“Thanks,” I said, taking the blanket Lindsey offered me. “Trying to tell a story with chattering teeth would be counterproductive.”
“I bet.”
“Oh, you’ll find out. Servant or not, I’m going to ask you one of these days for your story. Fair’s fair.”
“Fine. Now, stop stalling and get on with it.”
“I was twelve years old when I got in my first fight. Wasn’t much of a fight. I got my ass kicked. Three boys in my class did the kicking. They had it in for me, for a couple of reasons. Telling them to fuck off when they asked me to do their homework for them was probably reason number one. Anyway, I never had a chance. I was scrawny back then, hadn’t yet hit my growth spurt, and knew more about dinosaurs and algebra than fighting techniques. I loved to read. Mom and Dad encouraged me to read whatever I wanted, and would ask me deep questions when I was done as an exercise to help me remember details. It was kind of a game.”
“So I got jumped at final recess one day. They all had at least four inches and thirty pounds apiece on me. I remember the first punch I took. The kid’s knuckles bit into my cheek, laying the skin open. My face was warm, but whether it was from the blood running down or the sting of the blow, I couldn’t tell. Everything sped up beyond my reckoning then, and the next thing I remember I was waking up in the hospital.”
“Most of the damage was superficial; they were kids after all and didn’t know how to hit to injure. I had two black eyes, a broken nose, my cheek was cut, my lower lip swollen, and I was missing a tooth. Luckily, sort of, it was a baby tooth and so wasn’t terribly missed. I had bruised ribs and my stomach was tender. The doctors figured I probably got kicked in the abdomen a few times, but there wasn’t any internal bleeding. Small favors, right?”
“The beating was over before any of the teachers noticed what was going on. When I regained consciousness, they asked me if I remembered who had beaten me. I saw each face clearly, their likenesses etched indelibly on my brain, but I played dumb. I said I couldn’t remember. The doctors chalked it up to the trauma of the attack and that was okay by me. Twelve years old, and I finally understood that being smart would only get a person so far. I needed force to back up my words. A few weeks later, I started studies very much different from paleontology and math.”
“Boxing was first. There were plenty of weight classes, and I was just big enough to be a flyweight. I would get up in the morning, before dawn, and go pound the pavement. I would run the two miles to our gym, work out with a trainer Dad had hired at my insistence, run back home, and go to school. Back at home, once Mom was satisfied I had accomplished my homework, I went to the basement and continued to change. I jumped rope to work on my coordination, hammered the speed bag to improve how fast I could throw my hands, and finished off with five rounds on the heavy bag. I did that for two years straight, and each time I hit the bag I imagined their faces deforming from one punch after another.”
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