Straight Punch (10 page)

Chapter Fifteen

On the night of the open house, New Directions was so crowded it felt more like a bus station than a school.

I recognized some of the visitors from the neighborhood. A couple who lived up the street and grew tomatoes in their tiny front garden. An elderly woman I'd seen out with a wobbly shopping cart. A man wearing a beret. I'd noticed him a couple of streets over, walking his cat on a leash. (It's hard
not
to notice someone walking a cat on a leash.) A young couple with two kids, both wearing
Cat in the Hat
T-shirts. Some teenagers I'd seen smoking outside the metro station.

Some of our parents had come too. Mom was there, and I appreciated how she was giving me my space. She'd squeezed my hand when she first saw me, not hugged or kissed me in an embarrassing way. I'd introduced her to Miss Lebrun, who was sitting behind her desk next to Mr. Turner. The two of them were handing out brochures and talking about academics at the school. “We have a very high success rate,” I heard Mr. Turner say.

At first, I worried Mom wouldn't have anyone to talk to, but when I spotted her next, she was talking to a couple who seemed about her age. The man was tall and distinguished-looking. There was a little gray at his temples, but when he laughed, his face turned boyish. The woman looked like a model in a Ralph Lauren ad—pretty without trying to be. They didn't look like they belonged at New Directions. Then again, neither did Mom.

Randy tapped my elbow. By now, I recognized his touch. It was just the right combination of soft and strong. He was wearing boxing shorts and a mesh singlet that showed off his biceps.

“Aren't you supposed to be downstairs, getting ready to spar?” I asked him.

“I…uh…came to get some ice for my water bottle. Hey”—for a second, his fingertips grazed my elbow, making it hard for me to think—“thanks for talking to Di. You were good with her.”

We both looked over at Di and Jasmine. They were standing in the hallway, greeting people as they walked in and handing out the program for the evening. Di was wearing her peasant blouse. Her face was glowing. You'd never guess that a few hours earlier, she'd been crumpled up on the floor, sobbing.

“No problem,” I said to Randy. “You were good with her too. It couldn't have been easy telling her all that. Sal sounds like a total asshole. What I don't get is why girls fall for guys like him.”

Randy shrugged. “Beats me. Some girls are weird that way.”

“Speaking of weird girls, I don't see your fan club.”

“Fan club?” But I could tell from the way he tried not to smile that he knew what I meant. He waved the back of his hand in the air. “Oh, them,” he said. “I didn't tell them…about the open house. They're just a bunch of silly girls.”

“Hey, good luck later. Where's Whisky anyway? I haven't seen him.”

“He phoned Big Ron to say he was on his way.” Randy looked away a moment. Was he worried Whisky might show up drunk? I decided it was better not to ask.

“Your parents coming?” I asked instead.

“They're here,” Randy said. “Talking to that nice-looking older lady in the stripes.”

“You're kidding. Those are your parents?”

“Uh-huh, but do me a favor…don't tell anyone.”

“Your secret's safe with me. About that nice-looking older lady in the stripes—she's my mom. So how come you don't want anyone to know they're your parents? They seem perfectly respectable. Don't tell me they have a cat they walk on a leash.”

Randy laughed. He must have recognized the guy with the beret too.

Randy's mom waved at him from across the room.

Randy waved back, but only a small wave, like the Queen of England in her limo. “She's a…doctor,” Randy said. “So's my dad. What'd you call them? Respectable? It's a good word. They don't drink. They don't beat me up or steal my money. You're right. They're respectable.”

It was the longest speech I'd ever heard Randy make.

Across the room, my mom was smiling at something Randy's mom had said. My mom could be annoying, but she also didn't drink or beat me or steal my money. She also never put me in foster care. “My mom's like that too,” I told Randy. “Respectable. I guess we're lucky.”

“We
are
lucky.” Randy smiled into my eyes, and I wondered if he was flirting with me. “But I wouldn't go advertising it. Not around here.”

I knew what he meant. At New Directions, having respectable parents was like a lunar meteorite—one of the most rare rocks on Earth.

Mr. Turner clapped to get everyone's attention, but there
was so much talking, no one heard him. So Randy stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Then he called out, “Yo!” and the whole first floor of New Directions got so quiet, you'd think we were writing a math exam.

Mr. Turner took a bow. Apparently, he didn't realize how dorky that looked. “I want to welcome you all to New Directions. We appreciate that you've come to show your support.”

Which made me wonder if anyone there had really come to show support. Were there spies for the neighborhood group in the room too? I had a feeling there probably were.

After Mr. Turner's short welcome, everyone headed down to the gym. There were so many people, I could hardly breathe going down the staircase.

Randy and Whisky were sitting side by side on a bench. Big Ron gestured for everyone to come in. He'd set up folding chairs in front of the boxing ring. There weren't enough chairs, so some people had to stand. When Di yawned several times in a row, a man offered her his seat.

I wasn't surprised when Big Ron wanted to say a few words too. “People around here,” he began, “call me Big Ron—for obvious reasons.” There was some uncomfortable laughter when he said that. “I want to clear up a misconception about boxing. Most people think boxing is about violence. What they don't understand is, there's a big difference between raging violence and competitive, controlled violence.

“When I was a young man, many moons ago”—again, there was some laughter from the audience—“you know who taught boxing to guys like me? Cops.” Big Ron paused to let the audience absorb this information “…and priests.” He paused again. “I kid you not. You know what those cops and priests understood? That young people need to channel their aggression, and boxing is a good way to do that. Which is why, tonight, I'm going to be offering a series of five-minute boxing lessons. I want you people to get a feel for what it's like to box. So you can be a better judge of what's going on here at New Directions.”

Someone in the audience clapped. Someone else said, “I'd never do it. Never.”

Big Ron asked everyone interested in a mini-lesson to form a line. In no time, he had about a dozen people. The first was the man with the beret. I thought Big Ron would start the guy in front of the mirrored wall, the way he'd started us, but I guess he was looking to make a more dramatic impression. He handed the guy a pair of boxing gloves and brought him over to one of the punching bags.

“I'm gonna teach you a straight punch,” Big Ron told the guy. “You need to make a good fist. And don't go hitting the bag too hard.”

Big Ron watched as the guy swung at the bag. On his first try, his beret went flying off his head. I tried not to laugh.

When the guy looked over at his beret, Big Ron told him not to bother with it. “You don't need a fancy hat like that in my gym. Okay, so you're gonna throw with your left hand, then your right. And I'm gonna count. You ready?”

The guy nodded. I wondered if he was already too winded to talk.

“One!” Big Ron called.

Bam, bam, bam.

I'd only been boxing since the end of August. When had the sound of punching stopped bothering me?

The guy made it to ten. Then Big Ron made him do a second set of ten straight punches, this time without stopping. By the time the guy got to four, there were giant sweat stains on his T-shirt. I guessed walking his cat wasn't giving him much of an aerobic workout. The guy slumped over when he was done.

“So tell me something—how do you feel now?” Big Ron asked him. Big Ron turned around. I knew it was because he wanted to make sure he had an audience.

One of the grade tens handed the guy a water bottle. The guy opened it and took a long swig. “I feel,” the guy said, “like I have nothing left. I'm weak as a kitten.”

I figured if he was using a cat simile, it was probably a good sign.

Jasmine had come to stand next to me. “Do you think he's got his cat outside, tied to a fire hydrant?” I asked her.

“Probably. Let's just hope Ruger doesn't find out. He'd chase that cat across the Metropolitan Highway.”

Ruger was at the open house too. Big Ron had tried to get Di to leave the dog at the foster home, but she said she couldn't. When Di told him it was because Ruger had “abandonment issues,” Big Ron had laughed and asked, “You sure you're not talking about yourself, Lady Di?”

I didn't see the woman from next door come in. I only spotted her when Big Ron was about halfway through the lineup of people who wanted to box. Because I figured I should do my bit for public relations, I went over and introduced myself. “Hi,” I said, reaching out to shake her hand. “I'm Tessa McPhail. We've met before.”

Her fingers felt rough, maybe from the sewing. She could've told me her name then, but she didn't. Maybe she was still miffed about her sunflowers.

“I thought Eddie might want to come tonight.”

Her eyes—they were a steely gray—met mine. “How do you know my son's name?”

I decided not to say that Randy and I had already met Eddie. “I've heard you call for him. Sound really travels around here…”

She shook her head. “Tell me about it. I work from home. Sometimes you kids make such a racket, I can't sew straight. Eddie's at his study group. He goes to St. William's.” She straightened her back when she said the school name.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” I said.

I was congratulating myself on having successfully chatted up Eddie's mother when I heard a shriek. She had gone and opened the door to Big Ron's office—probably snooping, or maybe she thought it was the washroom, or who knows why—and seen Ruger. “Oh my god, that pit bull—it's in here. Those dogs are killers!”

Di came running over. “Ruger's the sweetest dog you'll ever meet,” she said. I was hoping no one would ask how Ruger got his name.

Big Ron came to see what the fuss was about. “Ruger's a good dog, ma'am. In fact, most people want to eat
him
up.” Big Ron chuckled at his own joke. The woman didn't.

Big Ron tapped Di on the arm. “Why don't you get Ruger to sing?” he asked her.

Di had been scratching Ruger behind the ears. “I love you, Ruger,” she crooned.

Ruger looked up at Di and started making noises that sounded a lot like “I love you.”

Some of the visitors laughed and a few others clapped. “I didn't know dogs could do that,” someone said.

Big Ron took the woman from next door by the arm. “I want
to show you a few boxing moves,” he told her. “If you don't mind my saying so, I think boxing might help you relax.”

“I don't need your help relaxing,” the woman snapped.

“I certainly didn't mean to offend you, ma'am. Why don't we start this conversation over and you tell me your name?”

She didn't seem to know what to make of Big Ron—or at least, she couldn't find a way to escape his bear-paw hold. “My name's Florence,” she said, a little breathlessly. “But I'm not the least bit interested in learning to box.”

Big Ron's belly quaked when he laughed. “Never say never,” he told her. He was still holding on to her arm. “Florence, you say? I guess the name has something to do with flowers, right? Or
fleurs
in French. You know, Florence, you remind me of a flower. A nice-looking flower, the kind that smells good, like a rose, but has a few prickles.”

I thought the part about the prickles might upset Florence, but she seemed okay with it. Or else she was just overwhelmed by Big Ron.

“Let me guess, Florence,” Big Ron was saying. “You spend your days hunched over, don't you? At a computer, maybe? I can see it in your posture. You need to straighten your spine. Like this…”

Di was getting Ruger to do more tricks for the small group crowded inside Big Ron's office. Ruger sat up and held up a paw on command.

“You should bring Ruger upstairs and show them how he can open the fridge and take out a beer,” Jasmine called out.

Unfortunately, that set Florence off all over again. “Alcoholic beverages on school property? I'm sure that's against the regulations.”

Big Ron didn't seem too worried. “Jabbin' Jasmine's just yanking your chain, Florence,” he told her. “Besides, the world's going to look different to you after you've thrown a couple of
punches. Here, let me show you a couple of basic moves. Like I said, straighten your spine. Now bring in your shoulders.”

Big Ron rotated his hips and threw a straight punch. Then he made Florence put her purse on the floor and do the same thing.

“A little stiff,” he said as he watched her, “but not bad, not bad at all.”

Florence didn't crack a smile. She was not, I decided, the smiling type.

Chapter Sixteen

Between the mini-lessons and the sparring demonstration, there were refreshments. It had been Miss Lebrun's idea for the grade tens to dress in white shirts and black pants. Now, looking more like servers in some dinner club than troubled teens, they circulated with trays of food. There were fruit kebabs—cubes of mango, melon and pineapple on skewers—and rolled-up cheese slices. There was also a tray of Miss Lebrun's chocolate banana bread. Big Ron grabbed two slices.

He was chomping down on his second slice when I saw him go over to Randy and Whisky. He plopped down on the bench between them, draping his huge arms around their shoulders. “I just want to have a quick word with you two before you start sparring,” I heard him say.

Pretty Boy nudged me. “Quick word?” he whispered. “Big Ron? I don't think so.”

I bit down on my lip so I wouldn't laugh.

Big Ron lowered his voice, but Pretty Boy and I were close enough to overhear what he was saying. “I'm counting on you guys to behave yourselves tonight. I know you have your issues, but I'm expecting you to put your differences aside and act professional. It's really important to make a good impression. And I don't want you to forget that whatever you do, you're representing our sport and this school. Do we have ourselves a deal?”

“Deal,” Randy said.

“No problem,” Whisky added.

Pretty Boy's phone vibrated. He walked to the corner of the room to take the call. “I gotta go take care of something,” he announced when he came back.

“Are you saying you can't stay to watch them spar?”

“That's exactly what I'm saying. Takes notes for me, will ya?”

“All right then, ladies and gents,” Big Ron said when he got up from the bench. “Now we're going to show you what sparring looks like. As you can see, our two boxers here are wearing protective headgear and also bigger gloves than the kind used during competitive matches.” Big Ron sounded like one of those guys who narrates documentaries on the nature channel. “That's because the goal isn't for them to hurt each other, but to improve their skills—and prepare them for competition.

“They're not looking to knock each other out tonight”—Big Ron's voice was stern when he said that, and I knew the message was intended for Whisky and Randy—“but I want to warn members of the audience that boxing is a contact sport. A boxer doesn't just need to learn how to punch; he needs to learn how to take punches too.” He paused for a few seconds after that, the way he did when he thought something he'd said was really brilliant and people needed time to let his brilliance sink in.

“Now, without further ado, I want you all to meet two of my finest boxers. In the red corner”—he pointed to the far end of the boxing ring—“we've got Randy Randy. He's not only a hit with the ladies, he's also one helluva boxer.”

Randy raised his arm over his head to signal the crowd. There was some polite clapping.

“And in the blue corner”—Big Ron gestured toward the other end of the ring—“is Whisky. Now, I don't want you people getting the wrong impression. Whisky's only a nickname. But like the finest single malt, this here Whisky is smooth and strong.”

Whisky grinned as he took a bow—and the audience clapped some more.

Big Ron waddled over to the timer, a small box with lights on it. The green light meant go, the red meant stop, and the orange light, which was accompanied by a sharp whistle, meant there were thirty seconds left in the round.

“The way this works,” he told the audience, “is we're gonna have three three-minute rounds. After each round, there'll be a one-minute break. All right then, here goes.” Big Ron switched on the timer.

The sparring was friendly—at least, at first.

Over and over again, Randy danced out of Whisky's path. He also showed off his combinations. Two straight punches, a quick left hook, then uppercuts—all followed by more fancy footwork.

What Whisky had going for him was power. He used one power punch after another, loading up for each one so that all his body weight was behind his punches.

As he ducked and weaved, Randy's breathing got heavier, but Whisky just kept punching. With every punch, he moved in a little closer on Randy.

I never knew three minutes could last so long. I couldn't imagine what it must've felt like for Randy and Whisky. Sweat dripped from their faces, landing like heavy raindrops on the mats.

A man came into the gym and lurched toward the ropes. “Hey, watch yourself,” someone said. “That's my foot you just stepped on.”

It wasn't like Whisky to drop his hands, but he did. Just like that.

Something had distracted him.

Randy took advantage, throwing two quick straight punches and hitting Whisky in the jaw. Whisky bit down hard on his lower lip.

He'd stopped to look at the latecomer. Now I looked too. The man had a craggier, lined version of Whisky's face. The smell of tobacco clung to his clothes. I knew instantly he was Whisky's father. When he grabbed the ropes, Big Ron told him to step away.

Whisky's dad lost his footing, and someone nearby managed to break his fall. He stumbled back to his feet. Even from the other side of the ring, I could smell the sharp fumes of alcohol wafting through the air like cheap cologne.

I was glad when the light finally turned red. Randy needed to catch his breath. Whisky needed to focus.

A minute later, Whisky had regained his focus—and then some. He was punching harder now than he had in the first round. Randy would have to pick up his speed if he wanted to keep dancing out of Whisky's reach.

Whisky started by taking a few straight jabs at Randy. Randy's dancing had slowed down, and this time Whisky managed to punch him in the cheek. Randy's cheekbone swelled up like a rose. Just a few seconds later, Whisky threw a left hook, slamming Randy's rib cage. Randy winced, and I swear I felt it in my chest. It was as if Whisky had slammed me too.

The green light on the timer turned to orange, and the whistle sounded. Thank God, I thought. Only thirty seconds left in round two. Randy wouldn't be able to take much more.

“Don't go so hard,” I heard Big Ron hiss at Whisky. “Don't forget we got people here.”

But Whisky had clearly forgotten.

When the bell sounded for the third and final round, Randy and Whisky came out from their corners. Whisky raised his glove—an indication that he wanted to touch gloves with Randy. In boxing, touching gloves is a sign of respect, a way of telling your opponent everything is cool, that despite how hard you've been going at each other, you're still friends. I knew it was Whisky's way of apologizing for what had happened in the second round. He'd lost control, and now he wanted to make things right with Randy.

I watched Randy's eyes as their gloves touched. They were flat, like pools of water on a windless day. Whisky lowered his hand. He must have assumed that by touching gloves, he'd made everything right with Randy.

I hadn't been taking boxing lessons for long, but I knew the unwritten rule that applied here. After two boxers touched gloves, there was a short grace period. They gave each other a few seconds to set up.

Randy flouted that rule.

He'd touched gloves with his left hand, but instead of giving Whisky a few seconds' grace, Randy threw a hard—a really hard—straight right-hand punch. It hit Whisky across the nose. I brought one hand to my own nose, as if it needed protection too.

Looking back, I don't remember what came first—the squirt of blood or the sound of cracking bone.

I'd never heard bone crack before, but I knew that as long as I lived, I'd never forget the sound—a crunching like what happens when you're walking on ice and it cracks. Only louder.

The blood streamed from Whisky's nose, down his chin and onto the mat. There was even blood on the ropes. Later, I wondered how it got there.

Florence covered her eyes, then uncovered them. “If this
doesn't prove these kids are dangerous, I don't know what does,” she said to the person sitting next to her.

Big Ron moved as if he had wings. Whisky was still standing, but he was wobbly and his eyes looked dazed, as if he was just waking up—or just falling asleep. Big Ron perched at Whisky's side, and I watched—in horror and in fascination—as Big Ron laid two fat thumbs on either side of Whisky's nose. There was a loud
pop
and then Whisky moaned.

Big Ron had popped Whisky's nose back into place, but he still had work to do. I was surprised by how gentle his movements were as he helped Whisky back to the bench.

“Get me my first-aid kit,” Big Ron called. Jasmine was closest to the kit, so she grabbed it and threw it over to Big Ron.

Randy's parents had rushed over too. His mom checked Whisky's eyes and took his pulse. I watched, relieved, as she nodded to her husband to indicate that everything seemed to be okay.

Big Ron fished a roll of gauze out of his first-aid kit. Randy's dad stuffed the gauze inside Whisky's nostrils. That was when I turned away. If I hadn't, I'm pretty sure I'd have puked.

The crowd had fallen eerily silent—except for Whisky's dad. He was pushing his way to the benches, not caring if he elbowed someone or squashed their toes. “Let me sh-sh-ee my son,” he said.

Miss Lebrun intercepted him. “Your son's going to be fine,” she told him. “What you need right now is a cup of coffee.” She took his arm and led him away from the benches.

“You sh-shure about my boy?” Whisky's dad asked. “Hey, lady, I don't want your coffee. But I could sure use a smoke.”

Now that Randy's parents were attending to Whisky, Big Ron stood up to address the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “what you just witnessed was an unfortunate incident. One of my fighters was a little”—Big Ron paused to find the right word—“unsportsmanslike.”

Florence snorted loudly. “Unsportsmanslike?” she called out. “Bloodthirsty is more like it!”

“Unsportsmanlike,” Big Ron said again, drawing out each syllable of the word. Big Ron didn't look at either Florence or Randy. He didn't have to. Florence had settled back into her seat. Randy was still standing in the ring, his eyes flitting between the floor mats and the bench where Whisky was sitting.

“I want to make it clear,” Big Ron continued, “that what you saw just now isn't what boxing is about. My boxers aren't perfect.” Big Ron looked at the crowd, and for a moment I felt like I was in church, not in Big Ron's gym. Big Ron turned his head slowly, trying to make eye contact with as many people as possible. He stopped when he got to Florence. Then he did something that surprised me. He smiled at her. A warm, understanding smile, as if they were old friends. There was nothing fake about Big Ron's smile. He had as much reason as any of us to dislike Florence, but he didn't.

“Let me ask you something. Any of you people happen to be perfect?” Then he patted his belly. “Look at me,” he said, “I sure ain't.”

I knew that after everyone went back upstairs, Randy would get a lecture from Big Ron and it wouldn't be fun—or short. I also knew Big Ron would make Randy apologize.

Randy didn't need the lecture though. When he cleared his throat, everyone turned to look at him. For once, he didn't have to struggle to find his words. “I just want to tell you all I'm sorry. Really, really sorry.”

Big Ron didn't think Whisky should go to the hospital. “A little bump on that nose of yours'll give you character,” he told Whisky.

Whisky didn't want to go to the hospital either. He was more concerned about his dad getting home okay.

But Randy's parents insisted on taking Whisky to the hospital for an X-ray. They made Randy come too.

Later, I heard from Randy that the four of them had to wait for nearly three hours for the X-ray. At first, Whisky refused to talk to Randy. Randy even went to the hospital cafeteria to get him a milkshake, but Whisky wouldn't drink it.

Then Randy got a better idea. He went to the newsstand and found a copy of
The
Ring
, a glossy boxing magazine. That turned out to be the charm. “We had a decent time looking at the pictures,” Randy said. “To tell you the truth, I was kinda sorry when Whisky had to leave to get x-rayed.”