The Sweetheart by Angelina Mirabella Page B

your own interior voice: work loose, level out .
    And then, you are through the ropes and into the ring for the first professional match of your career. One look out at the crowd—the hands cupped over the mouths hooting and hollering, the showers of embers produced when the spectators clap while holding their cigarettes, the tiny whirlpools made in the cups of beer as the men who hold them stomp their feet—and you feel Leonie returning. Who are you kidding? These are hard-core fans who will see right through you. They will know you are a fraud, and they will call you on it. You wave quickly and retreat to your corner, overwhelmed to the point of near paralysis.
    â€œIn the opposite corner,” booms the announcer. “The girl you love to hate, Screaming Mimi Hollander!”
    Mimi—resolute, pitiless—emerges and strides toward the ring, pounding her way across the floor. Red-faced men bark at her. They hurl their plastic cups of beer; she swats these away like flies. One goes so far as to spit on her boots, and she reflexively shoves him back down into his seat. When Mimi finally climbs into the ring, she stands in its center, rounds her substantial arms to bring her fists together, knuckles kissing knuckles, and lets loose her hallmark scream.
    Before the scream ends, Mimi is hit in the chest by a flying object, something black and square, about the size of a satchel. She picks it up by the handles—it is a satchel!—twists the metal clasp, climbs up on the turnbuckle, and sprays the crowd with its contents. Marbles fire out of the bag like bullets, landing in beer cups, ricocheting off metal chairs, and smashing painfully into the bony parts of men, women, and children.
    â€œThat’ll teach you!” she shouts at the crowd.
    You have no real interest in trifling with this woman. But the referee signals the start of the first fall, which doesn’t leave you much choice. Everything that was true for Bonnie is true for you, too. If you want to win over the crowd, you will have to perform.
    There is no choreography to the match, no script: only a predetermined outcome. You begin in ref’s position, pushing each other back and forth across the ring as if sawing logs. Before you can think of a maneuver, Mimi sweeps your leg out from under you. Work loose, level out . You land on your back and roll away before her boot meets your stomach. Mimi backs into the ropes to spring into you, but that gives you just enough time to deal a forearm blow. It is more exhibition than power—you barely make contact—but the veteran performer knows how to sell it and she flies backward into the ropes.
    A congratulatory whistle slices through the indeterminate screams, and you draw power from it. Suddenly juiced, you manage to get airborne and land one of those mean dropkicks (now this has some ferocity to it) into the chest of the returning Mimi. The strike yo-yos her back into the ropes, where she remains for a satisfying second, long enough for you to see her expression change— That’s all you’ll be getting this fall, fruit fly —and before you can get out of the way, Mimi slams you face-first into the mat.
    While you lie there, dazed, Mimi straddles you, and before you know it you have been headlocked, rolled over, and covered for the count. After Mimi climbs off, you work your way onto your hands and knees, and then, eventually, back onto your feet. You are down, but not out. Sore, but injury free.
    The next fall begins much like the first, the two of you locked against each other until Mimi falls back into the ropes. But this time around, you fire an emerald boot at her head. Mimi simulates disorientation, hamming it up and dragging it out long enough for you to climb onto the top rope. It is your moment, and you intend to seize it. Once you are up there, however, you begin to think that you have made a terrible mistake. You were propelled into this position solely by