Total Knockout by Taylor Morris

me and wrote and scratched out ideas. I wondered if I could hold some sort of boxing exhibition, maybe teach students the basic moves for a small fee, the money going toward the machines. No one at school except Cooper knew that part of me—I wondered what everyone would think if they knew? Would they think I was a freak? Would they think it was cool? As I pictured myself showing Lily Schmidt how to throw herself into an uppercut, and gaining more confidence as she did so, another image appeared of someone accidentally clocking sweet, quiet Lily in the jaw, sending her to the shiny wood floor of the gym, out cold.
    As I worked out other ways to make people use the machines and save my approval rating, Cooper called, inviting me to come down and box.
    â€œIt’s weird,” he said over the phone, “but I feel greatlately. Like, lots of energy, and my mind has been so sharp, like I could work all day. And the only thing I’m doing differently is eating from those vending machines.”
    Cooper was the worst liar, but I played along. Just knowing he was trying to make me feel good set me at ease, at least a little.
    Down at his house, I wrapped my hands, then started on Cooper’s. I turned his hand flat, working the fabric around his wrist, then up across this palm. As I worked the wrap through his fingers, giving him extra protection across his knuckles—even though he would never hit me hard—I realized that I probably knew his hands better than any other girl did. Maybe even better than he knew them. He always had rough spots across his knuckles, and his right index finger crooked slightly to the left from when he broke it in fourth grade catching a basketball. And like every time I wrapped his hands, we didn’t talk, but this time, up close, I noticed that he had a little splattering of freckles on his nose. They looked nice on him.
    When I finished we pulled on our gloves and set the timer, and Cooper bounced more lightly on his feet than usual. He cricked his neck as if he were about to fight for the heavyweight championship of the world.
    â€œYou’re going down!” he cheered as we started the round.
    In the past, when I felt down about something, boxing helped get me out of the funk. I looked forward to shoving all that negative energy out of my body and getting my thoughts focused again. But that didn’t happen this time. I just felt tired. Cooper swung a lot of fakes at me, waiting for me to hit. I took a few swings, and even landed a couple of soft punches to his arms, but it wasn’t the same. I just went through the motions of pushing my arm forward and pulling my body away.
    â€œCome on,” he cheered, punching his glove just before my face. “Fight back!”
    In the middle of the second round, I lowered my gloves. I had worked up a mild sweat, but my heart wasn’t in it, and my head was somewhere else.
    â€œOh, fine.” Cooper relented. “Want something to eat?”
    Ever since Mr. Nixon had started up his restaurant, their house always smelled of delicious, spicy foods cooking and simmering and baking. Their large kitchen, which was filled with top-notch appliances, spilled into the living room, so whenever someone was cooking, you always felt a part of it. It looked nothing like our kitchen,which was its own isolated room and had a broiler that hadn’t worked in months. It drove my mother crazy, but she said there were better things to be doing with our money, like trying to keep up with the mortgage.
    At the Nixons’ there was a counter between the kitchen and the living room, and Cooper and I parked ourselves at it on the living-room side and leaned over, watching Mr. Nixon stir something in a big, shiny pot. The scent alone made me glad I had come over.
    â€œHow’s that coming?” Cooper asked his dad.
    Still stirring, Mr. Nixon turned to look at us. When he saw me, a smile as big as the pot spread across his face.