Total Knockout Read online

  “They haven’t said.” The fact that she said “you’re,” not “we’re,” did not escape me.

  Over Melanie’s shoulder I saw Cooper carrying out snacks to us: a wooden bowl of fresh guacamole and his dad’s homemade tortilla chips, two Dr Peppers, and a bottle of water.

  “Just relax, Lucia,” Melanie said. “Look at the big picture. Don’t read too much into this.”

  “Humph,” I said as Cooper hopped up, making us bounce gently like we were in a boat on water. I had a hard time listening to her halfheartedly cheer me up about something she’d ditched me on. So I looked at Cooper and said, “What about the article she ran after the election? She said I needed a little humility.” When they didn’t answer, I sighed and ate a chip.

  Yes, I knew it was ironic to be eating fried chips while reading about my health-food vending machines, but all things in moderation, right? Besides, Cooper’s dad made the best tortilla chips. They were impossibly yummy, with the perfect amount of salt and a zing of lime.

  “Did you make this?” I asked, scooping fresh guacamole onto a chip. Cooper nodded.

  Cooper settled himself in, and I placed the bowl back on the trampoline. Even though we all lived within a few houses of each other, the three of us rarely hung out together. Mel and Cooper were friends because I was friends with each of them. Mel was usually either shopping or out with one of her other friends, and Coop was either with Max or at the restaurant. When we were all together, they were cordial but never more than that.

  “She’s right,” Cooper said, popping open his drink. “It’s not that big a deal. And Nicole doesn’t say anything really bad here.”

  “It’s not what she says, but implies,” I said. A flash of my own deceit in getting these machines placed zipped across my mind; I quickly told myself it was old news. “This article is planting the seed into the students’ minds that they shouldn’t trust me.” Without meaning to, I shot a look at Melanie. She busied herself with picking out the tiniest crumbs of chips and eating them one by one.

  “Have you looked at the online polls yet?” Cooper asked. “See if they posted anything about this?”

  “Oh, I love those surveys,” Melanie said, bouncing. I grabbed my drink just before it spilled. “I like the fun ones that ask, like, Which is the best last song to play at a dance?”

  “Yeah,” Cooper said. “The choices were, like, Backstreet Boys, that disco song, or a sing-along.”

  “I voted for the Backstreet Boys,” Melanie said.

  “Gross! Those old guys? My mom likes them.”

  “I was being ironic,” she said.

  “Right.”

  I loaded up another chip with guacamole. I could only imagine what the poll questions about me would be. Is Lucia Latham the worst president ever?

  As Melanie and Cooper debated cheesiest last songs, I said, perhaps a bit forcibly, “So, y’all are saying I’m totally overreacting?” Melanie made a playful swat at Cooper when he asked her if she thought Barry Manilow was hot. I sighed and said, “I guess so.”

  Melanie perked up and said, “Hey, I know. Why don’t you get a crazy new haircut?” When she didn’t say more, I raised my eyebrows and waited. “You know. Bleach that dark hair white blond. To divert attention. The public is always interested in how the girl politicians look, so if you get some weird new ’do, then they’ll probably have a Love It/Hate It poll on your hair instead of what you’re doing.”

  “Humph.” She just might be right on that. I tried to imagine my dark hair bleached out like so many celebrity girls’. But I’d never stoop to those levels. As far as I was concerned, gender had no role in politics.

  Melanie turned back to Cooper. “Sometimes at night, I just lie awake thinking of all the new polls the school site should do. Like, they should do those ‘Marry, Kiss, or Kick’ surveys for the teachers—you have to pick which one you’d marry, one you want to kiss, and the last one you get to smack.” She gave a shameful version of a jab. “Pow!”

  Cooper laughed. “Awesome! Who would be on it?”

  Melanie thought for a moment. “Okay, your choices are: Mrs. Peoria, Ms. Jenkins, and Coach Ryan.”

  “Ugh! A cat worshipper, an uptight old lady, and a dude? Come on!” Cooper said.

  As I watched them debate, I thought about how I didn’t want people to think I’d messed up. I had to be a success. I’d gone so far as to push the vote through to make sure I was. It wasn’t enough to be the school’s first three-peat president, or to spearhead the district’s first alternative vending machine. If I got lazy and did nothing more, then everyone’s totally false opinion of the council—that we did nothing—would be true. I couldn’t get lazy and let things coast; I had to keep pushing forward. It’s like Dad used to say about boxing: By the third round you’re already tired, like you can’t throw another punch, but that’s the exact time you have to really get your fight on. After all, the other guy is probably tired too. Why not take the advantage and push forward?

  As Melanie and Cooper debated over who would make the best spouse (“I hear Coach Ryan makes killer barbecue,” Melanie teased), I started to wonder what people wanted from me. More stuff? Different stuff? To be left alone? Now that was a poll I’d like to have posted. I’d title it, “Just What the Heck Do You Want from Lucia Latham, Anyway?” Might make my life easier.

  Cooper and Melanie finished the guacamole and started throwing chips at each other. I watched as Melanie grabbed a handful, crushed them in her palm, then tossed them like confetti over Cooper. She laughed out loud when Cooper pelted her between the eyes, and when she tried to throw a chip back, he caught her by the wrist, which made her laugh even louder, and him, too. A power struggle began, and soon they were falling practically on top of each other, spilling soda all over the trampoline. I jumped up to keep from getting any on my jeans.

  “Y’all, be careful!” I said—okay, maybe nagged.

  Cooper tossed the empty wooden bowls to the grass. “Just bounce it off,” he said of the drinks and crumbs.

  As Melanie and Cooper jumped, I stood still, which is hard to do on a trampoline. I watched them laugh, so carefree, and wondered if something was changing—either with them, or with me. Melanie’s red, yellow, and green knit Rasta hat stayed perfectly placed on her head, even in flight.

  Melanie took my wrist. “Come on!” she cheered, bouncing hard next to me. Cooper grabbed my other wrist and soon they were pulling me up with them, the three of us jumping in unison. I finally cracked a smile, momentarily forgetting all my problems. Watching Melanie, I realized that fun things always seemed to happen when she was around.

  “Whoever thinks Lucia Latham is the best president Angus Junior High ever had,” Melanie yelled to me, Cooper, and the entire neighborhood, “say aye!”

  As Cooper and Melanie both yelled “Aye!” at the tops of their lungs, Melanie pulled off her Rasta hat and tossed it across the yard with such abandon that I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. The lightness in her was visible as she floated above us both, toward the sky.

  “What are you guys doing for dinner?” I asked Melanie as we walked home later that evening. It was dark, and the streetlights were on, crickets chirping in the grass. I pulled my light jacket tight against the cold night air. I had hoped Cooper’s mom would invite us to stay for dinner, but she didn’t.

  “Dad’s been working late, so yesterday Bev and I got one of those family-sized boxes of shells and cheese. Rose is coming over and we’re going to pig out and watch whatever is on Bravo. Mom would die if she knew we were eating like this.” She laughed, but not in a ha-ha sort of way.

  I felt a pang in my stomach. Melanie’s dad rarely ate with them, mostly because he was rarely around. He worked long hours and gave Melanie and her sister a ton of freedom and little responsibility. Now that Beverly could drive (and she drove a nicer car than my parents did), one of their “chores,” Mel said, was doing the weekly grocery shopping. I went with them once—Mr. O’Hare gave them his credit
card, and they basically went wild, grabbing whatever they wanted. If they were unsure if they were out of popcorn or shredded cheese, they’d just get more. They mostly bought junk food and frozen dinners, but they also bought pink mascara, tons of nail polish, tabloids, picture frames, colored pens, and bags of candy. The day I went with them, I was both jealous and a little incensed at their wastefulness. Like they really needed three more bottles of nail polish, and that pink mascara cost almost ten bucks. Meanwhile, I had run out of my eucalyptus-and-ginger scrub, and although I really wanted to ask Mom to buy more, I realized I didn’t really need it.

  When I got home it was quiet, as usual, but Mom’s car was in the driveway, so I figured she was in her room reading or something. I stayed in my room doing homework, feeling more secure about the vending machines after hanging out with Cooper and Melanie. I even told myself I was glad Cooper and Mel seemed to be getting friendlier with each other. We could all walk through the doors of high school next year, shoulder to shoulder. Then Mom called—make that yelled—for everyone to come to dinner.

  Dad was already sitting at the head of the table, and Henry sat on the edge of his seat, back straight, shoulders relaxed, with his hands in what he told me was the mudra position—palms in front of him with his thumbs and forefingers joined. He said it was this special way of sitting that guarantees you’ll never have a tense muscle in your body. If you ask me, teaching people how to sit is a crock.

  I sat down, muttering a hello to Dad, noticing he hadn’t shaved.

  “Hey, girl,” he said, giving me a weary smile.

  “Growing a beard?” I asked just before the oven door slammed and Mom stomped over to the dining area. She practically dropped the casserole dish of lasagna on the table.

  “Christ, Janey,” Dad said, but Mom just went back into the kitchen and brought out a salad bowl, and plopped that down next to the lasagna.

  She slapped food onto our plates, and Henry and I eyed each other. We knew better than to say a word.

  “I just can’t believe . . .,” she said under her breath, then shook her head.

  We ate in fear. Even Henry wasn’t sitting on the edge of his chair anymore—his back was hunched and his ears were practically resting on his shoulders. Thinking I could help, I said, “Wow, Mom. This is the best lasagna you’ve made in a while.”

  When she plunked down her fork, I knew I’d made a mistake. “You think? That’s really sweet of you, Lucia. Because I worked really hard this evening to make it. And the ingredients weren’t cheap. And I had to go into work at seven o’clock this morning so that I could leave at a decent enough hour so that we could all eat this dinner that I have cooked together.”

  “Janey—,” Dad said through clenched teeth.

  “Just don’t,” Mom said, pointing her finger at Dad like she used to do to me when I back-talked. “I don’t want to hear it. I can’t believe you turned down that job. It’s like a bad joke.”

  “I’m not some minimum-wage cook, Janey,” he snapped.

  “That is not what John offered you and you know it. William,” she added.

  Henry and I exchanged looks again. Henry mouthed, The Nixons? I discreetly shrugged and mouthed, I guess. Cooper’s dad must have offered Dad a job at their restaurant.

  “It’s not what I do,” Dad said, darting his eyes between Henry and me.

  If anyone had asked my opinion, I would have said that I agree with Dad. If Mr. Nixon was offering Dad some cooking position, what made him think he was qualified? Dad was a boxer-turned-accountant, and neither had anything to do with perfecting a molé sauce. I looked at my dad’s weary face, and even though I really wanted him to fix this situation, I knew that Mom rode him pretty hard for a reason. She was like his trainer, pushing him to work when he felt like quitting to get home in time to watch the football game. Dad needed to work, but he didn’t want to, so Mom was trying to make him want it.

  “Not what you do? Well, then,” Mom said, exasperated. I hated it when they fought in front of us. I’m pretty sure there’s something in Parenting 101 that says you should never fight in front of the kids. “I’ll continue to do everything around here until the perfect job just lands in your—”

  “Enough,” Dad said. He looked at Henry and me as if to remind Mom we were there. For that, I was grateful.

  Mom sighed and dug into her dinner, spearing each bite. “Lucia, Henry,” she said. “I need to cut your chore money down. At least for a while.”

  “Okay,” I muttered, not wanting to upset Mom any more than she already was.

  “We’re cutting back on everything,” she continued, keeping her eyes on her plate. “You’re still expected to do your chores.” I guess I let out a sigh or a moan or some sort of noise, because Mom snapped, “And no attitude!”

  I clenched my jaw and kept my eyes on my half-eaten dinner. I sort of got that Dad didn’t want to take a job that had nothing to do with his skill set, or whatever, but I couldn’t help but think, He’s the adult. He’s supposed to take care of us. And he’s burdening Mom every day. Didn’t Dad know that he was the reason Henry had started those breathing exercises? The meditation? The sitting positions that were supposed to relieve muscle tension? A ten-year-old shouldn’t be that stressed, even a kid genius who skipped second grade and was still in all honors classes.

  Dad reached across the table and rested his hand on top of mine; I snatched it away. I hadn’t meant to react so sharply, but there it was.

  I avoided looking at him when I asked, “May I be excused?”

  “Rinse your plate,” Mom said.

  Back in my room, I laid on my bed, clutching Paddy and staring at the wall. I wanted to understand Dad. I didn’t know what it was like to have a real job and support a family, but I did know what it was like to work hard and have people depend on you.

  Dad used to be a fighter; he used to train hard every day, sometimes twice a day, to be the best junior middleweight fighter he could be. I never thought about his job as an accountant, but I couldn’t imagine anything being further removed from boxing than that. What if what I loved doing was taken away from me? I clutched Paddy and tried to think of a scenario in which my presidency could be snatched away from me without my permission. My bending the rules wasn’t exactly a high point in my presidency, but it wasn’t so bad that it would destroy me. Dad had always taught me to fight for what I wanted, and to keep fighting until I got it. But he wasn’t fighting anymore. He wasn’t even trying.

  A poll about the vending machines appeared two days later. I was surprised it took that long—the school’s server must have been down or something.

  WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE NEW VENDING MACHINES?

  5 – Delicious! I could eat from them every day!

  4 – There are one or two things I like to buy from them.

  3 – I haven’t tried them yet.

  2 – I tried them once and didn’t like what I got.

  1 – The food is horrible and I haven’t met one person who likes them.

  A whopping 75 percent selected answer number one. But I didn’t need a poll to tell me that people hated the food. If you just walked by one you could see for yourself. Someone had wrapped the one by the cafeteria in fake biohazard tape. CAUTION! it read. TOXIC INGREDIENTS! On the machine by the front lobby, someone taped a printout of a skull and crossbones. Oh, sure, someone always took it down—usually me—but it was always back up the next day.

  Most of the old vending machines had been returned to the company we’d leased them from, but somehow one lone old machine was in the coaches’ temporary offices on the edge of the athletic fields. Word in the halls was that the candy and chips in it were now hot items. Melanie said she heard a rumor that Coach Fleck had the key to it and had become the school’s black-market dealer, stocking the machine himself—and keeping the profits. She said he was running himself a fine little business out there. When I asked her if she’d ever bought anything from him, she conveniently had a coughing fit.


  Before I could come up with a solid course of action, Ms. Jenkins said she wanted to meet with me.

  I kept positive thoughts, telling myself it would be a good day despite the cold wind that blew prematurely fallen leaves across our front lawn. After combing my hair, I rolled my backpack through the dark living room toward the kitchen. I stopped in the middle of the living room, spotting a huge lump on the couch. As my eyes adjusted, I realized it was Dad. His bare foot hung off the end and his back was twisted at an awkward angle. I wanted to think he’d fallen asleep watching TV, but it looked pretty deliberate.

  In the kitchen, I poured a bowl of generic Bran Bites (which were growing on me), and Mom came in to make the coffee.

  “So,” I said, trying to act like I wasn’t freaked out. “What’s Dad doing on the couch?”

  “Oh.” She paused for a quick moment as she took her IntraWorks coffee mug out of the cabinet. “I was up late reading and the light was bothering him, so he came out here to sleep.”

  I told myself this was totally reasonable. Mom was always reading or working, and who could sleep with a light on? Not me, probably.

  At school, when Ms. Jenkins was ready to see me, I entered her office and parked my backpack against the wall, lowering the handle as I did so. When I sat down, I told myself that this was just a meeting between two colleagues to discuss options—no, new opportunities. She probably just wanted to brainstorm.

  “Lucia,” Ms. Jenkins began, her voice a little stern for a colleague-to-colleague chat, “it’s not working.”

  She didn’t even have to preface herself. My stomach churned even as I told myself that every problem has a solution.

  “I don’t even think anyone is using the machines,” she said, digging through papers on her desk. It was like she wasn’t even talking to me. “We had to restock the other machines every two weeks, but maintenance says they haven’t needed to yet. We need a solution, and quick.” She didn’t seem to find whatever she’d been looking for on her desk, but she finally looked up at me. Was that panic I saw in her eyes?