10

That video was an even bigger hit than the first. I made it all slick and action-packed with fast cuts and house music, like the crew was a bunch of rabid dogs on the hunt. Then as a joke, I did a remix from the guard point of view, but this time I speeded the chase up, made it black and white, and put some scratchy filter over it to make it into a silent movie. With some old-timey music, I knew the guys would bust a gut laughing at it. They loved it.

I got more friend requests. I began to wonder what’d happen if the wrong person saw it, but Destiny said that’s why they used Facebook—this was an underground club, invite only screenings. As in, if you only invite friends, no one else will see it.

The TKO Club met up every few days for a bit of mayhem and adventure after school. In between, me and Destiny started hanging out more. She even came over one day after school. I could see she was kind of surprised by where I lived, but I guessed she’d seen worse.

I showed her the videos I was working on and she made some good comments—what she liked, what could be different. She kind of pushed me to go deeper, not to repeat myself or rely on cheap video effects. She had a point, but it didn’t mean I liked being criticized.

I left her in my room to see if we had any eats. When I came back with some cereal, I found her on the floor, going through my old drawings that were still packed away in some boxes.

“What are you doing?” I asked, more than a little pissed.

“You made these?” she said, like she couldn’t believe it.

I put down the food and got on my knees, gathering up the drawings. “That’s old. I don’t do that stuff anymore.”

“Why not?” she asked, surprised.

I got stuck on that question.

She picked up a pretty big one that was a detailed dissection of my old school in Little Rock. In every room, hallway or courtyard, something was going on. Me, I was hanging out in the cafeteria with my only friends. I remembered that one taking me a good month to finish. “Fish, these are amazing. Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Yeah, look like a supermodel.” I rolled up the drawings and shoved them into a drawer in my dresser. “Who said you could go through my things anyways?” I crossed my arms and felt my nails biting into my skin.

She crinkled her brow. “I thought we were friends. Friends share.”

I felt the tension in my hands melt. “Still . . . you shouldn’t go through my personal stuff. You want me prying into your past?”

She turned gray.

I laughed. “Exactly, right?”

“They’re just drawings,” she said. “I wish I could draw like that.”

Me too, I thought.

I had to admit, next to the excitement of the TKO Club, school started to drag for me. I saw Destiny all the time which was cool, though sometimes at school, she still had to lay low and pretend me and her weren’t so close. I understood. Mrs. Lee had heard about our fight, of course, and pulled me aside to ask if I wanted to change classes so Destiny couldn’t bully me. I almost laughed at that, but tried to act stoic and said that I could handle it. “Well, that’s what I like to hear,” she said. “People should stand up to adversity and take the higher ground. Good for you.”

I’d spot Prince too, from time to time, in the hallway. He always gave me a bit of a hard time, but kept his distance. I never saw Kalvin there, though. I asked Destiny about it, but she just shrugged and said, “K and school don’t mix.”

I was starting to understand why. School was predictable. You got good grades, graduated, got a job. At least that’s what my parents hoped for. But I wasn’t so sure now. I didn’t know what I wanted anymore. Ever since we got to St. Louis, I was just . . . surviving, getting by. Trying not to be an ant. With TKO, it was the opposite. Every time was unpredictable, crazy, or full of chaos. School just seemed boring in comparison. It was hard to get your blood pumping about American history or algebra. What was the point?

Each time the club met up, I could feel the adrenaline rush. I found myself getting excited just by the idea of hanging with the boys—I became someone else for a few hours. And being someone else was good.

Sometimes, Kalvin would take us places just to have fun—the roller rink, Taco Bell, the park. He wasn’t planning any Knockout Games, just treating his crew as family. For Halloween, he made all the Tokers dress up in costumes—mostly ninjas or superstar athletes—and took us trick-or-treating around the nice neighborhoods in Tower Grove Heights. He dressed up as Muhammad Ali with some funny, oversized boxing gloves. He suggested I go as Red Sonja, the only redheaded action figure he knew of. I felt ridiculous, but he couldn’t stop smiling when he saw me decked out. I figured if he liked it, I must be making it work. When the sun went down and we roamed the streets, I thought maybe it was all just a setup, especially after they followed this one guy dressed as a clown. But it was for real. Kalvin made sure everyone watched out for the little kids and said thank you when they got candy. Including me.

I liked watching Kalvin taking care of everyone, making sure they were having a good time. He always kept his eye out for trouble too—cops, even gangs. Real gangs, he’d call them. I asked him what the difference was and he looked at me like I was ignorant or something. “Northside, gangs. Southside, just clubs. They’re into crack dealing and killing over turf. We’re a crew. My guy’s don’t even steal a dime off their targets. We’re just into proving ourselves and having fun.”

And they had a lot of fun.

Other times, when they played the game, I was scared that we’d get caught. But in a weird way, that felt good too. Like going to a scary movie that makes you scream feels good sometimes.

Once Kalvin pulled me aside after I showed him a particularly good video. He put his arm around my neck, pulled me into a playful headlock. “I had my doubts about you at first, Erica. But you proving yourself to be solid. Some of these mutts can’t handle it, but you can. You alright. For a white girl, I mean.”

I pulled myself out of his grip and hit him in the arm. I meant it to be playful, but for a second, I thought I’d made a big mistake. Then he laughed it off.

“Girl got spunk. Not bad.”

I tried hitting him again, but he blocked me.

“But you hit like a girl. I could fix that.”

“Maybe I like hitting like a girl.”

I took a swing and he grabbed my fist. He smiled, examining my hand closely. “You got good hands. Meaty. Like the rest of you.”

“Thanks,” I said sarcastically.

He flipped my hand over, studying my palm. “Nah, that’s a good thing. Shows you’re a fighter. Most girls got small dainty hands and shit.” He closed my hand into a fist, then took that fist and popped it into his palm a few times, making a soft slapping noise. “Solid. You probably don’t realize your own strength. Ever hit anyone before?”

I pulled my fist away. “Yeah, you.” I popped him in the gut.

When he glared at me, I added, “You’d never hit a girl, would you?”

He smiled. “Only if she deserved it.”

I tried to sucker punch him, but he ducked it easily.

“You gotta hit with your body.” He showed me, faking a hit and throwing his whole body into it—legs, shoulder, arm. “Boom. You’d be down for the count with that.”

He spent a few moments showing me how, walking behind me and guiding my body into a hit. I felt his chest on my back, his arms around me. He might be tall and lean, but he was built.

He made me hit him in the stomach a few times. He didn’t wince, but it did hurt . . .

Me.