The Knockout

by Sajni Patel

  I watched him for a few seconds more, taking in his waning emotions and gently said, “Maybe I was so engrossed in my own stuff that I didn’t think you had any problems. Guess we all have different pressures weighing down on us.”

  “You’re right, though. Telling someone is like a weight lifted off my shoulders. Keeping that in for so long . . . sometimes I can’t handle it.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. But you once said you’d be here for me whenever I need someone to talk to, and that goes the same for you.”

  He nodded thoughtfully but didn’t make a move to unbuckle his seatbelt. “Are you scared when you go into a fight?”

  “Sometimes,” I replied carefully. “I try to be confident and focused, but sometimes nerves get to me and, if the opponent is especially intimidating or has a fierce track record, I’m pretty much scared crapless.”

  His face lit up when he said, “You didn’t look nervous up there tonight.”

  “I’ve fought Natalia a hundred times. It was a practice fight.”

  “Wow. That’s intense. I can’t imagine what a real fight must be like. Do you do competitions?”

  “Yep.”

  He turned toward me, all excited. “Oh, yeah? Can I see your next fight? You know, if my presence doesn’t make you nervous.”

  “You give yourself way too much credit, dude.”

  He laughed. “Then, I’d love to go.”

  I smiled shyly, although my insides were exploding with giddiness. A boy who wasn’t intimidated by my sport? “I have one coming up in a few weeks, but it’s in Arizona.”

  He scowled. “That’s far. Are they all that far?”

  “No. Maybe in the summer you can come to some home fights?” I asked, hopeful.

  “Okay. That sounds like a lot of fun, to see you in action. I’m pretty stoked, actually.” He beamed that killer smile.

  I mentally sighed in relief. Amit being at USMTO would make me more nervous . . . that was, if I managed to get there.

  “So . . . does anyone know about Muay Thai? Or am I among the few and privileged?”

  I laughed. “You know the answer to that.”

  “Why not tell people? Okay, so I get not wanting everyone at mandir knowing because I do see your hesitation. It’s unorthodox to the traditional. But what about at school? Americans are more open to female athletes. The school has them in droves. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Isn’t it though? A Muay Thai competitive fighter against a basketball player. Tennis. Softball. Soccer. It’s not as common, and it’s definitely a lot more brutal.”

  “Martial arts,” he added. “Martial artists can be competition-level fighters.”

  “We don’t have a martial arts team.”

  “But there are girls at school who do martial arts outside of school. Like . . . hmmm . . . MaryAnn, Jamice, Tanya, to name a few. You should talk to them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you feel that you’re alone. But you’re not.”

  “They’re not Indian. That makes me alone.”

  “But they’re girls. Bad mofos who can throw down in a ring. Just like you. It’s support, understanding.”

  I gritted out, “Because it sounds stupid when I say it aloud. Yeah, it’s a real fear that mutates into a devouring emotional monster, but imagine saying, in actual words, ‘I don’t tell people because Indians won’t like me.’ Sounds stupid, right? But it’s real. Guess that makes me stupid too.”

  “It’s not stupid, and you’re not stupid.”

  “I guess.”

  “You’re friends with women like Natalia, right? And other Muay Thai fighters. They’re not Indian, but you feel that connection with them, support, insight.”

  I mulled over his words quietly.

  “You have different journeys and different struggles. Why go at things alone when you have a network of friends to back you up?”

  “Amit Patel?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Stop making so much sense.”

  Thirteen

  Weights clanked against one another. Metal bars hit metal holders in the school’s weight room. The scent of sweat perforated the air, but thankfully the thermostat kept it below freezing in every corner of the school.

  I immediately went to Kimmy and asked, “Are you going to keep this up in college?”

  “Yes! Didn’t you hear? I got a scholarship for soccer to UT.”

  “No freaking way!”

  Kimmy beamed. She had trifecta status, starring in soccer, softball, and weights. “Yep. Four years. I found out last week. Shoot, I thought I mentioned it during calculus.”

  “Oh, well then that explains it. Was I asleep?”

  She pursed her lips. “Probably.”

  “But you’re going to finish the weightlifting team?”

  “Oh, yeah. Can’t let the team down. I’m top spot for state.”

  “That’s awesome! You’re teeming with amazing news.”

  She shrugged, like no big deal. “Gotta help these boys out.”

  “Like you don’t already intimidate boys enough.”

  “Who, me?”

  “Girl, please. You’re pretty, athletic MVP of everything, and in top ten. Triple threat.”

  “Who wants a boy who’s intimidated by what? Success? That’s lame and insecure.”

  I twisted my lips, thinking back to Amit and how he totally inhaled my fighting prowess with awe. It was super hot, to be honest. He could handle me and my skills along with my insecurities. But Kimmy had a point. No one wanted to be with a person who was insecure.

  We switched places. Kimmy spotted me while I bench pressed.

  “Whoa, check you out. Seriously, you got the guns of someone who’s been training. Is this from Muay Thai? Can we talk more about that now?”

  I grunted out the last set and she took the bar from my shaking arms before it dropped and guillotined my neck. She could lay on the bench and converse, but not I. Not with the looming fear of having the bar break and letting loose crushing weights. I sat up and straddled the bench.

  Saanvi and two others happened to walk through the weight room, a shortcut from the auditorium to the art and drama corridor. She eyed us and muttered something to her friends. They responded with boisterous laughter.

  “What’s that cackling?” Kimmy asked loudly, drawing the attention of the entire weight room.

  Saanvi sneered.

  “I thought it was only me she disliked,” I said.

  “She does that every time she comes through here. Why bother walking past us if she tries to mock us? I don’t even get her issue.”

  “Ah . . .” I said, realization dawning on me.

  “She hates on every girl athlete I know. Not the boys, mind you, she’s in love with all of them.”

  “She hates girls who are athletes?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “I just thought she personally disliked me super bad. Guess I’m not that special. She’s in dance, so she’s also an athlete, and therefore her attitude makes no sense. Unless you consider the fact that she almost failed gym.” Oops. Had I said that aloud?

  “Say what?” Kimmy asked even louder.

  I grinned, and repeated myself over the noise of the room, “Saanvi almost failed gym.”

  “Who in the history of this school almost fails gym!” Kimmy blurted and guffawed, mimicking Saanvi’s irritating laugh.

  Saanvi turned bright red and stomped her last steps on the way out.

  I giggled. “Seriously. The coaches are super supportive of even the most athletically challenged. Still boggles the mind. Dancing means coordination. I can run and lift weights, but I cannot, to save my throat, swing my hips to a beat. A few years back Saanvi coaxed me into joining her dance troupe at the temple, and it was an epic fail.”


  “Hey, listen. You still got social?” she asked.

  “Yeah, but I’m not on it much. Why?”

  She dug into her backpack and roamed through her phone. “Check it. Welcome to the sisterhood. I wanted to tell you way sooner, but it’s hard catching a minute with you.”

  I reluctantly clicked through my cell and logged onto Facebook, where an invitation from Connally Girls Athletics awaited. “What’s this for?” My fingertip hovered over the “accept” icon.

  “The school has a private page for all the girl athletes. It’s monitored by the coaches. They have a few others: for boys, of course, and other groups. I don’t know about the rest, but we post news about games and encouragement and questions and issues and sometimes silly pics or videos. We got the weightlifting team, basketball, softball, track and field, tennis, golf, swim, dance, cheerleading, marching band, and I know I’m forgetting someone but you get the idea. It’s pretty cool.”

  “That is way awesome. But I’m not involved in a school sport.”

  “Doesn’t have to be in school. Hillary and Tanya are in martial arts at a dojang up north. Clarissa is in a cultural dance group at her church. Miranda is on a bowling team. Literally half the girls at school are athletes.”

  “Wow. I didn’t realize there were so many.”

  “What? You thought you were the only one?” She sucked her teeth. “You’re not that special.”

  I laughed, nodding my head. Okay. Yeah. Fair enough. “So, Saanvi could also be invited, then?”

  Kimmy pressed her lips together. “Yes. By the rules of her being a girl attending this school and involved in something athletic. I wish she would come into this group and throw that attitude around. Anyway. Think about it. If nothing else, be a lurker. See what’s going on and what others are going through to keep in their game. Might be inspiring or encouraging. Sometimes it’s just a good laugh because those girls can crack you up. Just join the group. Bold font, boxing glove emoji the crap out of your introductory line. Text me when you accept and want to say something, and I’ll log on. I’ll be right there.”

  Gratitude swelled in my heart and I nearly hugged her but seeing that Kimmy and I had never hugged before, it might’ve been awkward. So I grinned instead and tried to keep my happy tears from spilling over.

  No need to get so emotional in front of the weightlifting team.

  Fourteen

  I wrung my hands together in front of me, tying and untying my threadbare cardigan edges in front of Amit’s pristine Texan home with its absurd amount of new paint and uncracked cement. How old was this baby house, anyway?

  Since barely a sweat bead formed during the minimal amount of weightlifting, seeing that Kimmy and I had gabbed in the corner more than anything, I hadn’t changed from my school clothes. Suddenly, my shorts were too short, my top too low, my cardigan too dull, and my kicks way old.

  Why was I even here? I had way too much to do to get ready for USMTO. I had to focus on practice and spending extra time looking for more money. While some businesses had added to the pot, the costs kept growing because of chiropractor appointments. I was still eighteen hundred dollars away. By the looks of this house and yard and cars, I bet Amit didn’t have to worry about money.

  Someone lifted the edge of the sheer lace curtain in the window adjacent to the front door with its diamond-shaped pieces of opaque glass. That same door opened wide enough for Amit to step out. He approached with a welcoming smile, but my dumb legs wouldn’t move, and my trembling hands wouldn’t stop fussing with this fabric.

  He slowed his roll real quick and cocked his head to the side, eying me warily. “You okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’ve been standing out here for a good five minutes. At least. Do you want to come in?”

  “No, not really.”

  “My parents are nice, promise. They really want to spend time with you.”

  “In my head, they want to meet me to find a reason to forbid us from being friends.”

  Amit arched a questioning brow and jammed his hands into his pockets. He looked a little annoyed. “So, I’m getting more and more offended by your assumptions of the evilness of my parents.”

  “Sorry. They must be nice, I’m sure, because they raised a nice kid.”

  He tilted his head and hiked up his lips in a crooked smile. “Okay, so breathe and be yourself. And if anything else, be proud of who you are.”

  “Are you giving me life lessons?” I asked him but looked at the house, at the windows where his parents were surely watching and scrutinizing.

  “It’s what I tell myself when I get nervous.”

  “When are you ever nervous?”

  “Are you kidding? Who doesn’t get nervous? First day of school? Class presentations? Contact sports in gym class, especially dodgeball. I hate dodgeball.”

  I cracked a measly smile.

  “Meeting my parents’ guru. Visiting the giant mandirs in Houston or Jersey. Doing plays there . . . and in Gujarati mind you. In front of thousands of people. Did I mention it’s all in Gujarati?”

  My smile widened. “Okay, okay.”

  “My parents are just people, and there’s only two of them! I’ll be there. I’m not going to turn on you.” He offered his hand and I glared at it.

  “Are you joking? Your parents are probably watching.”

  He retracted his hand and scratched the back of his neck. “Oh, right. Come on.”

  We walked alongside one another to the front porch. “Have you ever brought a girl to dinner like this?”

  “We have families over all the time. But just a girl? No. On the other hand, don’t forget your parents were invited.” He opened the door to let me through first.

  Amit beamed when we passed the modest foyer, leaving our shoes by the door, and entered an opulent dining room with its crystal chandelier hanging low over a cherry wood oval table set for six. Everything was so bright and clean and new.

  His parents stood on the other side of the table pouring water into glasses and arranging silverware.

  My stomach growled at the delicious-smelling food. His mother smiled warmly, just as she had at Holi, and walked around the table to hug me. At first I froze, not expecting such physical hospitality, but then I lightly, awkwardly, hugged her back.

  Amit stifled a laugh, unseen by either parents, and I mouthed, “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Thank you for coming, Kareena. Are your parents joining us?” his mom asked.

  “Thank you for inviting us. No, they aren’t feeling well, but we hope to get together soon.”

  “Oh, no! Hope they feel better. But hah, we will need to get together another time. Please. Sit.”

  But I couldn’t stop looking at her face. She was pretty, and she had great facial expressions, totally committed to each emotion behind her words. Happiness seeing me, gratitude that I came by, hopeful to see my parents, sympathy, hope again, eagerness to chat and eat. My face was probably on the verge of stoicism most times compared to hers. According to Lily, I had a great RBF game.

  Amit’s father nodded with a short smile and sat across from Amit, who sat beside me. His mom ladled out food for us before taking her seat beside Amit’s father. I’d barely touched my fork when all three bowed their heads and clasped their hands together. I froze, still grasping the utensil, and looked at the food on my plate, focusing on what I could eat and how much. The broccoli and cabbage were great, even if that meant gas in the middle of the night. A small fraction of dhal would work, rice was okay. The veggies were soaked in spices and oils, and puri was fried alongside pappadum. And no meat.

  Amit subtly cleared his throat, his hand touching my knee clandestinely beneath the tablecloth. I startled and looked up. Oh, they were done with prayer.

  “This is delicious,” I said after the first bite. The seasoning
was light with a mixture of spices, not all Indian.

  His mom beamed and pushed a bowl of food toward me. “Thank you. Have some more.”

  I waved my hand. “This is plenty. I don’t eat much.”

  “Nonsense. You’re a growing girl.”

  “How was school?” Amit’s father asked, his voice deep and gruff.

  Amit looked to me, allowing me to go first. “It was fine. Nothing extraordinary happened.”

  Then Amit spoke, “My day was the same. Class, lecture, quiz.”

  “Are your grades staying top level?” his dad asked.

  Amit glanced at his plate and slumped the slightest. He looked like a deflating balloon. “Yes, Papa. The teachers will turn in our grades early, for the top five percent, to calculate valedictorian. But I think I will keep the title.”

  “Not think. Know. You are very smart. Your grades are perfect. And you?” He looked to me, dismissing his son’s amazing achievement as if being Sir Valedictorian was as expected and easy as breathing air.

  “My grades are good too. I’m not in the running to take Amit’s spot.”

  “So you are in the same classes?” He studied me with a . . . yep . . . a very scrutinizing glare.

  “We’ve shared most core classes together over the years.”

  “And you are just now friends?”

  “I think I was too focused on my grades and my family to spend much time talking to a lot of people outside of school. But this semester, we worked on . . .”

  Amit’s face twitched.

  “A project for computer science.” Amit didn’t have to worry. I had his back.

  “Lucky for you, Amit is a genius in computer science.”