Monday starts with me on my best behavior. I'd meant what I'd said to Coach the other night: if working on my attitude means training for my fight, it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.

Breakfast proves a challenge – my mother is one of her critiquing moods – but I remain somewhat pleasant, notebook resting loyally by my side as I wolf down my pancakes. At one point, Cody comes down as we're casually chatting and does a double take. It's not often he walks in, and the kitchen is peaceful; today is a special occasion.

"Morning, Chipmunk," I say, but he's quiet as he pulls out a chair. For the next few minutes, as Mom rambles about some promotion she's running, Cody pushes his eggs around his plate with his fork.

My mother, as usual, remains unaware, but as soon as Cody and I are in the car, driving to his school, I turn down his Jazz music. He frowns – no one comes between him and Frank Sinatra – but doesn't say a word.

"Hey," I say, glancing over, "everything okay?" He folds his arms and turns to the window. "Because if it's not," I continue, "you can tell me. You know that, right?"

He nods this time, which offers some semblance of relief, but not much. The truth is, Cody is one of those soft-spoken kids you feel you have to protect at all costs, which is why I worry so much. He's not like me, not quick with his fists, or street smart. He's the kind of kid who holes up in his bedroom, making volcanos out of paper mache. The kid who builds monuments and cars using lego. The kid with a big heart, so big that there are people in this world who wouldn't hesitate to take advantage. That's what I'm up against.

I kill the engine and hug him. He hugs me back, grabs his bag, and opens the door without looking back. I wait for a second, expecting his friends to go over and greet him, but they don't. He walks into school alone.

For the rest of the day, I'm a Stepford-Wives version of myself. If I let myself get angry, then I'll have let Coach down before I ever really started, so the trick is to be calm. Casual. Zen.

"You're acting like a Westworld robot," Daisy says. "It's freaking me out."

We're spending lunch under the bleachers today to escape the afternoon sun. Daisy is pale as a sheet and burns easily, so despite the fact I'd rather be catching up on my tan, it's necessary to avoid another lobster situation.

"I'm not doing anything," I say, which is true.

"Exactly," she says. "You're just...smiling. Are you on crack?"

"I can confirm I'm not on crack. I've just turned over a new leaf."

"Well, go back to the old leaf. I don't like this one."

I sigh and finish the rest of my sandwich before watching the field as the track team runs their laps. Joining a sport outside of boxing could be beneficial, but the thought of having to socialize with others more than I have to is...not.

"Cassie, I'm serious. How long is this going to last?"

"You're supposed to be supportive." I'd spent most of my free period explaining in depth the details of my plan, so she knows better than anyone why this is so important.

"And I am," she says. "I'm totally behind you wanting to save the gym, and I'm even behind your boxing match. All I'm saying is that be careful you don't end up changing what makes you you."

I roll my eyes; she sounds like a fortune cookie. "All right, all right, enough about me. How's violin going?"

She beams the way she always does when I talk about the violin, which is the only reason I ask. "I made it to first chair."

Despite having no idea what this means, I can tell it's a good thing, so I let out a giddy little scream unlike me, and hug her. "Hey, I just had an amazing idea." I pull back a little to look at her properly. "If I get a clip of my boxing, can you choose a song to play on the violin for it?" In my head, I imagine one of those ballet-type scenes you see in a movie with a fast-paced violin track over it.

"Ooh, I know what you're thinking," she says, "I'll have a look tonight." And that's why I love her; she knows the inner workings of my mind without me saying a word.

Across the field, Troy Constazo stops stretching. He's standing with his two friends, Amy and Alec, but instead of paying attention to whatever they're saying, he's too busy looking at me. I turn around, expecting to see someone else on the bleachers, but it's just us.

He smiles. I half smile, still convinced he's looking at someone else. After saying something to Alec, he nods at me before making his way around the track.

"He likes you, you know," Daisy says.

"He doesn't. He's friendly to everyone." It's true too. Troy is one of those golden retriever types who get along with everyone. The happy, good-looking guy you find in a wholesome teen flick – the type who doesn't usually end up with someone like me.

"You'd be the Miss-Grumpy-times-Mr-Sunshine trope," she says, "my favorite."

For reasons beyond me, my thoughts turn to Nico. Sometimes, it's hard to figure him out. He's got this cocky side, that much is clear from him challenging Hayden, and outside of the ring, he's hardwired for control. But in the ring, left without restraint or confines, he is entirely different. Something I can't seem to stop thinking about.

We carry on talking, but it's not long before Danny walks past with his usual crowd and abruptly falls to a stop. His eyes land on Daisy, who is doing her best impression of an inanimate object, and narrow. "Just got called into the principal's office," he says, stepping closer, "if I find out you made false accusations–"

"I didn't," Daisy mumbles, "it wasn't me," but her words are drowned out by me getting to my feet and blocking Danny's way.

Danny drags his gaze from Daisy to pin it on me. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah," I say, "if you don't want to be called into the principal's office, maybe you should stop acting like a dick." Then I grab Daisy's hand, pull her up from her frozen position, and push past Danny to get to the steps.

"Bitches," he calls.

Maybe if his insult had been singular, I'd already be walking away. But bitches implies one of those insults is for Daisy, which is unacceptable. I turn around and meet his cool stare. The problem with people like Danny is that they're used to being unchallenged. Maybe if someone did once in a while, they wouldn't get away with it so often. Advancing toward him, I wait until I'm right in his face before speaking. "What did you say?"

He turns and laughs a little at his friends before looking back. "Bitch-es."

My fists clench, but my fingers barely meet my palm before Daisy grabs my hand. "Come on," she says softly, "don't let the gym down for people who don't matter."

Her words cut through the haze and settle in my chest. I squeeze her hand, glaring at a still-laughing Danny while Daisy pulls me away. As we walk toward our lockers, all I can think of as my heart thrums with anger is how proud of me Coach would be.

The rest of the day proves uneventful as I daydream about tonight. Not my session with Coach, though I know, that's equally as important for my fight, but the session I'll have with Nico. If I can learn to channel even half of his energy in the ring, I'll stand a real chance in my fight with Katarina. The business will be booming, and Hayden and Coach won't have to close the gym. Even though it sounds like a dream, it's the one thing that keeps me going.

As soon as it's hometime, I meet Daisy by my locker, and we set off toward the parking lot. My limbs feel tight and heavy with tension; I can't wait to get to the gym. "I'll see you tomorrow," I say, hugging her.

She squeezes me back. "See you tomorrow. I'll look for some songs tonight for your posts."

We pull apart. I climb in my car and turn on some Jazz in preparation for Cody, hoping it'll cheer him up. When I get to his school, he's already waiting on the curb, looking too anxious for my liking. He jumps in, slams the door closed, and fastens his seatbelt.

"How was school?" I ask. He shrugs and looks away. I lean over, taking his hand until he looks at me. "I know something is wrong, Chipmonk. You can tell me anything, and I'll never get mad or judge you. I just want to help."

He looks out of the window but doesn't speak. I sigh and turn the music up, waiting for a second before starting our way home. As soon as we're back, he trudges upstairs, pauses, and half turns around. "This kid in my class is picking on me."

I straighten. "What did they say?"

He moves down the steps until he's standing before me and buries his head in my stomach. I wrap my arms around him protectively, holding him close. "That no one should be friends with me anymore. He always throws my hat on the floor and pushes me around."

"Did you tell a teacher?"

He nods.

"And what did they say?"

"They always say if it happens again to tell them or to go and play with someone else. I keep telling him to leave me alone, but he won't listen."

The anger that surges through me is unparalleled. I kneel in front of him until I'm at his height. "Cody, if he ever puts his hands on you, you hit him back."

He looks up, eyes wet. "I don't know how."

I glance at the clock. If I don't leave now, I'll be late for my session, but this is more important. Grabbing Cody's hand, I lead him through the empty kitchen, out through the doors, and into the yard. As I take his hand, I think back to the night Nico taught me to punch, and something dangerous swirls in my stomach; I fight to push it down.

"You hold your fist like this," I say, showing him. "Don't tuck your thumb in. You'll break it like I did."

He smiles a little and forms a fist. When he's got it down, I grab a pillow from the outdoor sofa and hold it in front of me. "Okay, give it your best shot, Chipmonk."

He does as he's told, punching the pillow as hard as he can, and I know how it feels to feel the tension in your body release upon impact. I let him go for a couple more minutes before pulling the pillow away.

"All right," I say, brushing his cheek, "you know never to hit first, but if he hurts you again, you hit him back, alright?"

He nods and, after a moment, throws his arms around me. I hug him back, glancing at the house to see my mother standing in the kitchen window. She doesn't look pleased, but when does she ever?

"Come on," I say, and we walk hand in hand to the house.

Mom doesn't say anything as she ruffles Cody's head. He runs upstairs, and only when he's gone does she look at me and frown. "Were you teaching him to punch out there?"

"No, we were having a pillow fight."

"Cassie." She tilts her head, still frowning. "It's bad enough that you think it's acceptable to resort to violence. I don't want Cody to as well."

"He's being picked on," I say. "Some boy is pushing him around. You don't think sooner or later, he will need to know how to throw a punch?"

"No," she says, "I don't. That's not how you should teach him to deal with conflict."

I smile. "That's how I deal with conflict."

"And look how well that's worked out for you."

Her words sting more than I'd care to let on. I grab my gym bag, run upstairs to change, and walk out of the house without another word, ready to do the one thing she seems to hate most.

Fight.

A/N

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