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disciplined, like a ritual, like warfare. But I tape my hands anyway because some days the gloves feel too cushioned. It feels like you’re not really hitting things, and I miss the ache in my hands and the scrape of the bag against my knuckles. So sometimes I take the gloves off and finish with my taped hands.
    I already knew it was one of those days.
    I pulled on the gloves, using my teeth to close the Velcro. Before I could start punching, the door banged and a familiar shuffle-lope crossed the floor.
    “How’d it go?” Clay asked.
    “Fine.” I dropped a shoulder and sunk a punch into the bag. Then I followed it with a combination jab and hook.
    “Yeah,” Clay drawled out the word, sarcastic. “You seem fine.”
    “It sucked, but nothing I can’t handle.”
    Clay dumped his backpack on the floor and leaned against the flat wall of bleachers. “So tell me. What sucked the most? He’s got you pretty short-chained.”
    I fired another combination into the bag, not surprised that Clay saw it, the thing I hated most. That I was Michael’s dog. “I have another job after their practice.” I tipped my head at the whistles and yelling coming from behind the gym.
    “What is it?”
    “Going to the mall. To get clothes.” My fist slammed the canvas bag.
    “Wait”—Clay stepped behind the bag, moving the mats—“they’re buying you clothes?
And
paying you?”
    “Yeah. Cyndra’s idea. She says my look isn’t right.”
    Clay shook his head. “Then this is more than fighting someone. It’s bigger than that.”
    “Maybe.”
    “Cyndra. Damn.”
    “She’s Michael’s girlfriend.” I had to state the obvious, since he had a stupid-ass grin plastered across his mouth.
    “Playing dress up with
you,
” Clay retorted. “You realize to play dress up, you’ve got to get naked, right?” He whistled low and shook his head again. “Cyndra Taylor. Fine as fine print.”
    He said it like poetry. Like it wasn’t supposed to make sense except on a gut level. Or lower.
    “Tool,” I said.
    “Douche.”
    He held the bag for me for a few minutes while I punched.
    “Will you come by after she’s done with you?” he asked when I stopped. That stupid smile tugged at his lips.
    I felt a matching smile pull at the corner of my mouth. “Boy, if she even starts, you won’t see us for a week.”
    Clay smiled and slapped my glove. He somehow hoisted his overstuffed backpack without tipping over.
    “See you in the morning.”
    The smile was still on my face when I faced the bag again. Without the rumbling volcano in my chest, I was able to focus on pure technique, slow and measured.
    The feeling of a clean punch sailing straight and driving into the bag with my shoulder behind it. I switched legs and arms, aiming punches higher and lower on the bag, now punching through my shoulders and my hips, now rocking forward on the balls of my feet. Techniques I’d picked up from the library computers, watching those cage-fight clips and reading tip-a-day blogs.
    I took a break and started working the speed bag. I’m not very good at it, but every now and then I can get it to make that repetitive
ba-da-pa ba-da-pa
patter that sounds like a ball dribbling superfast.
    I got some water and went back to the heavy bag. I shored up the mats and started punching again. This time I focused on sequences, on combinations and rhythm. Rocking around the bag, I started hearing a beat. I accelerated, pushing out triple punches and jabs. Moved in closer, hugging my elbows tight to my sides and shooting punches and jabs and drop-shoulder uppercuts into the bag.
    And then it happened. It always does. I started to feel great. I started to feel like I could do anything, fight anyone, punch until the heavy bag’s chain broke. I lowered my head and started to imagine the bag was something else. Someone else.
    I took off the gloves and kicked them aside. With each punch, a hiss eked out from between my teeth. The hisses became grunts, and I hit