Takedown

by Laura Shovan

  Nods and mumbles. Mickey squirms like she wants to crawl under the bleachers and hide.

  “Understood?!”

  “Yes, Coach!” we all shout.

  I feel bad for her. When I moved up from rec to travel, my old teammates stayed behind with Coach Harvey. It took a while to make friends.

  Coach motions for everyone to come close. We stack our hands in the middle. I notice that Josh and some of the other kids don’t touch Mickey’s fingers.

  “On three,” Coach Billy says. “One, two, three—”

  “Gladiators!”

  “Pair up, pair up. Sit-ups first,” Coach calls.

  Josh and I wave good-bye to Isaiah, who taps the shoulder of an eighth grader. We find an open spot on the mat. I try to focus, but Mickey’s walking around the room looking for a partner. Everyone ignores her. Jerks. Coach finally calls her over. I’m relieved, until she heads in my direction.

  “Coach says you’re wrestling with Milo,” Mickey tells Josh.

  I hear a couple of nearby eighth graders sniggering. My cheeks burn, and it’s not from all the running we’ve done tonight.

  Josh looks at me, shaking his head, but he doesn’t say anything. We both know Coach’s rule: No complaining on the mat.

  Mickey lies on her back. I’m supposed to hold her ankles for sit-ups, but I freeze. “Wait. I’m training with you?”

  “You got a problem with that?”

  Yeah, I do. Evan’s sister seems nice, but this is wrestling. Nice doesn’t cut it. I don’t need the guys laughing at me. I’m supposed to wrestle someone faster, tougher, stronger than I am. How am I supposed to train for States if my partner is a newbie—and a girl?

  We make it through conditioning, but I’m still stuck with her when Coach calls for live wrestling.

  I kneel on the mat. Mickey puts her arm across my waist and wraps her fingers around my elbow. I can’t pull away when she leans her chest against my back.

  Wrestling girls in elementary school wasn’t a big deal. Nobody cared or said it was weird. But things are different between boys and girls in middle school. It’s awkward, even with girls I’ve known forever, like Emma Peake. Having a strange girl leaning on my back, her arm wrapped around my middle, is not exactly comfortable.

  I wait for Coach’s whistle, determined to show her I’m not here to mess around. I don’t want to be the first guy in the room to get beat by a girl.

  The first thing I notice about the Gladiators is speed. Even when they’re messing around before practice, these boys are spinning, sprawling, diving to take a shot on their partners, scooping up legs and ankles so fast I don’t see it happen until they’re on the ground, fighting for control.

  No one tells us it’s time to start. Even the little kids know, you lace up your shoes, put your headgear on, and start jogging around the mats. I watch my new teammates and copy what they’re doing, trying to act like I’m not totally confused. The last words Mom said when she dropped me off were “Have fun.” Ha. The way these guys are pretending not to stare at me, I can tell it’s going to be a while before wrestling with the Gladiators is fun.

  Heavy-metal music blares from speakers I can’t see. It’s ridiculous, the way boys weave around me as they jog, like I’ve got cooties. If Kenna were here, we’d be laughing at the way they’re tripping over themselves to avoid me. But I have no one to laugh with. For the first time in my life, I don’t have a friend in the wrestling room. That kid Lev doesn’t count, even if he does know Evan.

  My new coach, Billy Kim, calls us to the center of the mat. He’s Asian American and the youngest coach I’ve ever had. There is no question Coach Billy is a wrestler. Those banged-up cauliflower ears mark him. Damaged cartilage in the ears is permanent.

  “Mickey, front and center,” Coach says.

  Uh-oh. This is not how it’s supposed to go.

  Ignore me, I think. Treat me like I’m any other new kid on the team. But I might as well have GIRL tattooed on my forehead.

  Coach’s “treat Mickey like everyone else” speech has the opposite effect. When it’s time to pair up for conditioning exercises, every kid I get close to suddenly finds another partner.

  Dad always says wrestling is a sport that “takes all comers.” If you’re willing to step on the mat and compete, it doesn’t matter what color you are, how much money your parents make, or if you have a disability. So why are these kids acting like they’ve never seen a girl before?

  Coach Billy grabs my shoulder. He points at Lev and his partner. “See that kid over there? The one who looks like me?”

  I didn’t notice before, but Lev’s friend is a mini version of Coach Billy. He’s too old to be Coach’s son, but they must be related.

  “Tell Josh to partner with Milo,” Coach tells me. “You’re with Lev.”

  To say Lev and Josh are not thrilled about splitting up is an understatement. Josh shakes his head as he stalks away.

  Coach calls, “Sit-ups!”

  I lie on my back. Lev’s supposed to hold my ankles, but he stands there, his big dark eyes staring down at me.

  “I’m training with you?”

  “You got a problem with that?”

  Lev kneels, grabs my hand-me-down wrestling shoes—he’s careful not to touch actual female skin—and slides the rest of his body as far away from me as possible.

  I want to shout, You think I wouldn’t rather be wrestling with my friend? But it’s no use. He doesn’t care that Kenna quit on me and left me to deal with these jocks by myself.

  When I see Kenna at school, I would love to tell her off. Instead, I’ll have to pretend everything’s fine. Because if I get mad and say she’s a big, fat quitter, I’ll never convince her to join the Gladiators.

  The last half hour of practice is live wrestling, when all the partners compete as if we’re in real matches. Lev takes down-man position, kneeling with his butt on his heels, his arms propping his chest up. I look down at him before I take the top spot. He’s got too-long wavy brown hair and freckles on his neck. He looks more like a little kid than a teenager. I bet he’s in sixth grade, like me. His Gladiators T-shirt has the team logo on the back, a gray helmet with a black feathered plume. It says Give It All You’ve Got.

  I kneel and place my right arm around Lev’s stomach, left hand on his elbow, ready to move on Coach’s whistle. When I lean against Lev’s back, he jerks away. What’s he afraid of? It’s not like I have much chest to brag about. What I do have is smooshed down by my new sports bra. If we’re going to be partners, he’d better get over it.

  Coach Billy yells, “Bottom man, you’ve got thirty seconds to score!”

  On the whistle, I yank Lev’s elbow to the side and press down on his back, trying to flatten him to the mat. I can’t let him escape and earn a point, but he’s strong. I sprawl my legs out to get traction, push from the toes of my shoes, and hold tight to his middle. Thirty seconds feels like forever.

  “Switch positions!” Coach yells. “Top man on the bottom.”

  We continue like that until practice is over and my T-shirt is soaked with sweat. I’m sitting by myself, unlacing Cody’s old wrestling shoes, when I hear Lev’s voice.

  “She didn’t score on me, but she’s fast,” he tells Josh and his other friend, a tall black kid.

  If Kenna were here, we might smile at each other and high-five. Instead, I walk by myself out of the hot gym, into the cold November air.

  “How was it?” Mom asks before I even have a chance to buckle my seat belt.

  “Fine,” I lie.

  She turns to look at me. “Are you going to be okay without Kenna?”

  It’s only the first night of preseason, and this was the most intense wrestling practice of my life. I’m starving and lonely and angry all at the same time. Am I going to be okay without Kenna? Probably not. But I have to k
eep it together so I can tell her how awesome it is to be a Gladiator.

  I take a deep breath. My body’s so warm, the windows steam up. “There’s still time for Kenna to change her mind,” I tell Mom. “Coach Billy’s fine. The guys on the team are really good.”

  Mom frowns. “And if she doesn’t change her mind?”

  I shrug, even though Mom’s eyes are on the road.

  “I’m not sure how I feel about you being the only girl on the team,” Mom says. In the rearview mirror, I see worry lines marching across her forehead.

  “It’s fine, Mom. I’m used to it, remember? Evan? Cody?”

  No matter how tough it gets, I can’t quit wrestling. Ever since Evan moved in with Dad, this sport is the glue that keeps our family together.

  * * *

  The next day at school, I rush to lunch. I know exactly what I’m going to say to Kenna, how I’m going to describe the Gladiators to make her realize how much she misses wrestling.

  But Kenna has her own news. “I’m joining drama club,” she says. Her arm is linked with Lalita Parsons.

  Lalita went to a different elementary school. She’s been taking ballet and tap classes since she was little. But now she’s into hip-hop. She’s trying to talk her parents into letting her take lessons.

  Even though she wears sweatpants with the word DANCE across the butt, it’s hard not to like Lalita. She’s enthusiastic about everything, whether it’s her favorite K-pop boy band, the book we’re reading in language arts, or Dickinson Middle’s sloppy Joe sandwiches.

  Lalita leans across the table. “I’m getting an act together for the talent show. We’re doing the ‘Thriller’ dance. It’s super fun. And it’s easy to learn. You should do it too, Mikayla.” When she smiles, her braces are electric blue. They match her glasses.

  I shake my head. “No time. Not till wrestling season’s over.” I’m surprised that I’m actually sad about this. It’s been a long time since Kenna and I took dance together. Learning the Thriller would be awesome.

  Lalita looks confused. “Wrestling season?”

  “Yes!” Kenna answers. Her smile is so big that I forgive her a little. “Mickey, I mean Mikayla is a great wrestler.” She leans closer to Lalita. “You should see her on the mat. She crushes kids. Even boys.”

  Lalita’s eyes widen behind her glasses.

  Kenna’s compliment should make me happy, but I’m still upset about last night’s practice. With the Gladiators, I’m starting over from the bottom. There are second graders on that team who are better than me.

  “Lalita asked me to do makeup for the dance,” Kenna is saying.

  “ ‘Thriller’ makeup? You mean zombies?”

  She nods and her curls bounce happily. “I’ve been watching YouTube videos. I can already do blood and bruises.” She takes out her phone and clicks through the photo gallery. There are pictures of Kenna with dark circles under her eyes and a dripping, bloody nose. Kenna with flakes of decaying skin peeling off her face.

  “I didn’t know you were into makeup,” I say. “How’d you make that flaking skin look so real?”

  Kenna smiles. “I need someone to practice on besides myself.” She flutters her eyelashes at me. It’s a BFF thing. She knows I can’t resist.

  “Sure,” I say. “I’ll be your zombie guinea pig.” Everyone at our lunch table thinks that’s hilarious.

  Since there’s no wrestling practice on Tuesdays, Kenna comes over after school. We carry her new stage makeup kit to the upstairs bathroom.

  “What kind of zombie do you want to be?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Maybe I died of boredom.”

  “Just for that, I’m going to give you a head wound.” Kenna gets out a jar of soft, clear wax. “It’s what they use in movies, for special effects.”

  How does she know that?

  Kenna smiles. She looks happy, leaning against the bathroom sink with a palette of eye shadows in one hand and her brushes in the other.

  “What?” I ask, as she dabs purple shadow on my eyebrow.

  “It’s nice hanging out with you and not talking about, you know.”

  “Boys?”

  “Wrestling. For a long time, all we talked about was wrestling. We used to do other stuff together, remember? Ballet and tap class. And that time when we wanted to start a cupcake company.”

  I do remember. Kenna and I were still dancing when we started to wrestle. It was fun, except when Mrs. Franklin yelled at us for wearing tap shoes on her hardwood floors. I liked tap, especially the kicks and stomps. But performing in front of people made me want to vomit. And then there was that time I came down to breakfast wearing a tutu over my wrestling singlet. Cody still teases me about it. Kenna and I decided not to sign up again. Or maybe I was the one who decided to quit, and Kenna didn’t want to keep dancing without me.

  “We still bake,” I say. “Every time you sleep over, my mom lets us take over the kitchen.”

  “I guess. But a business would have been fun. I still have that list of cupcake flavors we came up with in fourth grade.”

  “Mmm. Black licorice. We could still do that.”

  “When?” Kenna asks. “You’re at practice three times a week. You’ll be wrestling every weekend until spring.”

  It’s harder for us to spend time together since middle school started. If I can’t get Kenna to join the Gladiators, how are we going to stay friends?

  “Look.” Kenna turns my body toward the mirror and I see a different person. A scarier person.

  “Too bad Halloween is over,” I say, admiring my sunken-in eyes and bloody forehead.

  “I call your look Prom Scream. Get it? Like prom queen?” Kenna admires her work. “Please do the talent show with us, Mickey. I’ll find you a dress. An ugly pink one with lots of lace.”

  “I wish I could. I miss you at wrestling,” I tell her. When she starts to argue, I say, “It’s not about being partners. I like having a friend on the team.”

  This summer, we went to wrestling camp together for the first time. There was a boy in our group whose arms only went down to his elbows. He was a good kid and a strong wrestler. I wonder if the boys who wrestle me feel the way I did, that there are unspoken rules when you’re on the mat with someone whose body is different from yours, but nobody’s supposed to say anything. I was glad Kenna and I could talk about it at the end of the day, when her mom drove us home.

  Kenna studies my face. Now she has this secret life with a vocabulary I know nothing about. Until middle school started, we were always together. How different could we be after just a few weeks?

  A lot, I tell myself.

  Ever since Gladiators practice started, I’m hungry all the time. When the lunch bell rings, I pound down the stairwell in a herd of sixth graders. We have four hundred kids in our grade, Meadowbrook Middle’s biggest class ever. I rush around the corner, pushing through the crowd. On Tuesdays, the cafeteria serves square pizza. It’s a slice of heaven.

  Bryan’s in his usual spot at our table, but he’s not eating. His eyes are glued to the cafeteria door.

  “It’s pizza day, Bry. What are you doing? Get in line before all the corner pieces are gone.”

  Bryan springs up and walks as fast as he can to the pizza line. I lean back and watch where Bryan’s going. Who do I see walking to the pizza line ahead of him? Marisa Zamora. I should have known.

  “Hey, Sofer.” Nick Spence and his friend Darren Warshauer are standing at the end of our table. Nick tosses his hair. He must think some girls are watching.

  I take a bite of my pizza and chew it at them.

  “Heard you got a new teammate.” Nick’s keeping a straight face, barely, but Darren’s smile shows all his braces. He’s in the jock group, which wasn’t even a thing in elementary school. Typical Nick, acting like a jerk to impress the cool kids.
<
br />   “I’ve got a lot of new teammates,” I say. It’s not a lie. There are at least eight new Gladiators, but I know who he’s talking about.

  “Only one of them is a girl,” Darren says. “I don’t know whether to be grossed out or jealous.” His light-brown hair is gelled like Bryan’s, but it looks cooler on Darren.

  Nick’s face twists into a smirk. “It’s not natural. Wrestling is a man’s sport. That’s what my dad says, and he’s on the board of the county wrestling league.”

  “Shut up,” I tell them both. I’ve barely spoken to Mickey since that first practice, even though Coach keeps pairing us up. I keep telling myself if I don’t talk to her, she’ll give up and find someone else to train with.

  Bryan slides into his seat and drops his tray on the table. Pizza. Tater tots. Applesauce.

  “Is it true Sofer’s got a girlfriend?” Nick says. “If you can call her a girl.” He elbows Darren.

  “Who? His partner?” Bryan looks at me. “I thought you hated her?”

  I take a deep breath. Uh-oh.

  “She’s your partner?” Nick breaks into hysterical laughter. “That is perfect. Sofer and the She-Man are wrestling partners.” He and Darren walk away, shoving each other. They look back at me and start laughing again.

  “What’d you do that for?” I ask Bryan.

  “What’s the big deal?” he says through a mouthful of pizza. “She’s not your girlfriend.”

  “And she’s not going to be my partner either, not for long.” I chew my pizza. “There’s got to be something I can do.”

  “Besides not speaking to her?” Bryan asks. “You really have a way with the ladies.”

  “Like you do?”

  Bryan blushes from his chin to his glasses. “I talked to Marisa.”

  “So?”

  He wants me to do the guy thing, clap him on the back or shake his hand.

  “I’m paving the way,” he explains. “I’m going to ask her to the winter social.”

  “If you’re such an expert on girls, how do I get rid of Mickey?”