Takedown

by Laura Shovan

  ALSO BY LAURA SHOVAN

  The Last Fifth Grade of Emerson Elementary

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Laura Shovan

  Cover art copyright © 2018 by Kevin Whipple

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Wendy Lamb Books, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Wendy Lamb Books and the colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  A line from a poem by Joy Harjo, “This Morning I Pray for My Enemies,” appears on this page. This poem is found in Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings: Poems, copyright © 2015 by Joy Harjo, published by W. W. Norton & Co., Inc.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Name: Shovan, Laura, author.

  Title: Takedown / Laura Shovan.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Wendy Lamb Books, [2018] | Summary: Told in separate voices, sixth-graders Mikayla, a wrestler like her brothers, and Lev, part of the Fearsome Threesome, become good wrestling partners and friends, but there can be only one winner at the State competition.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017030357 (print) | LCCN 2017041591 (ebook) | ISBN 978-0-553-52143-6 (ebook) | ISBN 978-0-553-52141-2 (trade) | ISBN 978-0-553-52142-9 (lib. bdg.) | ISBN 978-0-553-52144-3 (pbk.)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Wrestling—Fiction. | Competition (Psychology)—Fiction. | Sex role—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Middle schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Family life—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S51785 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.S51785 Tak 2018 (print) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  Ebook ISBN 9780553521436

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v5.3.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Laura Shovan

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Mickey

  Chapter 2: Lev

  Chapter 3: Mickey

  Chapter 4: Lev

  Chapter 5: Mickey

  Chapter 6: Lev

  Chapter 7: Mickey

  Chapter 8: Lev

  Chapter 9: Mickey

  Chapter 10: Lev

  Chapter 11: Mickey

  Chapter 12: Lev

  Chapter 13: Mickey

  Chapter 14: Lev

  Chapter 15: Mickey

  Chapter 16: Lev

  Chapter 17: Mickey

  Chapter 18: Lev

  Chapter 19: Mickey

  Chapter 20: Lev

  Chapter 21: Mickey

  Chapter 22: Lev

  Chapter 23: Mickey

  Chapter 24: Lev

  Chapter 25: Mickey

  Chapter 26: Lev

  Chapter 27: Mickey

  Chapter 28: Lev

  Chapter 29: Mickey

  Chapter 30: Lev

  Chapter 31: Mickey

  Chapter 32: Lev

  Chapter 33: Mickey

  Chapter 34: Lev

  Chapter 35: Mickey

  Chapter 36: Lev

  Chapter 37: Mikayla

  Chapter 38: Lev

  Acknowledgments

  FOR ROB, MY PARTNER THROUGH IT ALL

  I have two names. At home, I’m Mikayla. It’s the name my mom picked, a gift she gave herself when I turned out to be not the third son Dad wanted, but the daughter of her secret dreams.

  Mom chose my name because it sounds like a melody. It starts with a note—Mi—and ends with a note—La—like that “Do, a Deer” song in her favorite movie, The Sound of Music.

  My mom is a really good singer. In high school, she was in all the musicals. Now she saves her voice for when we’re alone in the car, with no older brothers to complain about her taste in music.

  Sometimes I wish Mom didn’t like my name so much. She makes everyone call me Mikayla, all three syllables. When I was a baby, my brothers thought that was a lot of name for a little person. Evan and Cody tried to call me Kay-Kay, but Mom would have none of it.

  If Dad had gotten his way, I’d probably have a short name like my brothers. Their names sound like punches, Evan and Cody, a right hook and a left jab. I was supposed to be the uppercut, to give Dad the full boy combination.

  It was Evan who said my name was too soft if I wanted to be a wrestler like my brothers. Four years ago, after our parents split up, Dad put a wrestling mat in his basement so Evan and Cody could train whenever they wanted. I wasn’t about to play quietly while they practiced moves with cool names like whizzer and cement mixer. I was seven years old and full of energy. My best friend Kenna and I were taking dance lessons, but it wasn’t enough. I wanted to wrestle.

  “What you need is a tough name,” Evan said one day. “No one’s going to take a wrestler named Mikayla seriously.”

  “They’ll take me seriously when they see me take you down,” I said, jumping on Evan’s back. He was in eighth grade, solid as a tree, and still growing. That was the year Evan won state champ.

  “What are you going to do, pirouette for them?” Cody said. My face got hot. I hated when my brothers ganged up on me. They knew I was about to lose it.

  “Suck it up,” Evan said. “No crying on the mat.”

  I had to show my brothers I was strong enough to wrestle. Dad was spending every weekend at tournaments with Evan and Cody. They hardly ever took me along. I was tired of staying behind with Mom and not seeing my father. Maybe Dad would let me join a team, if Evan said I was ready.

  I grabbed his right leg behind the knee and pulled it hard against my chest. Evan hopped, then wrapped his arms around my middle and lifted me off the ground, breaking my hold.

  “Fight fair!” I said.

  “Settle down, Kay-Kay,” Cody teased.

  Evan had my arms wrapped up, so I kicked at Cody. But I was too high off the mat to make contact.

  He laughed. “Mick the Kick. Really tough.”

  “Zero percent funny,” I said.

  Evan loosened his grip. “Not Mick,” he said. “That’s a boy’s name. How about Mickey?”

  That’s how Mickey became my second name, my second self. Mikayla is for home and for school, where I work hard to stay on the honor roll. School is the one place where I know I can dominate my brothers. But put a wrestling singlet on me, and I’m Mickey Delgado, determined as any boy on the mat. I may not be the strongest kid, but I’m one of the quickest. And my rec league coach says Kenna and I are two of the smartest wrestlers he’s ever seen.

  Kenna is more than my best friend. She’s been my training partner since I started wrestling. Now that we’re eleven and in sixth grade, it’s the perfect time to join a travel team. We’re both good enough to test our skills against competitive wrestlers. Not just from our own state, Maryland, but kids from Pennsylvania, Virginia, and New Jersey too. I hope our new coach is ready, because there’s a whole lot of girl power coming his way.

  I am a wrestler


  who loves to win,

  an animal lover

  and walker of dogs,

  specifically Grover,

  our chubby old beagle.

  Sometimes, I pretend

  that I do amazing things,

  win the Olympic gold medal

  in wrestling, get invited

  to the White House,

  shake the president’s hand.

  What does the future

  hold for me?

  My pencil stops moving. Mr. Vanderhoff wants us to finish writing our poems, but I’m stuck. The only future I can think about is wrestling. The season starts next week. This year, I’m making it all the way to States.

  “I have big plans for you, sixth graders. As soon as the first quarter concludes, we are beginning a new project. Writing! Creativity! Invention!” Mr. Van says in his booming voice, because he is incapable of talking like a normal person. Still, he’s my favorite teacher at Meadowbrook Middle School. “Who wants to read a poem?”

  I sit on my hands so I won’t be tempted to volunteer. Bryan Hong, my best friend, gives me a sideways look. He’s trying not to laugh at me, but I don’t see his hand going up.

  Emma Peake waves her arm in the air. Marisa Zamora raises hers slowly. Bryan’s face turns pink. I’m not supposed to know he likes Marisa, but it’s obvious.

  Then Nick Spence puts up his hand. He’s the only other serious wrestler in our grade. It’s Nick’s fault I didn’t make it to the Maryland state tournament last year. He ruined my chance to qualify. Then he ruined my life at school by telling everyone I cried when he beat me.

  We were on the playground. One minute, I was rounding the kickball bases, and the next, kids were asking if it was true that Nick made me cry at a tournament. The girls didn’t seem to care. Especially when Emma shrugged and said, “We’re humans. Our bodies wouldn’t make tears if we weren’t supposed to cry.”

  But the fifth-grade boys did care. Kids who would have taken my side and told Nick to stop being a bully at the beginning of the year, they laughed. A couple of weeks later, I quit playing kickball. Every time I missed a play, the guys would say, “Don’t cry, Lev,” and rub their eyes pitifully. Bryan stopped playing too. He’s that kind of friend.

  I’m not going to let it happen again. Half the kids at Meadowbrook Middle don’t know me. And the ones who do? I’m going to show them that I’m tougher than Spence, on the mat and off.

  Bryan and I roll our eyes at each other when Mr. Van calls on Nick.

  Nick stands next to his desk, the way Mr. Van taught us. He’s got this weird haircut—shaved on the sides with longer hair on top. He picks up his notebook and tilts his head in Emma Peake’s direction. His blond hair flops over to one side.

  Not wrestling, I think as Nick opens his mouth to read. Not wrestling. I don’t want him to accuse me of copying his poem. That would be a Spence thing to do.

  “ ‘I Am,’ ” Nick says, so loud and sure, no one in the room makes a sound.

  I am an eagle who dives at my prey.

  I am an athlete. My body obeys me.

  I want to win, no matter what the prize is.

  When it’s time to compete,

  I pretend I have wings.

  I’m above the world,

  watching, waiting for my chance

  to strike.

  I don’t applaud with the rest of my class. Instead, I slip my wrestling notebook out from under my language arts journal. I always carry the notebook with me. When I need a break at tournaments, or when school gets me down, I find a quiet spot and start sketching or writing.

  Mr. Van starts complimenting Spence on his eagle metaphor. Big deal. The Eagles are Nick’s wrestling team. Of course he wrote about being an eagle. I tune out and focus on my notebook.

  I had him, I write, remembering.

  Third period, up by one. I step back, circle, waiting out the clock.

  The ref holds up a fist. He knows I’m stalling.

  I can’t give Nick the point. Coach screams SHOOT!

  I grab Nick’s leg, pull it in, but instead of spinning,

  falling to the ground, he pushes off, rolls like a log on a river,

  with me dancing, trying to stay afloat. I twist,

  but I’m stuck on my back. His chest covers mine

  like a log jamming a river. I still hear the S L A P

  when the ref’s palm hits the mat.

  When the ref raised Nick’s arm, I couldn’t drag my eyes off the floor. He’d been taunting me the whole tournament. But wrestling is all about leaving it on the mat, so I shook Nick’s hand as hard as I could, jogged over to shake his coach’s hand, and rushed back to Coach Billy.

  “Why’d you tell me to take a shot?” I asked Coach. I was still up by one. A few more seconds and I would have made it to States.

  Coach Billy put an arm around my shoulders. “Sometimes you’ve got to be aggressive, Lev,” he said. “You can’t always play it safe. Especially in a close match.”

  I left the school gym and found an empty hallway where I could kick the wall and, yeah, I may have cried a little. But that’s how wrestling goes. Some losses are tough. Nick knows that, but he told the guys at school anyway. He and his friends boo-hooed at me for weeks, rubbing their eyes and making ugly frowns.

  Bryan and Emma told me to ignore them, but Nick is still my nemesis. I learned that word from my father, who I call Abba, which is Hebrew for “Dad.” A nemesis is someone like Lex Luthor, whose only purpose is to destroy Superman and take over the world. Except, in my life, Nick’s only purpose is to destroy me and ruin my chance of making the state wrestling championship.

  I read over the words in my notebook. Bryan’s kicking my foot. I don’t look up. He kicks harder, but it’s too late. A huge shadow falls across my desk.

  “What’s grabbed your attention there, Mr. Sofer?” Mr. Van peers down at my notebook.

  I look at the board. “ ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’?” Wrong answer.

  * * *

  When the bell rings, Mr. Van calls me to his desk. “It’s not like you to daydream in class, Lev. What’s on your mind?”

  Before I can get out the word nothing, my mouth is saying, “Nick Spence. He’s on our rival wrestling team.”

  “I see,” says Mr. Van. “The poet Rumi said, ‘Bestow your love, even on your enemies. If you touch their hearts, what do you think will happen?’ ”

  “I can barely shake hands with the guy, Mr. Van. There is no way I’m touching his heart.”

  Mr. Van loves quoting poetry. Other language arts teachers have posters like AMAZING ADJECTIVES on their walls. Mr. Van’s ceiling tiles are painted with lines of poetry and book covers. I look up and spot The Tales of Edgar Allan Poe, which we’ve been reading for our horror unit. I shudder, wondering if Nick would be the guy stashing my heart under some floorboards, or if I’d get to him first.

  Mr. Van walks me to the door. “I noticed you working in a notebook today, Lev. Your poem caught my eye.”

  “The ‘I Am’ poem?”

  He shakes his head. Bryan thinks Mr. Van’s black-and-white beard makes him look like a badger. His deep voice recites my words back to me.

  “ ‘He pushes off, rolls like a log on a river, with me dancing, trying to stay afloat.’ ”

  “Sometimes I write down lists and stuff to go with my drawings,” I say. “It’s nothing.”

  “I hope you’ll come see me if you ever want to talk about those ‘lists and stuff,’ ” Mr. Van says. “It is a gifted poet indeed who can draw such vivid pictures with words.”

  He writes me a hall pass and sends me to algebra. When I take out my math binder, I think about opening my wrestling notebook too. Maybe Mr. Van is on to something. But this is one of the few classes I don’
t have with Spence. I decide to pay attention.

  * * *

  When the last bell rings, I rush to pack up, slam my locker closed, and run outside. Instead of getting on the bus, I wait on the grass in front of school until I spot Bryan in the crowd.

  I act like I’m going to give him a friendly slap on the back, but before he can blink, I’ve got his neck wrapped up in the crook of my arm. My leg hooks behind his brand-new Vans. Bam! He’s on the ground, shoulders in the grass, our backpacks tossed aside.

  “I give!” Bryan says.

  I laugh and pull him to his feet before one of the bus monitors can yell at us for fighting. Meadowbrook Middle should have wrestling time built into the school day. I feel better already.

  We pick up our backpacks and run for the bus. Miss Janice has sports radio blasting. She closes the bus door behind us. “You got grass in your hair, Lev. You two wrestling again?”

  “Unfortunately,” Bryan says. He brushes a leaf off his hoodie.

  “Where were you last week?” I ask Bryan as I slide into our seat and crack a window. “You said you’d tell me on the way home. I’ve been waiting all day.” Bryan was out for five whole days, and he never misses school.

  He pushes his gelled bangs off his forehead. It’s his new, middle-school style. I told him it looks ridiculous, but he says he’s not taking fashion advice from a guy who wears a wrestling singlet.

  “My uncle died,” he says.

  “Sorry.” I look down at my backpack. Am I supposed to hug him now? We’ve been friends since second grade, but we’re not big on hugging.