“I’m Lucian,” the guy says, saving me from having to try to read the sign. “And this is Lucian’s Gym.”
I follow him inside, never having been in a gym before. We have a private one in our house, and I work out in it all the time, but this is something else entirely.
There are several octagons set up with various guys sparring. A workout area with machines and bags hanging from the ceiling. In the corner are free weights. The outside might be shit, but inside is fucking awesome.
“Why did you bring me here?” I ask, continuing to follow him to the back octagon.
“Put these on.” He grabs a pair of boxing gloves and throws them my way.
I drop my backpack on the floor and slide the gloves onto my hands while he grabs a couple of pads.
“You know your English teacher?”
“Mrs. Klein? Yeah …”
“She’s my sister.”
Oh shit …
“Look, I’m not trying to fuck with her class,” I start, but he shakes his head.
“Follow along.” He raises the pads and punches the air. “Left jab, right jab, cross, cross. Your turn.”
I mimic him, punching the pads, and almost immediately, the tension in my body starts to slide out of me.
“She cares about you,” he says as I focus on punching and jabbing. “Says you remind her of me.”
Left jab, right jab, cross, cross.
Left jab, right jab, cross, cross.
“You struggle to focus.”
“I suck at school.”
“No.” He lowers his hands and locks eyes with me. “You don’t suck at anything. You’re struggling because you’re dyslexic.”
“I’m not?—”
He raises a knowing brow, and I have the urge to punch something.
As if he can sense it, he raises his hands, showing me a new combination. “Left jab, right jab. Uppercut.”
Left jab, right jab. Uppercut.
“You’re dyslexic,” he says again. “And from what my sister has told me and from the little I’ve seen, you have trouble regulating your emotions. You get frustrated and lash out because you have nowhere to release your frustration.”
Left jab, right jab. Uppercut.
Left jab, right jab. Uppercut.
Left jab, right jab. Uppercut.
“I’m almost sixteen,” I tell him, continuing to do the combination. “Then, I can legally drop out.” I hit the pad harder as I spit out the last word.
I hate that I can’t fucking read, that every damn subject requires words. Even math has stupid fucking word problems. I’ve never been diagnosed because my dad refuses to accept that one of his kids could have a learning disability, but I’ve looked it up, and Lucian isn’t wrong. I’m dyslexic.
He shows me another combination and then another andanother, and before I know it, hours have passed, and I’m dripping in sweat. For the first time in a long time, my brain is calm, and my body is relaxed.
