Takedown

by Laura Shovan

  I rub my face hard. I was dreaming.

  “Nightmares again?”

  “The guy on the bridge was different this time. He had red hair, like Evan.” The rest of the dream was like it always is. He stood in the middle of the log bridge, calling me to wrestle.

  “There’s a story in the Bible,” Abba says, sitting on my bed. “Jacob dreams about wrestling all night with a stranger.”

  “I remember.”

  I go to Hebrew school in the spring, but during wrestling season, Abba’s supposed to teach me so I don’t fall behind. Homework comes first, then wrestling, and if we have time after that, we do Hebrew school work.

  Abba says, “There aren’t many sports mentioned in the Torah. You remember Jacob’s dream because it’s about wrestling.” He stands and stretches. “Your mother says I don’t have enough imagination to remember my dreams.”

  Abba pulls my arm until I’m sitting up. Grover noses the door open, plops onto the floor, and lets out a gigantic yawn.

  “Ready to face the day?” Abba says.

  “More ready than Grover.” I let the dream fade. I have to face real wrestlers today.

  * * *

  In January, there are five qualifying tournaments, all over Maryland. The only way to get into the State Youth Wrestling Championship is to place in the top three for your age and weight at a qualifier.

  We drive to an athletic center close to Washington, D.C. When Mickey comes in, she unzips her wrestling bag wide enough for me to see a flash of gold and pink. Mickey touches the pink nail polish with a finger. “I think it’s dry.”

  “Are we really doing this?” It is a qualifier, after all. What if we get in trouble and the refs kick us out?

  Mickey’s smile is so wide it makes dimples in her cheeks. “Let’s do it now, while everyone’s busy setting up.”

  We head to the trophy table, like normal. Mickey gives me the side-eye as we walk.

  “Cut it out, Lev,” she says in a low voice.

  “What?”

  “You’re acting guilty.”

  “Am not.”

  “Then why do you keep looking at Coach Billy?”

  “Someone’s got to be the lookout.”

  The table is filled with rows of golden wrestler boys. Mickey leans over as if she’s getting a closer look. “Cover me.”

  “Yes, Evil Mastermind.” I point across the table at the largest awards, trying to shield Mickey from view. If anyone’s looking, I hope they think we’re just really, really interested in the trophies.

  As soon as Trophy Girl is in place, we walk away.

  “How does she look?” Mickey asks.

  I sneak a glance over my shoulder. There she is, tucked into the third row. Pink singlet, pink shoes, black ponytail down her back.

  “We earned a pack of Twizzlers.”

  “Later,” Mickey says. “Time for warm-ups.” I’m starting to think that Bryan and Mickey would get along well. They’re both excellent plotters.

  Our team chooses a mat to warm up on. Mickey and I jog around the big circle. Josh and Isaiah run up behind us.

  “Oh, Romeo, Romeo,” Josh moans. His tongue must be better if he’s back to ragging on us.

  “News flash,” Mickey says. “I’m on your team. Romeo and Juliet were from rival families.”

  “Ooh, she’s smart too,” Josh says. Instead of getting mad, Mickey takes off after him, chasing Josh across the mat. Next thing I know, she’s got him in a cross-face cradle. I can’t believe it. They’re both laughing. Devin breaks out of the warm-up circle and takes a flying leap onto Mickey’s back. Isaiah runs over and jumps on the pile too.

  Coach Billy blows his whistle. “Let’s go, Gladiators. Focus! Butterfly stretches. Count ’em out.”

  Mickey drops to the mat and sits next to me for the stretch. Behind us, Josh and Isaiah make kissing noises.

  “Zero percent funny, you guys,” Mickey says.

  I lean closer to her. “We should tell them.”

  Mickey nods.

  When warm-ups are over, I grab Josh and Isaiah. We huddle up, like always, but this time, Mickey’s here too.

  “Lev and I have to show you something,” she says.

  “Your engagement ring?” Josh snickers. Mickey punches his arm.

  “It is gold and shiny,” I say, “but it’s not a ring.”

  “Act casual,” Mickey says as we walk to the trophy table.

  Josh stifles a laugh when he spots the pink singlet. “No way.”

  “You did it,” Isaiah says. “We talked about it, but I can’t believe you did it. Way to change the universe.” He puts up two hands. He’s so tall, Mickey has to jump to slap them.

  “You won’t say anything when they figure it out?” I ask.

  “Course not,” Josh says. He hits his chest twice with his fist. “Gladiator Code.”

  Mickey rolls her eyes at him. “You watch too many movies.”

  * * *

  When the matches start, I climb into the bleachers. My notebook’s open. All the coaches’ voices float up to me. I listen for the words they use when they’ve got a wrestler on the mat. Tournament after tournament, it’s the same, almost like a song.

  Whizzer. Cement mixer.

  Lateral drop.

  Cross-face. Headlock.

  Base up, don’t stop.

  Knees off the mat.

  Suck it back.

  Break him down.

  Wrist control. Get a grip.

  Don’t reach around.

  Lower your level.

  Get close, you’re too far.

  Keep turning. Don’t stop now.

  Sink the arm bar.

  Get the pin. Get the win.

  Take shot after shot.

  Stay focused. Keep moving,

  and don’t ever stop.

  By the time Abba calls me for my first match, a headache is starting. I lose to a nationally ranked kid named Micah Garvin from Gold Medal Wrestling.

  “Do you want to go home?” Abba asks. His forehead is wrinkled with worry.

  I shake my head and escape back to the bleachers.

  Every wrestler has his losing spot. There are guys, even high schoolers, who hide under the bleachers with a T-shirt draped over their heads like a tent. Some guys cry in the bathroom or find an empty spot in the hallway. They sit with their backs against the wall, knees tucked up, trying to shake off the loss. Others grab their parents’ keys, go outside, and sit in the car with the radio blasting.

  I open my notebook, tune out the noise of the gym, and make a sketch of myself on the mat, wrestling the man from my dream. This time, he’s shapeless, a shadow trying to swallow me up, almost like the vampires I’ve been studying for Mr. Van’s project.

  “Hey, Lev.”

  I look up. Mickey’s pulling herself to the top of the bleachers.

  “Nice view,” she says.

  “You say that every time.” I’m about to ask how her first match went when Isaiah calls, “Billy the Kid wants to talk to us.”

  “All of us,” Josh adds.

  Mickey and I trade a look, something between panic and a smirk. We find Coach at the trophy table, talking with the tournament’s organizer. Coach frowns. He’s holding Trophy Girl. “You four have been acting up all day. You know anything about this?”

  Josh, Isaiah, Mickey, and I stand in a row. No one makes a sound.

  The tournament director crosses his arms over his big belly. He stares down at Mickey’s bright pink wrestling shoes, then up at the pink nail polish on her fingers. Was she wearing that yesterday? Mickey blushes.

  “I’ll let you handle this,” the director says. He goes back to the head table.

  Coach Billy raises an eyebrow at us, his face stern.
“It’s a warning this time. Don’t do it again.”

  “Yes, sir,” we all say. I take the trophy from Coach. He says a few words to Josh in Korean. Josh makes two quick bows with his head.

  Coach puts an arm around Mickey’s shoulders. “I know it’s frustrating, being one of the only girls, but there are better ways to handle it.”

  “Yes, Coach. Sorry.” Mickey nods and her braids bounce. “It won’t happen again.”

  As soon as Coach walks away, the four of us run out to the hallway.

  “I’m going to get in trouble for being disrespectful to my uncle,” Josh says, “but it was worth it.” We all burst out laughing.

  I put out a hand. Isaiah puts his on top of mine. Then Josh. Finally, Mickey holds Trophy Girl on top of our stacked hands.

  I say, “Fearsome Foursome on three?”

  “Is that a thing?” Josh asks.

  Isaiah nods. “Oh, it’s a thing. Best wrestling prank ever.”

  “One, two, three, Fearsome Foursome!” we cheer.

  Isaiah and Mickey bump fists.

  “Where’d you get that?” Nick Spence muscles into our group. All four of us stare at him. His Eagles singlet is like blue ice next to our red Gladiators gear.

  “What do you care?” I snap.

  But Mickey hands him Trophy Girl. “We made it ourselves.”

  I wait for Nick’s verbal takedown: That’s the only trophy you’re gonna take home today, Sofer. Or That’s supposed to be a girl? Instead, he examines the trophy, then gives it back to Mickey. “Thanks,” he says, and walks away.

  “What was that all about?” Josh asks. We burst into laughter again.

  Over the next few hours, I wrestle my way back up the bracket, but I end up with fifth place. Mickey’s only lost one match. She’s still wrestling when Abba says he’s taking me home to get some rest before school tomorrow. Before I leave, I tell Mickey, “Trophy Girl needs a friend. Keep winning. Bring a Trophy Boy home so she has someone to hang out with.”

  “Got it, chief,” Mickey says. She gives me a hug. “Feel better, Lev.”

  As soon as we’re away from the noise of the tournament, I do feel better. Before Abba can pull out of the parking lot, I close my eyes and fall asleep.

  It was a good tournament. For the first time since Kenna quit, I had fun competing. I placed fourth, above Lev, which I may have mentioned to him a few times, or a hundred.

  “Brag while you still can,” he says.

  All week, I think about the Fearsome Foursome and the Trophy Girl prank. At school, when I break into a grin in the middle of algebra, Lalita Parsons is convinced I have a new crush. At lunch, she asks, “Is he from school or from wrestling? Is he tall or short? What color is his hair?”

  Kenna rolls her eyes and mouths, Ignore her.

  Friday is the school talent show. It’s also a Gladiators practice night.

  “What should I do?” I ask Mom on Thursday. “I’m getting better at every tournament. I can’t skip practice now. This could be the one.”

  Mom stirs our dinner in the slow cooker while she scans newspaper headlines. Cody zips into the kitchen, dunking a piece of cornbread into the pot before Mom can block him.

  “This could be the one what?” he asks around a mouthful of crumbs.

  “My breakthrough tournament. I got fourth last week. I can make it to States if I push myself at practice. But tomorrow’s the talent show. All my friends are going.”

  “I didn’t make it to States till last year, Mickey,” Cody says. Mom shoots him an icy look for using my wrestling name in her presence. “Missing one practice isn’t going to kill you. Have some fun.”

  “What do you want to do, Mikayla?” Mom enunciates each syllable of my name.

  I want to do both.

  “Mom, why don’t you go sit down?” Cody says. “Mikayla and I will set the table.” He practically pushes her out of the kitchen. Mom is suspicious, but she takes the newspaper and disappears into the family room.

  “Trust me, sis,” Cody says, waving Mom’s wooden spoon for emphasis. “Cut yourself a break and go to the show. You’ve gotta have a life outside of wrestling.”

  I’m still not sure what to do until I see Kenna waiting for me to get off my school bus on Friday morning. She walks beside me into the building. She doesn’t say hello, good morning, or how are you. It’s all, “You’re coming, right?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  Kenna pulls a strand of her curls straight. I haven’t seen her do that since the night of the Eagles meeting. “One practice isn’t going to make a difference.”

  I don’t answer.

  Kenna flutters her eyelashes at me, trying to be funny. “It’s your duty as my best friend.”

  It’s too early in the morning for drama, but all the things I’ve wanted to say to Kenna since wrestling season started come tumbling out of my mouth.

  “My duty? What about your duty? You promised we’d be wrestling partners forever. Then you went and quit, and you didn’t even tell me. I had to hear it from my mom.”

  Kenna pulls me toward her locker, out of the flow of sixth graders. “I tried to tell you,” she says. “You wouldn’t listen. All you cared about was the season starting.”

  “So it’s my fault? We were supposed to move up to travel together.”

  Kenna unzips her winter coat and fusses in her locker. “I’m allowed to change my mind.”

  “You still don’t get it. Wrestling is really important to me.”

  Kenna stuffs her coat into her locker and slams the door. She’s wearing a black T-shirt with the word Thriller hand-drawn in snot-green letters.

  “You’re the one who doesn’t get it,” she says. “I wrestled for three years because it’s important to you, Mickey. I never wanted to be a wrestler. I just wanted to hang out with my best friend.”

  That’s when Lalita bounces over to us. She’s wearing the same T-shirt, advertising their “Thriller” number. “I am freaking out. The show’s tonight. Aren’t you so glad we did the shirts? They look amazing.”

  “See you later,” I say.

  I hurry to homeroom without stopping at my locker, put my head on my desk, and try to breathe. All those years on Coach Brandon’s rec team, I thought Kenna loved competing as much as I did. But she doesn’t come from a wrestling family. It isn’t the glue that keeps the Franklins together, the way it is for us. It’s not the only thing she and her dad have in common. To Kenna, wrestling is just an activity. It might as well be robotics club or debate team. But she stuck with it for three years, because of me.

  We have each other. Even if we don’t wear the singlets. That’s what I told Kenna, the night she quit. I have to show her that it’s still the truth.

  * * *

  Cody comes to the talent show with me. He struts into the cafeteria and tries to act cool when teachers stop him to say how tall he’s gotten. My brother’s not the only high schooler who came to the show. When he sees some of his friends, Cody ditches me.

  I’m fine sitting with Kenna’s parents. We have a great time. There are the usual singers, skits, even a Bollywood-style dance number. Our principal and vice principal sing a duet, “I Got You, Babe.” The parents think it’s hilarious.

  “Thriller” is the last act of the night. In the program, Kenna is listed as Visual Effects Artist. When Lalita and the dancers take the stage, the audience gasps. Kenna’s zombie makeup looks spooky, with just the right amount of gore. She must have spent all afternoon doing their faces.

  The dancers lie down onstage. Kenna peeks from behind the curtain. When she spots us, she waves to me and her parents. She gives someone a thumbs-up and ducks backstage.

  The sound of a creaking door blares through the cafeteria speakers. We hear footsteps, a wolf howling. The zombies stretch. They stumble to stand up, and then
they’re dancing. The crowd cheers. I’ve listened to the songs on the playlist Kenna and Lalita made so many times, I know all the words to “Thriller.” Mrs. Franklin and I both sing along. I can barely stay in my seat.

  When the last evil laugh fades and the show ends, Mrs. Franklin turns to me. “You have a beautiful voice, Mikayla. How did I not know that?”

  As we walk out of the cafeteria to wait for Kenna in the hallway, Mrs. Franklin says, “Hearing you sing reminds me of the music videos you and Kenna used to make on my phone. Remember? You’d choose a song, spend hours coming up with a dance routine. I still have the videos somewhere.”

  “I remember,” I say. “It’d be fun to watch those sometime.”

  Mrs. Franklin hugs me. “You two are lucky to have each other.”

  When Kenna meets us in the hallway, her dad hands her a bouquet. Her smile is huge.

  “Everyone looked amazing!” I say.

  “Could you see the makeup okay?”

  I nod. I whisper in her ear, “Sorry about this morning.”

  “Me too,” she says. “Talk later?”

  Then Lalita runs up to us, her arms open for hugs. She’s wearing the pink Prom Scream dress that Kenna and I talked about, all those weeks ago.

  “We’re having a party at my house, Mikayla,” Lalita says. She grabs both my hands. “Please come. Kenna’s more fun when you’re around.”

  “I have a tournament tomorrow.” I haven’t thought about wrestling all night. I wonder who Lev practiced with.

  Cody overhears. He raises an eyebrow in my direction. “Go have some fun, Mick.”

  That’s the moment when Lalita realizes this tall guy with red highlights in his hair is my older brother. Her cheeks turn as pink as her dress, even under the gray zombie makeup. I hope Cody doesn’t notice. That would be awkward.

  We text Mom. As long as I’m home before eleven, she says I can go. When we get to Lalita’s house, all the “Thriller” kids are there. Mr. and Mrs. Parsons greet us at the door.

  “Whoa,” I whisper to Kenna. The Parsons’ entranceway is bigger than my whole bedroom. A chandelier hangs high above our heads.