Chapter Three

From the outside, Midtown Ring is a total shithole. Some of the letters on the sign have fallen off, so it reads "MIDTN RNG." The only real sign of civilization comes from the chattering of people at the coffee shop next door.

After two minutes of awkwardly standing in the empty parking lot, a red car pulls into a spot near the gym's entrance. A twenty something man with brown skin and teased, bushy coils steps out from the driver's seat. He's dressed in athletic shorts and a tank top that shows off his toned arms. A pair of light green gloves peek out of his backpack. He definitely belongs in a boxing gym. I glance at my own outfit. My converse, jeans, and an oversized hoodie don't exactly scream pro-athlete. I don't even have gloves.

I wait until after the man enters the building before making my way toward it. There are no windows, nothing at all to hint at what might be going on inside. I pause in front of the entrance. Take a deep breath. Shake out my hands. Every rational part of me screams, "turn around and leave!"

But then I think of my father. The hopeful smile on his face when I brought up Dr. Taylor's idea was exactly what he's been waiting for. He would want me to do this.

I want to do this.

I open the door.

The inside of the gym is nicer than the outside. A graffiti mural of two purple boxing gloves covers the exposed brick wall in the back. Weight training equipment is scattered around the perimeter of a boxing ring. The ring itself is massive; the building reeks of sweat and people stronger than me. Punching bags hang from three of Midtown's walls. An enormous weight set takes up the fourth wall. To my left, the man from the parking lot waves.

"Are you here for the class tonight?" he asks.

I survey the rest of the room. A few other lurkers with muscles protruding from their tight clothing watch us. The only other woman here is at least three times my size.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

"Uh, this is the beginner's class, right?"

He chuckles. "Our adult classes are a mix of all skill levels. What's your name?"

"Rose."

He holds out his hand to shake. I do. His grip leaves a mark.

"I'm Andre." He peeks behind my shoulder at my backpack. "Do you go to school nearby?"

"Yeah, I'm a senior at Dekalb."

"Oh! We have a kid in our group from that school. Maybe you know him. He's—"

We both turn around at the sound of the gym door opening. Elliott King, holding a pair of black boxing gloves in his tattooed right hand, strolls inside.

"Right there," Andre finishes.

Kill me.

Andre waves over the one person I've been trying to avoid all day. He has changed out of his school clothes and into gray sweats and a black tank, but it's without a doubt Elliot King. He approaches the two of us with a surprised expression. I calculate the best way to make a quick escape. There's a back door in the corner behind the mural . . .

"Have you two met?" asks Andre.

"Yep," Elliott answers casually.

"Cool. Show her how to wrap?"

He gives Elliott no time to respond before leaving the two of us alone. I open my mouth to try and offer up an explanation as to why I'm here, but Elliott turns and walks off before I'm able to get a word out.

"Come on," he says, motioning toward one of the benches.

He takes a seat beside me, and as he does, I get a whiff of his tank top. Cigarettes. The cheap ones my father used to smoke. Elliott opens his backpack and passes me two long, red strips of cloth.

"I used to do this wrong all the time. Fucked up my knuckles. So, pay attention."

He opens his right hand, exposing a tattoo on his middle finger of the King of Hearts playing card. He slides his thumb through the small loop on the piece of cloth. I do the same. Then, he twists the cloth around his palms.

"Shit," I grumble as my wrap comes undone.

He grabs the cloth and pulls my hand toward him as he ties it around my wrist. His skin is rough and battered, but his touch is gentle.

"You'll get better," he reassures me. Nicotine lingers on his breath.

"Thanks."

Elliott shoves his backpack into one of the lockers that line the area around the gym. I throw my own bag onto the floor, then grab a pair of brown communal boxing gloves from the crate by the locker room. They reek of death. I strap them on tight, but they're still too big.

The group of boxers gather in a semicircle in front of the ring. I stand on the right side of Elliott.

Do you remember what happened? Are you pissed I'm here?

I force myself to turn my attention to other members of the pack. There are six of us in total: Andre, two men—one of which has a stiff, long mustache and shoulder-length locs—a muscular tan-skinned woman, and of course, me and Elliott. We're certainly an eclectic group, but I didn't expect much else from the gym recommended to me by my therapist.

"Everyone, meet Rose," Andre announces.

My cheeks flush as the remainder of the group notices me. The strong woman scans my body and shakes her head.

"Oh, geniál. Una ni?a débil."

She calls me a weakling. She's right. But I don't let on that I understand her. After four years of Spanish class, something was bound to stick.

"Calláte, Sofía!" Andre shouts, nudging her. He faces me. "Sorry. She's not the biggest fan of newcomers."

"I can speak for myself," Sofia interrupts. She looks me up and down again, pursing her lips. "You know, you need muscle for this sport."

My mouth turns dry. Andre talks over her, "You'll get stronger."

Sofía raises her hands in a mock surrender. Mustache guy, noticing my discomfort, flashes a friendly smile. His dark brown skin contrasts with the white of his tank top, making his muscles appear even more defined. He's tall. Stubble lines his cheeks and there are subtle scars across his body. He's definitely been doing this for a long time.

I really don't belong here.

"Rose, why did you decide to try out boxing?" asks Andre.

Well, I was assaulted by my classmate at a party, so I want to learn how to punch someone in the face in case it happens again. Also, my therapist, who I see because I'm probably losing my mind, suggested I come here.

"I need more exercise," I grumble.

"Fair enough."

Andre leads the group in a few stretches. My calves burn from even the slightest movement, but I follow along with the rest of the boxers, not wanting to paint myself as an outcast more than I have. Elliott stands to my right. Our shoulders are only inches away from touching, and I silently hope that my deodorant holds up until the end of practice.

"Line up!" Andre exclaims, herding us toward a heavy bag. I go to the back of the line.

"Give me eight jabs. Rose, just watch for now."

I step aside. Mustache guy goes first. He places his left foot steadily in front of him, bends his elbows and points his chin down. He punches with his left hand, glove bouncing off the bag with a loud snap. It shakes from the force of each hit.

"That's Riley," Andre whispers to me. "He's a doctor at Emory. He's been coming here for years."

A boy closer to my age takes his turn.

"Max is also new."

Max punches with less power than Riley, but his hits are impressive. Next up is Sofía. She uses the perfect combination of strength and precision in her punches. The sharp noise from the impact echoes throughout the gym.

Andre, noticing the shock on my face, muffles a laugh. "Sofía's practically a professional. Don't be intimidated."

Easier said than done.

As Sofía steps away from the bag, she finally smiles at me. It's not comforting.

"And of course, you know Elliott."

He positions himself the same way as the rest of the boxers, but the punches he throws are quieter. They don't shake the room in the same way as Sofia's, but they're thrown with so much power that the whole gym submits into perfect silence.

Elliott is usually obnoxious and noisy to a fault. His punches should be the loudest ones here. I don't have a second to ponder the weirdness of it all before Andre declares that it's my turn to try. I open my mouth to object, but Sofía nudges me forward with her shoulder.

"You got this," Andre says.

I do my best to copy the same stance as Riley: left leg in front, fists curled. Andre touches the bottom of my elbows and moves them upwards toward my chin.

"You want to protect your face," he instructs. "Keep your elbows tight. Aim like you're going for the nose."

What's the point in tightening muscles that barely exist? Just as I'm about to make a beeline for the exit, I think of my father. He would want me to try, even if I might fail. Otherwise, I came here for nothing.

I throw my first jab.

Strength travels from the tips of my toes to my clenched fists. The weighted bag swings slightly when my skin comes into contact with the thick material.

It moved.

It did what I wanted.

The rush of adrenaline and power is sudden and overwhelming, and I find myself relaxing, really relaxing, for the first time in months. Andre breaks into a slow round of applause, followed by the rest of the group.

"I knew you could do it," he says. "You'll only get better from here."

His prideful smile inspires me to keep going. I hit the bag a couple more times to complete the warm-up. Each time, my confidence improves. I feel strong, which is a word I've never used to describe my frail arms.

When I turn back toward the group, Elliott winks.

"You could cause some real damage with a punch like that."

I bow, quietly laughing as I do. Maybe this doesn't have to be weird.

The rest of the lesson passes by in a blur. I watch as the rest of the group does more challenging routines. Andre makes me try out a right hook and an uppercut. I stumble, but Andre brushes it off, claiming again I'll improve with practice.

We end the lesson by watching Sofía and Riley spar. They each have their own strategy that balances the other out. Riley surrenders when Sofia knocks him to the floor, and they both collapse.

"Wow," I whisper.

Elliott takes the place at my side. I pass him the hand wraps.

"Thanks for letting me borrow those."

A bead of sweat drips from his buzzed blonde hair onto his forehead as he tosses the wraps into his bag.

"No problem."

From behind, Andre grabs my right shoulder. The sudden, familiar pressure of the touch makes me shudder. The panic passes in an instant, but not before Elliott notices. He frowns.

So, he does remember.

"Will you be back Wednesday?" Andre asks.

"I think so."

He grins. "Sweet. Rest your muscles!"

He doesn't have to tell me twice. I feel like a worn-out rag doll.

Outside, the wind cools the layer of heat across my body. I make my way through the parking lot, glancing behind me as Elliott climbs into his black convertible. He holds a cigarette in his left hand and uses his right to turn the key in the ignition. I could pick out the sound of his car in a concert of engines. That damn convertible speeds past my bedroom window every morning, music blasting so loud it serves as my alarm.

When I get home, Dad's recliner is empty. He's been taking on extra shifts at work ever since Mom died. I've asked a hundred times to let me help with the bills, but he refuses, insisting school should be my only concern. An untouched box of pizza is waiting on the counter. I shove two pieces of pepperoni into my mouth before heading upstairs to shower.

The hot water soothes my aching muscles. I coat my body in a thick layer of lavender soap to wash away the grime and sweat. Harris's fingerprints across my body fade with the waves of rushing water.

For the first time since Elliott's party, I'm clean.

*

"How was it?"

My father perks up when I walk into the kitchen. He takes a sip of morning coffee from a "World's Best Dad" mug I bought when I was ten. I grab a bottle of Advil from the cabinet and down two. The muscles in my arms haven't stopped hurting since I left the gym yesterday. Collapsing into the chair next to his, I notice the dark circles around his eyes.

"Didn't you work last night? You should sleep—"

"I want to hear about boxing."

I'm glad to relay some good news to him.

"It was great! I tried some punches, and my teacher is cool. The class meets twice a week, so I'll go again on Wednesday."

He pauses mid-sip. "Sorry, did I hear that correctly? My daughter is going to exercise twice in one week?"

I stick out my tongue right as the doorbell rings. "I'll tell you more after school. Get some sleep!"

He nods. I snatch my backpack from the floor of the kitchen and make my way out the front door. Gemma smiles. She's wearing a blue dress with strawberries and blackberries embroidered into the neckline.

"I ran into Nishi after school," she declares.

"Good morning to you too."

She trips down the stairs, cursing in Mandarin under her breath. I grab a hold of her arm to steady her.

"Heels," she spits. The extra inch of height from the shoes makes her tower above me. "We talked for like three hours," she continues, not missing a beat, "I think it became a date, but I didn't ask."

She stops walking, opens her mouth, and frowns in horror.

"Should I have asked?"

"You're asking me for relationship advice?"

The two of us are polar opposites when it comes to relationships. Gemma dates around, while I've only ever dated her. When we met at homecoming, only weeks before my mother's death, I thought she was the most beautiful person I'd ever seen. There was an undeniable attraction between us, but I was terrified of my own feelings. Gemma talked to me about her experiences with girls from her hometown like it was the most casual thing in the world.

"I'm so scared!" I admitted.

She giggled. "Rose, it's just a kiss. You don't have to be scared."

"But what if I mess up? What if it's weird?"

"Do you want me to kiss you?"

"What?" I asked, eyes widening.

"You know. To get it over with."

I froze, contemplating the idea of Gemma kissing me. She was gorgeous, and I thought she might like me, and I didn't want to screw it up. My heart was racing so fast I thought it might explode. All I could do was nod. Gemma grinned, then leaned in and pressed her lips to mine. It was the opposite of terrifying. It was wonderful.

Weeks later, we both got drunk at a friend's birthday party. I kissed her, and her lips tasted like honey and strawberry lip gloss.

"We should try this," Gemma said. "Being together. Right?"

Right? Didn't we owe it to ourselves after months of friendship? I agreed, but it went downhill quickly. Our conversations were suddenly awkward, like we needed to start our friendship over but on completely different terms. We decided after only five days of "dating" that we made better friends. Both of us were so relieved that the other felt the same that we agreed to never try anything like it again.

"Hello? Earth to Rose?"

Gemma's voice snaps me out of the memory.

"Sorry."

"What did you do after school?"

I tell her the truth, as crazy as it sounds. "I took a boxing class at the place downtown. Elliott King was there."

Gemma gasps. "Boxing? Since when are you into that?"

"Since yesterday, I guess."

The sharp sound of an engine revving stops me in my tracks. I recognize it immediately.

"Speak of the devil," Gemma murmurs.

We watch as Elliott's black BMW approaches the stop sign, rap music blasting through the open windows. He takes a drag of a cigarette. In the passenger seat, holding his free hand with hers, is Maddy Davis. Her blonde hair, curled to perfection, floats wildly in the wind. Elliott doesn't check for pedestrians before speeding through the stop sign.

"Believe it or not, he was actually pretty nice."

Gemma sneers. "I don't believe it."

We make plans to hang out later in the week before splitting up for class. I spend the morning doodling over my notes, rendering them useless. In English class, Mr. Ruse looks suspiciously like he's dead. I'm relieved when he blinks. He breaks into an enthusiastic smile once the bell rings.

I'm the only one to smile back.

"I hope you all are working on your poetry assignment."

Maddy leans over and whis pers in Elliott's ear. He smirks, muttering something back to her, but not quietly enough to get away with it. Mr. Ruse locks in on them.

"Did you pick a poem, Luke?" he asks.

I vaguely remember seeing Elliott's older brother, Luke, at school last year before he graduated. They could have been mistaken for twins if not for Elliott's array of tattoos. Luke was even more of a ladies' man than his brother.

"Sorry, wrong King," Mr. Ruse grumbles. "Elliott?"

"Yeah," he barks, "I read ‘Fire and Ice' by Jack Frost."

"Robert Frost."

"Whatever."

Elliott sinks farther into his chair. He taps his foot against the floor.

"Did you like it?"

"Sure," he says, monotone. "If you like watching paint dry."

Ruse's eyebrows furrow. My gaze drifts to the bottom of Elliott's desk. His hands, littered with healing scabs, grip the bottom of the wood.

Ruse presses on. "Well, which do you think it will be?"

Elliott plays off his agitation, but I can tell he's uncomfortable. He must have the lowest GPA of the entire school. "What?"

"The end of the world. What will destroy it?"

"Fire," Elliott replies, unflinching. "I think everything will burn."

Ruse doesn't ask him any more questions. Elliott's grip on the desk loosens. He stays quiet for the rest of our class discussion, only occasionally making comments at inappropriate times. I do my best to concentrate on Ruse, but as always recently, my attention drifts to my phone.

GEMMA: Coffee after school?

I'm so distracted by answering Gemma's text that I crash into someone on my way out of the classroom door. The impact of our bodies knocks the wind from my chest. I turn to apologize, but the words disappear when I realize who it is.

Colorless eyes stare into mine. I could never forget that cold stare.

"Careful," he hisses.

Harris Price, dressed in the same football jersey he was wearing at Elliott's party, examines me. I stand frozen in place for at least a full minute before I disintegrate.

I need to leave, but my feet won't budge.

Harris observes me with the utmost curiosity, like I'm a specimen to be studied. I can only put together one coherent thought: I can't do this again. Not in front of the entire school.

I scream at my body to listen to my brain, commanding my legs to work. The women's bathroom is around the corner. If I can make it there, Harris can't touch me.

Laughter erupts from the doorway to Ruse's classroom. Elliott walks out with a different girl than Maddy at his side. His laughter fades when he notices Harris.

Please, I beg my feet. Please move.

I've never been able to describe my anxiety to my dad. Every time I try, he doesn't understand the panic isn't entirely in my head. I wish he could see me now, with my hands shaking and my face ghostly white, so he might finally understand how physical this truly is.

An eternity later, my feet finally move again. I sprint away from Harris, Elliott, and the other students into the bathroom.

I count. It helped last time. Didn't it?

One.

My own words play back to me,"I haven't had a panic attack since I started it."

Two.

How stupid was I to think that boxing might somehow fix this?

Three.

A few girls watch as I push my way into an empty stall. I heave into the toilet. There's nothing in my stomach, but I still try to rid myself of the weight in my body. Tears drip down my cheeks, and my vision goes white. I crash onto the floor and throw my head between my knees, trying once again to practice Dr. Taylor's damn breathing exercise that never works.

"Rose?"

The dizziness fades when I finally let go. My movements still as the world around me fades into darkness.