“Maybe you can just take a few hits and pretend to go unconscious,” suggests Al. “No one would
blame you.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.”
I stare at my name on the board. My cheeks feel hot. Al and Christina are just trying to help, but the
fact that they don’t believe, not even in a tiny corner of their minds, that I have a chance against Peter
bothers me.
I stand at the side of the room, half listening to Al and Christina’s chatter, and watch Molly fight
Edward. He’s much faster than she is, so I’m sure Molly will not win today.
As the fight goes on and my irritation fades, I start to get nervous. Four told us yesterday to exploit
our opponent’s weaknesses, and aside from his utter lack of likable qualities, Peter doesn’t have any.
He’s tall enough to be strong but not so big that he’s slow; he has an eye for other people’s soft spots;
he’s vicious and won’t show me any mercy. I would like to say that he underestimates me, but that
would be a lie. I am as unskilled as he suspects.
Maybe Al is right, and I should just take a few hits and pretend to be unconscious.
But I can’t afford not to try. I can’t be ranked last.
By the time Molly peels herself off the ground, looking only half-conscious thanks to Edward, my
heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingertips. I can’t remember how to stand. I can’t
remember how to punch. I walk to the center of the arena and my guts writhe as Peter comes toward
me, taller than I remembered, arm muscles standing at attention. He smiles at me. I wonder if
throwing up on him will do me any good.
I doubt it.
“You okay there, Stiff?” he says. “You look like you’re about to cry. I might go easy on you if you
cry.”
Over Peter’s shoulder, I see Four standing by the door with his arms folded. His mouth is puckered,
like he just swallowed something sour. Next to him is Eric, who taps his foot faster than my heartbeat.
One second Peter and I are standing there, staring at each other, and the next Peter’s hands are up by
his face, his elbows bent. His knees are bent too, like he’s ready to spring.
“Come on, Stiff,” he says, his eyes glinting. “Just one little tear. Maybe some begging.”
The thought of begging Peter for mercy makes me taste bile, and on an impulse, I kick him in the
side. Or I would have kicked him in the side, if he hadn’t caught my foot and yanked it forward,
knocking me off-balance. My back smacks into the floor, and I pull my foot free, scrambling to my
feet.
I have to stay on my feet so he can’t kick me in the head. That’s the only thing I can think about.
“Stop playing with her,” snaps Eric. “I don’t have all day.”
Peter’s mischievous look disappears. His arm twitches and pain stabs my jaw and spreads across my
face, making my vision go black at the edges and my ears ring. I blink and lurch to the side as the
room dips and sways. I don’t remember his fist coming at me.
I am too off-balance to do anything but move away from him, as far as the arena will allow. He
darts in front of me and kicks me hard in the stomach. His foot forces the air from my lungs and it
hurts, hurts so badly I can’t breathe, or maybe that’s because of the kick, I don’t know, I just fall.
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