Chapter Sixteen

"How was it?"

My father's waiting in the kitchen when I get home for dinner. Gemma's mom offered to cook, but I wanted to get home and bathe; I smell like sweat and nicotine from Elliott's car. The pride on my dad's face makes all the pain and confusion of this weekend worth it.

"Awesome! I'll tell you everything after I shower."

The hot water eases my sore muscles. I throw on a sweatshirt that covers my fingertips, hiding the sight of my tattered knuckles and fresh bruises. My dad presents a gigantic plate of pasta, which I devour in a few bites.

"We did really well. I got to watch Sofía in the women's match. It was badass."

I tell him all about the hotel and our walk around the harbor. I don't mention the fight. Or the bartender serving me alcohol.

"I was thinking . . ." I start, swirling my fork around the plate, "that this could be a great story for my college applications."

Dad blinks. He's been avoiding the college conversation for months now. He says he isn't sure if I'm ready, but I'm running out of ways to prove myself to him. He chews and swallows without speaking.

"I have to apply soon," I add.

"We'll talk about it with Dr. Taylor. Alright?"

"Alright," I concede.

Not an enthusiastic yes, but not a no, either.

My phone vibrates with a text from Andre saying that he's called off practice tomorrow. Thank god. I think my hand might fall off if I were to try to spar. My phone lights up with another text, but this one is from Elliott.

ELLIOTT: Want a ride to school tomorrow?

I fight a smile. The thought of Elliott driving me to school in front of all of our classmates is oddly satisfying.

ROSE: You're asking for trouble.

ELLIOTT: Pick you up at 7:30.

"Who's texting you?"

My dad peers between me and my phone.

"Elliott," I confess. "He's giving me a ride to school tomorrow."

He puts down his fork. "Is that something I need to know more about?"

"Nope," I reply.

Not yet.

I finish off the plate of food before heading upstairs. The exhaustion of the weekend's events catches up to me, and I sleep harder than I have in weeks.

Until I see her again.

She's in my dream, not my reality, though the two have become less discernible.

She grabs my injured hand and squeezes. It's obvious she's trying to tell me something, but her mouth doesn't move. Mine won't move, either. I stare into her eyes, unblinking, and she looks back with urgency, her grip on my wrist tightening until I can feel my blood pumping, the pressure enough to explode my veins—

My alarm goes off. I pick up my phone and find a text from Elliott that he's on his way. Stumbling out of bed, I throw on my favorite pair of black jeans and an oversized Pink Floyd sweatshirt. I pause when I grab my backpack.

My hand injury is worse; I must have been touching it in my sleep because two of the scabs are ripped off and bleeding. My skin is inflamed, and the open stitches are straight out of a slasher movie. I sigh, moving down my sleeves so Gemma won't notice. She's on my porch, coffee in hand, when I step outside.

"Elliott's picking us up," I announce.

We don't have time to discuss details before Elliott's convertible pulls into the driveway. He's dressed in a black, long-sleeved shirt that hides the bruises scattered across his arms. Cigarette smoke escapes from his battered lips.

"I love this," says Gemma, sliding into the back seat. "Not sweaty from walking and arriving in style? We're doing this every day."

"Not asking, just stating," Elliott teases. "Typical."

I reach for the radio and turn up the volume. About a Girl blasts from the speakers.

"Cobain at eight in the morning?" Elliott asks.

"Rose is weird," Gemma answers before I have the chance.

"You know, you're actually the first one to ever tell me that."

Nishi is already waiting for us in the parking lot. She's dressed in denim overalls and a floral top that matches Gemma's style more than her own. As we get closer, I realize it actually is Gemma's shirt. I turn to my best friend, and she winks.

Students swarm Elliott's usual parking spot. He stops the car and faces us.

"Are you sure about this?" I ask him.

He shrugs. "People talk. Don't listen."

Gemma is the first one to leave the BMW. A few girls lurking around the lot stare and whisper amongst themselves. Then, Elliott follows. He winks as he slides his bag across his shoulder, tossing the remains of the cigarette underneath his boot.

My turn.

I inhale a shaky breath before opening the door. Students, some I know, some I don't, watch us like hawks. The whispers turn into buzzing when they realize it's me.

"I feel like a celebrity." Gemma sounds awestruck.

Nishi crosses the parking lot. She grabs Gemma's hand. I peek at Elliott's destroyed knuckles. He grins slyly and takes my hand in his. The lump in my throat vanishes with the touch of his skin.

The attention is suffocating.

". . . weird sex."

". . . must be desperate."

". . . kinda hot?"

We make it inside, but the conversations only get louder. Gemma and Nishi take a turn toward the art room. Elliott remains at my side, his grip on my hand unbreakable.

"See you at lunch?" I ask Gemma.

"If you're still alive by then," she replies, glancing at a brunette flaring her nostrils at me from across the hallway.

My grip on my backpack straps tightens. Elliott walks me to my first class, even though the bell ringing signals that he'll be late for his.

"Thanks for the ride," I say.

He grins. "I had fun."

He lets go of me, adjusting the collar on his shirt to hide a bruise on the back of his neck. I watch as he disappears down the hallway before stepping into history class.

The stares are louder than the whispers. Throughout my morning classes, everyone watches me, even though I purposely bury my face in a book.

"Her and King? I don't believe you."

"No joke," adds another voice. "He drove her to school this morning."

In English, Elliott's usual crowd isn't surrounding his desk. He sits alone, scrolling mindlessly through his phone.

"We're free writing today," Mr. Ruse announces.

He projects a list of writing prompts onto the whiteboard. I scribble nonsense throughout the hour, unable to focus on anything except Elliott occasionally turning toward me. When the bell rings, he's already seated on top of my desk. Maddy glares from her spot in the doorway. She grinds her teeth before turning around.

"What'd you write about?" Elliott asks, helping me pack my notebooks into my bag.

"Impending doom. You?"

"Pizza."

The cafeteria reeks of cheese and marinara sauce. Burnt meatball subs line the tables of the room. Elliott grimaces. I clutch my paper bag with my dad's leftover pasta.

"Gross. I hate Meatball Monday," he says. "Where do you sit?"

"Don't you think we have the school riled up enough for one day?"

"Nope."

He's insane. Mind boggling insane.

"You're digging your own grave."

"Good," he says. "The deeper the better."

I take him to the round table in the far corner of the room. Gemma and Nishi grin from ear to ear as we approach. Elliott slides into one of the empty blue chairs.

"What's up?" he inquires, drumming his fingers on the table.

"Watching the drama unfold," Gemma replies, glancing around the room at our ever-growing audience. "Do you think enough people are staring?"

Elliott lifts his hand into the air and shows off his middle finger to the crowd. I slam his hand down onto the table.

"Well Elliott, if you're going to sit at our table, we have to know more about you," chirps Gemma. She leans in close. "Does pineapple belong on pizza?"

Her tone is deadly serious. Elliott runs his hand through his buzzed hair, scratching the triangle tattoo behind his ear, as he contemplates the question.

"Plead the fifth. Never tried it."

"Good," Gemma growls. "Keep it that way."

I chuckle. Gemma fixes a piece of my hair, patting down the loose curl until it sticks. I finish my leftovers and slide Elliott a granola bar. He eats the entire thing in one bite.

Gemma asks Elliott, "So, is Rose any good at boxing?"

He beams. "She's one of the best newbies I've met. With some more training, she'll be a pro."

My face is burning. "Andre volunteered to give me some private lessons."

Elliott perks up. "Why practice with him when I'm right here?"

"Damn," Nishi proclaims. She looks at Gemma as if to say are you hearing this?

I face Elliott. "I'm not sure I trust you to teach me how to fight by the rules."

He half smiles. "Rules were made to be broken."

I open my mouth, then shut it. We spend the next twenty minutes discussing classes, homework, and the other drama that Elliott is somehow always in the middle of.

"Rose told me about your secret," Gemma says in the middle of a conversation about Elliott's time at Midtown Ring.

I freeze. Elliott pales as he glances between the three of us. Gemma, realizing what she's implied, rushes her words.

"You like to read."

Elliott's back to himself in an instant, playing off her statement as if it's exactly what he expected her to say. "And? I'm not that much of a caveman."

"Well then, I guess you don't remember making me do all the work on that Great Gatsby group project last year because you told me you were illiterate."

"Figure of speech," Elliott retorts. "I knew we'd fail if I took the lead. I was doing the group a favor."

The bell rings, signaling the end of the lunch period. I throw away my trash and snake through the crowd. Gemma pulls me aside before I reach the classroom door.

She lowers her voice. "You really thought I was going to bring that up?"

"No," I respond. "Maybe. I don't know."

"I wouldn't, Rose. You can trust me."

I know she's right, but it's impossible not to be on edge about Elliott's secret. If anyone at school found out, he could be expelled or arrested.

Apart from the stares and whispers, the rest of the day is uneventful. Gemma and I walk home after school noticing that Elliott's car is gone from the lot. Since Andre canceled practice, I have the rest of the night to catch up on homework. I send Andre a text when I get home.

ROSE: Hey. It's Rose from Midtown. Do you still want to set up private lessons?

He replies immediately.

ANDRE: Def. Let's do next week.

I let out an excited shout. Seconds later, my dad throws open the door to my bedroom. He pants, "Are you okay?"

"Sorry," I laugh, passing him my phone.

He reads Andre's text, then shakes his head. "You're serious about this?"

I don't get his hesitation. Boxing is a grounding exercise, a coping mechanism. It's something to do that isn't a pile of homework, something I want to do, even if it hurts sometimes. And it's a hell of a lot more effective than talk therapy.

"Dr. Taylor's been monitoring my progress, and you agreed to let me practice, so why is this now a problem?"

"It's not a problem, Rosalyn. I'm being cautious."

Other teenagers can play a sport without caution.

I sigh.

"I thought you were glad that I found something I like."

"I am! The private lessons are generous. I want you to take Andre up on the offer. But you have to be okay with letting go if it becomes too much."

"I'll take things slow," I reassure him. "But boxing is helping me. I can feel it."

He nods. I know he wants the best for me, but sometimes we're on totally different wavelengths.

"I'm proud of you, Rose. Your mom would be, too."

I smile, chuckling under my breath at the thought of my mom attending one of my practices. She hated anything violent, but she would've been proud of me for pursuing something that I love.

"Love you," I say, both to my father and my mom, who I hope can hear me.

"Love you too, kiddo."

On the way out the door, he pauses. There's a spark of hope in his eyes that gives me hope, too.

"Let's work on those college applications soon."

*

"Michael Wall just asked me to prom," Gemma announces after school ends on Tuesday. "In October. Who does that?"

I snort. Most of our school knows that Gemma is gay, especially now that she's been spending so much time with Nishi. Still, guys ask her out all the time, either convinced that they might be able to turn her or too stupid to realize that she's not attracted to them.

"You're a heartbreaker," I sneer.

"No, I'm a lesbian." The sun outside illuminates Gemma in a halo. She tucks her hands into the pockets of her lavender sweatshirt. The red dye in her hair has almost faded completely.

"Well, I hope you told him no," I say. "And don't tell him that I'm available."

"You're available?"

Elliott.I turn around as he approaches, an excited skip in his step.

"Andre texted," he says. "He's sick, so I'm taking his place training you tonight."

He smiles mischievously. Elliott and I alone inside of Midtown Ring. The thought makes my palms sweat.

"Make sure to get a good hit in," Gemma adds with a wink.

Elliott drops his jaw in mock surprise. He sizes her up, lifting his hands into fists.

"Maybe you should train with us?"

Gemma and I break into a fit of laughter. Gemma and boxing don't belong in the same sentence.

"I'm sure that I would look great in gloves, but there's no way in hell I'm letting anyone near my face," she says.

She giggles, then waves goodbye as she leaves the parking lot.

I face Elliott. "I didn't think you wanted to help me be a better fighter. Remember the million times last weekend you made me swear I wouldn't get involved in all the craziness?"

He snorts, as if I've suggested something totally out of left field. "I'm not training you for bare knuckle. You say you want to be a better boxer, right?"

I nod.

"Then let me help you."

We arrive at Midtown Ring in record time thanks to Elliott's reckless driving. The gym is empty. Every footstep echoes from the high walls. Tossing my backpack to the floor, I wrap only my left hand. The broken stitches on my right are a cruel reminder of this past weekend.

"Let's warm up," Elliott instructs.

He plays rock music out of his phone speaker. I stretch to touch my toes, then jump in place to get my blood flowing. Positioning myself in front of the heavy bag, I picture Sofía. She's exactly the type of fighter that I want to be. When she moves, she's quick and effective, always one step ahead of the person in front of her.

I exhale before swinging.

"You're doing that wrong," Elliott says.

He wraps his hand around my elbow, straightening the bend in it. His warm breath on my shoulder makes me shiver.

"Like this," he says, standing behind me, moving his hand from my elbow to my wrist.

I catch his fingers with mine. We stand still, inhaling the same few centimeters of air, until I work up the courage to turn my head toward him. In a flash, Elliott has my back pressed against the exposed brick wall.

He pins my left arm above my head. "First rule. Don't get distracted."

I lean in, tempted to close the distance, but I push my palms against his chest instead. I lift his arm, turning our bodies so he's the one standing against the wall. Elliott smirks as he realizes what I've done.

"I win," I say.

"You cheated!"

"How?"

"You distracted me."

I grab a handful of his T-shirt, pulling the material toward me before kissing him. My right hand travels from his shoulder to his neck, all the way to the back of his buzzed blonde hair. Elliott's lips move from my lips, to my chin, to my collarbone, stopping when he reaches the strap of my sports bra.

"What are you doing Friday?" he asks.

Up close, the ocean color of his eyes is hypnotizing. He's so easy to stare at. And I'm becoming less afraid to do so.

"Nothing," I answer, catching my breath. "Why?"

"There's a party at the lake. Come with me."

"I'm not really—"

"Please," he persists.

It's impossible to make a rational decision when he's standing this close. "Will Harris be there?"

He grimaces. "I don't know. Maybe. I promise—"

"It's fine. I don't want to make decisions based on him."

"He won't get near you," Elliott affirms, in a tone that I know means he's telling the truth. He won't let Harris get close to me. He proved that weeks ago.

"Do you think he thinks about what happened as often as I do?" I ask, more to myself than Elliott.

That question has lingered in my mind every day since the party. Does Harris stay awake at night thinking about what he did? Does he ever regret it?

"No," Elliott states without a semblance of doubt.

Always truthful, even when it hurts.

"But I think he'll get what he deserves."

The sternness in his voice shakes me to my core. I look up.

"Teach me how to fight like you did that night. I want to know how to defend myself."

Elliott opens his mouth, then closes it. After a long moment, he nods. "Okay."

I smile as I step back.

"Get into a supportive stance," he instructs. "You know how to punch, I don't have to teach you that. But one punch isn't going to stop someone as big as him. Let's say he moves forward—"

He steps closer to me and places his fingers around my left wrist. "Slam your hand back toward you. Carefully."

As my arm swings behind my waist, his grip on my wrist releases. I grin. "Nice," I say, "but that's child's play."

"Rose, I'm not going to let you mess up your hand more. We can try again another time."

"C'mon," I plead. "Teach me one more move, and I promise I'll get my hand fixed."

"Are you blackmailing me?"

"I would never," I say sarcastically.

He moves behind me. Lightly, he places his arm around my neck so that my chin meets the inner crook of his elbow. He applies slight pressure. Not enough that I feel threatened but enough to make my heart race. We're closer than before, but this is different.

"Grab my arm with both hands," he says.

Instead of fighting him off, I want to melt into his grip, his rugged chest rising and falling against my back, but I follow his instructions.

"Now tuck your chin and pull as hard as you can."

I give it my best attempt. I don't know if Elliott's going easy on me, but I'm able to escape his choke hold.

I beam. "I did it!"

He nods like he never doubted I would. "Good. Now keep practicing your jab and cross. Left hand only."

I roll my eyes, but I do what he says. I throw jabs and crosses until my arm goes limp. After another hour, we call it quits. My green tank is drenched. I toss my glove into my bag, and we turn off all of the lights. I follow Elliott outside. He locks the door to the gym behind him, slipping the key back into his pocket.

We climb into his black convertible. The first time I sat in this car feels like years ago, even though it's only been a couple of weeks. Elliott turns the car out of the parking lot and onto the main road. The sun is setting, leaves beginning to fall from the trees.

"What are you doing tonight?" I ask.

"My dad is on a work trip, so it'll just be Luke and I."

"What's that like?"

I can't picture Elliott spending any time alone with Luke without one of them actively trying to kill the other.

"We keep our distance. He's usually out anyways."

"Does he work?"

"You don't count illegal fighting as a job?" Elliott snickers. "He's a bouncer at the club on Ponce."

I gasp. I've heard rumors about the Clermont Lounge ever since I learned what a strip club was. "No way. The one with the eighty-year-old strippers?"

"That's the one."

"Wow," I say. "That's . . . something."

Elliott relaxes into the driver's seat, and I lean my head back. Basking in the light of the golden sunset, reveling in how easy this feels. Things haven't come easy for me in a long while. I used to think Elliott was the type of person that I would never be comfortable around, but now I can't imagine not being around him.

"We could hang out?" I suggest.

"I can't. I'm so behind on homework. My dad will murder me if I fail another class."

The rejection stings, but I play it off. "No problem."

He doesn't seem to notice the disappointment on my face when he drops me back home.