It was the confusion I’d felt after the exchange with Shanti that I had trouble pushing down and away, however. I was pissed she’d seen me dealing with my shit, and that she hadn’t been scared away by it. I avoided looking her way for the rest of the tryout but found myself constantly aware of where she was and wondering if she was looking at me. Both hoping she was and wasn’t. Hating every minute of it.

At the end of practice, Lena, Dominique, and Kat gathered us all up.

“Okay, fresh meat—not bad today,” Kat started. “Some of you even looked like you knew what you were doing. Your skating skills are going to play a massive role in whether you make the team or not. The other piece that’s going to matter a whole shitload is your team play. We’re gonna focus on that next time, so come ready to show us you know how to kick ass while working together.”

Kat definitely ended her sentence with a glance my way, which just brought my frustration and trepidation back up into my chest.

How the hell was I supposed to impress them with my team play when I’d never played on a team? Who was going to believe I knew how to play well with others at this point?

I’d wanted to play softball when I was eleven or twelve. I remember asking Thatha if I could join the Little League team near us because three girls in my class played on it and always messed around at lunch together. One would pitch, another would hit, and the third would catch and pass back to the pitcher. It was kind of like watching a sporty circus act—a fluid motion of passing, hitting, catching, with each girl’s athletic body reacting to the other’s actions. I remember thinking it looked so cool.

But when I’d asked my dad about it at the dinner table, he’d replied, “When will you box if you’re playing softball? Besides, softball is for wimps, Daya”—except it sounded like “vimps” when he said it. “It won’t teach you how to be strong, to stand on your own. You better just forget about it.”

Amma had listened quietly. I wondered if she would have preferred that I choose softball over boxing, though. If she would rather I play a sport for “vimps” instead of one that involved punching and being punched. But she never said anything, never came to my aid—and I remember being mad at her for that. Being angrier at her than at my dad. I was definitely learning to stand on my own by then, but I guess I wished I could choose when I wanted to or not.