Straight Punch by Monique Polak Page A

paused. “So who were you texting?”
    I almost laughed. “You call that working on your jealousy issues? It was my mom!”
    â€œHow come you won’t show me your phone then?”
    I pulled the phone out again and flashed it in front of Cyrus’s face. “There! I’m showing it to you now, Cyrus.”
    I watched his eyes scan the tiny screen. It would have been a good time for him to apologize for acting like a lunatic, but he didn’t.

    I probably shouldn’t have agreed to go with Cyrus to Chinatown. I knew we were having problems, and I didn’t like him acting like he owned me, but I wasn’t ready to break up with him. Maybe I liked the idea of Cyrus more than I actually liked him .
    We got off at the Place d’Armes stop. I swear I could smell fried eggrolls from inside the station. When you took the escalator up and exited on St-Laurent Boulevard, you could have been in Hong Kong, not Montreal. Ducks with goose-bumpy skin and long skinny necks hung upside down in store windows. Outside, there were racks filled with giant prickly vegetables I’d never tasted and didn’t know the names of.
    Cyrus said I had to see the rooftop where he’d be doing his photo shoot.
    When we showed up, Mr. Lee, the security guard, was in the lobby, drumming his fingers on the high desk in front of him. He seemed glad to see us. I guess not that much happens when you work security. “This your lady?” he asked Cyrus. The ring of keys hanging from Mr. Lee’s belt jangled as he stepped out from behind his desk.
    â€œMy name’s Tessa,” I told Mr. Lee.
    â€œYou got yourself quite a boyfriend,” he said. “He takes charge. Young men like him, they go places.”
    I knew from the way Cyrus shifted his shoulders that he was basking in the compliment. “Look, Mr. Lee,” he said, “I was hoping you’d let me take Tessa up to the roof. So I could show her the view.”
    â€œShow her the view, heh? I guess that could be arranged.”
    Mr. Lee looked at Cyrus and Cyrus looked back at him. I could tell they were communicating, but I didn’t know about what—until Cyrus reached into his front pocket, where he keeps his wallet. I felt sorry for Mr. Lee when he accepted the twenty-dollar tip Cyrus handed him.
    The transaction didn’t seem to bother Mr. Lee. “Go right up,” he said, gesturing to the bank of elevators in the middle of the lobby.
    Mr. Lee lifted his chin to the row of closed-circuit TV monitors by his desk. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you two lovebirds.”
    We took the elevator to the tenth floor. From there, we had to take a long, narrow flight of stairs to the rooftop. I ran straight up. I’d never have been able to do that before I started training. Cyrus stopped twice to catch his breath. “Must be all this equipment I’m carrying,” he said when I looked down at him from the landing.
    There was a Do Not Enter sign on the door that led to the rooftop, but I pushed it open anyhow. Even ten floors up, I could smell eggrolls.
    The roof’s surface was covered in tar paper with gravel sprinkled over it. When we walked, our feet made crunching sounds. Someone had set out two lawn chairs. I wondered if he’d also paid for the privilege.
    Cyrus took my hand and led me to the far edge. “You were right,” I said. “The view’s amazing.” Below us, not too far in the distance, was the St. Lawrence River.
    The view reminded me that Montreal was a giant island.
    â€œNow look this way.” Cyrus put his hand on my waist and turned me a little to the left.
    In front of us was another building. It was about the size of the one we were in—or, in our case, on. There was nothing beautiful or remarkable about the other building. It was made of gray stone. “So?” I said to Cyrus.
    â€œThat’s what I’m going to be shooting.” Cyrus