CHAPTER 3
"Go ahead and rinse.”
I sat up, reaching an awkward hand for the little Dixie cup as my paper bib swiped my chin. I sipped and spit, watching drops of blood and disgusting bits of God-knows-what slosh into the—I didn’t even know what it was. Fountain? Spittoon?
I kept rinsing until my mouth was clean, then I leaned back. My skull hurt from the slightly misplaced headrest, and it didn’t help matters when some kind of power tool zoomed to sudden loud life in the adjoining exam room.
“At least I don’t have it as bad as the poor patient next door,” I remarked.
Denise, the hygienist, laughed, displaying her own shiny teeth. I wondered about hygienists. When they woke up and before they went to bed, did they brush each individual tooth in their mouths to a count of sixty? Or did they figure, “The hell with it, if my teeth go bad, I get a discount at work”?
“No, hon,” Denise said now. “We’ve got contractors renovating in there. Dr. Gold retired last week.”
I grinned, remembering last night’s banter with Avery. “Finally, huh?”
“You’re not kidding. We practically had to shove him out the door and down to Florida. You’d think he’d want some relaxation by now.”
“So what are the renovations?”
“New dentist taking over the practice. He wanted to make some changes.”
I raised a brow, which I could do really well, by the way. “Dentists’ offices generally aren’t known for their hip and original interior design. It’s usually minimalist. Chair, sink, tray of terrifying sterilized weaponry.”
“Yeah, well, I have no idea what he’s doing in there, and I don’t want to know. I just come in, clean teeth, and leave.” She unclipped my bib and scrunched it up before tossing it in the trash can. “You’re good to go.”
“I can’t tell you how much I enjoy our time together,” I told her, standing and sliding my tongue over my smoother teeth and sorer gums.
“Me too,” Denise said. “I know! Let’s do it again in six months.”
“Great idea!” Corny as I could be, I still loved it when people went along with humor. It gave me a nice we’re-all-in-this-together feeling about humanity. “Thanks for omitting the flossing lecture.”
“Please. Everyone’s negligence keeps me off the unemployment line.” She laughed again. “I guess I shouldn’t say that. See you, Gemma.”
After I tore out a check for the receptionist and booked my next appointment, I stepped out into the D.C. sun. My overwhelmed eyes immediately teared up, since I’d spent the last hour with my eyes shut so as to avoid staring into the scare-tactic poster of a gaping, rotting grimace on the exam room wall in front of me. I dropped my gym bag at my feet and kneeled down next to it, shoving aside my black sports bra and sweat socks to unearth my sunglasses. Mall shoppers passed me, paper shopping bags bumping against their legs. I watched the 54 bus rumble by, and the rush of dust in its wake kicked up into my face.
Before I could put the glasses on, I saw him.
He was across the street. Just standing there, lazy, leaning against a lamppost as if time was nothing to consider. He was casual blond, and long-legged in beat-up jeans. I’d never seen him before in my life.
And he was watching me.
Not only was he watching me, he wasn’t bothering to be covert. But he wasn’t flirty or cute, and he wasn’t at all creepy. He looked at me like he recognized me.
No, he looked at me like he recognized something in me, something that was also in him.
I couldn’t break our mutual gaze. I felt like I was drowning in it, my insides turning faster and faster until I was lightheaded. He seemed to exist in his own dimension, one that only I could see, and the cars and buses and people around me faded into silence and stillness.
I wondered how many steps it was between him and myself, and envisioned darting across the street and pressing into his chest.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, as a suited man barged into my left side. I tripped over my gym bag, still on the ground, and put out a forearm, landing flat but uninjured. The man who had crashed into me stepped over me and kept walking without looking back, but rather switching his cell phone to his other ear.
I snapped my head up and waited for a taxi to pass across my vision, and when it did, the lamppost stood alone.
Hoisting myself to my feet, I shook my head—not from my crash-landing but from the sparkly fog that had enveloped me for who-knew-how-long. What was that? Who was that? Who was I?
My still-sore mouth twinged and I put a hand to my jaw before widening my eyes. Teeth. The dream. Oh, this could not be it, could it? A warning not to cheat on Avery? No. Ridiculous. I didn’t even know that guy.
But he knew me.
No, he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. I was obviously delirious from pain. Or the contractors knocked some laughing gas loose in the dentist’s office, causing me to visualize a hot man across the street, as well as fantasize about having him.
Much more logical. Because I hadn’t even glanced at another man since Avery. Well, sure I had, but only to come to the conclusion that not one would measure up to my man.
I zipped up my duffel, snatched it up in one hand, and walked resolutely down K Street. I would keep walking until I arrived at my haven, my second home, and could pound out my unexpected and unwelcome frustration.
>=<
After my strange street encounter and the shock of sexuality, I was grateful to take refuge at Smiley’s Gym.
The door slammed behind me and my eyes watered once again with the reverse adjustment from bright sunlight to dim, sweaty cave. I closed my eyes for a moment to allow seamless assimilation of the rest of me.
Like I said, this was my haven, but certainly not for any kind of sanctuary-like silence. The auditory ambience of Smiley’s was multi-layered: Over the top were men shouting, cheering, slapping their palms against the mat in the ring as if the two boxers currently sparring were actually duking it out for a world championship. The second layer was the dull, solid thud-thud of gloves on one or more of the heavy bags, and the relentless cadence of the several small speed bags. Underneath it all was a breathing hum, proof that Smiley’s was alive with ambition and pride and pain, punctuated by an occasional strong, huffing exhale when a punch was thrown—or taken.
Smiley had run this place for decades—no one knew exactly how many, but an educated guess could be made by the years etched on his face, and by the yellowing and faded photos of local heroes on the walls. On the rare occasion that he actually did smile at any of us, the irony of his longtime nickname showed through the gaps where several teeth used to be.
Teeth again.
A determined weight barreled into my right side, making my eyes pop open. I stepped away from the shove, and my assailant stumbled through his own momentum, straightening up at the last minute.
“Mat,” I said, putting a hand on his bare shoulder to steady his wobbling, “it’s sad that the only way you think you can throw me down is with a dirty hit. And you can’t even do that.”
“Well, what are you doin’, sleepin’ standin’ up?” Mat asked, dodging my verbal jab and returning with his own. “Maybe you too busy at night bouncin’ the mattress to get sleep.” He grinned.
“Maybe that’s all you think about ’cause you’re not getting any.” I pinched his smooth cheek.
Mat smacked my hand away. “I’m ignorin’ that, ’cause it’s so wrong, it’s funny.”
Cuban-American, baby-faced and barely out of high school, Mat had the nerve of men twice his size and his age. Mat was not his real name. I didn’t think any of us knew what that was. Since the first day he strutted in here about eight months prior, challenging all comers and going facedown on the mat inside of thirty seconds, he’d been known as Mat. He’d since redeemed himself a bit with hard work, but his more-than-healthy ego never ceased.
I steered Mat toward a heavy bag, and slipped into the bathroom to change from jeans, short black boots and T-shirt to sports bra, black tank and gray sweat shorts. I eyed my reflection in the streaky mirror before pulling my short hair into a baby ponytail at the back of my head. I re-emerged, sat in a creaky metal folding chair, and began to wrap my hands, winding around my wrist and across my palm and between my thumb and forefinger. I opened and closed the hand, then went to work on the other one, glancing around the gym as I did.
The usual suspects were there. Sometimes I wondered whether they ever left. I lifted my chin and nodded to Shirley, who was jumping rope in the corner. He crisscrossed the rope in acknowledgment, and did a quick double-jump before reassuming the rhythm. Shirley was a nice guy. Really nice. Any time you asked for a favor—a ride to the bus stop in the rain, a dime to round out your money for the drink machine—he responded, “Surely,” his white smile striking in his dark, chiseled face. It was a good thing the girly moniker didn’t bother him, because he’d be real intimidating otherwise. This gallant gentleman was our current local amateur heavyweight champ.
Not-Rocky sat just outside the ropes of one of the two center rings, swigging a Gatorade and sweating off his sparring round. He hopped down and sidled over to me while I tugged on my gloves, and took over my seat after I slid to the floor for sixty knuckle pushups. “Yo, Brickhouse.”
Once I brought Avery in to meet the crew and see the place, and when we left, he said, “Brickhouse? You’re not—insulted by that?”
“Of course I am,” I said. “That’s what makes it stick.” I never told him that after that day, my gang referred to Avery as The Suit. That’s how I knew they approved of him.
Under the eye of Not-Rocky, I finished my pushups and rolled onto my back. He crouched in front of me and grasped my ankles for my sit-ups. “You want to go when you’re ready?” he asked.
I considered, but on my next sit-up, I noticed a bit of fresh blood clotting on his chin. Between that and the perspiration still rolling down his jaw, I guessed he was done for the day. I wouldn’t have suggested to him, though, or to any of the guys for that matter, that they ever take it easy. This gym was filled with competitors, and they’d knock themselves unconscious to prove their worth. I had competed a little myself, a few years ago, but eventually decided that putting my facial bones at risk every day wouldn’t jibe with my career ambition. I boxed now because it was in me, and I didn’t think it would ever not be. And, I suspected of myself, I boxed to keep my memories of my father from permanent escape.
But Not-Rocky and the others, they still did it for dreams.
“I’ll take a pass today,” I said with tact, feeling my stomach muscles tighten and contract with each lift of my torso.
“Get the fuck away from me!”
Not-Rocky abruptly turned and I looked over his shoulder, following his gaze to the other side of the gym.
Within these walls, punching and yelling was expected—but there came rare moments when the athletic crossed into emotional, when aggressive became violent. Maybe it was strange that it didn’t happen more, what with the testosterone levels and competing bravados, but when it did happen, we all went on high alert, ready to defend, to fight for real.
But no one would have wanted to be the one to hurt a kid. And that was who was causing this commotion.
“I said, back the fuck off!” he screamed again at a boxer easily twice his age and many, many pounds heavier. I raised my brows, marveling at his reckless stupidity.
The kid was Trey Sawyer, a skinny, freckled boy barely into his teens with a myopic squint and uncooperative brown curls. A boy I wouldn’t have been surprised to see amassing Boy Scout badges or mathletes trophies. A boy from whose mouth I was damn surprised to hear the word “fuck” emerge. Smiley had taken him in a couple of weeks ago, and he came in after school. Trey couldn’t punch a fixed target three feet in front of him, but no one gave him a hard time. He’d been quickly identified as one of Smiley’s charity cases: someone he was asked to keep busy or straighten out.
Back when I was his charity case, Smiley did both. I’d mouthed off and I’d acted out, but I’d learned my place, and I’d learned it was a place I wanted to be.
Looked like it was Trey’s turn.
His shouts were louder in the new silence around him. “I don’t need this!” He put his gloved fists on the bigger fighter’s chest, and shoved with all his violent might.
Jackrabbit, the recipient of the shove, put one foot back, the only indication he’d been touched at all. He didn’t move from his spot—a calm stone wall. He caught Smiley’s eye while Trey stood there breathing heavily, his twiggy arms weighed down with his gloves.
“Dumb kid,” Not-Rocky murmured.
I didn’t disagree. But something didn’t feel right.
No one moved. Trey, maybe sensing he’d gone just far enough, quieted, but his eyes were wildfire.
Smiley moved slowly but deliberately between Trey and Jackrabbit, and his back was to Not-Rocky and me. An innocent, non-boxing bystander might see the delicate skin of the back of Smiley’s neck, or the thinned, nearly transparent hair that barely whispered against his head, and assume him to be anyone weaker than he was.
Before he said a word, I caught the irony that though not one fighter in here would want to be the one taking heat, they all wanted to hear someone else taking it.
“You done?” Smiley asked.
“It’s my turn!” Trey yelled. “This is my time. There’s fifteen minutes left in my lesson and this asshole interrupted!”
“Hey, punk, this in’t no private school,” Jackrabbit said.
“Pipe down.” Smiley’s tone was mild. He glanced at the big guy before fixing his gaze once more on Trey. “He was letting me know I had a phone call. Jack, go take a number.”
The boxer scowled at Trey a moment before walking away to Smiley’s office, muttering, “I’m the damn secretary now?”
“He had no right!” Trey yelled again. “This is my time!”
“This is my gym,” Smiley said, advancing, and though far less imposing than any of the rest of us, he slowly backed Trey into the wall. “And,” Smiley added, “I make the decisions. I run the show. That means I’m interruptible, even if you were actually paying me for this lesson.”
Trey screwed up his face again and took a deep breath but Smiley continued. “You heard me. Your brother helped me out a few years ago and you’re the way I decided to repay the favor. But I can decide against you at any time. So change your attitude.”
“But—“
“Change it. Something inside you got to get out? I give you plenty of outlet here. There’s no reason for this bullshit. I’m on your side, but I’d just as well not be. I got enough guys to take care of. I don’t got to waste my free time. Lesson over. Now get the hell outta here. Come back when you’re interested in learning something.”
Smiley walked away and Trey glared after him.
The captive audience scattered, and the noise and sweating resumed.
“Well,” I said.
Not-Rocky chuckled. “Idiot kid.”
“We’ve been there,” I reminded him. “Some more recently than others.” I kept my eyes on Trey though, and watched him flatten out. He remained upright, leaning against the wall, but the nasty, hungry thing inside him had perished. He gazed straight ahead at nothing and nodded once or twice, as if now being coached by an invisible mentor. His eyes were familiar. Eerily familiar, dead eyes.
“Sure you don’t want to go?” Not-Rocky asked me, and I peeled my stare off Trey to focus on my buddy.
“Nah, thanks. Just the bag for me today. Let off a little steam.”
“What steam do you got to let off? Didn’t you quit working?”
“No. I took a leave of absence.”
“Whatever.”
“It’s not ‘whatever,’ it’s temporary.” I sat up for the last time and reached into my bag, pulling out a Band-Aid and a bacterial wipe. “Sit still,” I told him. I cleaned the cut on his chin and smoothed the bandage over it.
“Thanks,” he said. “I was just giving you a hard time and everything. It’s nice you’re here during the day now, not like when you used to be working and we only saw you on weekends.”
We grinned at each other, and I almost regretted covertly sticking the pink Hello Kitty Band-Aid on his chin. Almost.
We stood and he punched my upper arm. I retaliated with a light backhand bop to his stomach, then headed to the one available heavy bag.
I walked past Trey and he pushed himself off the wall. His dead stare landed on me, and in the fraction of the second it takes to recognize someone you’d rather not see, his eyes filled with hate and fear.
Hate and fear, aimed at me.
But before I could form another thought, he’d pushed past me and stalked out the front door.
Creepy. Weird. Sort of sad. I turned my attention to the bag.
A heavy bag might be practice for a real bout, but in truth, it was a challenge in itself. It became the person in your imagination. The one you just had to beat so you could feel right. You always connected, but who you were hitting, and where, and why, was individual to the moment.
I bounced up and down lightly on my toes, concentrating on keeping my shoulders relaxed. My weakness was my tendency to stiffen my upper body too much, which slowed and hardened my motion, draining my intensity.
Fluidity. I was floating in water. I was water.
I started with some jabs, circling the bag in one direction, then the other, working both arms. Then, still bouncing, I rolled my neck from side to side. Relax, relax, then the one-two punch.
My first power punch of the day never failed to surprise me with the hard reminder of what I had inside, and what I could let out. I connected, and absorbed the shock up my arm, and my sore back teeth clicked together.
I had a flash of that guy against the lamppost, and his easy but purposeful gaze. My next one-two landed harder. I wouldn’t have even noticed him, and sure as hell wouldn’t have still been thinking about it, if it wasn’t for that stupid dream. And nothing bad was going to happen. One-two. I was in a great place with Avery, with our new condo. His campaign was going as great as we could have planned it. We were masters of our own future. One-two. A random man with strangely supernatural sex appeal was not going to mess that up. I was certainly not going to mess it up. One-two. I had a perfect life right now, and it could only get more perfect, and I would fight with every degree of determination in me to make sure nothing—one-two—nothing ruined it.
My father held up a pad in each hand. I hit—crossing my right into his right, my left into his left—with my hands wrapped. Dad hadn’t been able to find gloves small enough for me, but he’d promised to keep looking. “Gemma,” he said, when I was out of breath and my knees were shaking. “Come on, be tough. It doesn’t hurt.”
“It does hurt.”
“No, it doesn’t. When you connect,” he said, gently taking my wrist and touching my fist to the pad, “what you feel isn’t pain. You’re feeling what it is to be human. You’re human.”
I didn’t understand that. But I felt pretty damn human when he left us.
I hit the bag again, envisioning the punch slamming right through it to the other side.
“Easy, Bricks,” I heard behind me. Smiley. I kept my fists up, kept up the bounce. “What you after?” he asked me.
“Anything that gets in my way,” I answered without turning around. He’d be watching me the way he watched all of us, with the right side of his craggy face cocked forward, and the left side of his head dropping back, left eye squinted. He couldn’t afford to tug on the thin gray hair he had left, but he did it anyway when deep in study. He could find the tiniest inch of a hip angle that would double the power of a punch, and he could isolate the exact moment a bout turned a corner, when one boxer’s advantage was lost to the other. He knew every one of our bodies better than our primary care doctors, and he chipped away at each of us until our excess fell away and the fighters we were meant to be emerged, tight and strong. Smiley was a scientist and an artist and, if crossed, a force of nature.
I stepped into the bag, bent my right elbow and delivered a right hook, then a left.
“Woman on a mission,” he said, and I half-grinned, because the way Smiley said it, I could tell he meant no derision, humor or irony. He was real with me, and always was. He knew my father, when he used to box here. A long time ago. Smiley didn’t talk about my dad, and I never asked him to. It worked out best that way.
“Might want to cool out,” he added. “You got a visitor.”
I dropped my arms to my sides, surprised. The adrenaline slid downward with gravity, and my fingertips tingled with the sudden inactivity. I’d never had a visitor here. The one time Avery came, like I said, I’d accompanied him, and anyway I didn’t think he’d have a break in his action until later tonight. My mom never came here, and my pals from work were pretty much my friends only at work.
So who was here to see me?
I turned, and what I saw was guys clustered at the door, all talking at once. Testosterone permeated the air even more than usual, and that was saying a big something. I moved toward the group but my approach was ignored. I couldn’t see through Shirley’s massive back, and I wasn’t inclined to hop up and down like a child to get a better view, so I waited.
“You just missed an awesome show, babe,” I heard Mat say. “If you’da walked in five minutes ago, you woulda seen me lay out that guy.” I had no idea who Mat was indicating but I did know he was full of it. He’d gone over to a bag after our brief chat, and hadn’t been laying out anyone except maybe in some daydream. “Feel that,” he continued, and I winced, positive he was presenting his bare bicep to a person whom I would have to undoubtedly apologize to later.
“Mat,” Shirley said to him. “You’re a kid, and what’s more, you’re a lying kid. Don’t pay him no mind,” he said to my mystery guest. “Would you like a tour?”
“I suppose you the new tour guide?” Mat asked, surly from the put-down.
“Surely,” the heavyweight champ replied.
At least three others joined the shuffle for attention. Then I heard, “Please, ma’am, have a seat,” and I watched Not-Rocky step away from the group to shove my duffel bag and black boots off the folding chair onto the ground with an extended clatter. “You can sit right here.”
Okay, this nonsense ended now. I understood a female visitor in here was a novelty, but on the rare occasions it happened, the guys generally performed a nonchalant, cool appraisal from their posts while they continued to work out. But this woman had reduced these toughs into a gaggle of ogling junior-high stupidity. I couldn’t say I enjoyed this. I mean, I had status in this place, and I intended to keep it.
And I really, really hoped the guest wasn’t my mother after all.
I cleared my throat. “Someone wants to see me?”
A group of fat heads swiveled around, still blocking my view of the newcomer. No one said anything to me. I honed in on Not-Rocky, who stared at me kind of glassy-eyed, as if trying to figure out where he’d seen the blond chick in boxing gloves before.
I had another unbidden mental flash of the lamppost dude, and realized I had probably resembled this gang of idiots when I had stood there and stared at him—powerless and drooling. It annoyed the crap out of me anew.
“Everybody get lost,” I said now to the group, but no one moved. I put my hands ineffectively on my hips.
“You heard her,” Smiley called from behind me. “’Cause I don’t see one fighter here who couldn’t improve just about everything. Move it.”
There was much muttering and shuffling, and there were many longing, over-the-beefy-shoulder glances, but when the pack dispersed, I was left looking at Frederica Diamond.
“Gemma,” she said, and again it was a statement, not a question. “Shall we talk? There’s a coffee shop across the street.”
“Hold it. I mean, seriously.” I pushed my sweaty bangs back with my forearm. “You track me down at my gym, magically freak out every male here, make it clear you know all about my extended vacation and my love life, and assume I’ll be intrigued enough with your cloak-and-dagger routine to listen to some job pitch. Not to mention that yesterday you pretty much vanished into thin air. If you were me, what could you possibly say?”
The words burst out of me but Frederica didn’t flinch. “If I were you,” she said, the placid smile still in place, “I probably would think, ‘This woman’s full of shit.’”
I raised both eyebrows then.
“But,” she went on, “again, if I were you, I would at least listen after the strange woman told me I’m the only one qualified for this role.” I caught it—the smile fading just the tiniest bit around the edges. “I promise I’ll explain, but you have to know, we don’t just need someone. We need you, Gemma Fae.”
The use of my middle name startled me. I was sure I never used it professionally—it was a calculated decision. I was hardly faerie-like in appearance or in disposition, and although the middle name had been passed down from my mother and her mother before her, I considered it an unfortunate misnomer that was best left on my birth certificate.
So I could only imagine what else this woman knew about me. And I should have been even more creeped out than I already was.
But it was the other part of her last statement that got me. It had only been about three weeks, but the idea of my professional expertise being so valuable that this woman became my personal biographer in order to recruit me was kind of—flattering. I was needed. And I missed that, I really did.
I twisted my mouth to one side, torn, as Frederica waited, the very picture of patience. Would it really hurt to let her buy me a cup of chai—hmm, and maybe a cookie—and listen to her woo the professional me for twenty minutes before turning her down and going on my way? Besides, headhunters could be, well, tenacious, and she’d proven herself a more-than-adept stalker. Saying no might just drive her to show up in my bathroom some morning to hand me a towel as I stepped from the shower and make her pitch as I dried my hair. Probably best to cut my workout short to let her do her thing now and get it over with.
“What the hell,” I told her. “Let me change, and I’ll…“ I was interrupted by my cell phone. “Call me!” sang rock-star Blondie. I knew it was me she was singing to, because she was coming out of my duffel bag—which was still on the floor, by the way, where Not-Rocky had chucked it. I scowled at him over my shoulder, but out of the two women in the room, I wasn’t the one he was looking at. Geez.
I grasped the singing cell phone in my two big gloves and handed it to Frederica. “Press the green button, please?” She did, and held it to my ear as I worked the Velcro off one glove. “Hello?”
“Gemma,” my mother said. “I made this huge turkey. I don’t know why. It was on sale. Come over for dinner and help me eat it.”
“This isn’t a good time,” I said. “Can I call you back?”
“Are you all right?”
I dropped one glove to the ground and took the phone with my sweaty hand, half turning away from my guest. “Actually, I have a kind of impromptu meeting with a job recruiter.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“No, neither did I. She kind of –“ I lowered my voice a few notches “—found me. Something about a business proposal.”
My mother began to speak, then cut herself off. “I thought you were taking a break from work.”
“Right, I am. I’m just hearing her out,” I said, tucking the phone on my shoulder and raising my voice back to normal as I pulled off my other glove. “So, I’ll call you later and let you know about dinner.”
“What agency does the recruiter work for?”
“I don’t, uh, I don’t actually know.”
“What’s her name?”
“Her name’s Frederica something. Oh, I suck with names. I’ll ask her again.”
“Diamond,” I heard, and swiveled around. Completely unashamed of eavesdropping, she turned up that smile again. “Frederica Fae Diamond.”
“Fae,” I repeated, surprised. “Her middle name is Fae,” I told my mother. “Now, that’s random. Maybe we’re related.”
My mother didn’t say anything, and I was about to check our connection when she spoke again. “Gemma,” my mother said in my ear, “I wouldn’t—“
“I was kidding.”
“No, I mean,” she said, and her voice rose in pitch. “This isn’t a good idea.”
“No, probably not,” I agreed, “but I’m going to let her state her case since she came all the way down here.”
“Listen to me.”
“Mom, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said, “but you can’t…”
A fuzz filled my ear. “You’re breaking up,” I told her. “The reception in here is terrible. I have to go.”
“Gemma!” she called as I was about to disconnect, and I put my ear back to the phone. “Just please,” Mom said, and I think what I heard next was, “do the right thing.”
“Uh, yeah, thanks. Love you,” I said, and hung up. I turned to Frederica. “I’m just going to change.”
“Sure. I’ll meet you across the street,” she said. When she left, every guy in the room watched her leave. Through the window of his tiny office, I even noticed Smiley glance up from his desk to watch the door shut.
I picked up my bag, brushed dust off the bottom, and slipped into the bathroom to change. I pulled out the hair elastic and fit it over my wrist, shaking my hair out. I slung the bag over my back and clunked to the front door in my short boots. I turned to wave at whomever, but everyone had gone back to their business. Jump ropes, as well as fists, were swinging. Speed bags were flapping. The floor in the ring was creaking under two pairs of maneuvering feet.
No one watched me leave.
“Schmucks,” I muttered, but even I could hear my own grudging fondness. I rolled my eyes at myself and headed outside.