So though it was painful, I kept my head down and jumped through enough hoops to get where I needed to go. My reward at the end of each day was an afternoon of hurling myself across the skate park. Something to leave me aching, tired, and bruised.

But I had to get through this afternoon English class first. Fucking English. And poetry today to boot.

“Daya, which line did you like the best?” Ms. Leung asked.

Hmm… the last one? ’Cause it was the end? “I thought ‘following the darkness’ was interesting.”

“What did you find interesting about it?”

The words. They were made up of letters. “The word ‘darkness’ stuck out to me. Like the speaker was really frustrated or something. Like she just wanted to leave.”

“Hmm… good observation, Daya. Class, where does the speaker want to go, you think?”

Anywhere but here, I thought, slumping back in my seat and squeezing my pencil into the palm of my hand as tightly as I could.

Chapter Three

“Your arms are spaghetti, Daya!” Dad’s lips made that smacking sound they always made when he was irritated with something. “Is spaghetti strong?” he asked as he grabbed my boxing gloves and jiggled my arms around.

“Are we talking cooked or raw?”

He didn’t smile. Sometimes he did. Not today. Today I’d made too many mistakes. “Don’t be a joker, okay? It won’t be funny when your opponent thumps you.”

He held up his punch mitts in front of me. “Tummy tight, gloves up. Firm, quick jabs. Intensity, Daya!”

We worked like that for hours—Thatha coaching me, building me up so no one could take me down. Boxing had been his “thing” in Sri Lanka when he was younger. An interest passed on by his father. He’d been competitive, too—winning small titles here and there. But when he came here, boxing just became another thing he’d had to give up. When I’d asked him why he’d quit, he’d made that lip-smacking sound and responded, “What? You think we had all the time in the world when we moved here? When would I box? Before work? After night classes? Don’t talk nonsense.”

Now that he did have time for a few side interests, he spent that time coaching me. I think it was his way of protecting me. Of making sure I knew how to protect myself.

“Mental toughness,” he would tell me, “is vital for physical toughness. You can’t play sports without both, and you can’t succeed here without both either. If you show them weakness, Daya, they win. You must be better. Stronger.”