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Holy shit. What was he talking about?
Some of the students laughed. A few looked intimidated. No one moved, even though the instinct to run was overwhelming.
I didn’t love how those words sounded. They reminded me of the days when I’d lost my family. My mom was the first to go, then my dad was won over, slowly my brothers and sisters were indoctrinated by my parents and other members of the church. I’d run far and wide and escaped with my sanity. It didn’t sound like much, but it was everything. Most of the girls my age were already married in and had multiple mouths to feed—from multiple different paternities. I felt sad thinking of my little sister, but I forced it aside. I reminded myself that Professor Lawson wasn’t talking about God, he was talking about science. And science I could get down with. Science had rules and laws along with systemic and methodical ways to prove them. I liked concrete, I jived with the physical, I could make sense of a world governed by solvable theorems, not charismatic charlatans who wore white robes and a suspicious amount of real diamonds—like the leaders at Joplin.
I might have lost my whole family to a cult. But I was about to gain control of my own universe through learning the rules that shaped and molded it, and with Professor Lawson on my side, I felt like a whole new understanding of the world was possible.
And it certainly didn’t hurt that Dr. Lawson could box and he looked incredible doing it.
Chapter 3
EMERY
"You knocked him out in the first round. It's ten after eight," Lou frowns. We were in the locker room, and I was shoving my head in a black t-shirt.
I shrugged, "I didn't feel like getting bloody or stinking like someone else’s blood."
"What the fuck is going on, Emery? You've never worried about your face before, and hell, we've got showers—hit ‘em. Is something going on at work?"
"I just didn't feel like fighting tonight, all right? Can a man have a night where he doesn’t feel like breaking another man’s neck?"
“Sure, a man can, but not Emery Lawson.”
Lou raised his arms in the air and backed away from me, "All right, all right. You don't need to get your panties in a twist, but the show is what people come for. No one wants to come to an event to see the guy KO’ed in five minutes. They want a fight, they want a show, not an elimination.”
I shoved my belongings into my bag and turned to look at Lou. "I'll make it up to you next week. I promise."
"Should I be worried?" Lou asked, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes at me.
I couldn't help laughing. "You haven't given me that look in over ten years."
"You haven't given me a reason to."
"Yes, well, I've kept my head down and my nose in a book."
"Has something changed?"
"Maybe."
"Just tell me you're not in trouble. Did the tenure committee find out?"
"Listen, Lou, I get it. You've been playing pops for so long that you can’t see I'm a grown-ass man and I can do whatever I please. I might quit tomorrow and walk away from the ring. Stay locked up in the white castle and never wrap my wrists again. I raised my hands, forming firsts, my new knuckles in clear view.
“You’re Emery Lawson. You haven’t been able to walk away from a fight yet. It’ll be a cold day in hell when you quit the ring permanently,” Lou said shaking his head.
"I love you man, like a brother, but as you can see, I'm very capable of taking care of myself. I appreciate you looking out, but I really don't need to report every single thing I do to anyone."
"Fine," Lou grumbled. He knew something was up. "You bet your ass if you get in any shit, I'm gonna be there to help shovel you out of it—like always."
"I know, man, same for you, but you need to lay off and give me some damn privacy."
"Just remember not to pull this shit during fights, man. I still got a business to run."
"I’m a pro, Lou. I may have my shortcomings, but poor sportsmanship isn’t one of them." I tossed my towel in the basket and slung my bag over my shoulder. As I walked out, the packed risers from the fight were still emptying.
I waited by the back exit of the gym, scanned the dissipating crowd looking for Celia. At five past nine, I saw the door swing open, and out she came from the girls’ locker room. Her hair was tied up in a messy ponytail, and she was dressed in skin-tight jeans and a hoodie. I smiled. A girl who made no effort at all to look beautiful but held that secret alchemy of femininity mixed with raw power—that was natural beauty, and on Celia, it was a divine thing. It thrilled me to no end that she chose boxing as her feminine super-power.
