Read Punch Like a Girl for Free Online Page A

I mutter.
    â€œDon’t be. This place saved us. It’s kinda why I volunteer here now.” He ducks his head, so that his hair falls over his eyes, and slouches down the hall toward the stairs.
    I get the message and change the subject. “Where are all the kids?”
    â€œOut back. Come on.”
    There’s an empty TV room at the rear of the main floor. The TV is blaring a Dora the Explorer episode. Sal switches it off before we push through the doors to a sun-filled addition. I hear the kids before I see them.
    â€œThe preschool room’s on the left. School-age on the right. You’ll be with the school-agers.” He gestures at the right-hand door, which is half open, revealing a mini classroom with windows opening onto the fenced backyard.
    â€œCool,” I say, eager to get started.
    When I push open the door to step inside, Sal stops me.
    â€œStay here for a minute,” he whispers. “They’re just finishing Hope Club.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” I whisper back, but Sal just shushes me.
    Through the doorway, I see four kids sitting together on the rug in front of a flip chart. A lean Asian woman is writing on the chart paper. They all glance at us briefly, except for a girl with sandy-brown hair who has her hands wrapped around her knees and is staring at her scuffed Nike shoes with such intensity I think they might burst into flames.
    â€œWe’ll be right with you,” the woman says to us. Then she turns to a boy with tight black curls. “What did you say, Jonah?”
    â€œUm, I could draw a picture,” he says. “Because I like drawing.”
    I glance at Sal as if he might explain, but he’s watching the kids.
    â€œThat’s great.” The woman writes on the paper.
    When I read everything she’s written, I press my fingernails into my palms.
    When I feel sad I can:
    â€“ Hug my mom.
    â€“ Talk to a friend.
    â€“ Play with my baby brother.
    â€“ Listen to my favorite song.
    â€“ Draw a picture.
    Thankfully, Hope Club ends before I start to cry.
    When Sal and I enter the room, the kids gather around with curious faces, and Sal introduces me to everyone.
    Jonah, who is ten years old, is eager to show me how he can lift his little brother Manny, who is seven.
    Eleven-year-old Rachel stares at my head before bluntly asking what happened to my hair.
    â€œI cut it off.” I smile at her. “It’s easier to style.”
    Casey-Lynn, or Casey for short, is the sandy-haired girl. She’s about eight, with large indigo eyes that rarely blink.
    And Jia is the child and youth worker I’ll be helping.
    After a few minutes of chaos and questions about my name, why I’m here and what my favorite color is, Sal goes next door to work with the preschoolers and Jia announces that it’s time for journals.
    I let the kids pull me to a round yellow table near the windows.
    Jia explains that they can write and draw whatever they want in their journals, that it’s a time for free expression. Then she says to me, “I’m going to grab a few minutes to work on a report while you sit with them. Okay?”
    â€œUh, sure,” I say, although I’m not sure at all.
    The kids dump a basket of pencils and markers on the table and get to work. Jia parks herself in front of the only computer in the room and starts typing.
    The journals have lines on one side of the page and space to draw on the other. Beside me, Casey picks up a dark-purple marker and draws a few lines on her blank page, using a ruler to keep the lines straight.
    â€œWhat are you drawing?” I ask to make conversation.
    Casey doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t even look at me.
    I wait, wondering if I said something wrong.
    â€œShe doesn’t talk.” Rachel is printing neatly on the lines.
    â€œOh?”
    â€œShe doesn’t want to,” Jonah explains. His arms are sprawled across the table, elbows out, as he