floor or furniture.
“You shouldn’t have gotten into a fight either,” she said with a sly smile, coming back and setting a can firmly in front of me, “but you did it anyway.”
I grinned despite myself as I took hold of the cold can. “You’re a bad influence.”
She rolled her eyes impatiently. “So tell me the difference.”
I took a moment to size her up. My mom would have said she had moxy and she’d be right, the girl was flush with it. There was a spark in her that went beyond her age and her area code. She was alone with a strange guy in obvious legal trouble and she wasn’t fazed. Wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t looking down her nose or judging me either.
“Fighting over a girl is pointless,” I explained carefully. “Either she’s yours or she’s not, you don’t have to beat a guy to the ground to find out. If you do, she’s not worth it. Fighting for a girl, that’s different.”
“How?”
I took a sip of the soda, stalling. I didn’t want to tell her too much about Emma because I didn’t want to talk about the fight. I also didn’t want to explain what had happened to her in those trees. That was Emma’s business, not mine.
“I don’t know,” I dodged as I set down my can and spun it between my hands. “It just means something being able to defend someone who can’t defend themselves.”
“A girl can defend herself,” she snapped at me.
“I think you can, Nonpareil, but not everyone has as much piss as you.”
“What does nonpareil mean?”
“It’s French for unequaled. It means nothing can measure up to you.”
She blushed lightly, taken aback. “Why would you call me that?”
I felt bad about that – the blush. The accidental flirtation that could leave her with a crush on a guy that was too old, too poor, and too much trouble for her. “That’s what they called Jack Dempsey," I explained quickly and clearly. "He was an Irish boxer in the 1880s. He couldn’t be beat.”
“Because he was full of piss?”
“Yeah,” I chuckled. “And please don’t tell your parents I taught you that word.”
“I knew it before you got here,” she said with annoyance, insulted. “I go to public school. I don’t live under a rock.”
“But did you say it before?” I asked. When she didn’t answer, I nodded. “I should have watched my mouth. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. So he never lost a fight?”
I leaned back, surprised she cared. “Dempsey? No, he did. One to a guy he later went back and beat. Two more to a guy that had rigged both fights to win. He lost his last fight because he had tuberculosis.”
“If he lost so many fights, how did he get that nickname?”
“Because fighting isn’t always about winning,” I told her seriously. “Sometimes it’s about not giving up.”
“Why do you know all of this about him?”
“He’s a boxing legend.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“Because you’re not into boxing. I bet you’ve heard of Mike Tyson. Muhammad Ali? George Foreman?”
“The guy on QVC with the grills?”
“Yeah,” I laughed, “that’s the guy.”
“You’re really into boxing. Is that why you fight?”
I flinched inwardly at the word. I never called myself a fighter. I always thought of myself as a boxer because I liked the structure of the sport. Of being an athlete, not an animal. At least not all the time. “No, I told you. I fight because I’m a guy and I’m stupid. Boxing is different. It’s a sport, one I’m into because my grandpa was a boxer. He came over from Ireland to fight in Vegas.”
“Did he ever get big enough to sell barbeques on TV?”
I laughed again, shaking my head emphatically. “Nah, he couldn’t even sell matches on the side of the road.”
“That’s too bad.”
“It’s a tough sport. How ‘bout you? You play any sports? I’m looking at you and thinking basketball.”
She scowled at me, her gaze surprisingly scathing. “That’s what everyone says. Just because I’m tall I’m
“You shouldn’t have gotten into a fight either,” she said with a sly smile, coming back and setting a can firmly in front of me, “but you did it anyway.”
I grinned despite myself as I took hold of the cold can. “You’re a bad influence.”
She rolled her eyes impatiently. “So tell me the difference.”
I took a moment to size her up. My mom would have said she had moxy and she’d be right, the girl was flush with it. There was a spark in her that went beyond her age and her area code. She was alone with a strange guy in obvious legal trouble and she wasn’t fazed. Wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t looking down her nose or judging me either.
“Fighting over a girl is pointless,” I explained carefully. “Either she’s yours or she’s not, you don’t have to beat a guy to the ground to find out. If you do, she’s not worth it. Fighting for a girl, that’s different.”
“How?”
I took a sip of the soda, stalling. I didn’t want to tell her too much about Emma because I didn’t want to talk about the fight. I also didn’t want to explain what had happened to her in those trees. That was Emma’s business, not mine.
“I don’t know,” I dodged as I set down my can and spun it between my hands. “It just means something being able to defend someone who can’t defend themselves.”
“A girl can defend herself,” she snapped at me.
“I think you can, Nonpareil, but not everyone has as much piss as you.”
“What does nonpareil mean?”
“It’s French for unequaled. It means nothing can measure up to you.”
She blushed lightly, taken aback. “Why would you call me that?”
I felt bad about that – the blush. The accidental flirtation that could leave her with a crush on a guy that was too old, too poor, and too much trouble for her. “That’s what they called Jack Dempsey," I explained quickly and clearly. "He was an Irish boxer in the 1880s. He couldn’t be beat.”
“Because he was full of piss?”
“Yeah,” I chuckled. “And please don’t tell your parents I taught you that word.”
“I knew it before you got here,” she said with annoyance, insulted. “I go to public school. I don’t live under a rock.”
“But did you say it before?” I asked. When she didn’t answer, I nodded. “I should have watched my mouth. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. So he never lost a fight?”
I leaned back, surprised she cared. “Dempsey? No, he did. One to a guy he later went back and beat. Two more to a guy that had rigged both fights to win. He lost his last fight because he had tuberculosis.”
“If he lost so many fights, how did he get that nickname?”
“Because fighting isn’t always about winning,” I told her seriously. “Sometimes it’s about not giving up.”
“Why do you know all of this about him?”
“He’s a boxing legend.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“Because you’re not into boxing. I bet you’ve heard of Mike Tyson. Muhammad Ali? George Foreman?”
“The guy on QVC with the grills?”
“Yeah,” I laughed, “that’s the guy.”
“You’re really into boxing. Is that why you fight?”
I flinched inwardly at the word. I never called myself a fighter. I always thought of myself as a boxer because I liked the structure of the sport. Of being an athlete, not an animal. At least not all the time. “No, I told you. I fight because I’m a guy and I’m stupid. Boxing is different. It’s a sport, one I’m into because my grandpa was a boxer. He came over from Ireland to fight in Vegas.”
“Did he ever get big enough to sell barbeques on TV?”
I laughed again, shaking my head emphatically. “Nah, he couldn’t even sell matches on the side of the road.”
“That’s too bad.”
“It’s a tough sport. How ‘bout you? You play any sports? I’m looking at you and thinking basketball.”
She scowled at me, her gaze surprisingly scathing. “That’s what everyone says. Just because I’m tall I’m
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