Page 5 of Invisible String
“Max, sorry I missed you this morning. Are you at work?” Carlos, my trainer and a father figure in my life, cracks a pistachio with every word, the clink of the shell falling into the glass bowl he has in his office. It’s something he does repeatedly when on a call or when I sit in his office with him.
Slurping the last of my noodles, I answer him. “I’m home. They fired me when I punched the little bitch in the face.”
“They didn’t press charges, did they?” He sighs.
“Not that I know of.”
“My offer still stands. You can train the kids.”
He’s been wanting me to work at his boxing club for a while. “You know, I’m not much of a talker. I’m not the right person to work with kids.” I’m not soft, and that type of man.
Clink. Chew. Clink.“I understand, Max, but it could help some of these kids who might relate to you.”
“There’s no way I would want anyone to have any relation to my past or even now,” I say this earnestly.
“Come down. We can spar. You can release today’s pent-up frustration.”
With a frustrated sigh, I toss the flimsy plastic fork into the sink. The clatter echoes in the quiet kitchen. I trudge down the dim hallway to my room, my mind heavy with worry. Clothes spill out of open bins as I shove excess items into an old suitcase, along with my mom's wedding ring, which I took from my dad months ago. A crumpled late notice sits accusingly on my unmade bed, reminding me that the rent was due a week ago. I had hoped my paycheck would cover my portion, but the numbers didn’t add up, leaving me short for both rent and utilities.
“Sounds good, Carlos. I could use it.”
Clink. “Good, see you soon.”
Pulling over a hoodie,I unlock the window, readying myself to climb out. “Where are you going?”Mikey yawns from his bed in the room we share.
“Out. I’ll be back. Cover for me.”
“You’re not going to get into trouble, are you?”
I shake my head. He stands and searches for his shoes. “I’ll go with you.”
“No, that will get us both into trouble.” I duck my head and slip out.
He sucks in a breath and closes the window slightly.
I jog down the gated community and head toward the main street to a boxing club I had seen while driving by the other day. The streets of Vegas lurk in danger at night, but that’s the only way I can break into the club and practice. I won’t ask my new foster caregivers for money to fund it, and I doubt they would want me to learn to fight. God forbid I’m a danger to the family.
It’s farther than I expected it to be. I pass the roaring of cars; the lights from the strip illuminate the city from afar.When I finally make it to the club, I toss my backpack on the floor and take out the crowbar.I’mnot the type of kid who is a troublemaker, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I slide the flat end of the crowbar into the gap of the door, just below the lock. My heart palpitates fast because the last thing I need is to go to juvie. I add more force until the lock clicks without bending the metal of the door. I wait to see if alarms sound. Once it’s safe, I walk in and turn the lights on. Three punching bags hang by a metal chain—two super speed bags. My eyes widen at the vast ring. The place smells of sweat and cleaners. No boxing gloves in sight. Now that I’m sixteen, I need to ask if I can get a job. I need gloves.
One fist hits the bag, then the other. I picture the man who did this to me. Who broke every promise. Punch. Punch. The bag swings from side to side as I pound on it. My feet move in the rhythm of my fists. Theheaviness of each breath has me heaving into the next punch. My knuckles scrape against the vinyl.
Anger rises when I think of all those who have done me wrong, who abused me, who left me without a scrap of food. My mind shuffles through the enormous number of faces. I punch through each face. Fuck you. Punch. Fuck you!
“Asshole. I hate you,” I shout to the empty room. “I didn’t ask for this.” My fists veer to the side of the swinging bag in blazing anger as tears run down my cheeks.I’m determined to learn how to fight. I won’t let anyone touch me again.
From that day on, I would sneak out of my room whenever I wanted to break into the boxing gym.
The Nova’s engine revs loudly in the boxing club parking lot, echoing against the walls of the dimly lit street. I’ll never forget that moment—the way someone who barely knew me looked at me with raw gratitude. It was three months after my string of break-ins, and I stumbled into the club, the air heavy with the scent of sweat and determination. There, draped over a worn-out chair, I discovered a pair of new boxing gloves, neatly folded hand wraps, and a cozy hoodie, all waiting for me as if they were meant to guide me to a fresh path.
I didn’t think they were meant for me, but I used them. Then, I returned it every night. I never stole from him. Three months after the six months of breaking in, Carlos showed up, and I thought I was going to get arrested, but instead, he said, “I’ve been watching through the camera.” He pointed to it. Damn, I never paid attention. “I trust you, kid. You want to learn how to box. I’ll teach you. Come after school tomorrow.”
“I don’t have money for classes,” I had said, sweat dripping down. I’m positive he figured I wouldn’t take it freely.
“How about you work for me, clean up, and in return, you learn to fight and use the club whenever you want, just no more breaking in?”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
From that day forward, boxing took over my life. I built muscle, grew confidence, and mastered the art of self-defense.
