Dealing With Trouble

CHAPTER 2 ?

The crowd thins out as an older man in a GymConnection black T-shirt pushes his way through. He's in his mid-forties, much older than the rest of the group, with salt-and-pepper hair, a squashed nose from too many hits, and hooded, no-nonsense eyes. I think he is a veteran in terms of boxing. Obviously.

"Here," he says, pulling a flyer from his bag and handing it to me, "take one of these to make it appear as if I'm doing my job."

He even winked at me and took it as a joke.

I wonder what it would be like to take it for a millisecond. To be the type of girl who could enter a ring, face her opponent, and be courageous. But then I hear his voice again, a low familiar hum in my ear. Megan, that's not you.

"No, it's fine," I say, but he already shoves it into my hand.

As the man walks behind us, Olly laughs. "Keep it," he says, "As you can see, I have plenty of that. You can hang it in your new room and remember how nice it was of us to bring you along tonight. You know what they say: the more the merrier."

"Leave her alone, d**k," Dane smacks him in the ribs.

Oh thanks.

You'd think they'd have something in common because they're twins, but they don't. They're different. Apart from having the same brown skin—their father, Taky, is Black, and their mother is white—they have nothing in common. Totally different from each other. Dane is tall and slim, with short, dark hair and an angelic face. Olly appears to be catching up. He's three inches shorter than me, with rounded cheeks, a curly taper fade, and a childish grin. I know which one I like and which one I want to kill out of the two of them.

In an attempt to speed up Takye, I pull out my phone and reread old messages from Jamie. Despite the chaos of the last few days, hearing his name instantly calms me.

Jamie and I have been inseparable since he sat next to me in the library a year ago. I'd been working on an English poem, trying to come up with a word that rhymes with broken, when he leaned across the table, flashed that boyish grin, and said, "Token."

It wasn't love at first sight or anything, but whenever he saw me after that, he'd make a point of saying hello.

Those heys eventually became sentences, and those sentences became full-fledged conversations. Jamie and I had become inseparable before I knew it, two halves of the same person.

Still, it's difficult not to notice the strain. The three-hour Takye difference between New York and Los Angeles means that the structure we'd built, the routine we'd safely established back home, is gone.

This is the thought that breaks the last of my resolve. My stomach knots, and a sudden panic settles over me, so I stand up and tell the twins I'm going to the bathroom. The line is short outside, but once inside, I sit on the toilet and take a deep breath.

I thought I could pull it off. I imagined coming here—not just here, but all the way across the country—and being this carefree version of myself. Instead, I feel like a charlatan.

I reach for my phone, leaning back. Jamie's name is the first on my contact list, and I need to hear his voice even though he'll be sleeping. Before going to voicemail, it rings a few Times. When I pause, my phone is almost in my pocket. I press the photo album icon and scroll through pictures of Dad, even though I know I shouldn't.

My favorite is of the two of us at Coney Island during a rare visit to my grandparents. As Mom struggled to focus the camera, cheesy grins peeked out from behind our cotton candy, and the lights of the Coney Island Cyclone blurred like stars. There's nothing special about it, no memorable moments, I just like how happy we looked. This is the version I remember whenever I think of him. Kind, loving, and with a smile that could melt your heart-what that's made leaving so difficult.

I clutch my necklace, my throat tight, focusing on the feel of the pendant between my fingers. Jamie had given me a thin-cut gold necklace with a bean pendant in the center as a birthday present. He'd said that when he discovered that the bean represents the beginning of all things, he immediately thought of us. When I hold it, it's as if I'm recalling a feeling rather than a memory: slightly blurred and out of focus, but soft and safe.

The door vibrates violently, making me jump. "Are you planning on staying there all night? Some of us need to relieve ourselves!"

I exhale and rise to my feet, unlocking the door. The girl who had been standing there pushes past me into the cubicle, closing the door behind her. I walk over to the sink to wash my hands and risk looking in the mirror.

In terms of the bun, I was correct. I take out my bobby pins and twist my hair at the base of my neck, just like my mother used to do every night before ballet. Mom would do my hair, and Dad would take me to the studio and then to the park, where he'd spin me on the merry-go-round.

"When I'm a Dancer," I'd exclaim through giggles, "I'm going to spin as fast as this!"

My mother would have told me that no one could spin as fast as a merry-go-round, but not him. Dad simply looked at me, his eyes warm, and said, "You'll be the world's greatest Dancer ever, you are a unique and fast learner.” Eventually I quit when I was nine or ten, but the sentiment stayed with me throughout my life because that was my father. He'd build you up until you could fly, until you were in the clouds. However, the higher you went, the further he pushed you.

After drying my hands, I enter the corridor to join the others. A steep flight of stairs is located at the end of the hallway. My body moves faster than my mind, propelling me down the steps, through the fire exit, and out onto the back street.

The burst of hot air is unexpected. Back in New York, the streets are still frostbitten, and the air is the kind that makes you gasp involuntarily. I knew it wouldn't be like that in Southern Los Angeles, but given that it's early March, I expected the evenings to be much cooler.

"You aren't supposed to be here."

My attention is drawn to the tall, tanned boy leaning against the wall. He's only about five feet away, but there's enough light from a nearby streetlamp to cast a warm, yellow haze on his face.

He's strikingly handsome, but not in a clean-cut, LA kind of way; rather, he's rugged, I don't give a s**t way. His hair is jet black, short, and curly at the ends. He's dressed in an old black T-shirt and faded gray sweatpants, but even naked, he looks strong and muscled, as if he spends all of his Time lifting weights. His gaze moves over me in the same way, from my bun to my lips and back again. A strange feeling flutters through me, somewhere between nervousness and alarm.

"I needed to get out of there," I explained as I leaned against the wall. If my mother saw me now, tucked away in the dark with a boy, she'd have a heart attack. "I'll be back inside in a moment.

Unfortunately."

"How come you came here tonight if you don't want to be here?" He's staring at me, head tilted slightly, a glint of curiosity in his eyes.

"Trust me, it wasn't my idea. It was my friend who pulled me here.” I'm not usually this direct or honest, but here in the shadows, I don't want to pretend. "It's not my idea of fun to watch some idiots fight. It's them actually.”

“Who's them?”

“Who else? Obviously, my friend brought me here.”

His smile quickly fades, and he pushes himself away from the wall. He walks right past me and then stops at the door. His eyes flitted to mine, bright, green, and no longer amused.

"You should probably get going," he says quietly near my ear. "I don't think you'll be missed." He slips back through the door and up the steps, leaving me behind. open mouthed and staring at him.

What did he say?!

***

Back in the gym, Kylan and Jane are taking selfies by the ring alongside the twins. Kylan stops mid-selfie, looks at my face, and says, "Hey, are you fine"

“You look… uhh… pissed?” Jane asked.

“I'm fine.”