The Hijinks War

10. Fight Night

The noise in the basement was an unbearable buzz. Too many students packed in at once, was made worse by the large area that had been cleared for the ring. I stood in a corridor of maintenance closets that the Thunderbirds were using as dressing rooms. As I watched anticipation build, I bounced on the balls of my feet, shaking my limbs every so often to stay loose

It would get hot fighting, so I wore a minimal amount of clothing, despite my dislike for eyes on my manly arms and shoulders. Jess had bought me new board shorts and a sports bra for the first Fight Night of the year. It was more fashion than function, but I kind of liked the wide straps that criss-crossed over my back. My hair had been pulled into a tight French braid to keep it out of the way.

For some beyond-me reason, I was wearing makeup; a heavy smoky-eye. It was Jess' doing, and while I will admit to thinking I looked hot, I really didn't see the point. 

But Jess insisted. "If brides can wear this on their weddings through dancing and crying, I'm sure you'll be fine. It wouldn't hurt to look hot, anyways. Maybe it will distract your opponents." 

But these were club kids I'd been fighting since my freshman year; I wasn't much of a girl to them.

Most of the school-sanctioned club rules stood, but a couple had been thrown out the window for Fight Nights.

No chaperone would stop us if we hit too hard or got too aggressive.

There were three ways to lose a fight: step out of bounds, forfeit, or lose consciousness.

Head shots were not grounds for being disqualified, but were rare, as those bruises would be hard to hide from teachers—fighting, as can be expected, was a big no.

Spilled blood was only a problem if you couldn't say you were okay, or if it was a gusher. There were several students who couldn't stomach the sight of the fighters slipping around. Plus, it was a bitch to clean.

Lastly, to top off how many rules we are already breaking with Fight Night, there was the Elite's betting of favors and immunities.

Just about every part of Fight Night could get us expelled.

Jess, who had been waiting with me, gave me a quick hug and kiss as the announcer Jason neared his makeshift podium. "Keep your hood up, Babe," she warned me, hoping the reveal of my makeup would have the shocking effect she wanted. Part of me wanted her nearby to help ward off my nerves, and part of me wanted her away so I could analyze the fights in peace.

"Kevin Mcallister and Johnathan DiMartino!" Jason called the first pairing.

I watched the cocky fighters saunter to the large painted boundary as Jason fabricated stats and did a comically uninformed analysis of their styles. Most of what he said blended in with the other noise for me as I watched the boys dance in their corners. The anticipation in the basement built, spectators leaning to watch and the volume climbing. By the time they met in the middle, staring each other down as our ref reminded them of the few rules, Jason had to issue a warning.

"People! Shut your pie holes! The lookouts can hear you, and if they can hear you..." He didn't need to finish his sentence, the implication was enough. The vacuum effect of his words sucked the sound, but not the electricity from the room. With a grin, he dinged the tiny countertop bell and the boys began circling each other.

When the first punch flew, I put everything else out of my head and watched, for shortcomings or injuries I could use to my advantage. If I was called against any of the Hellhound fighters who were up before me, I'd be prepared.

I'd know to watch out for Kevin's rapid-fire kicks, always delivered in threes. It was painful to watch as he edged Johnathan out of bounds using the same move over and over. I noticed that