by Sean Rodman
Copyright © 2015 Sean Rodman
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now
known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Rodman, Sean, 1972–, author
Tap out / Sean Rodman.
(Orca soundings)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4598-0875-1 (pbk.).— ISBN 978-1-4598-0876-8 (pdf).—
ISBN 978-1-4598-0877-5 (epub)
I. Title. II. Series: Orca soundings
PS8635.O355T36 2015 jC813'.6 C2014-906685-6
C2014-906686-4
First published in the United States, 2015
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014952067
Summary: Darwin is unstoppable in the illegal fight club.
But what is he fighting for?
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing
programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through
the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts,
and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council
and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover image by Getty Images
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18 17 16 15 • 4 3 2 1
Other Soundings by Sean Rodman:
Dead Run
Final Crossing
Infiltration
Night Terrors
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eightteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter One
Dear Son,
It has been a while since I wrote to you. I am sorry and will not make excuses for that. The last letter you sent to me was about how much you hate your new school. I think that I would hate it too, but your mother thinks it is the best for you. And there is not much I can do from where I am, is there?
So all I can do is give you some good advice. I think it is a father’s job to tell you how the world is. Not what it should be. And I tell you that you must fight every single day of your life. Whether with your fists or just the way you live every day, you will have to fight for everything. I know that I have.
And so when you wrote that you hate your new school, that is okay. In fact, I think hate is good.
Because in the end, the winner of any fight is decided by a few small things.
The winner is the one who doesn’t crap his pants.
The winner takes fewer punches than the other guy.
And the winner hates just a little bit more. And has enough control to let that hate out, hit by hit.
Dad
Chapter Two
“I don’t want any trouble,” I say.
It’s a lie.
I’m actually kind of hoping the bald guy makes the first move. It’s been one of my bad days, where my skin doesn’t feel like it fits. Like I’m just waiting for someone to come at me. I’m edgy. Pissed off. Looking for a fight. And I found one—this over-muscled chrome dome shoving around a skinny kid with glasses in front of the convenience store.
The bald guy in the Lakers jersey looks slowly over his shoulder at me and then snorts. He exaggerates letting go of his victim—his fingers snap open to release the kid with glasses. The kid’s wearing the same uniform as me. The uniform of Norfolk Academy.
Bald guy swaggers toward me. “What, you standing up for him? Private-school code of honor?” He laughs and shakes his head. “Would be funny, except your friend Jonathan here owes me money. So, you step off and let me finish my business.”
“Mason,” says the victim—Jonathan—from behind him. “Take it easy, bro. We can sort—”
I stand my ground. “Know what? I don’t know him and I don’t know you. And I don’t care what your business is with him. But you don’t do it on the street in front of me.”
“Or what? You gonna get your nice white shirt all dirty?” Mason gives me a shove, both hands on my chest. I stumble and then come back fast. Push him with one hand on his Lakers jersey. He doesn’t move, but his expression darkens. Game on.
We circle, staying on the balls of our feet, staying light. Mason fakes a punch, just testing me out. I keep out of range. He starts to get frustrated and holds his hands out, as if to say, “What are you waiting for?”
I fall for it and step in toward him with a wild roundhouse swing. I miss, and he takes the opportunity. A hard jab connects with my jaw. I stagger back, falling to my knees. Little zips of light flash in my eyes.
Mason laughs. He turns to his victim, who is still pressed against the front of the convenience store, eyes wide. “Jonathan, you need a better bodyguard.” While he’s turned sideways, I push up off from the ground and wrap both of my arms around Mason’s legs. He goes down like a tree, grunting as he hits the concrete. Then I’m on top of him, one forearm across his throat, pressing hard.
“Are we done?” I growl. He grimaces, shakes his head. His eyelids are starting to flutter. Another couple seconds and he’ll be out. But a firm hand grabs my shoulder and pulls me backward, off of him.
“What the hell are you kids doing?” It’s the owner of the convenience store behind us. A short guy with a white mustache and a pissed-off expression. Mason is coughing on the ground. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. All of you, get out here before I have to call the cops!”
“Hey, no cops. There’s no problem,” says Jonathan, stepping forward and pulling me away from the irate owner. “Let’s go.” He pushes me down the street, away from the store. I look back and see Mason, still on his hands and knees. Head down and breathing hard.
“I think I owe you,” says Jonathan. He keeps us moving down the sidewalk, then across an intersection on the red light. “Who are you?”
“I’m Darwin—Dar,” I say. “You don’t owe me. I just didn’t think he should push you around.”
“Yeah, well. You certainly know how to push back,” says Jonathan.
I rub my jaw, still sore from that big hit. Trying to figure this guy out. Jonathan is a thin kid, his uniform hanging off him like it’s half a size too big. I’ve seen him around before but honestly never taken much notice. He’s clearly not one of the really popular kids, but instead moves between the various cliques of the school—jocks to nerds—without a problem. Everybody tolerates him. Not sure if anybody really likes him though.
We hustle alongside a low brick wall, then left through a big black gate. The words Norfolk Academy scroll in an ornate iron arch over the gate. Back to school. I try to brush some of the dirt off my jacket. Touch my face to see if there’s any blood.
Jonathan stops me just before we enter the big main building. He straightens his glasses and then squints at me. “Doesn’t matter what you say. I still owe you one, all right? An
d I think I know how to pay it back.”
Chapter Three
Jonathan finds me the next day in the cafeteria. The big hall is filled with rows of students eating. The clattering of plates, cutlery and teenage chatter is loud. I drown it out with my iPod. Ever since I arrived a month ago, I eat alone anyway. The tunes keep me company.
But today I’m not alone. Jonathan drops onto the bench across from me, smacking his cafeteria tray onto the table.
“Hello, Downtown Darwin Stone.” He holds a hand out for a fist bump. I just look at it and slowly pull my earbuds out.
“What did you call me?” I say. “Downtown?”
“Yeah, because you’re from the inner city, right?” He pulls his hand back. “That’s all anyone knows about you, actually. That you transferred from a public school downtown.”
I nod and pay attention to finishing off my sandwich. Jonathan watches me for a moment, still half smiling. Then he starts into his own lunch, speaking around a mouthful of lasagna.
“They also say you came here because you decked a teacher at your last school. Based on what you did to Mason yesterday, I’d say that sounds about right.” Jonathan’s forkful of lasagna stops midway to his mouth. “Is it true?”
I sigh and rub the bridge of my nose. “No, it’s not true. I got in a couple of fights. But so did everybody else. It’s just a fact of life.”
Jonathan pushes the orange-red pasta around his plate. “So why did you come to Norfolk?”
Because my mom wanted me to have some “good influences” in my life. Not to end up in prison like my dad. Or bleeding out from a random drive-by shooting.
“I was too smart for my last school,” I say. “Norfolk couldn’t resist me.”
“Right.” Jonathan snorts, nearly spilling the milk he’s drinking. He finishes with his food and pushes the tray away. “Okay, smart guy. Remember how I said I could pay you back?”
“Yeah.”
Jonathan leans over the table and motions for me to come closer.
“I run a fight club, and I want you to be in it.”
“A what?”
“A fight club. Bunch of guys get together and take each other on. Man to man. No holds barred. The audience pays me, I take bets on the winner. That kind of thing.” His smile is wide and white, like his dentist did something extra to make it shine.
“Sounds kind of stupid,” I say. “And illegal.”
“Yeah, it’s both,” Jonathan says. “But I’ve had two fights so far, and it’s made a crapload of cash. You could make a lot of money.”
I cross my arms. “What do I have to do?”
“I want you to be my next star,” he says. “My fighter. I’ll pay you to be in the ring.”
I watch him closely. “Why me?”
“Because I’ve seen you in action.” The smile goes to a thousand watts. “And you’re a natural.”
Chapter Four
Jonathan was right. I am a natural. Two fights in, two rich kids are on the floor.
Now for number three.
“Listen to that crowd,” says Jonathan. “They can’t wait to see you in action again, amigo. You’re a freakin’ rock star.”
I nod, not really hearing him, getting into my zone. I slip the mouthguard in and wiggle my jaw until it’s locked in place. I flex my hands, roll my head around, bounce on my toes. Trying to get loose, to breathe steady.
Across the circle the crowd has left open, my opponent is taking his gray blazer and white dress shirt off.
Seriously?
He shouldn’t do that. What might have been muscle hidden under the shirt is revealed as pasty-white flab, scattered with some curly red pube-like hair. He’s bigger than I am, way bigger. But I think size is all he’s got.
I look around for Jonathan, but he’s back in the crowd. Working them, getting bets lined up. I don’t know how much he makes for organizing these things, but I’m getting fifty bucks a fight. He must be making more than that, what with maybe twenty guys paying admission and laying bets. But they can afford it.
For a moment I let myself scan their faces. Most seem to be around my age, sixteen, seventeen years old. Wearing all the same brands. Shoes that cost more than my mom pays in rent. Feeling all grown up because they’re slumming it at Jonathan’s illegal fight club. Makes me sick. Where I grew up, you fought because you had to—big fish trying to eat the little fish. These guys are watching this fight like it’s something on an Xbox. Entertainment.
But it pays.
“Stretch it out, lots of drama. Okay?” Jonathan’s back, shouting in my ear. “Just like last time?”
I nod. Jonathan slips on his sunglasses—ridiculous, since we’re inside a dimly lit garage. Then he walks into the middle of the empty space the crowd is gathered around. He holds up his arms for silence.
The roar descends to a murmur.
“Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls.”
Jonathan likes his moment.
The light flashes off his sunglasses, and his lips sneer back from perfect teeth. “Welcome to the Norfolk Academy fight club!”
A roar.
“You all know the rules, right?”
Laughter.
“First rule, there is no fight club. That means put your phones away. What you see here stays here.” He puts a finger to his lips as he turns around, clowning it up for the audience. “Now the main event. In this corner, senior at Norfolk Academy, halfback on the football team, the heavy hitter himself, Savage Sam Tilson!”
Sam stands up across from me and turns in a circle, beady eyes trying to look fierce but only looking piglike. The crowd chants his name anyway.
“And in this corner, a new arrival at Norfolk but already making a name for himself, Downtown Dar Stone!”
I get up off the broken office chair I’ve been sitting on and stare at the crowd. The way they shout, I’m pretty sure most of them are looking forward to watching the crap get beaten out of me.
“All right, gents.” Jonathan motions for the two of us to approach him in the center of the ring. Actually, ring makes it sound formal. The whole space is just an empty garage with blacked-out windows, lit by hanging lightbulbs that throw crazy shadows around. When we first arrived, it smelled faintly of wet concrete and oil. Now that stench is overlaid with a haze of teenage sweat and body spray.
“Gents, I’d say keep it clean—but I know you won’t.” Jonathan gets us to tap our fists together, then dances back out of the way.
I circle Sam with quick little steps, hands up around eye level. Sam kicks out at me, a flashy high thing. Some sort of martial-arts movie must be running through his head. I easily step away from it and swat at his leg as it goes by. That throws him off balance, and I rush him. A quick right hook at the mouth. Sam turns his head to miss it. I follow with a straight jab that connects with his ear. But now I’m too close, too open.
I back up fast. Not fast enough. Sam gets a solid couple of hits to my stomach on my way out. Hurts. We circle around each other. Blood dripping from the side of his face. Me bent over a little from the pain.
“What, you scared?” says Sam. “Should be. Get back to the estates where you belong.”
I see Jonathan over his shoulder, stopping a pretty girl from taking pictures with her phone. Distracted, I don’t see Sam coming until it’s too late. Lucky for me, he has crappy aim. His fist smacks near my forehead, probably hurting him more than me. But the surprise gives me a shot of adrenaline, and I fly at him. A jab to his face to throw him off balance. Then I grab his right shoulder with both hands and bring him down hard. Straight into my knee as I drive it up into his solar plexus.
The air whooshes out of him. When I let go, he drops to the concrete floor, gasping for breath. I fall on top of him, pinning his neck with my left hand, his chest with my knee. I raise my right fist, cocked back and ready to smash down on his face.
“Your turn to be scared,” I say. “Are we done now?”
Sam’s beady eyes bore defiantly into min
e. He brings one arm up to try to push me off. I ignore it and tighten my grip on his neck.
“One more chance. Tap out?” I say.
Chapter Five
His face goes redder than before, almost shading into purple. He grimaces, then smacks the floor twice with his hand. I stand up and back away. Sam doesn’t bother getting up, just lies there wheezing.
“We have a winner!” says Jonathan, walking back into the middle of the ring and holding up one of my arms. He’s got his big, wide toothy smile on. When he turns away from the crowd toward me, I can tell from his eyes that he’s actually pissed.
“What the hell was that?” he hisses. “That lasted, like, ninety seconds? Dar, these people paid money for a movie, and you gave them a commercial.” He drops my hand, shakes his head and walks back to his friends in the crowd. Sam is still lying on the floor. I lean over and offer him a hand up.
“Screw you,” he says, rolling away.
As he struggles to his feet, I snap my leg out and flick one leg from under him. He collapses to the floor again with the sound of a bag of dirt hitting the ground.
Someone grabs me from behind. “What the hell?” It’s one of Sam’s buddies from the football team. He’s not alone. Should’ve controlled my temper. That was stupid. But before it can get out of hand, Jonathan appears at my side.
“Hey, hey, hey. Let’s keep the fights in the ring, all right? Take it easy. Dar, you apologize for that.” I look over at Sam, who is all smiles now that he’s leaning on two football buddies. Big man now that I’m outnumbered. But Jonathan’s right. I nod.
“My bad. I’m sorry.” I extend my hand to Sam a second time. And again he doesn’t take it. He spits on the ground. Laughs.
But this time I keep my cool. Watch them walk away, joining the rest of the crowd heading for the exit.
