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Jennifer Dutton

the floor and comes toward me. You know, that casual flick
of the chin upward. Kind of like a jaw spasm. The seemingly
nonchalant way of acknowledging my existence without waving

emphatically like a dork.
Ugh—Jack. He’s tall and strong and doesn’t go easy at all. He’s
the kid who, even when you focus the whole sparring session on

not getting hurt, nails you in the face with an elbow or cuts you
to near death with a toenail. I try to avoid him every practice.
“Hey,” he says.
“Go easy, okay?” I exhale loudly. It’s hopeless, I already know.
“Sure,” he says in his laid-back way.

The buzzer sounds, indicating sixty seconds of torture.
We circle each other—eyes locked, knees bent, close to the
ground, arms up in front of our chests. I’m like a dying squirrel

being stalked by a vulture. I know what’s going to happen; it’s
just a matter of prolonging the inevitable. He bends on one knee
and swoops in—grabbing inside my leg and pulling me toward
him. I fall swiftly and directly onto my butt.
“Great leg sweep, Jack!” Coach Julian yells.

Yeah, Jack, you’re awesome. Keep it up, buddy (eye roll).
If I could blow a huge raspberry in his face right now and get
away with it, I totally would.

Without hesitation, he leaps on my chest in a straddle,
compressing my lungs and rib cage. I exhale, making the sound
of a car horn that’s seen better days. Eowwwwww. He doesn’t
even laugh, that’s how focused he is. Doesn’t crack a smile,
doesn’t even notice. This is all business to Jack. He rams his

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