The Knockout

by Sajni Patel

  I held my breath and tried not to let Coach’s words go to my head. There was nothing worse than a cocky, entitled fighter. Coach didn’t let those types into his gym, so his meaning was way beyond superficial hype. So instead of my head getting big with pride, my heart swelled with gratitude. I was here because of my parents and Coach.

  “I’ve trained you since you were eight. You went from cautious to fearless by the time you turned ten. Nothing should get in your way. You have major accomplishments about to be handed to you if only you train hard, bring your A game to USMTO, and keep your head on straight.”

  I nodded, getting more and more excited as Coach started getting into it, as he pulled my parents into how big of a deal this was with his ever-growing gestures.

  “This is not a game. This is not a hobby or a pastime or something to add to your college application, Kareena. This is the big leagues, serious stuff, and a wide doorway to even greater things.” He paused. Dramatic affect: leveled up. “You can make history.”

  “Oh my!” Mama fanned herself. “You could be the first Indian girl in the USMTO. The first Indian on the US team for the World Championships.”

  “Part of the first Muay Thai Olympic team . . .” I breathed. My body heated to furnace levels, my head light and filled with swooshing. My skin prickled with a million fiery stabs.

  “You could make history here,” Coach repeated.

  His words echoed through my brain all night.

  Four

  Well, that was quite the evening with some bombshells laid down like: no freaking big deal, y’all. All those many huge things kept me awake the entire night, tossing and turning and texting Lily until she stopped responding, at which point I assumed she’d fallen asleep.

  Coach had given my parents a packet that he went over with us, plus the rules to USMTO, which alone was thirty pages. It was nothing new, mostly reiterating what I’d been doing for the majority of the past nine years. I had a stricter routine now, though, because I only had five weeks to get into Nationals shape.

  I woke up when the alarm buzzed at six. I didn’t have to wake up yet, as class didn’t start until ten. The other nice thing about having pushed myself in school and getting ahead of the required credits was that not only did I need a measly three courses my senior year, but that meant I only had school on Tuesdays and Thursdays starting late but ending at three. Papa had encouraged me to graduate early and get a head start in college, but I knew we didn’t have the funds last year for me to start at the community college this year.

  Besides, I took all AP classes during junior and senior year, which meant I only had to pay a hundred bucks per AP test to get college credit. I’d enter ACC—Austin Community College—as a sophomore. We’d saved big bucks already. Then finishing up another year with whatever transferred to UT saved more still. ACC wasn’t cheap for a community college, but UT? That place would break the bank. By then, I’d have some financial aid and hopefully scholarships, and maybe even a little of this prize money to help out.

  And if I made it to the World Championships? I mentally whistled. That had to earn some dough. And the Olympics? Definitely some money and commercials and stuff? That could pay off a class or two.

  Day one was not the day to get lazy. I managed to wake up with energy, and, as I had been doing most days, donned a pair of short, blue mesh running shorts, a green tank top, and ankle socks with my kicks. I gathered my mid-back-length hair and tied it into a bun on the top of my head to keep it from irritating my neck. My hair only found freedom at night and was bound by the law of hair ties at all other times.

  From the sound of light snoring oozing from my parents’ room, Mama napped in between her two jobs and Papa slept soundly at her side. The front door creaked on its hinges when I slipped out. Popping in my earbuds and turning on my “Run Jam” playlist, I jumped down the steps to get the blood going and bounded to the end of the driveway, working my calves and thighs before starting a two-mile run.

  There was a time when I loathed running; the shin splints, the boringness, the effort, but Coach taught me to use running as a time for meditation and reflection. Which seemed to contradict the pulse-raging music screaming through my head, but it worked. I loosened my grip on all the worries and anxieties that weighed heavy on my shoulders. I concentrated instead on the feel of my legs pounding against the pavement, of the smell of dewy grass, the chill of morning air, the rush in my lungs, the stretch of my muscles, the sound of steady breaths, and the fog emitted from my lips.

  It was all beautiful and harmonious and stuff. Better than calculus any day!

  A few neighbors were out giving their dogs potty breaks or leaving early for work. A couple of guys jogged across the main street and I had the urge to pick up my pace, to run faster than them. One of the guys, twenty-something, noticed and grinned. He picked up his pace, leaving his friend behind.

  Oh, it was so on! And thus, the quiet beauty of a morning run turned into competitiveness with random strangers. Those dudes had nothing on me. I’d been running five times a week since for as long as I could remember.

  I crossed three streets and made it to the next main intersection, a minor highway, and came to an abrupt stop. I beat them, no contest. I waited patiently with hands on hips, my breathing easy.

  The guys slowed to a stop on the other side of the street, winded and trying not to bend over. I waved and they smirked with a thumbs up. Then I turned around and sprinted home, knowing I’d left them in the suburban dust of my wake. Acorn and pecan trees lined the patchy grass section between the sidewalk and the crumbling subdivision stone walls. The whoosh of speeding cars over cracked pavement hurried by in the morning rush. School buses with peeling yellow paint appeared on the horizon, stopping by clusters of yawning, sleepy kids.

  When I reached my street, the sprint slowed to a jog and then a quick stretch of the legs before doing lunges all the way to the cul-de-sac and back to the house. My thighs burned, but in a glorious, accomplished way. Kicking off my shoes in the foyer, I rolled out the yoga mat and stretched some more before lying down for crunches, bike abs, v-crunches, Thai sit-ups, and the dreaded Superman.

  By the time I finished, Mama had awoken and moved about the bathroom getting ready for job numero dos and I headed for the kitchen, sweaty as always. I figured I went through Costco amounts of deodorant and body wash.

  Second thing on the agenda was diet. Boo, no pizza gorging with Lily this weekend. After Coach left last night, Mama and I made a market run. We bought Papa’s meds and with what we had left, we bought food. There would be no junk food, nothing processed, mostly no bad carbs (rice was a must, okay?), and nothing that would lag my digestive system and make me feel like crap. I had to cook everything that went into my mouth myself, but I was used to that anyway since Mama worked two jobs and Papa could only occasionally cook when he was up to it.

  Thankfully, no one in the house was a vegetarian. There were no dietary restrictions except for Papa, who could not have too much sugar, junk food, and most carbs. Which worked out great! We were already on the same diet! I cooked for the entire family at once.

  “Beautiful morning, beta.” Papa hummed and took a seat at the table. He crossed his legs, ankle over knee, and opened the paper.

  “Morning, Papa! You’re in an awesome mood.”

  “Exceptionally good mood. I feel great. My daughter is about to make history. I have a beautiful family and a warm home. What isn’t to love?”

  “You don’t love eggs, but you’re getting them. Soft-boiled, yeah?”

  “I’ll love eggs, even.”

  I washed my hands and bobbed my head to some imaginary beat in case I had to keep an ear out for the parental units needing something. Eggs sizzled in the pan and the last of the wheat bread toasted on the side while a pot of water boiled on the back burner. A small glass of orange juice for Mama, and lots of water for Papa and myself
, waited on the table.

  Mama swooped in like a hungry eagle, devoured her eggs over easy and buttered toast and downed her OJ with a quick “thanks.” I poured mint chai into a thermos for her and off she went, with a quick kiss on my head and a gentle hug to Papa’s back.

  Papa liked his eggs on the softer side of hard boiled. Six and a half minutes to be exact once the water boiled. He preferred a shake of salt and chili powder while I opted for the traditional salt and pepper. He didn’t eat much these days, or probably couldn’t since he was used to eating little and filling his belly with meds instead. He had two eggs with his cup of chai.

  “There’s extra chai in the thermos on the counter if you want some at lunch,” I mentioned.

  “I will definitely drink the rest.”

  Plopping onto my seat, I dove into my four eggs, bacon, spinach, and chai. Then I proceeded to make lunch: cream cheese-stuffed celery for Papa and black forest ham and cheese roll-ups for me.

  “What’s that?” I asked him, nodding at the scribbled list beside his newspaper.

  “Ah, this. This is a list of businesses that we can talk to about sponsorship for the Open.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Places around here like to sponsor kids’ events that are this amazing. We just need an intro to pitch them and then reel them in.”

  “Like . . . door-to-door stuff?” I groaned, remembering how many times I’d bugged our neighbors to buy candy bars to raise money for stuff in school. There was nothing more awkward than knocking on people’s doors on Saturday mornings and asking them to give me five dollars for a candy bar. Except maybe telling them why they should care enough to give me five dollars. A few bucks at a time meant a lot of doors to knock on. But maybe businesses did things by the hundreds of dollars?

  There was no way Papa could drive around and talk to people, and no time for Mama to help. I smiled softly and took the list from him. “Thanks, Papa! I’ll come up with a pitch and a game plan.”

  “Are you excited?”

  “To talk strangers into giving me money?”

  He chuckled. “About the Open?”

  “Of course. I guess that’ll make it easier to talk to people. I really want this.”

  He nodded. “That’s my girl.”

  “Your lunch is on the top shelf in the fridge. I gotta go.”

  “Is it still cool to take your lunch from home?” Papa laughed.

  “It’s way undercool,” I replied as I tucked plastic-wrapped roll-ups alongside sliced bell peppers and hummus into a beige and silver polka dot thermal lunch tote that looked more like a purse than those old aluminum lunch boxes from the nineties that Mama still used.

  Leaving Papa at the table with his row of medications for the day, I quickly showered and dressed for school. Starting class late only sucked in terms of trying to find a parking spot for my beat-up sedan, but an extra-long walk didn’t hurt. I even squeezed in some lunges.

  The sun hit the sky high and warm for mid-February. There were two sayings about Texas weather: give it five minutes to change, and it only got cold every four years. This was not a fourth year, thank goodness.

  A few seniors, who also skipped having a first period class, meandered up the sidewalk. So, who cared if I looked like a weirdo doing lunges through the parking lot with a heavy backpack on?

  Ignoring any stares and giggles, and keeping my attention on alert for any revved-up cars, I went low for lunge after lunge, my bony knees almost touching the ground.

  “Hi . . .” a quiet voice said, followed by the sound of a car door closing.

  “Oh! Hi.” I automatically stood like a normal person, suddenly self-conscious because Amit had noticed me being weird.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  I stared at him and he shifted from one foot to the other and scratched the back of his neck. He swallowed, the movement of his throat catching my attention and keeping it.

  “Uh . . .” he added, snapping me out of this daze. What the heck was wrong with me?

  Eyes popping wide for a split second, I half smiled and noted his crisp khakis and brand name dark-blue and red button-down shirt. “You look nice.”

  “Oh . . . thanks?”

  “Is that a question?”

  “No?”

  I pinched my brows together then smiled. “Why do you dress so nice every day?”

  “I just got off work.”

  “Really? Where do you work at so early in the morning?”

  “I help my uncle out.”

  “Doing what?”

  I expected something like a restaurant or a store. Instead, he answered, “Programming stuff.”

  I arched a brow. “You need tutoring in CS, though? And why are you programming so early?”

  “His company creates medical programs. I have to go with him early mornings to collect data from hospitals.” His gaze drifted to the car beside us, as if keeping eye contact might make him combust. He looked nice, but he also looked sleepy. Maybe that was why he fell asleep in class so often.

  “That’s nice of you.”

  He shrugged and dragged his gaze back to me. “Were you doing lunges?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s cool.”

  Pause. Very awkward pause.

  “So, this is like the most we’ve ever talked, isn’t it?” I asked. “That’s too bad, because we’ve had so many classes together.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched at this.

  “Are you always so quiet?”

  He looked me dead in the eye, as if he were about to say something profound and passionate. “No.”

  Oh . . . “Just with me, then?”

  “I guess so.”

  “We’re studying after school, right?”

  “Yes, if you still want to . . . I mean if you still can.”

  “Yes. To both.”

  He smiled a smile that reached his eyes, creating little wrinkles at the corners, which made him irresistibly adorable. “I better get to class. Have fun with your lunges.” He waved and walked ahead so I could have the privacy of a spectator-free parking lot to finish my new routine.

  I placed my hands on my hips and lunged forth, a smile on my face as Amit disappeared beyond the sea of cars.

  Lunges plus a light jog down the steps into the atrium of the school and then up a flight of stairs to my locker pressed a nice soreness into my legs, taking some of the focus away from the ache in my side from Jenny’s killer punches. I slipped into calculus just in time, sliding into the last corner chair in the very back, right behind Kimmy, as we’d been doing since eighth grade.

  “Hey, girl. You gonna lift weights with me after school?” she asked, twisting in her chair to face me. Some things never changed. Hiding behind her during senior year was as natural as doing it in middle school.

  “For sure. I need you to check my technique.”

  She gave a thumbs-up and asked, “When are you going to join the team?”

  “I can only do so many weights. Can’t figure out how none of y’all haven’t broken your backs with dead lifts. Sheesh,” I muttered.

  Kimmy giggled and Tanya asked me, “Why don’t you come back to softball? You played with us in middle school.”

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek. God, how badly I wanted to blurt out the news about USMTO. I’d never talked about it with most Indians, seeing there was a stigma about females in contact sports. But with friends like Kimmy and Tanya? The secret was to be friendly with everyone but keep my close friends to a select few. We weren’t BFF close, but Tanya and Kimmy were the type to come over with one text.

  “You know what? I’ve been busy with Muay Thai,” I finally said. And it felt like a pressurized damn had been opened.

  “What?” they said simultaneously.

  “Since when?�
�� Kimmy asked.

  “Say that again? Like real Muay Thai?” Tanya said.

  “Nah, like fake Muay Thai.” I stuck out my tongue.

  Tanya laughed. “Badass. Do you fight other people or just practice? Either way, I want to see what you got.”

  I grinned. “As a matter of fact, I do fight.”

  But before I could get into anything else, Mr. Strothers shuffled his papers noisily. His way of telling us to calm down and get quiet.

  “Later,” Kimmy mouthed and turned around.

  The best thing about sitting behind Kimmy was that she completely blocked me from the teacher’s view. Kimmy was tall and broad, both a softball player and on the weightlifting team. She had crazy-good posture, which seemed to make her much taller. Her shoulders were always back, which made her seem much broader. And she had this wild, red curly hair that totally blocked my view of the whiteboard, but also blocked the teacher from seeing me.

  Tanya sat to the left, one chair down, right beside Kimmy. She was tall and had shoulders pulled back with great posture too. Sometimes she had braids and sometimes she rocked a natural ’fro. All that tallness and broadness and hair in front of my slumped posture and quietness nearly made me a ghost. I occasionally raised my hand toward the end to make my presence known, proof that I was indeed in class.

  I yawned and slumped further and further into my seat. The excitement of USMTO finally wore off and I just about crashed.

  The next thing I knew, the bell jolted me awake and I groggily gathered my things in a hurry, as half the class had already left.

  “I want to know more,” Kimmy said as she walked partway down the hall with me.

  “Definitely,” I replied, happy to know some people were delighted about my passion. I didn’t know why I even thought that Kimmy and Tanya wouldn’t support me. I guessed a lifetime of having been scarred by others’ opinions had illogically warped my presumptions. It was good to be cautious, but maybe not so much so that it forced me to close myself off instead of being more secure and confident. Still, old habits were hard to break.

  Kimmy took a right at the next hallway and I went to my locker, where Lily waited.