CASSIE
BECCA HAD TOLD ME ABOUT the ring. She and her friends had tried to give me as much advice as they could in case I was picked to fight. A tiny part of me hadn’t accepted that this might really happen.
As the guards shoved me toward the boxing ring in the middle of this huge auditorium, I tried to remember what Becca had told me. Something about my jumpsuit—that I’d be better off without it. How? Why?
Two kids were waiting for me. One of them grabbed my shoulders, spun me, and quickly twisted my hair into a tight braid that he shoved up under a rough metal helmet.
“Jumpsuit on or off?” the other kid demanded. I couldn’t see stripping down in front of these two guys, much less a whole audience, so I said, “On.” He shrugged, as if it were my funeral.
The rest of the armor was heavy and looked like it had been made from old car parts. It didn’t fit me at all, pressing painfully into my spine and collarbones, and pinching my waist every time I moved. I couldn’t believe this was happening. The image of Becca’s gaping tooth socket kept crashing into my brain, and I was so scared I could barely stand.
One of the guys laced gloves onto my hands. There was lead shot sewn into them to make my punches hit harder. Where was I? What in the world was happening to me?
The other guy rapped his knuckles against my helmet. Terrified, I looked at him. “Keep your tongue in your mouth!” he said, which made no sense. “You don’t want to lose it!”
My eyes flared wide, and he gave me a crooked grin. I saw that half of his face didn’t move—it was paralyzed. He grinned wider—halfway—when he saw my shock, and pointed to the other guy. The other guy grinned also—evenly—but then opened his mouth.
My knees buckled, and they had to quickly grab my arms to keep me upright. The other kid had no tongue—just a healed nub where it had once been. He was also missing most of his front teeth.
I almost barfed. But then they were pushing me up the wooden steps and shoving me through the ropes. Bright lights made the ring almost glow; the rest of the auditorium was relatively dark. I’d heard hundreds of kids coming in and climbing up the squeaky wooden bleachers. This time two weeks ago I was stocking rolls of paper towels at the All-Ways.
Was Becca one of the kids watching? Becca, help me.
There was an excited roar from the audience, and several shadowy figures climbed the steps opposite me. Squinting into the lights, I tried to control my shaking. Becca had said, Just get through it. You will be broken down. Go ahead and be broken down. Do what you have to to survive. In an hour it will only be a bad memory.
What would happen if I turned and ran out of here? How far would I get before I was caught and dragged back? How would I be punished? Was it too early to start crying and pleading for mercy?
My opponent climbed through the ropes. I was so frantic with terror that I could barely focus. But when I did…
I blinked several times, wondering if I was hallucinating.
It was Becca.
61
I’D NEVER BEEN SO GLAD to see my sister in my whole life. But a split-second later, that feeling faded. This Becca was gazing at me coldly. She wore armor, like me, but had taken off her jumpsuit. She turned her head and spit onto the canvas. I saw the bruises on her arms and legs, saw her grim expression and clenched jaw. Her heavy, gloved hands were swinging by her sides, as if she was eager to get started.
To get started fighting me.
Well, she knew more than I did. She would know how to make this look good without really hurting me. I would go through the motions of hitting back, and then I would just fall down and pretend to pass out.
It was a plan.
The bell dinged. Becca motioned for me to join her in the center of the ring. I met her with a slight, hidden smile: we were in this together.
Then my sister drew back her right arm and walloped my chin so hard I staggered, my arms flailing, and then fell to my knees, scraping them painfully on the hard canvas. My mouth filled with blood from where I’d bitten my tongue, and after a few seconds of stunned numbness, an unbelievable pain made me feel like I’d been hit by a truck.
“What are you do—” I tried to say, but my tongue was swelling and I was gagging on blood.
“Get up.”
I stared at her. Was this even my sister?
“Get up!” she ordered.
Stupidly, still somehow trusting her, I got to my feet and put my arms up like I’d seen boxers do. One of her feet snapped out against my knee, making me buckle, and then she punched me in the stomach so hard I lost my breath.
Doubled over, wheezing, I wobbled clumsily to the side ropes and grabbed one to keep from falling. I was trying to suck in breath, blood dripping out of my open mouth, but as soon as I stood up slightly, Becca was there.