by Laura Shovan
Isaiah taps me on the shoulder. “Coach says you’re up soon. Come on.”
I warm up, jogging along our side of the mat. My opponent should be warming up too. I try to spot him. I know it’s a him, because, duh, no girls on the Eagles, but the only person near the mat is Nick Spence. As the last seconds of Lev’s match tick down, Nick runs onto the mat holding a rolled-up, duct-taped towel. Sometimes refs get so into what they’re doing, they don’t hear the buzzer. When Nick touches the ref’s shoulder with the towel, he blows his whistle. The match is over. The ref raises Lev’s hand in the air.
Finally, it’s my turn. Parents in the stands shout my name. Mom’s voice pops out of the crowd. “Girl power, Mickey!”
I would be embarrassed, but I’m grinning around my mouth guard. Mom remembered to call me Mickey.
I jog to the center of the mat and try to ignore what’s going on in the Eagles’ corner. The ref is talking to Nick and Coach Spence.
I look at Mom. If she’s noticed something weird is happening, she doesn’t show it. “You got this!” she shouts.
I try to shake the worry out of my head, but now both coaches and the ref are at the judges’ table. They point to the Eagles’ corner, where Nick is standing. Coach Billy’s face is turning bright pink. After weeks of practice, I know what that means. He’s about to start yelling.
Lev waves to me from his seat on the side of the mat. He gives me a thumbs-up. A buzz is building in the stands. Parents are talking, wondering why the match hasn’t started. When the ref calls me to the center of the mat, I’m confused. I think I’m supposed to wrestle Spence, but he’s still in the Eagles’ corner.
The ref takes my hand and holds it high. “Eagles forfeit,” he says.
Coach Spence nods without looking up from his clipboard. Nick tears off his headgear. He looks like he’s about to throw it. If this were a real dual meet, a tantrum like that could get him kicked out. But Nick thinks better of it and jogs off to sit with his team. A little girl in a pink T-shirt comes up behind his chair and wraps her skinny arms around him.
I turn to Coach Billy. “I’m not wrestling today?”
Coach doesn’t answer. He writes something on his clipboard.
“But why? Is he hurt?” I ask.
The next pair of wrestlers is already on the mat, taking their stances. I tug Coach’s sleeve.
“I’m sorry, Mickey. They don’t have to give a reason,” Coach says. “Tell Milo he’s on deck.”
There’s booing from parents in the bleachers. Mostly Gladiators parents, but some Eagles too. They’re not booing me, are they?
I walk off the mat and slump in the chair next to Lev.
“What happened?” he says.
Isaiah leans over Lev to ask me, “Why did Spence forfeit?”
My brain is putting the pieces together. “Same reason they wouldn’t let me join the Eagles, I bet. He doesn’t want to wrestle a girl.”
“That’s not fair,” Lev says. “You train as hard as anyone.”
I take a deep breath. “It’s happened before. Boys did it a couple of times when I wrestled rec.” I can see that Josh, on the other side of Isaiah, is listening too.
“I’ll wrestle you,” Lev says. “We’re both 95 pounds.”
I frown. “Forget it. It’s okay.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod.
Mom is in the bleachers, trying to catch my eye. Her eyebrows shoot up in double question marks. She moves forward, as if she wants to fly out of the stands and rescue me. I stare right at her and shake my head slowly until she sits down. I’ll explain what happened later. Right now, I want to run to the girls’ room and hide. Why did I think this would be a good idea? Why did I think, just because I’m on a different team, the Eagles would let me wrestle?
But I can’t leave. Lev grabs my elbow and says, “We’ll get back at them. We’ve got the whole season.”
For the rest of the meet, Lev cheers on Gladiators wrestlers with our team, but my voice stays stuck in my throat.
I’m glad Abba came to the scrimmage with me. Mom would have asked a million questions. Since she went back to school, everything I do and say is her chance to practice being Nina Sofer, Future Guidance Counselor.
“That must be very upsetting for you, Lev,” she says whenever I complain. About anything. There are times, like tonight, when I miss plain old Mom, who hugs me too tight and says what she thinks, instead of bouncing my feelings back at me like a ball I’m supposed to catch.
Mom doesn’t understand my thing with Nick Spence. She doesn’t like me and Dalia to use the word hate. But at school and tournaments, when I see Spence, my whole body tells me Run! Get out now! like he’s a tornado about to smash me into pieces.
Abba thinks I’m making our rivalry into a bigger deal than it needs to be. He says Nick is a regular kid, a middle schooler just like me and not some invincible super enemy out of a comic book. But that’s not how I see it. No one should get away with what he did to Mickey today.
“What happened with Mickey’s match?” Abba asks as we drive home. “No one in the stands knew what was going on.”
Even though today was just a scrimmage, the Eagles wanted to win as bad as we did. Coach Billy refused to tell any of the Gladiators how we did overall, since we weren’t supposed to keep score. But I noticed he was smiling and laughing with the parents when Abba and I helped put mats away.
If Coach Spence is anything like Nick, he hates to lose. He’d never forfeit a match, even if it doesn’t count. That’s six team points in the trash.
“Spence forfeited on purpose,” I say.
“Really?” Abba doesn’t believe me. “What are the facts? No rumors.”
“The Spences think wrestling should be all boys. Nick told me at school.”
Abba shoots me a look in the rearview mirror.
“Also, Nick’s not a nice kid. I told you. I keep telling you that.”
“It’s wrestling, Lev. No one wins a trophy for being nice.”
It’s frustrating when Abba gets like this. I want to be angry, to shout and maybe punch something, but he keeps being reasonable. “You know what I mean, Abba. He tells everyone at school that Mickey is my girlfriend. It’s gross. And at tournaments, when the bout sheets are posted, he stands there waiting for me. And then he says stuff like, ‘I’m going to crush you today.’ ” I don’t remind Abba about fifth grade, how Nick told everyone he made me cry.
“He’s all talk.”
Not if he always wins, I think. I swing my legs and kick the back of the passenger seat.
Abba says, “Take Coach Billy’s advice. Don’t let Nick get in your head. If you train hard enough, any kid is beatable.”
“How’s Mickey supposed to beat him if he won’t step onto the mat with her?” I argue. “She deserves to wrestle.”
“All I’ve been hearing since practice started is how you’re never going to make it to States with a girl for your partner. Something’s changed.”
I look out the window. The sun is going down, making the sky red and gold. Abba expects me to stand up to bullies, be a friend to that one kid in the cafeteria no one wants to sit with. He doesn’t know, and I don’t want to tell him, that’s not how I’ve been treating Mickey. “I’m sick of guys picking on her, that’s all.”
“Maybe the forfeit had nothing to do with Mickey,” Abba says. “There are more plausible reasons for giving up a match. Nick might be sick. Or injured.”
I close my eyes. You don’t know the Spences, I think. The thing I don’t understand is why Coach let it happen. He didn’t argue. He didn’t stand up to Dr. Spence and make sure Mickey got to wrestle. Nick’s always bragging that his dad’s on our county wrestling board, but that doesn’t mean he gets to make the rules. Does it?
“I’m going to help her,” I say, without op
ening my eyes. “I’m going to show the other guys it’s okay.” I lean my forehead against the cold window to ease my headache. No one warned me being eleven was going to be this complicated.
* * *
When we get home, Dalia is sitting in the kitchen, texting and drinking the sloppy green protein shake she always has after field hockey games. Gross.
Abba turns on his laptop. “I’ve got some work emails,” he says. He’s holding his headphones up to his ears already. “You okay, Lev?”
I nod because that’s what he wants me to do. I boil a hot dog and grab a handful of carrot sticks. I eat as fast as I can. If I’m in the shower before Mom gets back from her study group, she can’t practice her counseling stuff on me.
Dalia is already in her pajamas. She must have an early tournament tomorrow. That means Mom will be out all day and it’ll be quiet in the house, just me and Abba. I sigh, even though my mouth is full.
Dalia stares at me, acting like she’s shocked.
“What?” I mumble around the food in my mouth.
“Number one, you’re disgusting. Number two, you’re going to choke.”
“Aw,” I say. “I didn’t know you cared.” I flash a mouthful of chewed hot dog at her.
Dalia taps her phone with her thumbs. “How’d Mikayla do today?” she asks without looking up.
I wash my food down with water. “The kid she was supposed to wrestle forfeited.”
Dalia looks up. “What? On purpose?”
“Maybe. He does things like that.”
“You know him?”
I nod. “He’s a jerk at school too.” I’d tell her more, but Dalia is already walking out of the kitchen.
I stay at the table, finishing my food. I like coming home to a quiet house after a competition. It’s lonely, but in a good way. For the last few hours, I’ve been chasing my friends around the gym, cheering for our teammates, messing around in the bleachers. Even when I’m home, there’s so much noise in my brain, I don’t have room for talking to people. Besides, how can I talk about today’s scrimmage when I don’t have a story in my head yet? I don’t have the right words to describe what happened. The only way I can figure it out is by writing it in my notebook.
Give It All You’ve Got,
our team shirts say.
All day we’ve been running.
Push-ups, squat-jacks
until our arms and legs
shake. Out on the mat
getting cross-faced so hard,
our noses bleed. Sweat
pours from pores
we didn’t know we had.
All for a few minutes
to prove we’re the best,
a chance they never gave you.
Mr. Van’s trying to get me to join the new poetry club at Meadowbrook. A bunch of kids who went to Emerson Elementary thought up the idea. They meet on Wednesdays after school, write poems, eat snacks, and share their work. They’re talking about doing a coffeehouse this spring so people can read their poems to an audience. It sounds cool, even though there won’t be actual coffee.
“We need your voice, Lev,” Mr. Van said when he told me about the group.
But I have practice on Wednesdays.
I look at my new poem. I wouldn’t want to share this at school, even with a bunch of sixth-grade poets. At the top of the page, I write For M.
* * *
I’m still awake when Abba leans into my doorway. Grover pushes past his legs. He’s too fat to jump on my bed. He stands there yawning, showing all his teeth.
“Can I have Grover tonight? Please?” Grover is supposed to spend the night in his crate, but Abba knows I sleep better when I have dog company. He scoops both arms under Grover’s big belly and lifts him onto my bed forklift-style. Grover puts his chin on my shins.
“What if we didn’t go to tournaments and stuff all the time?” I ask. “We could do things at home. We could start Shabbat dinners again. And we could all be in the kitchen cooking together, the way we do on Thanksgiving.” I prop up on my elbows.
Abba sits on my bed. He scrubs the side of his head with a fist. “I forgot to tell you. Dalia has a big tournament on Thanksgiving weekend. Her team is flying to California.”
I lie back down and turn on my side. It isn’t easy with Grover on my legs. “Are you going with her?” I ask Abba.
“Mom and I decided that I’m staying with you. You have a Thanksgiving tournament too, remember?” He shoves my shoulder, trying to get me to smile.
“We could drive up to New Jersey, see Gran and O.G., and come back on Friday morning. The tournament’s not till Saturday.”
“They’ll be in Florida, visiting O.G.’s sister.”
I sigh.
“Maybe one of our neighbors will take pity on us,” Abba says.
I turn my head, but just a little, so he knows I’m not totally okay with this. “Can I ask the Hongs?”
“Good idea.” Abba kisses the side of my head and says, “Laila tov.” It’s Hebrew for “good night.”
Maybe I shouldn’t care that my family is going to be in two different places for Thanksgiving, but it’s my favorite holiday. It’s the day you spend with your family because you’re grateful for the food you eat, having a place to live, and people who love you. That’s what I’m going to miss, more than turkey and stuffing.
I open my notebook before I go to sleep, but instead of writing, I read what I wrote about last season’s qualifier and my match against Nick Spence.
He pushes off, rolls like a log on a river,
with me dancing, trying to stay afloat.
Mr. Van said it was a poem, but for me, it’s motivation. I am not going to let that happen again. If Nick and I wrestle at the Thanksgiving tournament, he’ll be the one dancing.
That night, I dream about a river. A log has fallen across it, making a bridge. There’s someone standing on the other side. He walks to the middle of the log. His face is shadowy, but I hear his voice. He wants me to step onto the bridge so we can wrestle. I put one foot on the log. It’s narrow, slippery. And then I’m falling.
At Monday’s practice, Lev tells me, “You’re going to the Thanksgiving tournament.”
We’re supposed to be practicing stand-ups, but his voice is so bossy, I sit on my heels and give him my Sisterly Death Glare.
I pull out my mouth guard and slip it under the strap of my sports bra. “Coach said it’s not for newbies.”
Actually, Coach said new Gladiators should only sign up if we want to challenge ourselves. The Eagles’ tournament kicks off the whole travel season. Cody told me wrestlers come from all over the East Coast. I don’t mention to Lev that I have other plans. There’s a “Thriller” rehearsal at Lalita Parsons’s house on Saturday. I told Kenna and Lalita I can’t be in the act, but maybe I can learn some of the dance, just for fun.
“Exactly, noob,” Lev says. “Nick won’t be expecting you. Catch him by surprise. He’ll have to wrestle you.” He clasps his hands together and pulls, like he’s going to yank his own arms out of their sockets.
My eyebrows scrunch. “I don’t think it works like that.”
Does he think being my partner means he can tell me what to do? If Lev were one of my brothers, I’d pop him in the arm.
I put in my mouth guard and move into down-man position. Lev puts all his weight on my back on purpose, to get me riled up. He holds my waist with one hand and my elbow with the other. On the whistle, I kick a leg forward and throw my right arm up. I’m not going to let him push me around. Since this is a drill, Lev lets me break his hold.
“Again!” Coach calls. He’s walking around the room, checking everyone’s form.
“You need to wrestle,” Lev says in my ear as we set up again. “Go sign up with Mrs. Oliver. Show them you’re not
afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” I say around my mouth guard.
“Then you’re going.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Which is it, noob?”
“Sofer. Delgado. Cut the chitchat,” Coach says.
I hear a low “Oooo” from somewhere in the room.
Lev widens his eyes at me. I’ve lived with brothers long enough to know what that look means: Come on, Mickey. Usually it’s followed by all three of us getting in trouble for doing something we shouldn’t, like practicing escapes in the living room.
Lev keeps his grip on me a few seconds longer than he should. He makes me fight my way into the stand-up. I break the hold and turn to glare at him.
He puts his hands up. “Take it out on Spence,” he says.
* * *
We get out of school early on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. It’s hard to believe I’ve been at Dickinson Middle long enough that it’s time for parent-teacher conferences.
When I get home, there’s a box on the front step with my name on it. I carry the package inside, but Cody swoops out of nowhere, grabbing it from my hands.
Until Mom gets back from talking to my teachers, he’s in charge. It’s the Delgado Next Man Up rule. When the parents are out, oldest kid is in charge. Cody’s mad about missing weight training with his team at St. Matt’s. I’m not exactly thrilled either, but Mom thinks I’m too young to stay home alone.
“I didn’t order anything,” Cody says, reading the mailing label.
“Duh. It’s got my name on it.” I take the box and shake it. Something clunks inside.
Cody pretends to back away. He’s grown since he started high school. His jeans barely touch the tops of his sneakers and his T-shirt is too tight. Cody’s hair is in between Evan’s and mine. Instead of Evan’s red curls or my straight brown hair, it’s auburn and wavy. You can see the red when he stands in the sun.
Cody says, “It sounds like a bomb. You got any enemies?” He may look mature, but he sure doesn’t act like it.
