At Monday’s practice, Lev tells me, “You’re going to the Thanksgiving tournament.”
We’re supposed to be practicing stand-ups, but his voice is so bossy, I sit on my heels and give him my Sisterly Death Glare.
I pull out my mouth guard and slip it under the strap of my sports bra. “Coach said it’s not for newbies.”
Actually, Coach said new Gladiators should only sign up if we want to challenge ourselves. The Eagles’ tournament kicks off the whole travel season. Cody told me wrestlers come from all over the East Coast. I don’t mention to Lev that I have other plans. There’s a “Thriller” rehearsal at Lalita Parsons’s house on Saturday. I told Kenna and Lalita I can’t be in the act, but maybe I can learn some of the dance, just for fun.
“Exactly, noob,” Lev says. “Nick won’t be expecting you. Catch him by surprise. He’ll have to wrestle you.” He clasps his hands together and pulls, like he’s going to yank his own arms out of their sockets.
My eyebrows scrunch. “I don’t think it works like that.”
Does he think being my partner means he can tell me what to do? If Lev were one of my brothers, I’d pop him in the arm.
I put in my mouth guard and move into down-man position. Lev puts all his weight on my back on purpose, to get me riled up. He holds my waist with one hand and my elbow with the other. On the whistle, I kick a leg forward and throw my right arm up. I’m not going to let him push me around. Since this is a drill, Lev lets me break his hold.
“Again!” Coach calls. He’s walking around the room, checking everyone’s form.
“You need to wrestle,” Lev says in my ear as we set up again. “Go sign up with Mrs. Oliver. Show them you’re not afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” I say around my mouth guard.
“Then you’re going.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Which is it, noob?”
“Sofer. Delgado. Cut the chitchat,” Coach says.
I hear a low “Oooo” from somewhere in the room.
Lev widens his eyes at me. I’ve lived with brothers long enough to know what that look means: Come on, Mickey. Usually it’s followed by all three of us getting in trouble for doing something we shouldn’t, like practicing escapes in the living room.
Lev keeps his grip on me a few seconds longer than he should. He makes me fight my way into the stand-up. I break the hold and turn to glare at him.
He puts his hands up. “Take it out on Spence,” he says.
We get out of school early on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. It’s hard to believe I’ve been at Dickinson Middle long enough that it’s time for parent-teacher conferences.
When I get home, there’s a box on the front step with my name on it. I carry the package inside, but Cody swoops out of nowhere, grabbing it from my hands.
Until Mom gets back from talking to my teachers, he’s in charge. It’s the Delgado Next Man Up rule. When the parents are out, oldest kid is in charge. Cody’s mad about missing weight training with his team at St. Matt’s. I’m not exactly thrilled either, but Mom thinks I’m too young to stay home alone.
“I didn’t order anything,” Cody says, reading the mailing label.
“Duh. It’s got my name on it.” I take the box and shake it. Something clunks inside.
Cody pretends to back away. He’s grown since he started high school. His jeans barely touch the tops of his sneakers and his T-shirt is too tight. Cody’s hair is in between Evan’s and mine. Instead of Evan’s red curls or my straight brown hair, it’s auburn and wavy. You can see the red when he stands in the sun.
Cody says, “It sounds like a bomb. You got any enemies?” He may look mature, but he sure doesn’t act like it.
I slice through the tape with a green-painted fingernail. Under the Bubble Wrap, there’s another box. Nestled inside are the brightest hot-pink wrestling shoes I have ever seen.
“Whoa.” Cody shields his eyes. “Where are my sunglasses?”
I grin at him without showing my teeth. “This means I don’t have to wear your nasty old hand-me-down shoes.” I sit on the floor, right there in the hallway, and pop off my loafers. Nothing else in the world feels like wrestling shoes. The soles are thin and flexible from heel to toe, so you can feel your feet and get traction on the mat. I thread the black laces tight along the top of my foot, up to my ankle, then pull the ankle strap closed, covering the knot and bow.
“Is there a note? I bet they’re from Dad.” I hope they’re from Dad.
“Got it.” Cody holds up a small card. “They’re from Evan. Socks too. They’re—uh—loud.”
He dangles bright pink knee socks in front of my face. They have a gray hedgehog pattern. The shoes are cool, even though Evan forgot that green is my favorite color. But he remembered I love hedgehogs.
Sometimes I wish Dad were more like Evan. When Evan’s in a good mood, he’s the best. He buys me and Mom little gifts, flowers for Mom, DC hero buttons for me, just because he knows we’ll like them. It mostly makes up for times when he disappears and, like Dad, forgets to call and ask how the first day of school went, or what I’m dressing up as for Halloween, or how it feels to wrestle without Kenna for the first time in my life.
“Here.” Cody hands me the card.
I read, “ ‘You’re going to blow up the mat, Mighty Mite. Good luck at your first big tournament!’ ”
Did Lev tell Evan I’m wrestling on Saturday? My face gets hot.
“What?” Cody asks. He sniffs the box. “Are they poison? Your face is as pink as those shoes.”
“Evan thinks I’m going to the Thanksgiving tournament.”
Cody lifts an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”
I slump on the floor with one pink shoe in my lap. “There’s a dance thing.”
Cody breaks into what he thinks is a dance move. I make my face stay completely still.
“You’ve gotta wrestle, Mickey,” he says. “Kicking butt at that tournament is a Delgado tradition.”
Since Evan moved out, Cody and I have gotten closer. He used to hate it when Evan was Next Man Up. Evan walked around our house like he was the number one son, and Mom and Dad let him do it. When Nonna was alive, she used to say that at our house, the sun rose and set with Evan’s moods. Ever since I can remember, Evan’s been like that. When he’s happy, I’ll find Mom singing show tunes in the kitchen. When Evan’s upset, it’s like someone pulled all the blinds down and put on emo music.
Cody’s not into bossing me around, the way Evan did when he used to babysit us. If Mom’s out in the evening, we make breakfast for dinner, French toast and bacon with orange slices. It’s delicious. Before he moved out, when Evan was Next Man Up, he told us to make ourselves PB&J, then disappeared into his room to play video games.
I ask Cody, “Will Evan ever move back home?”
“I doubt it, Mick. You know Dad. He thinks Evan’s his best friend or something. Evan gets away with a lot of stuff at Dad’s house. No curfew. His own truck.”
“The tattoo.” It’s not fair, the way Mom and Dad treat Evan like he’s the rock-star kid of our family just because he was born first. I was born last. What does that make me?
Still, I feel guilty for wishing the good-luck gift were from Dad instead of Evan. I should probably tell Dad I’m wrestling on Saturday. Maybe he’ll be so excited, he’ll want to come with me. But I’m afraid he’ll say I shouldn’t go. The Eagles tournament is going to be tough. What if I embarrass myself and him?