Fight Like a Girl - Sheena Kamal Page 0,54

to push her from my mind, even though she’s right in front of me. I can’t help picture her with Kru in Florida. Without me. Imelda, Amanda and Noor competing for a belt.

“You should take care of that hand,” she says. “I hope you still come with us for the trip, Lucky.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Whatever.” She frowns, not liking what she hears in my voice, but I’ve just about had it with people messing with me. I don’t care if she likes it or not.

“You’re a crazy fucking bitch, aren’t you?” she says suddenly. It’s the most un-Imelda-like thing I’ve ever heard anyone say, least of all Imelda herself. Outside of the gym walls, it seems like we’ve become different people, the two of us. And maybe everyone else goes through this metamorphosis, too. Slip off one face and put on another. What do any of us know about each other, other than what we learn in training? I used to think it was our real selves that came through on the mat, in the ring. Hide away all the masks under a layer of hand wraps, keeping them bound until you leave again.

But now I feel like an idiot because Imelda standing there and calling me a crazy fucking bitch like it’s nothing says that everything we are in the gym together is just a big fat lie. She had no trouble taking my spot in the tournament, either. I imagine that Noor and Amanda would be better. That they’d turn it down, but I know they wouldn’t. A chance to win a belt? Make Kru proud? Nobody’s saying no to that.

“Go eat something, Lucky. You’re too skinny.” She walks away and it’s a good thing, too, because I want nothing more than to show her what this skinny fucking crazy bitch still has left.

Fuck her, I think, as I watch her go, her red hair streaming behind her. Fuck her and Kru, too. That nickname has never seemed more like a joke. Lucky, huh? When have I ever been that? Ma says I was born at three forty-eight on a Monday morning. The witching hour, and that could explain it all. I’m nothing but black magic, dark portents, bad juju. Take your chances on anyone but me.

My hand stings but at least there are no broken bones. Maybe just a sprain if I’m lucky, which, clearly I’ve never been. I don’t want to put my fist into another wall. No way. I want the feel of skin tearing. I want to see fear. I want to see my rage reflected back at me.

That’s what I want.

My phone rings. It’s Jason.

twenty-nine

Jason comes down to let me into his dorm, and I’m still thrumming with anger. The spring chill froze it in place inside my body, but as I follow him up the stairs I feel it thaw and run warm again. We take the back stairs, but don’t pass anyone on the way up. He tells me earlier the term is ending and most of the other students in his dorm have already started moving out. But he’s got late exams, so he’s still here for another few days.

I’m tired. My anger has now run right through me and disappeared. Just one look at his sleepy face and red-rimmed eyes and I know I don’t want anything to do with his pain, even with all he’s taken away from me.

When he sees my hand with cuts on my knuckles already scabbing over, he blinks back shock and rummages through his drawer until he comes out with a box of tiny bandages. None of them are big enough to cover the cuts, but he layers a few over my hand anyway. He puts the box away. We don’t say anything for a long time. I don’t want to tear his skin off and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, I just feel…I just feel.

Imelda was right. I am a crazy fucking bitch.

Finally: “He took me off the card for Florida. You did that.”

He has the decency to look ashamed. “I was worried about you. He asked me how I thought you were looking out there at the demo and I couldn’t lie.”

Everyone’s so worried all of a sudden that I wonder where it’s all coming from. Ever since Dad died the world’s turned upside down.

Jason takes my hand. “Does it hurt?”

I shake my head. “Not much.”

“So tough,” he grins. “Here.” He hands me a Tylenol. I wash