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Jennifer Dutton

“Oh, look,” she says, rubbing my cheek a bit too hard like
she’s trying to wipe something off. “A gi bruise.” This is what we
decided to call the purple marks I get when the gi rubs against

my skin too hard.
“Awesome. On my face, too. This sport just can’t get any
better.”

After we’ve made our way to the car, Mom asks, “How about
we stop for fro-yo?” as she opens the driver’s side door.
“Sure,” I say, because hello? Fro-yo before dinner? I know
it’s a bribe, but I don’t care. She’s just trying to sweeten up the
whole getting-my-butt-kicked thing. I give her the side-eye while

fastening my seat belt. Mom isn’t that bad; in fact, she’s actually
pretty cool. Before she had me, she backpacked all over Asia by
herself for a whole year. She works in medicine, so she spends

most of her time helping people. And since I’ve never met my
dad, it’s always been the two of us. For twelve whole years.
Mom pulls out of the parking lot onto the main road. We
haven’t lived here in Virginia long, only since Mom got a nursing
job at the new hospital. It’s a great opportunity for her. It’s also

a great opportunity for me. A new school, new friends, new
activities—basically a new life—means this is my time. This is
the year I’m going to be somebody.

It’s always the same at every school I’ve attended. Kids
cluster together in groups, and once those groups are formed,
it takes an iron claw to force your way into one of them. The
groups can vary a bit, but the kids whose names everyone knows
are notable in some way. They have a thing they do and are the

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