Dealing With Trouble

CHAPTER 3?

"Are you sure?"

"Really, I'm fine."

The first competitor has finally arrived. The earlier this night ends, the better.

When the boxer in question is introduced as Moby, the crowd erupts. He raises his gloves and spins in a circle, revealing every inch of himself. There's a collective roar, and the sudden jolt in my stomach surprises me. It's similar to how I feel when Jamie drags me to a football game. I may not enjoy the sport or care much about the players, but for a brief moment, I'm a part of something larger; a swell of excitement over a shared moment. Don't feel so alone for a moment.

You know punching someone in the face is interesting for me. It's out of my league but entertaining. Red Gloves, his competitor, makes his grand entrance moments later, and it's like that scene in a movie where Taky stops and everything clicks into place. The exchange outside, the boy's hostility—the guy from outside is Red Gloves.

They slowly turn to face each other. Leaning forward slightly, I try to see past the person in front of me's head. Despite their similar size and stature, they couldn't be more dissimilar in their demeanor. While Moby appears fierce, even intimidating, Red Gloves appears calm, as if he has mastered the art of restraint.

The bell tolls. Moby takes a defensive posture, but Red Gloves darts forward. He's quick and controlled, deflecting Moby's blow before retaliating with a jab to the nose. The thwack of Red Gloves' fist connecting with Moby's face echoes around the gym, tense Jane and Kylan beside me. My fists clench as well, urging it on.

Blood splatters across the mat and sprays the air. Red Gloves moves forward, his body a blur, and strikes again. I clutch my necklace, waiting for the horror to strike, but it never does. It's fascinating. The soft glow of the overhead lights, the sheen on each of their faces, the orderly chaos I'm standing here, pushed back and forth by a sea of bodies, and I finally feel like I'm awake.

"Pardon us, but are you afraid of blood?" Dane asked. "Do you feel okay?"

“Don't worry I can take it,” I said and

nod at the same time I become aware of the commotion around him: people are cheering, calling out to the boxers, and stomping on the floor.

I return my attention to Moby, watching as blood runs down the length of his neck from his lips to his chin. The two men stripped naked for the crowd, abandoning their previous posturing and bravado.

"I can't believe I let you take me into this place," Jane says through her fingers to the twins.

Moby, desperate, takes a punch to the chest in order to land a face punch. Red Gloves jerks back and falls to his knees, stunned. It's as if I'm reliving that night for a split second. Flashes of his snart resurface, his words like whiplash lashes. Stupid, insane b*tch. I lean forward, fists clenched, and demand that he stand up. Wake up, wake up, wake up!

The countdown has begun. Moby steps back into the overhead lights, his bloody snarl glowing like something out of a horror film. My fists are clenched, and I wish I could go up there and punch it out. I've seen that snarl, that look of superiority, more Taky than I can count.

The countdown has reached number six. I hold my breath, but Red Gloves straightens up, circles back around, and slams his fist into Moby's nose at the last second. The crowd erupts as Red Gloves returns to his usual stance. Despite the noise, chaos, and pain, he is the only one who is still in command.

Before the tears press against my eyes, I feel a sharp, solid lump in my throat. I once fought back in this manner. Not when it mattered, but in my dreams every night after. I was brave in standing up for myself, as Red Gloves is now.

Moby falls to the mat, and the room falls silent for a brief moment as the countdown begins. The room then suddenly explodes with noise. Red Gloves raises his glove into the air and scans the crowd for someone in particular. His eyes, bright and severe and alive, find mine.

***

Anxiety keeps me awake for the majority of the night. I give up on sleeping and sit up in bed, checking the Taky on the nightstand. My eyes strain against the neon blue light's glare. It's not even five o'clock in the morning, but my heart is still pounding like a drum in my chest, convinced that I've slept in.

Dad despised being late. If you were late, it meant you valued your Taky more than his, and he would give you the silent treatment. This was the one weapon in his arsenal that I despised the most. You didn't know how long it would last, so you'd tiptoe around, holding your breath, waiting for the moment he acknowledged you again—the moment you could finally exhale.

It's strange because most people would consider silence to be a good thing—a prerequisite for peace—but Dad saw it as a weapon. He was our judge, jury, and executioner, and silence became a punishment.

The images on the nightstand gradually come into focus. I hadn't brought many belongings—there was only so much I could fit in two cases—but as I agonized over what to bring, I found myself ripping them from the Goodwright family album.

My favorite is the first, a polaroid of Mom in her senior year. As they prepare for their pre-college road trip, she leans against an old red truck, her high school boyfriend on one side and her best friend on the other.

She's always disliked the photo, claiming she wasn't prepared, but it's my favorite because it's so candid. She's holding the camera she'd spent months saving up for—a graduation present to herself—and instead of posing, she's looking up, mouth open, on the verge of bursting out laughing.

When Grandma was diagnosed with lukemia, my mother had to forego a significant portion of her adolescence. She claims that they went from living comfortably to drowning in medical bills in an instant. Grandpa had to sell his café to help pay for it all, and Mom and Layla worked part-Time jobs while still in high school. Grandma, thankfully, recovered completely, but their savings did not until many years later. That's why my mother said it felt like a miracle when she was accepted to Cornell with full financial aid.

I gently brush my thumb across her face. When I hold it, I get this strange sense of sorrow, as if I'm looking at a ghost. A version of him took this version of my mother—smiling, happy, and warm.

A year later, she met my father at a frat party of all places. She'd been waiting in line with her friends for the bathroom when she noticed this handsome boy in a toga. He noticed her as well, walked over, and said something incomprehensible. But, according to my mother, that was all that was required. Six months later, she became pregnant and dropped out of college to live with Dad. As they say, the rest is history.

My least favorite photo is the one behind it. It was taken in Time Square by Mom, Minnie Mouse, and me. I'm standing between them, one hand in Minnie's, one in Mom's, a grin on my face as I look at Dad behind the camera. Mom is also smiling, but it's not her bright, the world is my oyster smile—a it's phony one.

We'd spent the day acting like tourists. It was my first visit to the touristy heart of New York, and I was immediately enchanted. It felt like I'd stepped onto another planet, one where screens lit up the sky and people swarmed like bees, moving and acting in unison. I came to a halt and tilted my head at the buildings, suddenly feeling small.

"Don't stop," Dad said, squeezing my hand, "or the crowd will gobble you up."

I tightened my grip on his hand and fast my pace. We continued walking, and when Spider-Man and Minnie Mouse greeted me, I nearly burst into tears of joy. "May I take a photo with one?"

"Of course," Dad replied. He drew us through the crowd and over to Minnie. Mom and I took our places, and then Dad tipped Minnie and led us down the street to the Disney Store.

We'd been walking for what seemed like an eternity. My feet begged for mercy, but my heart was deafeningly silent. I didn't want to miss anything because there were millions of people and things to look at.

We spent over an hour in the Disney Store, scouring each shelf for the perfect souvenir. I'd narrowed it down to a handbag and a princess doll, ultimately deciding on the handbag for practical reasons. But as soon as we left the store, Dad knelt in front of me and pulled the princess doll I'd wanted from behind him.

"Happy birthday, my Dancing princess," he said, kissing my forehead.

As we continued down the street, I felt like singing. My parents were holding hands and laughing about something as I cradled my doll, and everything was perfect for a brief moment.

Then Dad came to a halt in the middle of the crowd and turned to face Mom. The bright, gleaming smile I'd just seen had vanished, as if a switch had been flipped.

"Are you going to look at every man we pass?"

My mother collapsed. In comparison to his, her face appeared calm, but her pulse thrummed and stumbled under my grip.

"Hanz," she explained. "We're not going to do this right now."

"It's a straightforward question." He sounded calm, but there was something about his expression that made me nervous. "Because if you are, I'd rather we go home right now."

I panickedly looked between them. "But, Daddy, I don't want to go home yet."

"Come on, Megan, honey," he said as he extended his hand, "let's give Mommy some alone time to think about what bad thing she's done."

Mom's eyes met mine, glistening with tears but still warm as they looked at me. My father beckoned me over, his own eyes hardened. I clutched my doll even tighter, frozen in indecision.

Dad's face tightened as he took a step forward. “Mommy lied about your dream house to you."

Then I remember what I got, my biggest wish back then. The enormous doll house.

"What about the Dollhouse, Dad?" I asked.

"If you don't want to come with me, you'll have to return it." He made it sound so logical, as if I should have known.

This man is not my father, he sounds like he didn't.

"Don't be a coward, Hanz." Mom said as she took a step forward, but one look from him made her hesitate.

Are they fighting?!