“I don’t know about you, but she’s sweet,” said Ricky, her sometimes gym boyfriend, when I shared my thoughts on the matter with him. “But only if you hit that spot, if you know what I mean.”
I don’t, so I ask Noor, my other training buddy. We’re in the locker room and she’s fussing with one of those new-fangled sports hijabs that never comes undone; when she puts it on her eyes turn into dark pools so gorgeous that every now and then you’ll get trapped in them, and that’s when she’ll unleash a combo on your ass that will leave you vowing to never look in her eyes again. But you won’t be able to help it.
“How the hell should I know?” Noor says, but she also spent an hour in her fiancé’s BMW last week after class, so you’d think she’d be a little wiser than me. “Engagement doesn’t mean marriage, Trish. What do you think I am?”
Who does she think she’s fooling? Those windows steamed themselves up? Yeah right, girl.
I am as dark as Amanda, but Indian, so it’s a bit different. Amanda is from Jamaica and I’m from Trinidad but Indian Trinis are as good as black even though we’re not, according to the Desis I play cards with during lunch at school (sometimes dominoes when somebody is feeling dangerous). The lunchtime Desis are actually from India and can spot pretenders immediately, the people who are sort-of but not-really. The in-betweens like me with Indian blood but without any of the culture steeped into me. We’re lumped together in their minds, Amanda and me. They show me pictures of saris that they wear to Indian weddings and sometimes speak in Desi-slang around me, so I won’t feel like a complete outsider, but I know I am. I’m only Indian to those who don’t know the difference.
Maybe this would all matter if I didn’t have the gym, but I do, so who cares?
When I get back home, I’m still thinking about all this plus my skin. Especially since Ma laid the dress on my bed for me to look at some more, I guess. Pammy’s son, Christopher, is also on the bed. I like to call him Columbus because of his desire to “discover” every girl he sees who puts the brown in brown sugar. He hates the name but knows it’s true. Plus, him and Pammy are the only white people on this block of co-op townhouses, so he’s surrounded by people who know what good curry tastes like. Noor’s theory is that all the spice in the air has infected his brain.
“You’re not that dark,” he says, when I tell him about Ma’s comment at the mall. I don’t want to ask about the juice thing because he’ll probably say something disgusting and I’ll have to throw him out of my room. Besides, I’m pretty sure my juice isn’t that sweet on account of all the fighting I do. Not MMA, because I don’t like Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and never want to be face down in anyone’s crotch or trapped under a stank armpit. You want to roll around on the ground? Fine, go ahead. I’m gonna stay on my feet, thanks. So Muay Thai is where it’s at for me.
Punches like a boxer.
Sharp elbows and powerful knees.
Teeps with all the force I can muster behind my right leg, a push kick that can knock you on your ass.
Swing kicks that’ll sweep your legs from under you.
“Yeah?” I say, moving the dress aside and sprawling out beside him. “You’re the palest guy I ever met. What would you know about it?”
Columbus punches me in the shoulder, but not that hard, even though he knows I can take it. He’s not offended. Neither of us have been offended by each other since we were eight years old, when we were walking home one day from school and brushed arms. He shot away from me like a bullet and called me a dirty Paki, which upset us both. Me for obvious reasons and him because it just came out and he knew it was a bad thing to say. I forgave him after a week of sullen silences but neither of us ever forgot that I could have made it much worse for him. I could have told one of our teachers at school or (worse) Pammy, who does not tolerate that kind of shit from anybody.
Ma walks into my room and looks at us on my bed. Sees something between us that isn’t there. With that look we spring apart, even though it’s nothing because it’s Columbus and he’s a dork, a gamer, an animé nerd, which is the nerdiest kind. I’ve crushed on other guys, but never Columbus.
Even though he was my first kiss and, pathetically, my last.
It happened a couple years ago after we snuck some of Pammy’s wine from one of the ginormous boxes she drinks it out of. I shudder to even think about it. Though the kiss itself was nice, if a little dry on account of the alcohol dehydration. But it was Columbus, of all people. I mean…his pipe cleaner arms couldn’t hold a pencil longer than a minute at a time, whereas I can do fifty push-ups without breaking a sweat. Easy as breathing. I could break him with a flick of my wrist.
* * *
When Columbus goes home, I stop outside of Ma’s bedroom door and peek inside. Ma and Dad are both in there. Normally, I stay away from her room when Dad is around, but I want to ask if we can get the dress in another colour maybe. Looking through the gap between the door and the frame, I see Ma pulling on her nightgown, her skin dewy from the bath. A slip of satin flutters down over the purple bruise on her hip. Dad reaches for her and she goes into his arms.
I step away, avoiding the major creaks of the floorboards, wishing he would go back to Trinidad. He doesn’t come up that often, but when he’s here I can’t wait for him to leave again. Back in my room I pull the covers over my head and try not to think about how early it’s starting this time. The bruises, I mean. I bury my head, my rage, my fear. My hatred.
I hate him so much I could kill him.
four
I’m usually at the gym more when Dad is around. Ma thinks my Muay Thai obsession is insane but realizes that at least one of us should learn self-defence. Keeps me out of trouble and all that. She knows I train, but she doesn’t know I fight. She thinks it’s for exercise and protection. Sometimes I think about telling her, but I don’t want to make her feel bad that I can fight.
I can fight and she won’t.
Me, Amanda and Noor are the main girls that train here, though others cycle through. They get with the good-looking guys, do some kick-boxing-lite and push-ups from their knees. Other stuff on their knees, too, while the real fighters spar nightly until we almost pass out. Some of them flash big smiles at everyone and we know those are the girlfriends that are gonna end up as ring girls, and there’s no fate worse than being a ring girl in a sport that actually includes girls as competitors. But sure, be eye candy.
“What’s with you?” asks Amanda. Noor has gone home with The Fiancé and there’s only a handful of the fighters left, trying to get in that last bit of training for the night, trying to beat some sense into themselves or the other guy. Amanda gets behind my heavy bag and holds it for my push kicks. She bends her legs, takes the force on her flexed thigh rather than her belly.