Jumped by Rita Williams-Garcia

split and show my Vicky Secrets to the world. You know Vickys don’t cover it. Like I said, I’m a Big Girl. I gotta have my rags stitched right.
    Anyway, I give in, sink into the leather next to Bernie, lean in like I care, but it’s all the same Friday night fight tome. Bernie’s happy. He has his baby girl, the hi-def hookup, hot wings, and some beer. What more could he want on fight night?
    Two guys in silk shorts and matching sneaker boots touch gloves at the center of the ring. They have pretty names like Sugar This, Pretty Boy That, not Don’t Mess With Me, cause-I-will-take-these-ten-ounce-gloves-and-thump-your-head-deep-in-your-neck names. They spring back, dancing, showing each other their steps. The first two rounds their silk shorts bounce, sneakers shuffle, heads weave to connect and miss light taps to the air and almost to the rib cage, which the announcer calls the Sweet Science. By round three the gloves are heavy so out come the jabs. They pad a dow-two-three to the body, then wooohm-wooohm to the face, the eyes especially, to score that blood. The bell clangs, and Sugar dances to his corner, Pretty Boy to his, and I’m not even thinking about that hoochie in heels and bikini holding up the ROUND 4 card. The cut man takes a razor to Sugar’s puffed-shut lids so Sugar can see, while on the other side the corner man reaches into Pretty’s mouth and yanks out that nasty mouthpiece so Pretty can spit blood into a bucket. Now remember: hi-def hookup in the living room. Blood, teeth, sweat coming through the screen. I have to wipe my cheek. Why anyone pays money to see this, I can’t tellyou, but don’t no one ask me if I work hard for my extra allowance. I fake pick a boxer to win and fake cheer for his red satin shorts. And if there’s a main event, I stick around for that too. I earn my extra change—plus I throw in some love for Bernie. And if Daddy peels me off a bill or two—Daddy’s not stupid, he knows I’m on the clock—then I worked hard. That’s right. I earned those bills. I can go to Bloomie’s or Macy’s and try stuff on, and send the girl out on the floor to fetch me another skirt in my size. That’s right. Let her work for a change.
    You can say that it’s not work watching a couple of guys in silk shorts dancing around showing off their skills, but I put in the time. I do the work. And the two guys are about showing off their skills.
    Girl fights? Girl fights aren’t hardly about showing off skills. Girl fights are ugly. Girl fights are personal.

25
Hey
TRINA
    â€œH EY .”
    â€œHey.”
    â€œTree-na.”
    â€œHey.”
    Feel all this love. Popular. What? So many fans. So many friends and so many who want to be. They either caught the shaky-shake and stomp in the caf or they saw my artwork in the gallery. I need a Princess Di wave. No diamond tiara because I have my lucky gold chain and all my subjects adore me. The love keeps pouring.
    â€œTrina. He-ey.”
    â€œHey.”
    Back in my old school, I spent more time at home on the sofa watching soaps, TV judges, and paternity shows than I spent in class. What can I say? The old school wasfull of haters. You know how it is—fresh out of middle school, you’re still a little wild. Still surprised by everything going on with you. So you look at someone who is cool with everything and you’re hating because you’re, like, “What does she know that I don’t?” Translation: I wish I could be her.
    And my appendix burst in gym. That also kept me home on the sofa. They should have believed me when I said I had pain. No one believed me until I was down on the wooden floor sweating, clutching my side. Then they believed. The ambulance came in a flash.
    But it was cool. It all worked out for the best. I don’t mind repeating because I know I’m not dumb. I’m not lazy. I just spent too many days home. It