Page 6 of The Fire We Make

They passed boys and men of varying ages sparring against each other and sending strong blows into the bags that hung from the ceiling, rattling the chains holding them up.

They finally stopped at a ring with another man and a boy about Joy’s age inside.

“Xavier!” Byron hollered over the thumping music. The man turned to Joy and her father and stepped out of the ring.

“What go down, Thibodeaux,” he greeted Byron with a dap.

“Ain’t shit,” he responded. “This is my daughter, Joy,” he introduced, putting a hand on Joy’s shoulder.

“Ah. So this is our little fighter huh?” Xavier said with a humored smile.

Joy cringed and looked away. She’d been sent home early from school for fighting a boy during recess that had been trying to push another girl off of the swing. During her reprimand, she was told by the principal that the boy would need stitches.

“No need to be embarrassed. Nothing wrong with fighting. Shit, you gone be fighting in some way for the rest of your life. But you need to know how to do it right and when to do it,” Byron said.

“And that’s what I’m here for,” Xavier said. “This is my nephew. You two are gonna train together.” He put his hand on the boys shoulder. Joy regarded the boy with inquisitive eyes and he did the same.

She brought her eyes back up to her father. “Train for what?” Joy asked.

Byron stooped down to speak to Joy eye level. “Remember how I told you that someone took something from me a long time ago?”

Joy nodded.

“I think you can help me get it back princess. You fucked that little boy up,” he laughed and Joy cracked a smile. “With your help, we can take back everything that’s been stolen plus some. What do you think?”

Joy looked into Byron’s face. She loved her dad more than anything in the world. She was a daddy’s girl, undeniably, and would do anything he asked of her. Enthusiastically, she nodded and Byron grinned then stood, placing a kiss on the top of her head on his way up.

“That’s my princess.”

He helped Joy into the ring and went off to the side to speak in hushed tones with Xavier about the plans for their training.

As they did so, Joy and the boy stood eyeing the other warily.

“I’m Joy,” she finally spoke.

“Zyaire,” he mumbled. He held his fist out and Joy bumped it with her own.

The grunts of her exertion reverberated through the empty gym, mixing with the sound of her flesh and bone hitting the bag, fighting through haunting memories and hurt feelings. Her arms cried out for a break but she ignored them

“You think them niggas on the street on gonna care that you’re just a girl? That you’re tired? Huh?” Byron’s voice boomed and 13 year old Joy scrunched up her face to keep the tears from falling. She could feel her lip beginning to swell and the salt of her sweat stinging the cut on her cheek. She shook her head ‘no’ in response and curled her hands into fists.

“No! They won’t! They will whoop yo ass like anybody else. If you wanna be a bitch, then get the fuck out. If you want to be a queen, put your fuckin’ hands up!”

Joy put her hands up.

The alarm on her phone chirped, pulling Joy out of her head and signaling that her time of solace had come to an end.

She sent another series of punches and kicks into the bag, causing the chain holding it up to rattle, then dropped her arms, her breaths labored.

Her mind feeling lighter and her limbs feeling like jello, she gulped down her water and wiped her face as she gathered her belongings to leave.

“Aight, lil mama. See you tomorrow,” Mr. Johnson, the owner of the gym, called from his seat behind the front desk as she passed.

Through a reluctant conversation with the older Black man her third time visiting, she learned that he was a veteran who opened the gym to create a safe space for people to learn self defense and for other veterans to stay sharp or keep to their routines. Joy respected that.

For the most part, he stayed out of her way and didn’t ask too many questions. She respected that even more.

She offered only a raise of her hand in goodbye as she hustled out of the building, mentally chastising herself for creating a predictable routine. Mr. Johnson seemed nice enough but she could never be too careful.