1st 5 Pages February Workshop- Shae Rev 1

Name: Britney Shae
Genre: Young Adult Contemporary
Title: Fearless

As I walked into the convenience store, the first thing I noticed was the old TV sitting behind the attendant’s counter. I immediately recognized what was playing—the fight. Shit.

I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, and slipped into the candy aisle, scooping up a bag of Skittles for Margie. The store was dead quiet except for the low hum of the TV. Reaching for the milk I had come in for, I heard the announcers talking—Her first professional fight. Her chance to win the Junior U-18 MMA title. And so soon after her brother, fellow MMA fighter, Marco Armani, was killed in an unfortunate car accident.  Look at her eyes—have you ever seen such intensity?

I shut the refrigerator door with too much force and cringed as the sound echoed through the store. I didn’t want to give myself away.

Pulling out a wad of bills from my back pocket, I slowly approached the counter. The clerk’s attention was on the TV.

 “Gimme one sec.” His gaze never left the fight. “This girl’s gonna throw a punch like nothin’ I ever seen before.” He chuckled, the fight reflecting in his gray eyes.

I cleared my throat.  “That fight happened two days ago. Everyone knows who won.”

 “I can’t stop watching that punch. It’s gone viral. Can’t go anywhere without seeing it.”

I almost scoffed out loud. Ain’t that the truth.

At that moment came the punch. Just as it had in real time, my stomach lurched as my opponent crumpled to the ground, nothing but dead weight. I had wanted to win when I stepped into the octagon that night, but even in my wildest dreams I hadn’t thought I would. Especially not that easily. My stomach flipped again. I wasn’t supposed to win.

The clerk let out a low whistle, shaking his head in awe. “She just won her first title, but there’s no smile, no elation—nothin’. If you ask me, I think that’s the sign of a champion. She knew she was going to win from the moment she stepped into that ring.”

My eyes darted to the clerk in disbelief, then back at the TV. How had I managed to look so confident I was fooling strangers at the convenience store into thinking I was a champion?

I didn’t feel like a champion. And I hadn’t known I was going to win—especially that easily. From training and watching various fighting matches, I knew that knockouts came down to a lucky punch, but it still seemed surreal my first punch had been the K-O.

As the man began ringing up the milk and the Skittles, I glanced back up at the TV and right into my own blank eyes.

 “What if she didn’t know?” My voice came out before I could stop it. “What if she didn’t know she was going to win? What if she doubted herself even after she threw that punch?”

 “That girl?” He scoffed. “She’s a winner. You don’t just throw that kind of punch from nowhere.” He handed me my change.

I stared at him for a second. My head rang, Yes, you do just throw those punches out of nowhere.

 “Thanks,” I mumbled, taking my items and turning to leave.

It wasn’t until I reached the door that I heard the man exclaim with wonder, “Well I’ll be damned…” He had likely seen the embroidered letters adorning the back of my sweatshirt advertising Donovan’s Fight Club, the premier mixed martial arts—MMA—facility in Philly where I trained. I cursed my outfit choice into the cool evening air and walked away as quickly as I could.

#

           

Loud music from Marc’s ancient iPod pumped through my earbuds as I walked into the gym, greeted by the familiar smell of mustiness and sweat. I’d only been absent for a few days, but god did it feel good to be back.

           

Donovan’s Fight Club was my escape from reality. I went to the gym to train, but that wasn’t why I was there. When I punched the bag, the music from my brother’s iPod blasting in my ear, I could forget everything happening outside the brick walls. Fighting and training had been my brother’s hobby, his passion. But for me, it was more than that—it was home.

           

I wasn’t sure what I listened to, other than that it was a playlist created by Marc, which he not-so-creatively titled “Angry.” I listened as the singer screamed out his words, the guitarist fiercely attacked his riffs, and the bass thudded with the driving beat.

           

This playlist was perfect because I was angry. I had been angry since inheriting Marc’s iPod two months ago when he died. Inherit wasn’t exactly the right word—it’s not like Marc had a will. Instead, it had been handed to me at the hospital by a police officer, taken from the wreck of Marc’s car. Unlike Marc, the iPod wasn’t destroyed. It wasn’t even scratched.

           

With my hood up and music blasting, it was like I had tunnel vision. I headed straight for my usual punching bag, the one tucked away in a corner room off the main gym on the first floor. I threw my bag on the ground and pulled out the grappling gloves Marc had given me nearly a year ago, when we had first started getting into MMA after years of karate and martial arts training. I started my warm-up, switching between punches and kicks.

           

I grunted as I landed a solid kick and watched as the bag swayed. Maybe this anger was just one of those stages of grief like the school counselor had tried to talk to me about following Marc’s death. She had sat me down in her sunny, cheerful office and told me she was worried about my slipping grades. I had only half-listened to her as she spoke, wondering if my school was using Marc’s death as an excuse—my grades had been dropping long before Marc’s death, starting with the bullying. Girls didn’t want to be friends with a girl who fought. And boys were threatened by a girl who was stronger than them. Their teasing and taunting was sometimes too much to bear.

           

We don’t need to justify anger, Anna-Maria, Mom always said. We don’t have to justify anything we feel.

           

As I went through my standard routine, a few guys poked their heads in from around the corner, looked at me, and then turned to each other excitedly. I knew why they were there.

           

I had just won the mixed martial arts junior U-18 title, beating out four-time champion Taylor Heery. Except they didn’t know the whole thing was a fluke.

I hadn’t allowed myself to think about what it would be like to win the title. I especially hadn’t imagined how scary it would be to win the title. I froze every time the thought crossed my mind. What next? When would my next fight be? Who would it be against? Can I win again?

And most importantly—what happened if I lost? Would I lose the opportunity to ever compete again?

    

I had stopped paying attention to my workout, my fears pulsing through me instead of concentration. The track on the iPod switched from the screaming, bass-heavy song to something surprisingly low-key. I had only been at it for about ten minutes, but sweat already dripped down my face.