Page 64 of Betting on the Brainiac

“Like dance?”

I laugh again at his wary expression. “More like nonviolent violence.”

He only looks perplexed for a split second. “Oh, your air boxing.”

I pretend to be offended. “It’s called Tae Bo, thank you very much.”

“If that’s another language for dance-y kickboxing, then yeah. We’re talking about the same thing. How about nonviolent violence but make it satisfying?”

“How?”

“We’ll make one of those things you see boxers practice on, where their sparring partner holds it up and they pound it. Focus mitt.”

“I’m in.”

Five minutes later, we’re in the middle of the dance floor, me with dishrags tied around my fists, Oliver holding up an oversized focus mitt he rigged with a bench cushion and duct tape.

“Tell me the rest and punch as often and as hard as you need to,” he says. “This should be big enough for kicking too.”

I throw a right cross and he absorbs it with the mitt.

He smiles at me. “Let’s go.”

So I do, punching when I need to, following each memory with another strike against the target.

It all comes out—how Jeneze paid below the living wage, so mothers brought their daughters to the factories to earn enough for the family to eat. How all of the factories had unsafe working conditions. Poor ventilation, overcrowded and overheated production floors, regular UTIs for many of the women because there were no usable restrooms.

Investigations opened, lawsuits piled up, and my dad lied, gaslit, or bribed people to make it go away. For years.

I pause here, sweat rolling down my chest, breathing hard.

Oliver straightens to stretch his back. “Sorry, but I extra wish I’d punched him.”

I gesture with my makeshift glove for him to lower the mitt so I can go again. “This last part is the worst part.” I land a kick so hard Oliver grunts and takes a step back.

He resets. “Tell me.”

“If his liability had ended there, it would have been bad enough. The least damning description of his behavior is unfair labor practices, but there are plenty of fair-trade NGOs that would define it as child slavery.”

Oliver deepens his stance, sensing the crest of the wave.

Good instincts. I send a jab-cross-hook combo into the mitt, even though my knuckles are throbbing.

“When the factory collapsed, the whole time he had his fixers buying and lying his way out of any serious repercussions, and he claimed Jeneze was a victim too, defrauded by a shady building manager who’d told him the building was up to code.”

I shift into a kicking stance and make the middle of the target my whole focus. “His secretary blew up his game. When she realized that the last open lawsuit was going away, she produced a copy of an email to my father two days before the building collapse and sent it to the NGO helping the victims of the collapse get compensation. The email was from the director of operations in Dhaka, requesting permission to temporarily close that factory due to a major crack that had appeared in a third-floor wall after a small earthquake.”

Front kick. “But the building was never built to code, and the machines were too heavy, and all it took was a 3.2 earthquake for it to crack.” Side kick. “A factory closure has to go through the CEO.” Back kick. “Gordon Armstrong said no.” Jab, cross, hook. “The director emailed again, said the foreman was sending everyone home and telling them to stay there until the building was safe.” Knee strike, knee strike. “Gordon Armstrong told thedirector to fire anyone who left, no final wages.” Left hook, right hook, uppercut.

My fingers are screaming. I don’t care. “The foreman backed down. The work continued. Two days later, the building collapsed.” Side kick. “My dad’s order was the death warrant.”

Oliver’s face is dark and he’s ready for the final kick I slam into the mitt, but as soon as I drop my foot, he flings the mitt away and walks off with a profane two-word suggestion for what Gordon Armstrong should do with himself.

I don’t disagree.

He prowls to the far end of the club before he stops, hands laced behind his head, staring at a blank wall.

I unwrap my hands while I wait. My fingers are red and swollen, and I flex them. I’m going to need ice. And to find a boxing gym, because punching stuff is awesome.

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