Read Punch Like a Girl for Free Online

the backyard, and a heavy steel front door. While I’m busy identifying the telltale signs, I thud into a man on the sidewalk.
    â€œWatch it!” I frown as my bag slides off my shoulder. Binders and textbooks fall out, pages flapping like clipped wings.
    â€œI’m so sorry.” The guy leaps to retrieve my books. He’s Dad’s age but more clean-cut, with trim fingernails like he’s had a manicure.
    I squat down to help, feeling I was a little tough on him. “It’s all right. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
    He hands over my books. “Neither was I.” His smile seems sincere.
    Mr. Manicure saunters away as I shove everything back into my bag. Then I head up the walk, push the buzzer on the intercom and stare at the camera mounted above the door, wondering if I should wave or say my name. Before I can decide, the door clicks open. It’s unnerving to walk inside and hear the door clank shut behind me like it’s a jail rather than a safe place. It’s not these women and kids who need to be locked up.
    In the tiny office by the front door, I meet up with Peggy, the director of child care. We met at my interview, when she bombarded me with questions, including why did you shave your head? Now she gives me another visual once-over, as if she needs to be reassured I’m good enough. When her eyes land on my shaved head, she purses her lips, which emphasizes the tiny wrinkles around her mouth.
    â€œThis is where you’ll sign in and out.” She points to a clipboard on her desk and reviews the rules with me. “Don’t reveal the shelter’s location. No photos of the residents. Think of Haven as their home, not a workplace. Any information shared with you about the residents is confidential. Of course, you won’t have access to case histories, but our child and youth workers may discuss certain details, if needed.” Peggy is all prickles and edges, and I can’t help wondering if she ever relaxes.
    I’m relieved when she assigns a volunteer named Salvador, who looks about my age, to show me around.
    Salvador, who tells me to call him Sal, has dark brown hair, bronze eyes and tan skin. He’s tall and thin with arms that hang slack at his sides, as if he doesn’t know what to do with them. He walks down the hall with an easygoing lope, leaning backward so that his feet reach the stairs before the rest of him.
    We start with the cafeteria-style kitchen in the basement. Sheerma, a tiny woman with a friendly smile and a colorful hijab, is tossing a salad that would be large enough to satisfy even Joel.
    â€œThe food is for the residents only, although you can buy a meal if there’s extra,” Sal says.
    Next, he shows me the mothers’ program room on the main floor behind the tiny office.
    â€œMost of the moms are out at work or school right now,” he says. “But there’s group therapy here in the evenings and on weekends. It’s also used for classes like yoga, and a hairdresser comes once a month.” Sal’s warm eyes remind me of a beagle’s—calm and kind.
    The residents’ rooms take up the rest of the main floor and the top floor. In the hall on the second floor, we meet a skittish woman with a black eye, which she’s attempted to hide with makeup. She doesn’t return my smile.
    I peer into the only residents’ room that’s open as we pass, and I’m shocked by how bare it is. There are bunk beds, one dresser and a lone teddy bear face down in the middle of the floor.
    â€œWhy is it so bare?” I ask.
    â€œThey probably had to leave home quickly,” Sal says. “Get out before they got hurt.”
    I stiffen, my eyes landing on the abandoned bear. “How do you know so much about this place?”
    â€œI used to live here.”
    â€œYou what?” Then I get it. He wasn’t a volunteer when he lived here. “I’m sorry,”