The first thing I notice about the Gladiators is speed. Even when they’re messing around before practice, these boys are spinning, sprawling, diving to take a shot on their partners, scooping up legs and ankles so fast I don’t see it happen until they’re on the ground, fighting for control.
No one tells us it’s time to start. Even the little kids know, you lace up your shoes, put your headgear on, and start jogging around the mats. I watch my new teammates and copy what they’re doing, trying to act like I’m not totally confused. The last words Mom said when she dropped me off were “Have fun.” Ha. The way these guys are pretending not to stare at me, I can tell it’s going to be a while before wrestling with the Gladiators is fun.
Heavy-metal music blares from speakers I can’t see. It’s ridiculous, the way boys weave around me as they jog, like I’ve got cooties. If Kenna were here, we’d be laughing at the way they’re tripping over themselves to avoid me. But I have no one to laugh with. For the first time in my life, I don’t have a friend in the wrestling room. That kid Lev doesn’t count, even if he does know Evan.
My new coach, Billy Kim, calls us to the center of the mat. He’s Asian American and the youngest coach I’ve ever had. There is no question Coach Billy is a wrestler. Those banged-up cauliflower ears mark him. Damaged cartilage in the ears is permanent.
“Mickey, front and center,” Coach says.
Uh-oh. This is not how it’s supposed to go.
Ignore me, I think. Treat me like I’m any other new kid on the team. But I might as well have GIRL tattooed on my forehead.
Coach’s “treat Mickey like everyone else” speech has the opposite effect. When it’s time to pair up for conditioning exercises, every kid I get close to suddenly finds another partner.
Dad always says wrestling is a sport that “takes all comers.” If you’re willing to step on the mat and compete, it doesn’t matter what color you are, how much money your parents make, or if you have a disability. So why are these kids acting like they’ve never seen a girl before?
Coach Billy grabs my shoulder. He points at Lev and his partner. “See that kid over there? The one who looks like me?”
I didn’t notice before, but Lev’s friend is a mini version of Coach Billy. He’s too old to be Coach’s son, but they must be related.
“Tell Josh to partner with Milo,” Coach tells me. “You’re with Lev.”
To say Lev and Josh are not thrilled about splitting up is an understatement. Josh shakes his head as he stalks away.
Coach calls, “Sit-ups!”
I lie on my back. Lev’s supposed to hold my ankles, but he stands there, his big dark eyes staring down at me.
“I’m training with you?”
“You got a problem with that?”
Lev kneels, grabs my hand-me-down wrestling shoes—he’s careful not to touch actual female skin—and slides the rest of his body as far away from me as possible.
I want to shout, You think I wouldn’t rather be wrestling with my friend? But it’s no use. He doesn’t care that Kenna quit on me and left me to deal with these jocks by myself.
When I see Kenna at school, I would love to tell her off. Instead, I’ll have to pretend everything’s fine. Because if I get mad and say she’s a big, fat quitter, I’ll never convince her to join the Gladiators.
The last half hour of practice is live wrestling, when all the partners compete as if we’re in real matches. Lev takes down-man position, kneeling with his butt on his heels, his arms propping his chest up. I look down at him before I take the top spot. He’s got too-long wavy brown hair and freckles on his neck. He looks more like a little kid than a teenager. I bet he’s in sixth grade, like me. His Gladiators T-shirt has the team logo on the back, a gray helmet with a black feathered plume. It says Give It All You’ve Got.
I kneel and place my right arm around Lev’s stomach, left hand on his elbow, ready to move on Coach’s whistle. When I lean against Lev’s back, he jerks away. What’s he afraid of? It’s not like I have much chest to brag about. What I do have is smooshed down by my new sports bra. If we’re going to be partners, he’d better get over it.
Coach Billy yells, “Bottom man, you’ve got thirty seconds to score!”
On the whistle, I yank Lev’s elbow to the side and press down on his back, trying to flatten him to the mat. I can’t let him escape and earn a point, but he’s strong. I sprawl my legs out to get traction, push from the toes of my shoes, and hold tight to his middle. Thirty seconds feels like forever.
“Switch positions!” Coach yells. “Top man on the bottom.”
We continue like that until practice is over and my T-shirt is soaked with sweat. I’m sitting by myself, unlacing Cody’s old wrestling shoes, when I hear Lev’s voice.
“She didn’t score on me, but she’s fast,” he tells Josh and his other friend, a tall black kid.
If Kenna were here, we might smile at each other and high-five. Instead, I walk by myself out of the hot gym, into the cold November air.
“How was it?” Mom asks before I even have a chance to buckle my seat belt.
“Fine,” I lie.
She turns to look at me. “Are you going to be okay without Kenna?”
It’s only the first night of preseason, and this was the most intense wrestling practice of my life. I’m starving and lonely and angry all at the same time. Am I going to be okay without Kenna? Probably not. But I have to keep it together so I can tell her how awesome it is to be a Gladiator.
I take a deep breath. My body’s so warm, the windows steam up. “There’s still time for Kenna to change her mind,” I tell Mom. “Coach Billy’s fine. The guys on the team are really good.”
Mom frowns. “And if she doesn’t change her mind?”
I shrug, even though Mom’s eyes are on the road.
“I’m not sure how I feel about you being the only girl on the team,” Mom says. In the rearview mirror, I see worry lines marching across her forehead.
“It’s fine, Mom. I’m used to it, remember? Evan? Cody?”
No matter how tough it gets, I can’t quit wrestling. Ever since Evan moved in with Dad, this sport is the glue that keeps our family together.
The next day at school, I rush to lunch. I know exactly what I’m going to say to Kenna, how I’m going to describe the Gladiators to make her realize how much she misses wrestling.
But Kenna has her own news. “I’m joining drama club,” she says. Her arm is linked with Lalita Parsons.
Lalita went to a different elementary school. She’s been taking ballet and tap classes since she was little. But now she’s into hip-hop. She’s trying to talk her parents into letting her take lessons.
Even though she wears sweatpants with the word DANCE across the butt, it’s hard not to like Lalita. She’s enthusiastic about everything, whether it’s her favorite K-pop boy band, the book we’re reading in language arts, or Dickinson Middle’s sloppy Joe sandwiches.
Lalita leans across the table. “I’m getting an act together for the talent show. We’re doing the ‘Thriller’ dance. It’s super fun. And it’s easy to learn. You should do it too, Mikayla.” When she smiles, her braces are electric blue. They match her glasses.
I shake my head. “No time. Not till wrestling season’s over.” I’m surprised that I’m actually sad about this. It’s been a long time since Kenna and I took dance together. Learning the Thriller would be awesome.
Lalita looks confused. “Wrestling season?”
“Yes!” Kenna answers. Her smile is so big that I forgive her a little. “Mickey, I mean Mikayla is a great wrestler.” She leans closer to Lalita. “You should see her on the mat. She crushes kids. Even boys.”
Lalita’s eyes widen behind her glasses.
Kenna’s compliment should make me happy, but I’m still upset about last night’s practice. With the Gladiators, I’m starting over from the bottom. There are second graders on that team who are better than me.
“Lalita asked me to do makeup for the dance,” Kenna is saying.
“ ‘Thriller’ makeup? You mean zombies?”
She nods and her curls bounce happily. “I’ve been watching YouTube videos. I can already do blood and bruises.” She takes out her phone and clicks through the photo gallery. There are pictures of Kenna with dark circles under her eyes and a dripping, bloody nose. Kenna with flakes of decaying skin peeling off her face.
“I didn’t know you were into makeup,” I say. “How’d you make that flaking skin look so real?”
Kenna smiles. “I need someone to practice on besides myself.” She flutters her eyelashes at me. It’s a BFF thing. She knows I can’t resist.
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll be your zombie guinea pig.” Everyone at our lunch table thinks that’s hilarious.
Since there’s no wrestling practice on Tuesdays, Kenna comes over after school. We carry her new stage makeup kit to the upstairs bathroom.
“What kind of zombie do you want to be?” she asks.
I shrug. “Maybe I died of boredom.”
“Just for that, I’m going to give you a head wound.” Kenna gets out a jar of soft, clear wax. “It’s what they use in movies, for special effects.”
How does she know that?
Kenna smiles. She looks happy, leaning against the bathroom sink with a palette of eye shadows in one hand and her brushes in the other.
“What?” I ask, as she dabs purple shadow on my eyebrow.
“It’s nice hanging out with you and not talking about, you know.”
“Boys?”
“Wrestling. For a long time, all we talked about was wrestling. We used to do other stuff together, remember? Ballet and tap class. And that time when we wanted to start a cupcake company.”
I do remember. Kenna and I were still dancing when we started to wrestle. It was fun, except when Mrs. Franklin yelled at us for wearing tap shoes on her hardwood floors. I liked tap, especially the kicks and stomps. But performing in front of people made me want to vomit. And then there was that time I came down to breakfast wearing a tutu over my wrestling singlet. Cody still teases me about it. Kenna and I decided not to sign up again. Or maybe I was the one who decided to quit, and Kenna didn’t want to keep dancing without me.
“We still bake,” I say. “Every time you sleep over, my mom lets us take over the kitchen.”
“I guess. But a business would have been fun. I still have that list of cupcake flavors we came up with in fourth grade.”
“Mmm. Black licorice. We could still do that.”
“When?” Kenna asks. “You’re at practice three times a week. You’ll be wrestling every weekend until spring.”
It’s harder for us to spend time together since middle school started. If I can’t get Kenna to join the Gladiators, how are we going to stay friends?
“Look.” Kenna turns my body toward the mirror and I see a different person. A scarier person.
“Too bad Halloween is over,” I say, admiring my sunken-in eyes and bloody forehead.
“I call your look Prom Scream. Get it? Like prom queen?” Kenna admires her work. “Please do the talent show with us, Mickey. I’ll find you a dress. An ugly pink one with lots of lace.”
“I wish I could. I miss you at wrestling,” I tell her. When she starts to argue, I say, “It’s not about being partners. I like having a friend on the team.”
This summer, we went to wrestling camp together for the first time. There was a boy in our group whose arms only went down to his elbows. He was a good kid and a strong wrestler. I wonder if the boys who wrestle me feel the way I did, that there are unspoken rules when you’re on the mat with someone whose body is different from yours, but nobody’s supposed to say anything. I was glad Kenna and I could talk about it at the end of the day, when her mom drove us home.
Kenna studies my face. Now she has this secret life with a vocabulary I know nothing about. Until middle school started, we were always together. How different could we be after just a few weeks?
A lot, I tell myself.