by Laura Shovan
“Wait until you see the basement,” she says.
Lalita’s parents bring us to the kitchen for pizza—I only have one slice—and soda, which I skip. If I eat junk, I won’t wrestle well tomorrow. We head to the basement. There’s a huge TV along one wall. Lalita cues up the “Thriller” video and the dancers do their zombie routine for me and Kenna. After that, we gather in a big clump on the couch, some of us cross-legged on the floor.
“Let’s play Truth or Dare,” Lalita says. She’s leaning against Kenna’s shins while Kenna braids her dark hair. A shudder goes through my body. I’ve never watched Kenna braid anyone’s hair but mine. She’d better be careful if she doesn’t want to get Lalita’s gray zombie makeup all over her hands. It’s starting to crack and rub off on her pink dress. Gross.
“Who wants to go first?” Lalita asks.
Kenna blurts out, “I’ll be right back. Bathroom.” She drops Lalita’s hair and pulls me off the couch. “Come on, Mikayla.”
“Oh. Okay. Start without us,” I tell everyone.
As soon as we find the bathroom, I ask, “What’s wrong?”
“Truth or Dare. Lalita likes to get in people’s business. Asking about crushes.”
“That’s just how she is.” Hasn’t Kenna noticed?
“I don’t like it.” Kenna pulls one of her tight curls straight, then puts the ends in her mouth.
“Are you okay?” I put a hand on Kenna’s shoulder. She sits down on the closed toilet lid.
“All Lalita talks about is which boys she likes.”
A thought walks into my head and waits for me to find the words I need. “You don’t like boys?”
Kenna tilts her head to one side and closes her eyes. “I don’t like anyone. I don’t think I ever have. At sleepovers, when everyone’s whispering about who their crush is, I make it up. Or sometimes I go to the bathroom so I don’t have to answer. That’s weird, right?”
“We’re eleven, Kenna. Everything’s weird.” She leans her elbows on her knees and puts her head in her hands. I rub her back.
“Lalita makes me feel like I’m not cute enough. Her older sister tells her what clothes to wear and how to put on mascara. I don’t have anyone to teach me that stuff.”
“Me either. All Evan and Cody teach me is wrestling moves.” The thought of Cody helping me pick out an outfit for school makes me laugh.
“I wish we had a coach and a team, someone to show us how to be middle-school girls.” Kenna says.
“Is that why you quit wrestling? Because people think it’s not a girl thing?”
Kenna looks at the floor. “People look at me. Did you ever notice? They try to figure out what I am. Not who I am, but what. Do I fit in with the black kids or the white kids? I’ve got enough going on, just trying to feel normal. And now…school is different. My body’s different.” Kenna looks down at her chest, which is hard to miss. “Normal girls don’t wrestle.”
Kenna has never talked to me about this before. I want to say I’m normal, but am I? I don’t know any other girls who grew up in a wrestling family like mine. If I had sisters instead of brothers, how would my life be different?
Kenna runs a hand through her curls. “I’m tired.”
“Let’s text your mom. It’s already ten-thirty. No one will care if we leave early.”
She nods. By the time we say good-bye, the Franklins are here to pick us up.
Kenna leans her head on my shoulder as we ride home. “You’re still my best friend.”
“Me too,” I say. Makenna and Mikayla forever.
After two qualifiers, Mickey and I still haven’t broken through to the championship round. The highest either of us has gotten so far is fourth place. Not good enough. Isaiah and Devin are both going to States, but Josh is struggling. He had a growth spurt and had to move up a weight class, which stinks this late in the season. As far as I know, Nick Spence hasn’t gotten in either. He’s still wrestling 90.
Nick is too skinny. I never see him in the school lunch line. He brings a small brown bag to the cafeteria. And he doesn’t act like a maniac in PE, the way he used to. I don’t think he has the energy. I’m not the only one who’s noticed.
“What’s Spence doing for his mythology project, the Incredible Shrinking Man?” Bryan whispers to me in language arts.
“That’s not funny, Bryan,” Marisa says, which makes Bryan blush. Could he be more obvious?
“He does look kind of skeletal,” Emma says before Mr. Van hushes our table.
I’m helping Bryan work on the creative writing piece for his Superman project. It’s an acrostic poem.
Superhero
Strong man.
Undefeated.
Powerful.
Energetic.
Ready to help.
Hopeful.
Extraordinary force.
Right moves.
On my side.
Maybe Bryan’s superhero is his uncle Steven, who loved pro wrestling so much. The person I picture is Evan. I’ve been asking Dalia to take me to one of Evan’s varsity dual meets, so I can watch him wrestle. Finally, she says yes, as long as I promise not to bother her and her friends. That’s fine by me. Mickey will be there, so we plan to sit together.
The night of the meet, Dalia’s wearing her hair loose. I think she’s got makeup or something on her eyes. They’re all clumpy. She’s puts on Evan’s purple Cavaliers Wrestling hoodie. It’s so big on her, she looks like a giant grape, but I keep that to myself.
The gym isn’t full. It’s mostly parents in the stands and some kids in Cavaliers purple. The other team, Glenmont, is in green. There’s a girl jogging with their team, wearing Glenmont Gators sweats. She’s got frizzy dark hair pulled into a ponytail. I wonder if Mickey noticed. Everyone’s always telling her that hardly any girls wrestle in high school. Maybe that’s changing.
I spot Mickey across the gym with Mr. Delgado and the Cavaliers wrestlers. Her dad is the Cavs’ team manager. He’ll be busy keeping stats during the matches.
Evan’s not the biggest guy on the team, but his red hair makes him stand out. He’s wearing the T-shirt I got him for Hanukkah. Mickey waves to me, then pulls Evan’s arm. He shoots me a smile, points to his Tell Me What You See When Your Face Hits the Mat shirt, then sends me a salute. Evan ruffles Mickey’s hair before she crosses the gym to sit with me.
When Evan pulls off his T-shirt, I see a huge tattoo across his shoulders.
“Hey, Lev,” Mickey says. It’s still strange to see her in regular clothes. Mickey’s wearing earrings and I think lip gloss. There is no way I’m tying up or grappling with her tonight, even to joke around. What if her earrings get caught?
“What’s it say on Evan’s back?” I ask.
“Delgado. My dad’s got a matching tattoo. The lettering they picked has all these sharp edges.”
“Ouch.”
“I know. Cody wants to get one when he turns sixteen. My dad says it’s a brotherhood thing, but my mom hates it.” She twists a strand of her hair around her finger. “I’m not going to do it, even if they ask me.”
“There’s a girl on the Glenmont team,” I tell Mickey.
“I know. She reminds me of my best friend. I wish Kenna would come back to wrestling. You’d like her.”
“I would?”
“She’s the one who usually talks me out of pranks. Unlike some people I know.” Mickey grins at me, her red-and-gray braces showing.
The first wrestlers, at 106 pounds, step onto the mat. They’re not much bigger than us.
We squeeze onto a bench. Dalia smiles and waves at Mickey with a purple pom-pom. She is never nice to my friends. But I’ve never been friends with Evan’s sister before.
Mickey and I watch every match, talking over the moves we know. Dalia and her friend
s are the loudest people in the crowd. I can’t believe she thought I’d embarrass her. More like she didn’t want me to see her screaming her head off and acting like a normal teenager.
The 138 bout is the Glenmont girl versus a sophomore wrestler from Evan’s team. It ends in a 3–3 tie. When everyone realizes the match is going into overtime, the bleachers get loud. It’s sixty seconds, sudden death. The first person to score wins.
Evan and his teammates cheer, “Pin, pin, pin, pin!” but in the stands, everyone—Gators fans and Clifton High students—is rooting for the girl. She shoots first, gets the takedown and the win. Dalia and her friends shout, “Girl power!”
Mickey points a thumb in Dalia’s direction. “Aren’t they overdoing it?”
“It was a great match,” I say.
“They’re making a big deal because a girl beat a boy. It—I don’t know—it keeps things unequal somehow. I can’t explain.” She shakes her head.
“You think too much.”
“Someone has to.”
The next few matchups are wins for Glenmont. Evan’s coach gets more and more upset with each loss. He questions the ref, then complains to Mickey’s dad. This is the coach I’ll wrestle for when I go to Clifton High. It makes me wish I could stay on the Gladiators forever. Or go back and wrestle for Coach Harvey.
I’d never tell anyone this, but I miss rec league. My team was the Tigers. Twenty-one guys, from Sammy in kindergarten to the eighth grader who was so big we called him Tank. Every week, we had a pin ceremony. When a Tiger won his first match of the season, he’d get a giant pin to put on his wrestling bag. Then, whenever we won another match, Coach Harvey gave us smaller pins to hang from the big one.
Small silver safety pins were for a close match, small gold pins if you won a major decision or a tech fall. There was even a special pin with orange and black beads for coach’s discretion. You could earn that one even if you lost, as long as you impressed Coach. But what I wanted, every week, was a big gold pin. We only got those for pinning a kid’s shoulders to the mat. All the Tigers clipped the pins on our wrestling bags, where other teams could see. They made a nice, sparkling sound when we walked.
It’s not like I can say to Billy the Kid, “Hey, Coach. Why don’t we get pins for our wrestling bags?” Gladiators are serious athletes. Still, I miss the fun we had in rec. The Tigers knew Coach Harvey liked us, not only when we won, but because he thought we were good kids. He told us so all the time.
Finally, it’s Evan’s turn. A couple of wins, and the Cavs could tie up the meet. Mickey grabs my arm and squeezes. Our eyes are glued to the mat. Evan is 170 pounds of solid muscle. He bends down to put on the red ankle cuff and I see the tattoo, DELGADO in knife-sharp letters, across his back.
There’s a lot of hand-fighting at the start of the match. Evan and the Glenmont guy grab hold of each other’s wrists and triceps. Evan keeps reaching for his opponent’s head, trying to grasp the back of his neck.
“He’s head-hunting,” Mickey says.
The Glenmont wrestler’s hands move so fast, he accidentally lands a slap on Evan’s cheek. Evan steps back and starts to take off his headgear, but Mr. Delgado shouts something at him. I can’t hear over Dalia and her friends cheering, “Let’s go, Evan!”
The ref gives the Glenmont kid a caution, which means Evan gets a point. They reset. Both wrestlers try a few takedowns, but nobody gets control. At the end of the first period, it’s 1–0 for Evan.
“Can you believe they have two-minute periods?” I ask Mickey.
“I know. One minute is long enough.”
The ref flips the disk. It lands green side up—Glenmont’s choice. Their wrestler takes down. It’s an easier position to score from. Evan needs to be strong. Before the whistle, I see the Cavs coach give him a small, slow nod. Evan nods back before taking the top position.
At first, the Glenmont wrestler keeps his base. Evan chops the right arm, pulling it back to his opponent’s waist. Evan’s knee drives the kid forward, flattening him out. Next to me, Mickey is clapping, bouncing up and down on the bench.
Now Evan grips the kid’s left elbow. The ref stands by their feet, waiting for someone to make a move. He’s about to signal a stalemate when Evan spins to the right.
“He’s going for the cradle!” I tell Mickey.
“Cross-face cradle. Here it comes.”
Evan’s right arm hooks forward with the force of a punch. The Glenmont kid recoils. I suck in a breath. The ref blows the whistle and signals blood time. He holds up his left arm again, the one with the green cuff. It’s a point against Evan.
Evan’s coach runs out to contest the roughness call. My eyes are stuck on the Glenmont boy. Blood drips from his face. Bloody noses happen all the time in wrestling. He’ll be back on the mat in a second. But when the Glenmont coach goes to stuff cotton up the kid’s nose, he arches back, hands flying to his face.
“Is he okay?” I ask Mickey.
“The ref awarded Glenmont a point, but if he doesn’t finish the match, it’s an injury default. Evan wins.”
“But he’s hurt. Evan got him in the face.”
Mickey looks at me like I’m nuts. “That’s what a cross-face is, Lev.”
I shake my head. Evan’s arm landed too hard against the boy’s nose. Didn’t anybody else see it? I look back at Dalia. The pom-poms sit in her lap. When she notices me, there’s a pinch between her eyebrows.
The ref calls the wrestlers back to the mat and resets them in referee’s position. Evan’s still on top, since he had control before blood time. The Glenmont boy’s nose is puffed out from the cotton stuffing. His mouth makes a hard line. He must be clenching his teeth. On the whistle, Evan breaks him down again. When the kid’s face hits the mat, he shrieks. Then he’s flat on his back. Coaches and trainers surround him. The crowd quiets down, but Mickey yells, “Stay focused, Ev!”
The visiting coach talks to the ref, then walks his injured wrestler to a chair. In the center of the mat, the ref holds Evan’s hand high. Mickey cheers. But I don’t. And neither does my sister.
We leave before the meet’s over. When Dalia taps me on the shoulder, I tell Mickey, “I’ve got to go.” I don’t wait for her to ask me why.
“You saw that?” Dalia says, as soon as we’re in the car.
“We’re not supposed to hurt each other.”
Dalia rubs her forehead. “The ref missed it. He couldn’t see from where he was standing.” She starts the car. “Injuries happen in wrestling. When you get older, the guys are bigger. They’re strong. Kids get hurt all the time.” It’s almost like she’s talking to herself, figuring something out.
“Not like that,” I say. “Not on purpose.”
Dalia pulls a pack of tissues out of her purse and hands it to me. “I know you think Evan is this real-life superhero, but he’s like a big kid. He’s so strong. He doesn’t realize.”
“He did realize.”
Dalia says, “Evan doesn’t know his own strength.”
“That’s what Abba said, that time I knocked you down. Remember?”
When we were little and I hurt Dalia, I was protecting myself. She didn’t know how to fight like a wrestler, how to balance her weight and fall safely, but just like when I hurt Josh at practice, I didn’t know what I was doing either.
“You’re still worried about that?” Dalia gives me a small smile. “Don’t be.” She reaches between the seats and rubs the top of my head. “We were kids. And you’re my only brother.”
But I know now, wrestlers are supposed to perfect their moves and wrestle aggressively, but safely. If you throw a guy, it’s on you to make sure he lands without getting hurt. That’s how Coach Billy trains us. Evan’s been wrestling a long time. He knows all this. But he got angry after that Gators kid slapped him. He couldn’t let it go.
I wonder if he’s like
that all the time. Off the mat too. “Has he ever done anything like that to you?” I ask my sister. Dalia is quiet. She knows what I’m asking.
“No,” she says. She looks out at the dark parking lot. “I think that’s why he likes me. I don’t buy that ‘I’m a big, tough man’ stuff, so he doesn’t try it on me.”
“For now,” I say. “Coach tells us we’re supposed to leave it on the mat. After the match is over, no matter how mad you are that you lost, or happy you are that you won, we have to dial down our feelings. Otherwise, how would we go back to normal stuff, like school, and doing chores?”
“What are you nattering on about?”
I shrug. “Feelings. Evan doesn’t control his feelings.”
Dalia nods at me. “You’re right about that.” She turns the car on. “Let’s go home.”
* * *
I dream about the bridge. Evan is standing on the log, over the river. He calls me, but I can’t hear him over the stormy water. When I move closer, it isn’t Evan—with his red hair and friendly smile. It’s the shadow-man from my sketchbook, the opponent I drew, like a dark cloud. This time, in the dream, I step onto the bridge until I’m close enough to take a shot, to grab the shadow. But the log is too narrow. If I attack, I’ll go down with him. I plant my legs in a strong stance and wait for his move. I know if I fight him, he’ll turn me into a shadowy shape without a real face, stuck forever on that bridge.
The next day, I tell Abba I have a headache. “Can I skip practice?” I ask.
He puts down his coffee and studies my face, but I keep my expression blank, like a stiff clay mask. “It’s the fourth qualifier on Saturday,” he says.
“I know. I’ll practice extra hard on Friday.”
He nods. “I’ll let Coach know.”
I power off my phone. Mickey’s going to ask where I am, and I don’t have a good answer.
Lev and his sister left right after Evan’s match, but I didn’t think much about it. Maybe they had a curfew, or homework.
