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Jiu-Jitsu Girl

chest down on mine. Great. Now my arms are pinned against
the mat. I flip through a mental playbook of random moves to
get me out of this conundrum.

Zip.
Nada.
Nothing.

“Alexis, do something. Always do something—even if you
draw a blank,” Coach Julian shouts.
“Angie,” I mumble into Jack’s chest, and get a mouthful of
his black uniform (please see Reason #1 of why I hate Jiu-Jitsu:
No Personal Space). Who knew Axe deodorant spray tastes

exactly like it smells?
“Hips to the side. Slide out,” Coach Julian commands.
I struggle with no success while the clock ticks down. Jack

squeezes his knees together, pressing his chest into my face. I
choke, then sputter, but resist the urge to panic and flail about.
When I first started sparring—rolling? wrestling? grappling?
whatever it’s called—I thought when I couldn’t breathe my
partner must not be aware. Surely, my partner wouldn’t be

suffocating me on purpose? Then Coach taught us how to do this:
how to grind your chest down into your opponent’s face so they
can’t breathe and have to tap out. Really, what the heck? Who

does this? Why in the world would Mom want me to do this?
Shouldn’t I be, like, taking classical music lessons or learning a
new language or something? Ugh.
My fingers stroke the mat, but I don’t tap. As much as I hate

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