Read Online Punch Like a Girl by Karen Krossing - Free Book Online Page A

grip on my throat.
    On Sunday, my aches seem even worse and fresh bruises bloom. I convince Mom to let me miss school the next day. I’d rather do homework and watch bad daytime TV than answer a billion questions about my hand and the cut above my ear. But no way will I miss any of my shifts at the shelter.

    Monday is the first stiflingly hot day since last summer. I find the kids in the fenced backyard of the shelter. The air rings with joyful shrieks as Rachel, Jonah and Manny run through a spinning typhoon of a sprinkler, colliding with one another and sliding on the slick grass.
    Sal is there too, with his crew of preschoolers and the other child and youth worker, Francine.
    Casey hangs back by the shed, her eyes on the spray. She’s the only kid not in a bathing suit, but at least her feet are bare. I watch her dip one toe in a puddle on the soggy grass. When the other kids notice me, I’m swarmed. Manny latches onto my middle, soaking my T-shirt and shorts. Two preschoolers I don’t know well copy him, and my bruises ache anew. Jonah shows me his new blue-and-red-striped bathing suit. Rachel pokes a finger at my cast, demanding to know what happened.
    â€œI ran into a garbage can,” I tell Rachel. I don’t want to lie, but I’m not sharing details either.
    â€œHow?” Manny’s eyes cloud with worry. “Did you trip?”
    â€œSort of.” I think about how his mother may have tried to hide injuries to her body. “But I’m okay, Manny.”
    He nods, his eyes serious.
    Casey wanders over, her eyes on my cast. She lingers in the background, as usual, waiting for the excitement to die down.
    â€œCan we sign your cast?” Rachel pleads. A drop of water dangles from the tip of her nose, and her long hair hangs in snaky clumps.
    â€œIt’s not the signing kind. Sorry.” I tap it. “See? It’s covered in cloth. And it’s black, so the writing won’t show.”
    Rachel’s face falls briefly and then brightens. “I’ll make a card for you instead.” She hurries away, and I can hear her telling Jia that I broke my hand so she needs paper and pencils to make a get-well card for me.
    When the other kids run back to the sprinkler, Casey gives me a fleeting hug.
    â€œHow are you, Casey?” I say, hoping today will be the day she answers me.
    But she just gives me her usual wounded, wide-eyed stare and then wanders back to flutter near the other kids.
    The heat of the sun makes my hand sweat inside my cast. I retreat to the shade, where Sal slouches against the trunk of a maple, the one tree that towers over the yard.
    â€œHey,” he says. “Too bad about your hand.”
    His heavy bangs fall across his eyes and swoop to one side. His smile is soft, and I like how he doesn’t ask nosy questions. I could get to like this guy, except I’m off the market.
    â€œThanks. Where’s Ethan today?” I ask. Ethan is a chubby two-year-old Sal often has in tow.
    â€œHe moved out.”
    â€œOf the shelter? Where did he go?”
    â€œI don’t know exactly.” He leans one tanned foot against the tree trunk. “Francine said that his family finally got into subsidized housing. They’ve been on the list for a year.”
    â€œHe’s just gone? That quickly?” I’d want to say goodbye before any of my kids left.
    â€œYup,” he says, like he’s used to people disappearing. “They’re lucky.”
    Then two preschoolers start a tug-of-war over a sit-and-scoot car, and Sal lopes over to settle it.
    I wander over to Casey to encourage her to go in the sprinkler. Together, we let the sprinkler spray our bare feet. I can’t go in farther because I need to keep my cast dry.
    When Casey strips to her bathing suit and edges closer to the sprinkler, I return to the shade to find Sal holding a monarch butterfly. It’s perched on his hand, opening and shutting its wings