Read Online Girl in the Arena by Lise Haines - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lise Haines
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me as much as I’m holding him. Like a ride at a carnival, I’m trying to find the safety release because I’d rather sail into the air than stay on. I start pounding on Uber, pounding against the dumb muscles that won’t unlock. And then I do the stupidest thing. And not because I want to—it’s the last thing I want. But I’m crying.
tommy .
Tears sheet my face. My insides sting as if there are thin slices cut across my lungs, over my heart, a million small cuts. There are rules against a gladiator’s daughter crying: how, when, where. I’m breaking eleven of those rules. My head could be shaved for this, my tattoos erased—certainly the one with Tommy’s name—I could be exiled to some lowland that floods constantly, a place where the Red Cross never lands. And I just don’t care.
Uber’s body slackens. And then, like he needs to be some kind of rescue man and pull a building off me, he guides me to a seat on one of the benches. I’m hyperventilating. As soon as my breath slows, I push him away.
He goes to his locker and gets out a pair of glasses. His lenses are thick like jar bottoms. His eyes trapped in jars.
—Jesus. You’re Tommy’s girl, he says, seeing me for the first time.
Tommy always said you have to get curious about your opponent if you plan to beat him. So I study the way Uber moves. He brings me a wad of toilet paper to blow my nose. I notice the way he favors his left side when he walks. And when he holds out a cup of water, I see the big thing, that his right arm doesn’t extend fully. Probably a surgery that fell short.
The way his hand shakes holding that cup of water, maybe he thinks I’m fragile or delicate. And that thought makes me laugh. I laugh so hard I drop the cup. It hits the lip of the bench and the water soaks his legs.
—Don’t worry about it, he says, and sits down on the opposite bench about three feet away. He leans in toward me. And I wonder if that’s tenderness to a guy like him. He looks like he doesn’t know what else to do with himself. There’s something almost clumsy about him, really. He’s busy trying to keep his towel in place, adjusting it carefully. I see his ears redden. He has earlobes like Tommy has—like Tommy had—the unattached kind. But one of them is split in two. I guess someone yanked an earring out once.
We both consider the blood on my T-shirt. He gets up and walks around behind me to see the back of my head, though I don’t make it easy the way I keep turning to make sure he doesn’t do anything crazy.
—I could do something with that if you’d let me, he says, indicating the gash.
—I’m okay.
I notice that his second toes are longer than his big toes, and my grandmother, my mother’s mother, told me that’s a sign of stupidity. He has young feet, not callused or corned, but I finally take another look at the thing I’ve been trying to avoid, my bracelet. I point as if I’ve forgotten how to speak. His wrist is pretty raw from my work.
He says, —Listen, I know this won’t help to hear, but...
I cover my ears.
He stops.
I take my hands down.
—It’s just that Tommy, I worshipped...
I cover my ears again.
He stops.
Sometimes I think I’ve inherited the silence of gladiators because I can do silence for hours if I have to, though there are people I could talk with all night—it was like that with Tommy sometimes.
I finally say, —I don’t care what you thought about Tommy. But the bracelet, that’s... my family’s.
—I’m sorry. I should never have...
He slides the bracelet off and holds it up to the fluorescent lights for a moment, like he’s got possession of something otherworldly and he’s trying to memorize all of its features before it shape-shifts. He starts to turn it around, to read the inscription.
— I change, but I cannot die , he says, repeating the words.
He puts it back on.
—They said—the officials said—since it belonged to my opponent, I’m required to keep it on,
tommy .
Tears sheet my face. My insides sting as if there are thin slices cut across my lungs, over my heart, a million small cuts. There are rules against a gladiator’s daughter crying: how, when, where. I’m breaking eleven of those rules. My head could be shaved for this, my tattoos erased—certainly the one with Tommy’s name—I could be exiled to some lowland that floods constantly, a place where the Red Cross never lands. And I just don’t care.
Uber’s body slackens. And then, like he needs to be some kind of rescue man and pull a building off me, he guides me to a seat on one of the benches. I’m hyperventilating. As soon as my breath slows, I push him away.
He goes to his locker and gets out a pair of glasses. His lenses are thick like jar bottoms. His eyes trapped in jars.
—Jesus. You’re Tommy’s girl, he says, seeing me for the first time.
Tommy always said you have to get curious about your opponent if you plan to beat him. So I study the way Uber moves. He brings me a wad of toilet paper to blow my nose. I notice the way he favors his left side when he walks. And when he holds out a cup of water, I see the big thing, that his right arm doesn’t extend fully. Probably a surgery that fell short.
The way his hand shakes holding that cup of water, maybe he thinks I’m fragile or delicate. And that thought makes me laugh. I laugh so hard I drop the cup. It hits the lip of the bench and the water soaks his legs.
—Don’t worry about it, he says, and sits down on the opposite bench about three feet away. He leans in toward me. And I wonder if that’s tenderness to a guy like him. He looks like he doesn’t know what else to do with himself. There’s something almost clumsy about him, really. He’s busy trying to keep his towel in place, adjusting it carefully. I see his ears redden. He has earlobes like Tommy has—like Tommy had—the unattached kind. But one of them is split in two. I guess someone yanked an earring out once.
We both consider the blood on my T-shirt. He gets up and walks around behind me to see the back of my head, though I don’t make it easy the way I keep turning to make sure he doesn’t do anything crazy.
—I could do something with that if you’d let me, he says, indicating the gash.
—I’m okay.
I notice that his second toes are longer than his big toes, and my grandmother, my mother’s mother, told me that’s a sign of stupidity. He has young feet, not callused or corned, but I finally take another look at the thing I’ve been trying to avoid, my bracelet. I point as if I’ve forgotten how to speak. His wrist is pretty raw from my work.
He says, —Listen, I know this won’t help to hear, but...
I cover my ears.
He stops.
I take my hands down.
—It’s just that Tommy, I worshipped...
I cover my ears again.
He stops.
Sometimes I think I’ve inherited the silence of gladiators because I can do silence for hours if I have to, though there are people I could talk with all night—it was like that with Tommy sometimes.
I finally say, —I don’t care what you thought about Tommy. But the bracelet, that’s... my family’s.
—I’m sorry. I should never have...
He slides the bracelet off and holds it up to the fluorescent lights for a moment, like he’s got possession of something otherworldly and he’s trying to memorize all of its features before it shape-shifts. He starts to turn it around, to read the inscription.
— I change, but I cannot die , he says, repeating the words.
He puts it back on.
—They said—the officials said—since it belonged to my opponent, I’m required to keep it on,
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