Seventeen days ago
“Shit,” Isabelle swore.
She sucked at the blood seeping from the cut on her thumb. She put down the knife and pushed the tomatoes to one side. She’d been distracted all day, her mind wandering all over the place.
If she could just get a good night’s sleep, she’d feel like a normal person again. She’d be more alert; human, almost.
She looked at the textbook next to the tomatoes and groaned. She had a finite mathematics paper due later this month and she hadn’t completed it yet. She knew she’d be okay, but she wanted to do more than okay, especially if she was to work toward an early finish on her degree next year and move on to a master’s after that. She needed the best scholarship good grades could buy.
She looked at her finger. The bleeding had stopped. She always bled so easily. She pushed her hair back from her face and tied it up. Maybe she should go boxing. It should exhaust her enough to manage a few hours’ sleep.
She ate the tomato she’d already cut, put the remainder back in the fridge, and started the hunt for her gym clothes in the tiny one-room apartment in Jersey City. She dressed quickly, pulling on only a hoodie for warmth, even though it was freezing cold outside. The gym was close by. She’d be there before the wind could cool her skin.
* * *
Isabelle ducked below the long arms of her much taller trainer. She jabbed him once, twice in the side. Horace Gibson was a lean African-American with the reach of an octopus.
Former WBA heavyweight champion Horace the Hammer.
Isabelle was the only woman Horace trained. The rest of his clients were suits with money, wanting to look mean in the boardroom, and wannabe fighters still hustling their way up the rankings. Horace trained only one true boxer who would this month, after ten years in the ring, finally call it quits.
Isabelle danced back from Horace’s bulky body, her skin slick with sweat after thirty minutes in the ring. Her calves ached, clenching as if they wanted to cramp, then eased up again.
“How the hell do you know what I’m going to do before I do it?” Horace puffed. “Fuck, woman. You make me look bad.” He leaned forward, gloved hands on his knees. “Enough. You’re giving my kidneys grief. I’m gonna piss blood for a week.”
“You big softie.” Isabelle grinned. She felt good. Alive.
Not at all tired.
She dropped her gloves.
Horace shot forward, his fist stopping inches before her face.
She startled and retreated in a quick shuffle.
“If the bell ain’t rung…” he said.
“…never stop fighting,” said Isabelle, taken aback. “Cheater.”
“Slacker.”
Isabelle’s calves threatened to seize up again, but there was no way she was going to admit that to Horace. “Ding-ding?” she offered.
Horace moved back, stretching his back. He grinned. “Old man will take the bell so young girl can go study. But that’s the only reason.”
* * *
Isabelle inserted the key, then lifted it to the right until she heard her front door click open. Always been a funny lock.
Her neighbor’s door swung open. Jam, a short, purple-haired tattoo artist, emerged, laundry basket in hand. “Good session at the gym?”
Isabelle could never shake the feeling that Jam liked her, and not in a best friend kind of way either, but she didn’t quite trust her. She was forever asking questions, wanting to know more about Isabelle’s private life. Whether she was dating someone. If she slept well. Ate well. Enjoyed the boxing.
“Yes,” Isabelle said, managing a smile. “Nothing clean to wear?”
She’d seen the inside of Jam’s apartment. It was a mess, mirroring the colorful parachute pants and Pac-Man T-shirts she favored.
“Yeah. Can’t put it off any longer. My mom is coming to visit. She’s Japanese and she’ll have a heart attack if she opens my closet. And she’s going to do exactly that, make no mistake.” Jam gestured down to the basement. “Are you sleeping better these days? No more dreams?”
She’d woken up screaming one night, Jam frantically knocking at her front door to see if she was okay.
“Much better,” she lied. “And my math paper is due soon anyway, then I can breathe again.”