Once a month, if no one has a wrestling tournament, my family goes to church together, and then we make a big Sunday dinner. Kenna thinks this is bizarre, because divorced parents are supposed to hate each other. But my mom and dad are friends. After all, they’ve known each other since they were in high school. Besides, before she died, my grandmother made them promise they’d continue our Sunday tradition.
“Why change a good thing? We’re still a family,” Nonna used to say. She also used to say my parents are proof that opposites attract. Where Mom is soft and plushy, Dad is prickly and hard, from his scruffy beard to his lean muscles. Ever since the divorce, Dad’s been obsessed with sports. He’s not the only one. A couple of years ago, Sports Illustrated called our part of Maryland “Sportstown USA.” It feels like every kid in my school plays soccer, lacrosse, or football. In summer, they all swim. Wrestling hasn’t caught on like that yet.
My dad has done CrossFit, has trained for mud runs, and is addicted to watching American Ninja Warrior. At first, Mom thought he was doing it to “impress girls.” Yuck. But neither of them has dated anyone for more than a few months. It’s hard not to wish they’d get back together.
Now that they’re just friends, Mom and Dad get along. Except when Dad pulls one of his stunts, like getting matching tattoos with Evan when he turned sixteen. When Mom saw Delgado inked in huge letters across Evan’s shoulders, she went ballistic. Cody can’t wait for his sixteenth birthday, when he’ll be old enough to get his shoulders tattooed. He only needs one parent to sign the forms. Mom is furious, but we don’t talk about tattoos, or anything else my parents disagree about, not at Sunday dinner.
Dad leans against the stove as I stir the cheese mixture for Mom’s stuffed shells. “I’ve been reading the wrestling forums online,” he says. “A lot of people think you should be allowed to wrestle for any team in the league.”
Mom snorts. “Tell that to the Spences.”
“John Spence thinks it’s his job to maintain certain traditions,” Dad says.
“But what do you think, Dad?” I ask.
He crosses his arms, looking at Mom, not me. “Girls can wrestle in rec league, sure. But there’s a lot of talent on the travel level. The competition is tough.”
“I’m tough,” I say. I can’t believe Dad agrees with Coach Spence.
Cody and Evan squeeze into the kitchen, hoping to swipe meatballs from the sauce pot.
“The Spences have a point,” Evan says.
“Thanks a lot.” I pretend to flick ricotta cheese at him.
Evan crunches a carrot stick at me. It’s as orange as his hair. “I’m on your side, sis. But what are you going to do when you get to high school? St. Matt’s is coed, but they are not ready for girls to compete with guys. Especially not in wrestling.”
Cody’s mouth is filled with a stolen meatball. Mom whacks him on the arm with a wooden spoon. “You’ll ruin your appetite.”
He swallows, grinning. “Coach Spence is a dinosaur,” he says. “Wrestling is changing and he doesn’t want to see it. When I was an Eagle, I wrestled girls at tournaments. Not a lot, but there were some.”
Soon everyone is talking over each other. Don’t they get it? There is only one female wrestler in this house. Me.
We sit down for dinner. Dad puts a stuffed shell and two turkey meatballs on my plate, then covers everything with homemade sauce. It smells amazing. But when I open my mouth to take a bite, words pour out.
“Why is it okay to keep me off the Eagles just because I’m a girl?” My brothers stare at me, but I keep going. “When kids of different races wrestle each other, nobody cares. And wrestlers with disabilities, like that boy at my camp. Everyone cheers for them. Why am I ‘that weird girl who wants to wrestle against boys’?”
Mom puts her napkin down. Dad pushes food around his plate. Cody’s the only one nodding in agreement.
“There was a girl in my weight class last year,” he says. “She was so fast, I never had time to think, ‘Uh-oh. I’m wrestling a girl. Better be careful not to touch…certain areas.’ ”
Oh, no. I know Cody’s trying to help, but his story just took a wrong turn. He blushes bright red. Evan struggles to keep a straight face.
Mom only makes it worse when she says, “There’s nothing wrong with the word breasts. The meatballs on your plate are ground turkey breast.”
Cody nearly chokes.
“I was trying to talk about something serious,” I say. I look to my father for help. “Dad, please.”
“What? I thought this was the evening’s entertainment,” he says.
He puts an elbow on the table, arm up. Cody shrugs at me, puts his elbow down too, and grabs Dad’s hand. Evan cheers on their arm-wrestling match.
“You’re a pack of animals,” Mom says.
I try to catch Cody’s attention, tell him to cut it out, but he’s too busy trying to wrench Dad’s arm out of its socket. I push my plate away.
It’s the Delgado Brother Effect. Laugh first, think never.
I want to talk to my family about the Gladiators, whether I should stick with a team that doesn’t want me around and put all my effort into wrestling when I don’t have Kenna to share it with. But I can’t risk talking to my parents. If I heard right in the kitchen, Dad’s still not sure I have the skill to wrestle travel with boys. If my family doesn’t take me seriously, how am I going to make it through this season?
It’s my turn to wash up, but Evan grabs a dish towel and leans against the counter. When I hand him the giant salad bowl, he pretends to drop it.
Evan can be a pain. Half the time, he jokes around, doing stupid stuff to make me laugh. As I wash plates, I wonder if something’s going to upset him. I never know when Evan’s mood will turn dark, when he’s going to start picking a fight with Mom and stomp out of the house without saying good-bye.
Evan hated going to the school where Mom works. He said it was bad enough having Mom monitor his homework and screen time at home, but when she started showing up in his study halls and lunch periods at St. Matt’s, that was when the arguments got bad.
On the day he moved out, Evan told Mom, “I can’t breathe around you.” He told me, “A man needs to live with his father.” Whatever that means.
My shoulders slump, as if I’ve been washing dishes for hours. “None of the boys on the Gladiators talk to me,” I tell Evan. “It’s too hard without Kenna.”
“Did you tell Mom and Dad?”
I look at my brother. He has Dad’s red hair, but we share Mom’s square face and cleft chin. Somehow, the features that look so plain on me make Evan handsome. It’s not fair.
“Didn’t you see what happened at dinner?” I ask him. “The second I tried to talk about it, everyone started laughing and arguing. Besides, if I complain about wrestling, Dad will tell me to suck it up. And Mom? She’ll be on the phone with Coach, telling him to make the team apologize to me.”
Evan puts his hands up in surrender. We’re quiet for a minute, working side by side at the sink.
“Have you ever wrestled a girl?” I ask.
“Couple of times.”
“Was it weird?”
Evan pushes his hair out of his eyes without thinking about it. How come he’s so good at being himself, when I’m totally awkward?
He says, “The first time was at a high school tournament. When I saw a girl’s name on my bracket, I figured I had an easy win.”
I nod. I’ve heard boys say that about me and Kenna plenty of times. “She kicked your butt, didn’t she?”
“Pinned me in the second period. I took it easy on her. That was my mistake, and she made me pay for it. You ever do that when a guy underestimates you?”
“No mercy.” I put my hand out for a fist bump. If kids look at me in that I’m-better-than-you way, just because they’re boys, it’s over before they know what hit them. Usually a cement mixer—my favorite move—is what hit them.
Evan shoves me. “Way to be, Mighty Mite.”
When Evan’s easy to be around like this, I can forget how bad things were between him and Mom last spring. Our house is calmer since he moved in with Dad, and it gives Evan what my history teacher calls perspective. He understands things that Mom, Dad, and Cody don’t see. Evan knows I’m upset about the Eagles. He knows I need to talk.
“You’re a Delgado,” he says. “Start winning matches and the guys on the team will warm up to you.”
When he says “guys on the team,” Lev’s face flashes in my mind. That’s right! Evan doesn’t know about Lev. I whap him with the dish towel. “Guess who my partner is?”
“Stone Cold Steve Austin?” he jokes.
“I’m talking about real wrestling.” I smile big enough to show my braces, because I’ve got the goods on Evan.
“Hit me.”
“Lev Sofer. Your girlfriend’s brother.” I draw out the word girlfriend with extra attitude.
Evan’s eyebrows just about leap off his face. “Don’t tell Mom, Mickey,” he says. “If she finds out, she’ll pester me until I bring Dalia over to meet her. She’ll ask me stuff, like what we’re wearing to prom.” He scrubs his forehead. “Mom and I are just starting to get along better. You can’t tell her.”
“Fine.” I feel bad for Evan, and he’s right about Mom, but I still get to tease him. What are little sisters for? “What’ll you give me? Chores for a month? Money?”
“Better than that. I’ll talk to Lev. He’s my buddy.”
I cross my arms over my chest.
“Trust me,” he says.
“I do.”
That night, Mom comes to my room and sits on the edge of my bed. “Dad and I were talking about you.”
I don’t answer.
Mom picks up Spike, the plushy hedgehog I’ve had since I was a baby. She strokes Spike’s fake fur. I hear all the things she’s not telling me, that Dad’s not convinced I can make it on a travel team. That Mom is all for girl power but doesn’t want me to get hurt.
“It would be easier if you still had Kenna,” Mom says. “I felt safer when it was the two of you.”
Tell me about it. I prop up on my elbow. “What does Dad say?”
More than anything, I want Dad to be on my side. I want him to get it, that I’m all in for wrestling, just like Evan and Cody.
Mom sighs. “He says Delgados aren’t quitters. And that he’s proud of you.”
“Then I’m sticking with it.”