, since he'd had to hold me back yesterday from starting way too fast since I felt good, and we laughed.

  The victorious fighter, who'd been sitting on the ring's fence waving at people to celebrate his win, was made to stand in the middle of the ring so the referee could raise his hand in victory while the loser stood pressing a cold pack to his poor misshapen face, then both fighters and their crowd of helpers headed back to the dressing rooms. The announcer picked up his microphone and said, "Great start, eh? Let's keep it going. Next, from Toronto's Keyes Kombat group, we have Brandon 'The Blade' Sharp."

  A song began blaring, hard rock group Archaeology's latest hit "Dagger". Everyone cheered, my mother clapped so hard her hands must have been blazing, and I tried not to roll my eyes at Brandon's dumb nickname which no doubt he'd picked himself to go with his current favorite song.

  Brandon came out, walking slowly and looking pale and nervous, wearing a red t-shirt with black shorts and gloves that exposed his fingers. He took off his t-shirt when he reached the ring steward, who then checked my brother's gloves and had him knock on his own crotch to prove he was wearing a cup.

  "Da
mn fool if he's not," Dad muttered as Brandon stepped into the ring, and I smothered a giggle.

  "His opponent, from New York's Kick Inc, is Matt 'The Monster' Mastriano."

  This guy hadn't named himself. The victims of his fights probably had. Assuming any had survived. He was about the same size as Brandon, which made sense since they were in the same weight class, but where Brandon had seemed unsure this guy stalked down the aisle toward the ring like he owned the place. The muscles bursting from his tank top and tight shorts were all heavily tattooed and even his freshly shaved head bore a tattoo of a leering monster with blood dripping from its fangs. I didn't recognize his walking-in song, but if it had turned out to be by a bunch of particularly angry death-row inmates I wouldn't have been surprised.

  "I'm going to be sick," Mom murmured.

  Dad gave her arm a squeeze. "It'll be okay."

  "It won't," she said, pulling her arm away. "I can't watch my baby get killed."

  "Mrs. Sharp, truly, he--"

  Andrew was talking to the air. Mom had bolted for the exit.

  Brandon didn't seem to notice; he was watching his opponent approach, looking like a deer in a thousand headlights.

  I heard Brandon's team saying encouraging things, but I also heard some doubt in their voices. I hoped my poor brother didn't. He was a nightmare at times but I felt bad for him now. How scary to face such a big challenge.

  Andrew leaned in and said to me, "Standing on the start line of a marathon feels just like this."

  His breath tickled my ear and a shiver rippled through me but I tried not to show it. "But a race couldn't hurt as much as a fight."

  "That's a good attitude. Remember it."

  I turned to face him. "It can't, though, right?"

  He smiled. "Watch the fight."

  Oh, hell.

  I did watch the fight. It didn't take long.

  It would have taken even less time, but the Monster seemed to enjoy playing with Brandon. He danced around him, far lighter on his feet than I'd have expected given his muscles, and let Brandon take swings at him. A couple even connected but they didn't seem to do much. Matt only hit Brandon a few times, but every punch was so powerful I winced in sympathy.