Takedown

by Laura Shovan

  Later, when I lose another match, Coach Billy tries to cheer me up.

  “You won one. Not bad for your first time out,” he says. He puts his hand up for a high five. I slap it but don’t give it much oomph. Coach peers into my face. “Where’s the firecracker I see at practice?” he asks. “You did a good job, Mickey. For your first tournament, you killed it.”

  Dad’s not into fake enthusiasm. He’s used to being with Evan and Cody. They always bring home trophies. I can tell he’s disappointed when we leave the tournament early. He’s quiet as we walk out of the building.

  “I heard what that last kid said when he was walking off the mat,” Dad says. He pulls a ski cap over his ears. They’re puffy and messed up from wrestling in high school, and now from his jujitsu gym.

  “I didn’t hear anything. What’d he say?”

  “Some garbage about how the match was close because he didn’t want to hurt a girl.” Dad opens the door for me. Outside, the sun is already setting. “You wrestled with a lot of heart today, Mickey. Boys like that, they’re making excuses. They don’t want to look bad in front of their friends. It’s a guy thing.”

  “I know, Dad. If I win, they say they went easy on me. If I lose, I’m not good enough to wrestle them.”

  “I admit, I wasn’t sure moving you up to travel was a good idea. You’ve shown me different. You’re a winner to me.” Dad wraps an arm around my shoulders and squishes me against his side. As we get in the car, he says, “Donuts on the way home?”

  “Really? Evan and Cody only get donuts when they win.”

  “Can’t a dad take it easy on his only daughter?” He laughs.

  This is what I wanted. Me and Dad, talking like we see each other every day.

  I feel bad about beating Mickey like that at her first tournament. Teching her felt like I was showing off. But she told me not take it easy on her.

  I ended up taking third place. Not bad for my first competition of the season. I’m on the path to States.

  December is a blur. We have Gladiators practice three nights a week, dual meets and tournaments every weekend. Bryan knows the next few weeks are all about mat time, adding wins to my record, learning from my losses. When I have a free afternoon, we work on our mythology projects together. Other than that, we don’t see each other outside of school, but Bryan says he’s used to it.

  One night, after warm-ups, Coach Billy calls us to the center of the mat for a demonstration. “We’re doing an advanced spin drill, men,” he says.

  Mickey elbows me. “Men?”

  I elbow her back. “Shut up. Listen.”

  We’ve always done spin drills the same way. Bottom man stays in referee’s position while the top wrestler moves from his legs, his chest skimming his partner’s back as he spins.

  Coach Billy tries to explain the new drill, but kids keep raising their hands and asking questions. Coach’s face is turning red. He’s going to blow any second. Then Isaiah’s mom comes up and puts a hand on Billy the Kid’s elbow. I widen my eyes at Isaiah. His mom is fearless.

  “Coach?” she says. “Why don’t you ask for two volunteers to demonstrate?”

  Coach Billy is shocked that she interrupted him, but he nods. “Good idea.”

  I raise my hand to volunteer. When Coach points at me, I grab Josh and we walk to the center of the circle.

  “Josh, Lev, you’re at neutral,” Coach Billy says. “We’re going to do this at half speed. Lev, start with a single leg takedown.”

  Josh lets me shoot and grab his right knee.

  “Normally, Lev trips Josh’s standing foot with his attacking leg,” Coach Billy says. It feels strange to move this slow. “You gonna let Sofer have that, Josh?” Coach shouts. “Hop those legs back, hard. Lev’s head’ll come down. Now push down on his shoulders and sprawl, feet apart.”

  Josh spins around me to get the takedown. Coach doesn’t even have to explain it to him.

  “Did everyone see that? That was perfect! Feet apart. Never on your knees. You can’t move from your knees. Let’s go again. This time, Lev, you’re moving too. When Josh tries to spin, match his motion and keep your head in his gut.”

  Josh and I smile at each other. We set in neutral again. “We’re doing it for real this time. Match speed,” Coach tells us.

  I grab the leg. Josh hops back in a sprawl. He slaps two palms hard against my shoulders. My head comes up, crack, against his chin.

  “Whoa,” Coach calls, putting a hand on Josh’s back. “Easy, you two. We’re demonstrating.”

  I sit on my heels. That’s when I see blood dripping from Josh’s mouth. He covers his chin and lips with his hand.

  Coach Billy kneels down in front of Josh. “Let me see.”

  I lean forward. “What happened?” My eyes prickle.

  Josh moves his hand away. “Bit my tongue,” he mumbles.

  “Andrea!” Coach calls. Mrs. Oliver comes out on the mat with a first-aid kit. The room is quiet, except for a few whispers. “Blood time,” Coach says, spinning a finger in the air, the way refs do when a wrestler is injured. “Partner up, everyone. Sit-ups, mountain climbers, push-ups. Find a spot. Go.”

  Isaiah and Mickey pull me out to the hallway.

  “Where are we going? Is Josh okay?”

  “My mom’s a nurse,” Isaiah says. “She’ll take care of him.”

  “Why are we out here? I have to see if he’s okay.”

  “There’s blood in your hair,” Mickey says. “You need to rinse it off. You clocked him pretty hard.”

  “Yeah,” Isaiah says. “Your skull is like an anvil.”

  I touch the top of my head. It’s sore where I hit Josh’s chin. When I look at my fingers, I see blood.

  “Stop freaking out,” Mickey says. She puts an arm around my shoulders. “I bit my tongue one time when I was wrestling with my brothers. Tongues can bleed a lot, even from a little cut.”

  They help me wash up in the bathroom sink. Isaiah cracks a joke about Mickey being in the boys’ room, but it’s not funny. I didn’t mean to hurt Josh. When he slapped my shoulders, my head popped up. It was automatic.

  Josh sits out the rest of practice, holding paper towels to his mouth. “I’m fine,” he tells me. “Got all my teeth, see?”

  * * *

  But when I get home that night, I can’t sleep. Abba must see that my light is on. He comes in and sits on my bed.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve been having nightmares.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  I put my head back on the pillow and close my eyes. “It’s about a river. I have to walk across a log bridge. There’s someone at the other end and he wants me to wrestle, but the log isn’t that wide, and the water’s far below.” I feel my heart pounding, remembering the dream.

  “Then what?” Abba asks. “Do you wrestle?”

  I shake my head. “I fall.”

  “Scooch over,” Abba says. He lies down next to me and turns out the bedside light. “Mrs. Oliver told me what happened at practice. How’s your head?”

  I rub the spot where my skull met Josh’s chin. “Sore.”

  “Josh will be fine. No spicy food for a couple of days.”

  “Not funny, Abba.”

  “Go to sleep. It’s going to be fine.”

  Evan and Cody only want one thing for Christmas: to watch the big UFC fight on pay-per-view.

  Me? I’m asking for hip-hop lessons with Lalita and Kenna once wrestling season is over. After Kenna and I apologized to each other, we agreed that we need to plan something fun we can do together now that she’s not wrestling. And since hip-hop classes were Lalita’s idea, the three of us are signing up together.

  Of course, Mom got super excited when I told her what I wanted. “Maybe I’ll get to be a theater mom after all,” she sai
d. No, thank you.

  Mom is not so happy with Evan and Cody’s idea. “Kickboxing. Exactly what we need to get in the Christmas spirit,” she complains. “Wouldn’t you rather watch The Sound of Music?”

  Mom’s sarcasm is wasted on Cody’s peanut brain. “UFC is in the Christmas spirit,” he says. “Jesus kicks Judas’s butt in a mixed martial arts showdown.”

  I slap my palm to my forehead. Cody gives new meaning to the word inappropriate. Anything that pops into his head pops right out of his mouth.

  “Wrong holiday,” I say. “The Jesus/Judas smackdown is Easter.”

  “You two need remedial Sunday school,” Mom says. She lifts a Santa dressed in a wrestling singlet and headgear out of the ornament box. We’re religious, but this time of year, that religion is wrestling. We spend more time at tournaments than we do at church.

  No surprise, Dad takes Evan and Cody’s side. I never realized it before, but they are the Delgado family’s Fearsome Threesome, and I want in.

  “I think we should do it,” Dad says when he picks Cody up for a dual meet. “If you’re okay with having the party here, I’ll handle the rest. Food. Everything. I’ll ask Billy and some of the Gladiators dads. The boys can invite their teammates.” Dad is convinced that the kids we know from wrestling are a good influence on us. I guess he’s never seen Cody and his St. Matt’s teammates attack a pizza. Mom says they should change the team mascot to a vulture.

  “What about me?” I ask. My brothers aren’t the only ones with wrestling friends. But my question gets lost in Dad and Cody’s whirlwind of plans for the party.

  * * *

  On Christmas Day, we’re supposed to be relaxed and happy, singing Christmas carols and opening gifts, but Evan’s wearing his I’m-too-old-for-this face. He spends most of the day hunched over his phone. I haven’t seen him lately. Evan’s supposed to bring up his grades this semester, to impress colleges with his GPA, not just his wrestling record. He’s had some interest from college scouts, but nothing he can count on. No one’s promising my brother a scholarship. I hear my parents fight about it over the phone sometimes. Dad says Mom babies Evan and that if she keeps emailing his teachers, stepping in to fix things, he’ll never grow up.

  After Christmas cookies and hot chocolate, Dad, Evan, and Cody clear the table so they have room to plan a menu for Fight Night. I linger in the kitchen, dunking Christmas cookies in my hot chocolate. Cody knows I’m eavesdropping.

  “Come on, Mikayla,” he says, pulling out a chair for me. “Admit it. You want to watch the fight.”

  “Only because girls are the main event,” I say. The champ is a former Olympic women’s wrestler who’s defending her MMA title.

  Cody leans close to me. “It’s going to be bloody.”

  I put my hand over his face and push him away. “I want to invite a friend too.”

  “As long as you leave us guys alone while you do your makeovers.” Cody flutters his eyelashes at me.

  I try to grab him in a headlock, but Cody slips away.

  “Shrimp,” he calls me under his breath. It’s so annoying when Evan comes home. Cody starts showing off, acting like his old jerky self. I like it better when he thinks he’s the big brother. When he’s Next Man Up, he’s nicer to me.

  “Who do you have in mind, Mikayla?” Dad asks.

  “Lev Sofer.” I ignore Cody’s kissing noises. “Stop being gross, Cody. He’s my partner.”

  For the past two months, I’ve spent most of my time with the Gladiators. Sixth grade will be halfway over in a few weeks, and I know Lev better than the kids at Dickinson Middle. I think about inviting Kenna too. But she’s been spending all her free time with Lalita lately. Besides, she wouldn’t be interested in staying up past eleven to watch kickboxing.

  Evan tells Dad, “Lev’s a nice kid. He’s been a good partner to Mickey. Right, Mighty Mite?”

  “Mickey’s got a boyfriend,” Cody teases. I should leap out of my seat and chase him up the stairs, but it’s Christmas, so I settle for giving him the Sisterly Death Glare.

  I love winter break. I love keeping my eyes closed and listening to the sounds of the house. There’s no school, no tournament, no reason to get up.

  I hear Mom feeding Grover breakfast. His nails skitter on the kitchen tiles. He snorts as he swallows his food. The coffeepot gurgles.

  Through my eyelids, I can tell the light is changing from sunrise to full-on morning. Today, there are no wrestling bags or field hockey sticks to pack. No lunches or jugs of water to get ready. No sweat-stinking uniforms or singlets we forgot to wash.

  I wander downstairs, following the scent of pancakes. Grover snuffles over and gives me good-morning licks. Mom is at the stove. She turns to smile at me. “Morning.”

  “You’re making pancakes. I’m happy,” I say, wrapping my arms around her middle.

  “Because you slept.”

  “Because pancakes.” I pull the comics out of the newspaper. Watching Mom do normal parent stuff—cooking a hot breakfast instead of getting up early to help me pack—I wonder what our family would be like if Dalia and I didn’t do sports all the time. Maybe we’d take more walks down to the frog pond together, or play card games like Uno every Saturday night, or start inviting people for Shabbat dinner again.

  “The sun feels nice,” I say, looking out the back door.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Wrestlers are like vampires. If we go in the sun, we shrivel up and lose all our strength.”

  “And the drinking-blood thing?” Mom flips a pancake.

  I don’t want to think about that. “I’m writing a poem for my mythology project. It’s just a draft.” If I still like it by the end of break, I’m going to show my poem to Mr. Van.

  Mom puts a stack of pancakes in front of me. “What are you up to today?”

  “Dalia said she’d help me pick out a Hanukkah present for Evan.”

  Mom’s eyebrows shoot up like twin rockets.

  “I know he’s not Jewish, but he took me out for ice cream for my birthday, remember? I owe him one.”

  It happened before school started. Dalia thought I was hijacking their date, but Evan said he couldn’t enjoy eating ice cream if they left me home on my birthday. He bought enough for my parents and insisted we bring it back to the house. Mom called it an impromptu party. When the ice cream was gone, Evan pulled me into the family room, grabbed me behind the leg with his scruffy red head in my side, and lifted me into a fireman’s carry. Grover got so excited, he actually woofed.

  “No wrestling in the house,” Mom said. “Grover doesn’t like it.” But she was laughing.

  * * *

  After breakfast, my sister and I sit in Abba’s basement office. We argue over who gets the leather desk chair and who sits in the kiddie chair from Dalia’s old tea party table. It isn’t that I’m afraid of her. I could take Dalia in a fight. But she has me beat when it comes to stubbornness. If I insist on having the good chair, Dalia will leave me to pick Evan’s present by myself.

  We used to get along better, even after she started field hockey. Then one day, when I’d been wrestling for a while, she was chasing me in the backyard, tickling me. I told her to stop, but she wouldn’t. I turned around so fast, she didn’t know she was supposed to get out of my way. I shot a foot behind her ankle, a perfect wrestling trip. Dalia toppled straight back like a falling tree. Her head hit the ground. Not very hard, but Dalia didn’t talk to me for three days, not until Abba made her say she forgave me. I don’t think she ever trusted me after that.

  I pull the kiddie chair closer and sit on my knees so I can see the screen. Dalia scrolls through wrestling T-shirts.

  “What are you getting Evan?” I ask.

  “None of your business.”

  “It’s just a question.”

  Dalia sighs. “Look. I’m glad you and Evan are fr
iendly, but he’s my boyfriend. Some things between us are private.”

  My ears feel like they’re on fire. I wish I still had my long hair to cover them. “Forget it,” I say. “I’ll ask Mom to take me to the mall.”

  Dalia rolls her eyes. “You want to get Evan something he likes, don’t you? Mom will talk you into a self-help book, Surviving Your First Year of College, something she thinks is useful.”

  I shrug. “I guess.”

  “What about this one?”

  She points to a shirt on the screen. It’s light gray, with dark red writing. “Tell me what you see when your face hits the mat,” I read. “Sounds brutal.”

  “That’s why he’ll like it. He’s always talking about the rush he gets when he knows he’s got a kid beat.”

  “He is?” My legs are cramping. I catch myself from falling off the chair.

  Dalia sighs again but gives me a hand up. “Evan says he can feel it when his opponent gives up. It’s like in field hockey, when I see a lane open up for a breakaway.” Dalia glances at her pinging cell phone. I’d better pick a shirt before she disappears.

  “You’re sure he’ll like it?”

  “I know he will, Lev. Honestly, he’d like anything from you. Evan likes being your hero.”

  But when I read the shirt, I hear Spence’s voice saying, I’m going to crush you. Evan’s not like that, talking smack and messing with people’s heads before a match. Coach says we have to have the killer instinct, to dominate our opponents on the mat, but we’re also supposed to protect them. When we practice lifts, Coach reminds us it’s our job to make sure the other guy lands safely on the mat.

  “Sure,” I tell Dalia. “That one.” But I can’t shake the thought of Josh covering his bleeding mouth.

  * * *

  Over winter break, Gladiators practice is optional. My parents are having a date night, so Dalia drives me. I can tell she’s mad because she doesn’t turn on her music when we get in the car. She’s always mad lately.