Punch Like a Girl (6 page)

Mr. Manicure saunters away as I shove everything back into my bag. Then I head up the walk, push the buzzer on the intercom and stare at the camera mounted above the door, wondering if I should wave or say my name. Before I can decide, the door clicks open. It's unnerving to walk inside and hear the door clank shut behind me like it's a jail rather than a safe place. It's not these women and kids who need to be locked up.

In the tiny office by the front door, I meet up with Peggy, the director of child care. We met at my interview, when she bombarded me with questions, including
why did you shave your head?
Now she gives me another visual once-over, as if she needs to be reassured I'm good enough. When her eyes land on my shaved head, she purses her lips, which emphasizes the tiny wrinkles around her mouth.

“This is where you'll sign in and out.” She points to a clipboard on her desk and reviews the rules with me. “Don't reveal the shelter's location. No photos of the residents. Think of Haven as their home, not a workplace. Any information shared with you about the residents is confidential. Of course, you won't have access to case histories, but our child and youth workers may discuss certain details, if needed.” Peggy is all prickles and edges, and I can't help wondering if she ever relaxes.

I'm relieved when she assigns a volunteer named Salvador, who looks about my age, to show me around.

Salvador, who tells me to call him Sal, has dark brown hair, bronze eyes and tan skin. He's tall and thin with arms that hang slack at his sides, as if he doesn't know what to do with them. He walks down the hall with an easygoing lope, leaning backward so that his feet reach the stairs before the rest of him.

We start with the cafeteria-style kitchen in the basement. Sheerma, a tiny woman with a friendly smile and a colorful hijab, is tossing a salad that would be large enough to satisfy even Joel.

“The food is for the residents only, although you can buy a meal if there's extra,” Sal says.

Next, he shows me the mothers' program room on the main floor behind the tiny office.

“Most of the moms are out at work or school right now,” he says. “But there's group therapy here in the evenings and on weekends. It's also used for classes like yoga, and a hairdresser comes once a month.” Sal's warm eyes remind me of a beagle's—calm and kind.

The residents' rooms take up the rest of the main floor and the top floor. In the hall on the second floor, we meet a skittish woman with a black eye, which she's attempted to hide with makeup. She doesn't return my smile.

I peer into the only residents' room that's open as we pass, and I'm shocked by how bare it is. There are bunk beds, one dresser and a lone teddy bear face down in the middle of the floor.

“Why is it so bare?” I ask.

“They probably had to leave home quickly,” Sal says. “Get out before they got hurt.”

I stiffen, my eyes landing on the abandoned bear. “How do you know so much about this place?”

“I used to live here.”

“You what?” Then I get it. He wasn't a volunteer when he lived here. “I'm sorry,” I mutter.

“Don't be. This place saved us. It's kinda why I volunteer here now.” He ducks his head, so that his hair falls over his eyes, and slouches down the hall toward the stairs.

I get the message and change the subject. “Where are all the kids?”

“Out back. Come on.”

There's an empty
TV
room at the rear of the main floor. The
TV
is blaring a
Dora the Explorer
episode. Sal switches it off before we push through the doors to a sun-filled addition. I hear the kids before I see them.

“The preschool room's on the left. School-age on the right. You'll be with the school-agers.” He gestures at the right-hand door, which is half open, revealing a mini classroom with windows opening onto the fenced backyard.

“Cool,” I say, eager to get started.

When I push open the door to step inside, Sal stops me.

“Stay here for a minute,” he whispers. “They're just finishing Hope Club.”

“What's that?” I whisper back, but Sal just shushes me.

Through the doorway, I see four kids sitting together on the rug in front of a flip chart. A lean Asian woman is writing on the chart paper. They all glance at us briefly, except for a girl with sandy-brown hair who has her hands wrapped around her knees and is staring at her scuffed Nike shoes with such intensity I think they might burst into flames.

“We'll be right with you,” the woman says to us. Then she turns to a boy with tight black curls. “What did you say, Jonah?”

“Um, I could draw a picture,” he says. “Because I like drawing.”

I glance at Sal as if he might explain, but he's watching the kids.

“That's great.” The woman writes on the paper.

When I read everything she's written, I press my fingernails into my palms.

When I feel sad I can:

– Hug my mom.

– Talk to a friend.

– Play with my baby brother.

– Listen to my favorite song.

– Draw a picture.

Thankfully, Hope Club ends before I start to cry.

When Sal and I enter the room, the kids gather around with curious faces, and Sal introduces me to everyone.

Jonah, who is ten years old, is eager to show me how he can lift his little brother Manny, who is seven.

Eleven-year-old Rachel stares at my head before bluntly asking what happened to my hair.

“I cut it off.” I smile at her. “It's easier to style.”

Casey-Lynn, or Casey for short, is the sandy-haired girl. She's about eight, with large indigo eyes that rarely blink.

And Jia is the child and youth worker I'll be helping.

After a few minutes of chaos and questions about my name, why I'm here and what my favorite color is, Sal goes next door to work with the preschoolers and Jia announces that it's time for journals.

I let the kids pull me to a round yellow table near the windows.

Jia explains that they can write and draw whatever they want in their journals, that it's a time for free expression. Then she says to me, “I'm going to grab a few minutes to work on a report while you sit with them. Okay?”

“Uh, sure,” I say, although I'm not sure at all.

The kids dump a basket of pencils and markers on the table and get to work. Jia parks herself in front of the only computer in the room and starts typing.

The journals have lines on one side of the page and space to draw on the other. Beside me, Casey picks up a dark-purple marker and draws a few lines on her blank page, using a ruler to keep the lines straight.

“What are you drawing?” I ask to make conversation.

Casey doesn't say a word. She doesn't even look at me.

I wait, wondering if I said something wrong.

“She doesn't talk.” Rachel is printing neatly on the lines.

“Oh?”

“She doesn't want to,” Jonah explains. His arms are sprawled across the table, elbows out, as he sketches the outline of some sort of robot.

Casey draws another careful purple line. Her hair falls over her face and onto the paper, but I can see her tongue at the corner of her mouth, tracing the line in the air.

Why won't she talk? Did something terrible happen to her? Instantly, I'm angry, wishing I could do something to help.

I chat with the kids, helping little Manny spell his words and admiring Jonah's alien robot creature and Rachel's story about her imaginary pet dog.

Then Peggy comes to the door to chat with Jia. With one foot in the hall and one in the room, Jia tells me the kids can have free time if they're finished with their journals.

Everyone is done except Casey, who's still drawing heavy purple lines at odd angles.

I'm not sure what to do with the kids, but they don't seem to need my direction. Rachel gets out a well-worn puzzle, and Jonah starts demonstrating to Manny and me how his alien robot creature, named Zambot, knows all the martial arts.

“He's more powerful than Superman and Maximus Prime put together,” he says. He raises his fists into protective position and then punches the air in front of him.

It reminds me of self-defense class with Alena.

“Hold your fists a little farther apart.” I adjust the position of his hands. “You need to be able to shield your face and stomach.”

Manny and Rachel glance at me with curious expressions. Even Casey looks up from her paper.

“How do you know that?” Jonah says, as if my cool factor just increased by fifty points.

“I took a class.” I smile.

“Can you teach us?” Manny's on his tiptoes, pulling at my oversized T-shirt. Baggy clothes have become my favorite style.

“I don't know.” I glance at Jia, who's deep in a hushed conversation with Peggy. Both of them are standing in the doorway, looking toward the preschool room.

“Please, please, pretty please?” Jonah whines. “Just a little bit?”

“Well, I guess it can't hurt.”

I start by explaining that they need to practice on an imaginary person in front of them—they can pretend it's anyone they want as long as they don't practice on each other. Then I teach them the hammerfist, demonstrating how to bring down the side of the fist on a target from above. “Be careful with this one. You can break a nose with it,” I say, thinking of Neanderthal.

Casey abandons her purple marker and drops her ruler so it lands half off the table. When she joins us, I smile, watching her bring her tiny fist down hard on whatever imaginary assailant stands before her.

“Nice one,” I tell her.

“Look at me,” Manny says, before launching his fist in a wild arc that lands on Casey's ruler. It flies over his head toward Casey's horrified face.

“Careful!” I snatch the ruler out of the air, leaving Casey wide-eyed and blinking.

“Whoa!” Jonah gapes.

“Are you a ninja?” Manny asks.

“Don't be dumb.” Rachel snorts. “Ninjas aren't real.”

“Yes, they are.” Manny pouts. “And I'm going to be one when I grow up.”

“Are you okay?” I kneel down in front of Casey.

She stares at me for a moment, her eyes like swirling whirlpools, before she gives a slight nod.

“Good.” I gingerly pat her shoulder, not sure if she'll shrink away but wanting to reassure her somehow.

“Sorry, Casey,” Manny says without prompting.

Jonah executes a perfect hammerfist. “What else can you teach us?”

I'm teaching them the knifehand when I hear Peggy's voice.

“What do you think you're doing?” Her eyes are laser beams.

I step back. “I'm showing them how to defend themselves.”

“This is a nonviolent facility. No fighting is tolerated.”

“We're not fighting. It's self-defense.”

Peggy pinches her lips flat. “I'm not going to debate this in front of the children.”

I open my mouth and then shut it again. Family members used to beat up these kids and their mothers, but I'm not allowed to teach them self-defense? Even peacekeepers in war-torn countries are allowed to protect themselves.

My hand muscles twitch, but I force them to relax. “All right,” I say.

“Thank you.” Peggy's eyes are hard. “We'll review this incident in my office at once.”

Great. Why am I always getting lectured these days?

Just as I turn to leave, Casey slips her hand in mine and squeezes.

I stop.

Casey looks up at me with huge pleading eyes.

I glance at Peggy, who nods as if to say,
Take care of the child first
.

“What is it, Casey?” I say, hoping she'll break her silence.

“She wants you to stay,” Rachel translates.

Let Casey tell me, I think. I crouch, still holding her hand. “Casey, I have to talk to Peggy now, but I promise I'll be back tomorrow after school.” I peek at Peggy, hoping she's not planning on firing me.

Casey frowns.

“And the next day,” I add, thinking how I'll take any lecture Peggy throws at me if I can just come back. “And the next.” I'm scheduled to help out every day after school, which felt like a lot, until now.

Casey examines my face as if searching for the truth.

When she finally releases my hand, I inhale sharply, hoping Peggy won't make a liar out of me.

CRASH
to execute a spectacular failure