Kit squints at him. “Weren’t you just talking about how you could kick my ass five ways from Sunday?”
“Yeah,” Fox says, “but that’s me. This is Tink we’re talking about.”
I freeze. “We are?”
“Yep.” Pan digs a painted fingernail under the tab of his beer and cracks it with a fwish sound. He swings his legs to the ground and sits up properly on the settee. One finger pointed at me. “You,” he says. And then swivels his finger to Kit. “And you. Are just too evenly matched. We’re in a dead heat over who we think would win.”
I glance back at Fox.
“So, you think I would beat Kit?” I say to Pan.
Pan takes a sip from the top of the can, shaking his head. “No, no. I am Switzerland. I am undecided. She”—he points at Wendy—”now has a lot of confidence in you, though.”
Wendy tips her face up at me from the floor, then glances at Kit. “I mean, no offense, Kit,” she says. “You are good at other stuff.”
Kit gives a short laugh. “Thanks, kid.” He brushes his hair out of his eyes.
I’ve been in enough fights to know that the back of my neck prickles. I don’t really like where this conversation is going, but I can’t pinpoint why.
“Seems to me,” Pan goes on, drumming his fingers on his chin, “that there is only one way to settle this.”
“Back alley!” Fox calls through cupped hands.
“Bare knuckle brawl.”
“What?” Kit and I say at the same time, staring at him.
Fox shrinks a little. “Okay, maybe not that,” he says quickly. Then he catches his lip in his lower teeth. “I am not going to lie, though, I kind of want to see you guys face down.”
“I am saying.” Pan slaps the coffee table. “It’s the only way we’ll know for sure.”
I breathe out a long breath. “Yeah, I don’t know,” I say. “Why don’t you just get Blue or something to be a tiebreaker?” No way he’d vote for me, but not like I care. I’d rather take a ding to my pride on a vote than have to actually throw a punch, and at Kit of all people.
“No, no, no, no, no,” Pan says quickly. “First of all”—he glances at his phone—”I think he’s just clocked in so he—” He gives a cough, his mind is elsewhere. “And second of all”—he flashes that smile, that stupid beguiling double dog dare you smile at me—”are you chicken, Tink?”
“What,” I say, remembering just in time to keep my voice at a low register, my pulse is pounding in my neck. My heart ricocheting against my ribs and lungs and binder. “No, I just—this is stupid.”
“Like that’s ever stopped us before,” Kit says.
He’s stretched out on the ground now, hands behind his head, and I can’t help but notice the hem of his T-shirt riding up a little above his jeans, revealing the inked lines of a vine and a faint line of dark hair right above his belt buckle. My cheeks heat up, and I look away. At the most innocent thing I can think of,Wendy, which turns out to be a mistake because she just gives me a big, toothy ten-year-old smile.
“I really think you can beat him, Tink,” she says matter-of-factly. “I mean.”
“You’re like the same size, but he’s, you know.”
Kit opens one eye behind his glasses. “I’m you know what?” he says. He pushes up to sitting. “Do I have to prove that I can actually kick Tink’s ass?”
He looks at me and our eyes meet for a long half second.
“I don’t want to fight,” I say again. “Not ‘cause I’m chicken,” but I can’t think of another good reason. “‘Cause I don’t wanna get all beat up for nothing,” I finish. “What if I have to, you know, run for it or something?”
I throw a meaningful look at Pan, who chews his lip.
“My man’s got a point,” he says to the ceiling. “Arm wrestling?”
“And break my drawing fingers?” Kit scoffs. “No way.”
“Hm.” Pan thinks again, then he snaps his fingers. “Here, I know—push-ups. Low risk of injury, but I think it still counts.”
