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Jennifer Dutton

tapping out so he knows he’s about to kill me and stops. My
esophagus spasms for a second after he releases the tension. So
gross. The hyperawareness of my own anatomy causes a shiver

of revulsion.
“Don’t lose focus, Angie,” commands Coach Gary, aka Stinky
Breath—one of the two coaches here today. He stands stoically

with his shoulders back, arms clasped behind him, in front of
five red punching bags hanging from the ceiling by chains. To
his left, there’s a break in the square of benches where students
can enter and exit the grappling space. A pile of worn shoes
lines the periphery of the thick mat. The rest of the gym has

wood flooring that spills out into the small area by the tiny,
vacant reception desk. Smudged glass doors and walls make up
the entrance, providing maximum visibility so passersby can

watch our torture and think, Hey, I’d like to try that! Or not . . .
if they’re sane.
Coach Gary steps forward to address other students. He’s
barely taller than some of the boys here, but definitely thicker
around the middle, and his hair is combed neatly to the side like

Superman’s. His bare feet squish into the thick mat. I don’t have
to look to know the tufts of black hair on his toes are curled up
like the pom-pom keychain that dangles off the zipper of my

backpack.
“Ahh, what are you doing, Conrad?” he moans to an older
student in the far corner. “This is Jiu-Jitsu, not karate. We don’t
kick, kick, kick.” He moves his arms up and down emphatically

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