“Look, Daya! Your very own little gym—Vicki and I thought you’d be wanting to get back to your favorite sport!”

The gas and rubber odors in the room turned my stomach. Every part of my body tensed against the bag, the gloves, Priam’s voice, the smell.…

Daya, if you box soft, you lose, plain and simple.

My dad’s voice like a sharp object dragging across my chest. Shoulder to hip. Like a belt of heat and sorrow and guilt.

I tried to press the pain into my hand, into my skateboard. It wouldn’t go where I wanted it to. It just kept pushing through my chest, threatening to get out.

Priam stopped dancing. The gloves fell to his sides. His face fell too. “Daya? What’s wrong?”

The pain started to seep out. “Are you fucking kidding me?” My voice tasted bitter, like bile, passing through my lips.

Priam’s eyebrows dipped. His eyes glistened in disbelief. Everything about the look stirred up images of my dad’s face. What do you want to do?

I couldn’t break down. I couldn’t be soft.

I pressed harder. Harder still. But the pain just kept rising.

I needed to get out of here. I needed to get this shit under control before it all came out.

Without saying anything, I turned and left.

I woke up the next morning feeling like garbage and stayed in bed extra long to avoid breakfast. I figured Priam wouldn’t be brave enough to force me down there today.

I’d given my hand an especially good whack, but the pain barely registered.

After leaving Priam standing in the garage looking like the most beatable boxer in the world, I’d gone back to the skate park and thrown myself across every obstacle there, trying to beat back the shit boiling up inside of me. A few skate dudes had eyed me up, probably wondering if I was just a really shitty skater or high or something. I didn’t care what they thought, though. The need to control what was coming out of me was too overwhelming.

What the hell were Priam and Vicki thinking? Their “gift” just proved how little they knew me. I’d given up boxing right after the accident and never shown any sign of wanting to go back to it. Even though boxing would’ve been the perfect way to collect bruises, there was just too much of the other kind of pain—the kind I didn’t want to feel—wrapped up in it all.