Chapter Eight

A fight club.

Not a movie set, not a hallucination, and not a nightmare.

What I saw was real, so real that I can still taste the sweaty air on my tongue during the train ride home. He's insane. Absolutely, undeniably crazy. I am not the only person in this town who needs therapy.

I spend the rest of the night replaying through every interaction that Elliott and I have ever had, noticing pieces of the truth within each memory. The mysterious phone call must have been about the fight club. In the early morning, I comb through the darkest parts of the internet, but I find nothing except weirdly specific biographical facts about Brad Pitt and Edward Norton. Fight Club was apparently a pretty popular movie back in the 90's. When I finally get to sleep, my dreams are plagued with violence.

My phone vibrating wakes me up from my restless night of sleep. I answer the call.

"I'm outside."

It's Gemma, and she sounds like she's been waiting for a while. Cursing under my breath, I glance at the time on the screen: 8:00 a.m. I should've been up thirty minutes ago.

"Give me five," I grumble.

I tie my hair into a bun, pop a Prozac, then toss my backpack across my shoulder. The pocket of the green sweatshirt that I fell asleep in hides my injured hand, so I don't bother changing out of it.

Gemma's lips part when she takes in the sight of me. "You look . . . tired."

That's her nice way of saying that I look like absolute crap. I pluck some hair from my bun to frame my face, but I can tell from her displeased expression that it doesn't help.

"I fell asleep doing homework," I lie.

I still haven't processed what I witnessed last night.

Elliott will want to talk, maybe try to explain it away or swear me to secrecy, but I don't know if I want an explanation. The blood on the floor of the gym was a warning for me to stay as far away from him as possible.

"Nishi's mom found out she went to Alex's party and took away her phone."

"What?" I ask. "How did she know?"

"Tracked her. I'm so glad my parents don't understand technology."

My dad could probably figure out how to track my phone if he wanted to, but he's never been the type of parent to breathe down my neck. Only recently have I had a reason to go behind his back.

As Gemma and I pass by Elliott's house, I gulp. His car isn't parked in the driveway, which means he must already be at school.

"Why doesn't Elliott walk to class like the rest of us?" Gemma asks. "He lives two seconds away."

"As if he'd be caught dead doing that. Such a waste of gas."

"I guess it's hard to care when you're made of money."

Gemma's parents own a grocery store on the corner, but they've been slowly losing customers ever since a bigger chain went up down the street. Most of Atlanta's small businesses are suffering a similar fate.

"How is your mom doing?" I ask.

"Fine. Still trying to set me up with Jeremy Toh. I finally told her he's in rehab."

At least he's not part of a fight club.

"Now who will you say you're with when you're actually out with Nishi?"

"My best friend, who will lie to my mom if she calls to confirm."

"Genius."

As we approach the entrance to the school, my thumbs twiddle within the pocket of my sweatshirt. Elliott won't mention what I saw in front of everyone, but he might try to poison my lunch or run me over with his car.

"See you at lunch," I say, taking a step through the door.

None of my worries come to fruition because Elliott isn't at school. A few of his girlfriends stare longingly at his empty desk while Mr. Ruse lectures about eighteenth-century poets. At lunch, Elliott's still nowhere to be found.

Maybe he's hurt.

Anything might have happened after I left Midtown Ring last night. Did he fight more? Visuals of Elliott's limbs twisted in unnatural poses fill me with dread.

"You okay?" Gemma questions.

"Do you have Elliott's number?" The words come out before I can stop them.

"What for? Nudes?" she teases.

"No!" Blush paints my cheeks. "I want to check in, okay?"

Gemma texts me his contact number, and I send him a message. After a few minutes pass with no answer, I assume I'm never getting one.

By lunch time the next day, Elliott still hasn't returned to school. I send another text that goes unanswered, and the anxious pit in my stomach grows substantially. I force myself to swallow down a bite of turkey sandwich, but images of his body decomposing in the Midtown Ring dumpster make the task difficult.

"Did you get your phone back?" I ask Nishi, trying to distract myself.

Nishi shakes her head. Gemma pouts, "Lame."

"I'm never sneaking out again," says Nishi.

"Oh, you'll sneak out again. You just won't get caught."

Gemma leans into Nishi's shoulder. As she does, she glances toward Elliott's usual spot. "Still no sign of him?"

"Nope," I reply.

"Maybe you should check in."

"How? He won't answer my texts."

She waves me off as if the answer is obvious. "Why don't you knock on his door? You do live next door, don't you?"

Honestly, it doesn't sound like the worst idea in the world, but what if Elliott were to answer? He would be even angrier with me for following him around again. Then I can add stalker to my list of nicknames.

"Fine." I resign. "If he misses another day, I'll go to his house."

Elliott's car is still missing from the parking lot by the time the school day ends. I half expect to find it in the lot outside of Midtown, but all the spots are empty except for Andre's truck and a few coffee shop patrons.

The gym is eerie after what I witnessed Monday night. There's nothing left to imply that anyone was ever here after hours, not even a single new scratch on the floor of the ring. Elliott was the only person I recognized, but there were too many faces to have possibly seen them all. What if someone else from practice was there? Glancing around the room, I narrow my gaze on Riley and Sofía, but neither of them pay me any attention.

I focus on the cardio and bag routines that Andre assigns the class. Even after these last few weeks of practice, I'm so much stronger than I was. The bag moves farther each time I throw a punch, and with every wide swing, I breathe a little easier.

"Careful."

Sofía interrupts my movements. My right hand, the one still coated in bloodied bandages, trembles inside my boxing glove. Fire rages from my fingers through my wrist. I didn't realize I was using it.

"Thanks," I whisper before collapsing onto one of the benches.

Without Elliott's snarky comments, Midtown Ring is quiet. I keep expecting to hear his applause when someone lands a complicated move, but I'm greeted with nothing but silence. It's a lot easier to focus without him watching me, but considering the state of my hand, I'm not sure if that's such a good thing.

"I've registered all of us for a competition," Andre announces toward the end of the evening. "Next weekend, in Savannah."

The group cheers and high-fives each other. I slip away from the crowd. I can't compete. I can barely throw a cross without falling on my face. Swallowing the sour disappointment in my throat, I turn my back to the group, but Andre catches my arm before I make it to the door.

"You'll be ready to compete in the next beginners tournament," he states. "I'll make sure of it. Let Savannah be a learning experience. Okay?"

I'm only a newbie. It wouldn't make sense to go up against someone with twice the amount of experience, but I still crave the challenge of an opponent. I can pick and choose what happens to the bag, unlike my thoughts and reactions to anxiety, but right now my opponent is an immovable object. I want something—or someone—I can knock out.

"Okay," I agree. "I'll be ready."

And I will be. I promise myself that I'll at least try to commit to getting good enough to fight, if not for my own sake, for my father's and Dr. Taylor's.

Elliott still hasn't answered my texts by the time I get home from Midtown, and the silence is maddening. I just need one word, one reaction or emoji to prove to me that he's at least alive. I check his Instagram feed, but there are no updates.

Tossing my phone onto the counter, I sit on the bathroom floor and peel the stained bandages off my hand. The injury is more gruesome than before. On top of the healing cuts on my knuckles from the glass is a range of purple bruises. Dried blood and scabs fill the gaps between the sliced-up pieces of skin. I run my hand under the shower water to wash away some of the red. The heat seeps into my wounds, creating a ripple effect of pain.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror.

Behind me, a face appears so close to my hair that she may as well be touching it. My mom. A fuzzy outline. A version of her with wrinkles and graying hair that I never got to see, but it's her.

I stop moving. My hand burns. But with every sting, the details of her face become less blurry. I don't dare turn around—she's not there, not actually there, she can't be there, but if she was, and I tried to look at her, she would disappear again—and I don't want her to disappear.

I can't think. The pain is too much. In one quick movement, I pull my hand out of the sink. My skin blazes red, the cuts throbbing.

"Shit!"

I slab on Neosporin and wrap my skin in a fresh layer of bandages. Behind me, the bathroom is empty. No footprints, no blurred outlines of my mom, or weird apparitions. I wonder if this is what Dr. Taylor calls derealization. My mom fell into a spiral of it for days at a time. She told Dad and I that she didn't feel real. I never fully got what that meant until now. Medicine helped Mom sometimes, but Dr. Taylor will notice if I double up on my Prozac without asking. Maybe I just need more sleep. I grab a bottle of melatonin from downstairs and store it in my bedroom for later.

Dad makes it home before sunset. He cooks a mountain of pasta that makes my stomach growl. I shove down half the bowl before speaking.

"You mentioned that Damon King wasn't really around a lot?"

My dad lifts his head at the sound of Damon's name. I can't read his expression, but he doesn't seem particularly excited to be discussing Elliott's father.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Did he leave town often? Like, to take the kids camping for the week?"

Dad chuckles, apparently amused by the question.

"Never. When you were young, your mom tried to invite Elliott with us on a weekend to the Smokies. Damon wouldn't even consider it."

When I spent the night at Elliott's, I asked him why his house was deserted.

He told me that his family was away on a camping trip.

*

Two tall, white columns hold up the roof of the King house. The old Southern architecture, now refurbished, attracts tourists and photographers on occasion. All of the houses in our neighborhood have unique features, but Elliott's stands out from the rest. The columns resemble what I imagine one might design for a throne room, the towering rose bushes guarding a palace fit for kings.

It's Thursday and Elliott didn't show up to school again, so, after some convincing from Gemma and Nishi, I decided to act on my promise to pay his house a visit. The only car parked, a silver Range Rover, doesn't belong to him, but I knock anyway.

Nobody answers.

As I'm turning to leave, I'm greeted by a face remarkably similar to Elliott's. The boy in the doorway is about my age, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a pointed chin. A few freckles line the top of his cheeks and nose.

"Um, hi," I stutter. "I was wondering if Elliott is home?"

The boy smiles curiously. He seems friendly enough.

"He's on his way back right now. Do you want to wait inside?"

Phew. Elliott's okay. Not dead. That's all I needed to know.

"It's okay—"

He interrupts, "I insist."

He steps out of the way, leaving room for me to enter the house that I've become a little too familiar with. He holds out his hand, and I shake with my left. His grip is unusually tight.

"I'm Luke."

Luke King, Elliott's brother. The one that everyone tried to hook up with last year before he graduated. I've been so caught up in Elliott's drama, I forgot his brother existed.

"Rose," I utter.

Luke guides me to the kitchen. I take a seat at the end of the table, in the same chair I sat in when I ate pancakes last weekend. Elliott's brother crosses the kitchen. He has a commanding presence, an aura to him that radiates power and domination, but not in quite the same way as Elliott. I can't put my finger on it. He pours two cups of water and passes one to me. I take a sip, trying to wash down my nerves.

"So, how do you guys know each other?" Luke inquires, rhythmically tapping his fingers against the marble tabletop. He takes the seat across from me. His posture is rigid, as if he might spring out of his chair at any second. It puts my anxiety into overdrive.

"We're in the same English class. I'm helping him with a paper."

"Is his writing that unbearable?"

I laugh awkwardly. "Not unbearable. He just needs some help with grammar."

Luke presses on. "Is he paying you?"

"No."

"So, he's fucking you, then?"

I spit out my drink. Luke's face remains perfectly serious. The sound of the front door opening startles both of us.

"Excuse me," barks Luke. He exits the kitchen abruptly.

I remain frozen in place, unsure of what to do. Something feels wrong. I shouldn't have come here without Elliott knowing.

From across the house, Luke shouts, "We have company!"

Elliott, Luke, and Damon King enter the kitchen before I can make a run for it. The first thing I notice is the skin around Elliott's right eye. It's a gruesome purple color, swollen and puffy to the point where his vision must be constricted. His upper lip is split and scabbed.

No wonder he hasn't been at school.

Elliott stares me down, probably trying to figure out exactly why I'm sitting in his kitchen. Damon King towers over both of his children. He shares the same piercing features as Elliott and Luke—triangular chin, blue irises, and muscular arms. The only difference is his hair, a caramel brown rather than blonde.

"You're Doris Berman's daughter, aren't you? Rosalyn?" Damon asks.

The sound of my mom's name on his lips makes my heart skip a beat.

"Yes," I respond. "I go by Rose. I'm here to help Elliott with his essay."

Elliott plays along with the lie. "Right. Did you want to go to—"

Damon cuts him off, "Would you like to stay for dinner?"

Judging by the tone of his voice, I don't think I'm allowed to say no.

"Elliott's never brought a girl home," Damon continues. "You must be pretty special."

He walks over to the dining table and pulls food out of a bag that I now recognize to be from Simone's. Elliott grabs a few plates from the cabinet, dishes clashing together. Each of the men takes a seat: Elliott across from me, Luke to my right, and Damon at the head of the table. Luke scoops a mountain of orange chicken onto his plate. I wait for everybody else to take their turn before doing the same.

As I reach for the serving spoon, Elliott catches my eye with his. The swelling is worse up close. He parts his lips, as if to whisper something to me, but his voice catches in his throat when Damon speaks.

"Is this food okay with you?" he asks.

I grin. "Of course. Simone's is the best in town."

"I actually gave them some money to start up. I'm a proud investor in local businesses."

Lawyer and investor. No wonder he lives in a mansion.

"My law firm has a lot of work opportunities available for next year. Maybe you can join us since you're such an impressive writer?"

"Rose will be busy with college," Elliott interrupts.

"But I'm mainly applying locally."

Elliott glares at me.

"Can't say the same, can you?" Damon asks his son. There's no compassion in his voice.

"Nope," Elliott replies.

Luke chews on his food like it's popcorn, and we're the movie. Elliott stands up from his chair. I drop my fork at the screeching sound of wood sliding against tile.

"Thanks for dinner," Elliott says to nobody in particular. "Rose, are you ready to study?"

I exhale. "Definitely. Thanks for dinner, Mr. King."

"You can call me Damon."

I pick up my plate, but before I can step away from the table, Luke lunges. His hand wraps around my right wrist, and he hardens his grip, preventing me from moving. His long, tattered fingers dig into the bandages hidden beneath my flannel, and I wince at the pressure on my open wound.

What the hell?

"You've hardly eaten anything," Luke hisses.

Elliott is at my side in a second. His shoulders stiffen, eyebrows tensing into a straight line as he demands, "Let go of her."

Despite Elliott's threatening tone, Luke doesn't release me. Damon, unbothered, picks up his plate, walks it to the sink, turns on the faucet and begins scrubbing. Luke's pale hand slides up from my wrist to my forearm. The cloth of my shirt moves with him, revealing the bloody cloth dangling around my skin. Elliott's eyes widen.

He's across the room in an instant. He slams his brother into the wall, elbow pressed against Luke's throat. I jump backward. Both of their movements slow. Everyone falls into perfect stillness, and everything is quiet, except for the sound of water rushing from the sink and the pounding in my ears.

The suspense is broken by Luke's sudden fit of laughter. It's a loud, guttural noise that sounds more animal than human.

"You're totally hung up on her." He marvels, grinning at his brother. "I don't believe it."

Elliott spits against Luke's cheek. The weight of Luke's words takes a moment to register, and when they finally do, I don't know how to react.

"Are you done?" Elliott hisses.

To my surprise, Luke nods. He relaxes against the wall. Elliott releases his elbow and takes a slow step away from his brother. The picture frame behind Luke crashes onto the tile. Glass spills in all directions of the room, but Elliott doesn't flinch. He opens his mouth, but I'm already out the front door.

Elliott follows at my heels. "What happened to your hand?" he asks.

He reaches for my hand, but I jerk my arm away.

"Seriously? You're asking about that?" I exclaim in disbelief. "Tell me what the hell just happened in there!"

Elliott pauses. He looks toward the front door. Nobody follows.

"I'll explain," he starts, ". . . but not here. Come on."

He moves toward the black convertible, now parked at the bottom of the driveway. The clouds above his head are dark, and a boom of thunder shakes the neighborhood. It will be pouring any second now.

I freeze.

If I get into the car with him, I'm going to learn something that I'm not sure I want to know.

He's bad news. You've met the man who raised him. You know how wrong this is.

I think back to the moments during practice where he took extra time to teach me something even when Andre hadn't asked him to. His tone was patient and compassionate, a sharp contrast to what I heard from his family tonight. As much as it terrifies me, there's something about Elliott that I can't shake. His brother might be an empty shell, but he's far from it.

Elliott turns the key in the ignition, and I buckle up.

"Why did you come over?" he asks.

"You weren't at school, and you never texted me back."

"Well you shouldn't have shown up at my house."

I roll my eyes, but he keeps talking. "Or followed me the other night. What the hell was that?"

"Really?" I snap. "If you're going to act like a child, then let me out of the car."

The veins in Elliott's hand threaten to pop. He swings the steering wheel, the car reversing with a screech out of the driveway.

"Luke won't touch you again," he mutters, this time more to himself than me.

He lets out a shaky breath and speeds through a red light. Ahead of us is the parking lot of Midtown Ring. Elliott pulls the convertible into a spot close to the front, then grabs a silver key from the cupholder. I follow him. The key unlocks the back door to the gym.

He's at one of the punching bags in an instant, throwing his fist into the hard material with enough force to shake the ground beneath our feet. The scabs on his knuckles bleed as skin comes into contact with leather.

"Elliott," I say, in the calmest tone I can muster. "Stop."

He chuckles and it reminds me of Luke. Again, he raises his fist, but I grab his wrist midair, stopping his movements. Beads of sweat drip down his forehead as he rotates his body toward mine, chest heaving from the weight of his tattered breaths. We're standing close enough that I can see every detail of the tiny broken blood vessels surrounding his right eye.

We breathe in the same few inches of air for what feels like an eternity, until Elliott drops his arm back to his side. My fingers remain wrapped around his wrist.

"What happened?" Elliott whispers, examining my battered hand.

"I punched the mirror in my bedroom." If I expect the truth from Elliott, he deserves the same from me. "I'm sure you know what happened last year."

"I haven't heard it from you," he replies.

I tell him about that day in March, only months away from the end of junior year, when I had the worst panic attack of my life. One second, I was presenting in front of the class, and the next, I was surrounded by a group of EMT's. They told me I lashed out when my calculus teacher tried to help me. They told me that I forgot my own name, my identity. It was a miracle that I came back to myself when I did. That was the day the Psycho nickname started, courtesy of Harris Price, who was sitting in the front row when it all happened.

"My mother had severe panic attacks, too," I say, finishing the story. He softens, which makes the next part easier to get out. "She killed herself. That's why I was so surprised when your dad brought her up."

A frustrated sigh escapes his lips. "My father has a talent of bringing up the one thing you don't want to hear."

"He's not the first one to ask. All I've wanted since that day was to go back to normal. Boxing helps. I like being in charge of my own strength."

"You're not going to be able to keep practicing if you don't get this looked at, Rose."

Elliott leads me to a bench in the back corner of the room. Carefully, he peels the bandage off my hand. My skin stings as the sticky cloth breaks away from it. Most of the cuts are swollen and irritated. It's infected.

"There might be glass stuck in there."

"Elliott—" I start.

"It's not going to heal itself."

"I—"

"You need a doctor. I'll take you tomorrow."

"Elliott," I say again, louder this time.

He finally stops talking. I wish I could sit here and play out this fantasy, ignore everything else that happened and let myself feel for him what I think I'm starting to. But I can't. Not if he's not willing to tell me the truth about what I discovered the other night, or whatever just went down in his kitchen.

"You need to tell me what's going on," I assert. "What did I walk into on Monday?"

He tenses. "I think you already know the answer to that."

As insane as the idea of a real-life fight club is, I can't help but feel relieved that it wasn't all in my head.

"Then tell me why," I demand. "Why are you doing it?"

He doesn't answer.

I point to the bruise on his lip. "Is that from Monday?"

Again, he doesn't reply.

"Your father?"

"Rose," he says. "I can't."

The despair on his face is enough to confirm my suspicions about Damon, but I still have no answers to the rest of my questions. I clench my jaw.

"Then take me home."

"What?"

I stand up from my spot on the bench, tossing the bloodied bandage into the garbage. "If you're not going to give me any answers, I'm not going to keep asking for them. Take me home."

Elliott opens his mouth like he might argue, then shuts it just as quickly. He guides me out of the gym without another word. We drive back to our neighborhood in silence; the only sound is the humming of the radio. I don't know what would make Elliott feel as if he can't trust me, the girl that nobody would believe regardless of the circumstances. The rejection stings more than I care to admit.

"Go to the doctor," Elliott suggests. "For your hand."

I get out of the car without replying.

I want to run upstairs to my bedroom and lock the door. I want to hit something, but I can't even punch the air before my dad notices me walk in.

"Where have you been?" he asks.

I bottle up my anger and force my feet toward the kitchen. He passes me a bowl of rice and beans, but I don't tell him I've already eaten.

"I went to Elliott's house to help him with an essay. You were right about Damon being unapproachable. He told me I look like Mom."

My dad freezes, putting the spoon in his hand back onto the table.

"You spoke with him?"

"Yeah. Only for a few minutes."

My wrist throbs from the spot that Luke grabbed. After shoving a few spoonfuls of food into my mouth, I slip out of the kitchen and lock myself in my bathroom. The yellow skin of my arm is something out of a horror movie. My stomach grumbles at the sickening color. I don't want to appease Elliott, but I know that he's right. I pick up my phone and dial the receptionist at Grady Hospital.

"I need to make an appointment."