This place is my version of hell. It isn't just that it's crowded, or that the air smells distinctly of sweat. It's that someone like me, someone who operates on structure and order, does not handle chaos well.

"Stay close, Maddie!" Dylan shouts. "Your mom will kill me if I lose you."

"Forget her mom," his twin, Oliver, yells. "Lilly would kill us." He reaches behind him and grabs my hand, pulling me through a throng of sweaty bodies.

Everything about this screams chaos, from the black heavy bags suspended by chains to the loud, rowdy patrons. In the corner is the boxing ring, its once-black canvas stained with blood and sweat. In less than ten minutes, I'll get to see why.

This is the last place I ever thought I'd be. I am not the kind of girl who agrees to go to a boxing match, especially the day before starting a new school, but then that has always been my problem. I'm a yes girl: yes, I'll move to California, yes, Aunt Lilly, your stepsons can kidnap me, and yes, I'll pretend to enjoy it. Because that's what I do, I say yes when I want to say no.

We fight our way to the ticket booth, manned by a stocky guy named Ray. For reasons unknown, Ray is shirtless and sporting a thick serpent tattoo across his broad chest. He snatches our tickets, raising an eyebrow at my outfit. I can only imagine what I look like right now. Sweat prickles my neck, soaking into the cotton of my favorite pink hoodie, and my bun is on the verge of unraveling—we have that in common. As discreetly as I can, I run my palms down the side of my head, smoothing down any potential flyaways. My hair, like my skin, is an equal mix of my half-Black mother and white father, which means it's neither straight nor curly, thin nor thick, but something in the middle.

Ray lifts his gaze to give us the go-ahead. We squeeze past more bodies, trying to push to the front. Close enough, Olly had said, to see all the action, but far enough away that we won't be sprayed with blood.

Reason number two this is hell. I'm pretty sure when Lilly asked her stepsons to show me around, she'd meant a trip to the mall or a walk along the beach. Maybe I'm wrong, but a boxing match in Burbank isn't exactly what she'd meant—it's not like I'd know. Before last week, when she picked us up from LAX, I'd mostly only ever seen Lilly through FaceTime. I'd known she'd moved to California to be an editor; that her husband of three years, Tim, is a goofy, divorced writer with sons. But other than that, Lilly's life in the suburb of Granada Hills remains a complete mystery.

What happened to us is a mystery too. As far as everyone's concerned, this move was a much-needed break after Mom's split from Dad. It's a half truth, which according to my mother is better than a lie; sometimes, I'm not so sure.

"You made it!" Something latches on to me, spinning me around into a hug. My new best friend, June, all five foot two inches of glossy black curls and sun-bronzed skin. I say new best friend, because ever since Olly introduced us last week at Lilly's Welcome barbecue, she's stuck to me like a barnacle. Beside her is Kavithra, Kavi for short, who traps me into another hug.

It's the one thing I can't get used to about California. Say what you want about New Yorkers, but at least we have rules: keep to yourself, don't stare at strangers, and don't take up space. It's been less than five minutes, and already I've had to dodge two elbows and several unsolicited hugs.

But I make the effort to hug June back properly. Part of making sure these next few months run as smoothly as possible means trying my best to make friends. Back home I never needed them, I always had my boyfriend, Jamie, but now he's not here to be my buffer.

"For the record," Kavi says, pulling away, "I wanted to take you surfing today. Obviously, I was out voted." She shakes her head, sending her pin-straight black hair back and forth. Kavi's Sri Lankan, which means she's got this thick, shiny hair that I can't help but envy.

"It's fine," I say.

She squeezes my hand as we're rocked by the crowd. Something about her calmness reassures me in all of this chaos. She's the epitome of a laid-back Californian, the kind of girl I could never—will never—be.

"Quick question," I say. "Are you sure this is legal?"

"Quick question," Olly says as his dark eyes flit to mine, "are you always this uptight?"

The word cuts through me, settling in the back of my mind with all of the others. Crazy, irrational, paranoid. They form together, shifting and pulsing like an entity of their own.

June's eyes narrow. "God, do you even have a filter?" To me, she says, "Don't worry, it's legal. They're doing an open-night thing to promote some boot camp they're pushing. Our tickets were free."

Relieved, I turn to the ring. Through a gap in the crowd, Kavi spots her boyfriend, Zion, and starts toward him. June goes to grab my hand, but I tell them I'll wait back here with the twins, and they push through the crowd without me.

Six weeks ago, when Mom and I made the decision to move, a part of me had been hopeful. California was my do-over. I'd reinvent myself as the cool girl, the laid-back West Coast girl who drinks vegetable smoothies and surfs on the weekend, but so far, my life has been nothing of the sort—it's hard not to feel disappointed.

The crowd suddenly parts as an older man wearing a GymCon T-shirt pushes through. He's in his midforties, much older than the rest of this crowd, with salt-and-pepper hair, a squashed nose like he's taken too many hits, and hooded, no-bullshit eyes.

"Here," he says, and he pulls a flyer from his bag, handing it to me, "take one of these so it looks like I'm doing my job."

For about a millisecond, I wonder what it would be like to take it. To be the kind of girl who could step into a ring, face her opponent, and be brave. But then his voice is back, a low familiar hum in my ear. That's not you, Maddie.

"No, it's oka—" but he's already shoving it in my hand.

Olly laughs as the man carries on behind us. "Keep it as a souvenir," he says. "You can hang it in your new bedroom and think about how nice we were to bring you along tonight."

Dylan thumps him in the ribs and says, "Leave her alone, dick."

You'd think being twins, they'd have something in common, but they don't. Other than sharing the same brown skin—their dad, Tim, is Black and their mom is white—they look nothing alike. Dylan is tall and lean, with short, dark hair and a narrow, angelic face. Olly, it seems, is still catching up. He's three inches shorter, with rounded cheeks, a curly taper fade, and an immature grin. Out of the two of them, I know which one I get along with, and which I'd like to kill.

In a desperate attempt to speed up time, I get out my phone and reread old messages between me and Jamie. Despite the chaos of the past few days, his name immediately calms me.

Jamie and I have been joined at the hip since the day he sat next to me in the library, a year ago. I'd been working on a poem for English, struggling to think of a word that rhymed with broken, when he leaned across the table, flashed that boyish grin, and said, "Token."

It's not like it was love at first sight or anything, but whenever he'd see me around after that, he'd make sure to say hey. Eventually, those heys turned into sentences and those sentences into full-blown conversations. Before I knew it, Jamie and I had become inseparable, two halves of the same person.

Still, it's hard not to feel the strain. There's a three-hour time difference between New York and California, which means the structure we've built, the routine we'd safely established back home, is gone.

It's this thought that unravels the last of my resolve. My stomach knots, a sudden panic settling over me, and I stand up, telling the twins I'm heading to the bathroom. There's a short line outside, but once I'm in the cubicle, I sit on the toilet and take a deep breath.

I thought I could do this. Thought I could come here—not just here, but all the way across the country—and be this carefree version of myself. Instead, I feel like a fraud.

Leaning my head back, I pull out my phone. Jamie's name is the first one on my call list, and even though he'll be asleep, I need to hear his voice. It rings a few times before going to voicemail. My phone is almost in my pocket when I pause. Even though I know I shouldn't, I press the photo album icon and scroll through pictures of Dad.

My favorite is one of us at Coney Island, during a rare trip to visit my grandparents. Cheesy grins peek out from behind our cotton candy, the lights of the Coney Island Cyclone blurred like stars as Mom struggled to focus the camera. There's nothing special about it, no significant moment that marked the occasion, I just like how happy we looked. Whenever I think of him, it's this version I remember. Kind, loving, with a smile that could warm you right up—it's what made leaving so hard.

Throat tight, I clutch my necklace, focusing on the feel of the pendant between my fingers. It was a birthday present from Jamie, a thin-cut gold necklace with a bean pendant in the center. He'd said when he learned the bean represents the origin of all things, he immediately thought of us. Now when I hold it, it's like I don't just think about a memory, I'm recalling a feeling: slightly blurred and out of focus, but soft, warm—safe.

A wild pounding vibrates the door, making me jump. "Are you going to be in there all night? Some of us need to pee!"

Exhaling, I get to my feet and unlock the door. The girl who'd been waiting pushes past me into the cubicle, locking the door behind her. I move to the sink to wash my hands and risk a look in the mirror.

I was right about the bun. I pull out the bobby pins, twisting my hair at the base of my neck, the way my mom used to do every night before ballet. That was the deal: Mom would do my hair, Dad would take me to the studio and afterward, the park, where he'd spin me on the merry-go-round.

"When I'm a ballerina," I'd shout through bubbles of laughter, "I'm going to spin as fast as this!"

My mom would have told me not to be silly, that no person could spin as fast as a merry-go-round, but not him. Dad just looked at me, eyes warm, and said, "You'll be the fastest-spinning ballerina the world has ever seen." I ended up quitting once I got to nine or ten, but the sentiment carried with me through everything I did, because that was my dad. He'd build you up until anything was possible, until you were up in the clouds. But the higher you went, the farther you fell when he pushed you.

After drying my hands, I step into the hallway to join the others. At the end of the hallway is a steep set of stairs. My body acts before I can think, propelling me down the steps and through the fire exit, out onto the back street.

The blast of warm air is startling. The streets are still frostbitten back in New York, the air the kind of cold that makes you involuntarily gasp. I'd known it wouldn't be like that in Southern California, but considering it's early March, I'd expected the evenings to be a lot cooler.

"You're not supposed to be out here."

My gaze shifts to the tall, tanned boy leaning against the wall. He's about five feet away, but there's enough light from a nearby streetlamp to irradiate his face in a warm, yellow haze.

He's strikingly handsome, but not in the clean-cut, LA type of way, more in a rugged, I don't give a shit way. His hair is jet black and short, curling slightly at the ends. He's wearing an old black T-shirt and faded gray sweatpants, but even fully clothed he looks strong, muscled, like he spends all his time lifting weights. His eyes skate over me in the same fashion, from my bun to my lips and back up again. An odd feeling flutters through me, halfway between nervousness and alarm.

"I needed to get out of there," I say, leaning against the wall. If my mother could see me now, tucked away in the dark with a boy, she'd have a coronary. "I'll head back inside in a minute. Unfortunately."

"Why did you come tonight if you don't want to be here?" He's looking right at me, head tilted slightly, a glimmer of intrigue in his eyes.

"Believe me, it wasn't my idea." I'm not usually this straightforward, this honest, but here in the shadows, I don't feel like pretending. "Watching some idiots fight is not my idea of fun."

His smile immediately fades and he pushes himself off the wall. He walks right past me, stopping when he gets to the door. His eyes flit to mine, bright, green, and no longer filled with amusement. "You should probably get going, then," he says in a low voice near my ear. "I doubt you'll be missed." With that, he slips back through the door and heads up the steps as I'm left, openmouthed, staring after him.

—

Back in the gym, Kavi and June are beside the twins, taking selfies by the ring. Kavi turns midselfie, takes one look at my face, and says, "Hey, are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

At last, the first competitor has arrived. The sooner this night is over, the better.

The crowd goes wild as the boxer in question is introduced as Moby. He raises his gloves, turning in a circle until every inch of him is seen. There's a collective roar, and I'm surprised by the sudden jolt in my stomach. It's like the feeling I get when Jamie drags me to a football game. I might not like the sport or care much about the players, but for one brief moment, I'm a part of something collective; something bigger, a swell of excitement over a shared moment. For a brief moment, I don't feel so alone.

Moments later, his competitor, Red Gloves, makes his grand entrance, and it's like that moment in movies
where time stops, and everything clicks into place. The exchange outside, the hostility of the boy I'd met—the guy from outside is Red Gloves.

Slowly, they face one another. Leaning forward slightly, I try to see past the head of the person in front. Despite being similar in size and stature, they couldn't carry themselves more differently. While Moby looks fierce, intimidating even, Red Gloves is calm, like he's mastered the art of restraint.

The bell rings. Moby gets into a defensive stance, but Red Gloves darts forward. He's quick and controlled, dodging Moby's blow before returning the effort with a jab to the nose. June and Kavi tense beside me as the thwack of Red Gloves's fist connecting with Moby's face echoes around the gym. My fists clench, too, willing it on.

Blood sprays the air and splatters across the mat. Red Gloves moves forward, his body a blur, and lands another blow. I grip my necklace, waiting for that feeling of horror to hit, but it doesn't come. It's enthralling. The soft glow of the overhead lights, the sheen that clings to each of their faces, the organized chaos. I'm standing here, pushed back and forth by a sea of bodies, and it feels like I'm finally awake.

"We probably should have checked if you're squeamish around blood," Dylan shouts. "Are you all right?"

I nod, suddenly aware of the commotion around me: people are cheering, calling out to the boxers, stomping on the floor. I turn back to Moby, watching as blood trails his lips and his chin, curving down the length of his neck. Gone is the posturing and bravado from before, the two men stripped bare for the crowd.

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," June says to the twins through her fingers.

Desperate, Moby takes a blow to the chest in order to land a face punch. Red Gloves jerks back, stunned, and falls to his knees. For a split second, it's like I'm reliving that night. Flashes of his snarl come roaring back, of his words like lashes of a whip. Stupid, crazy, bitch. I lean forward, fists clenched, and will him to get up. Get up, get up, get up!

The countdown begins. Moby steps back into the overhead lights, and his bloody snarl lights up like something from a horror movie. My fists are packed tight, and I wish I could go up there and punch it right off. I know that snarl, that look of superiority; I've seen it more times than I can count.

The countdown reaches six. I hold my breath, but at the last second, Red Gloves straightens up, circles back around, and crashes his fist into Moby's nose. The crowd goes wild as Red Gloves reverts to his typical stance. Despite the noise, the chaos, the pain, he's the only one still in control.

I feel the lump in my throat—sharp, solid—before the tears press my eyes. I fought back like this once. Not when it counted, but every night after, in my dreams. I stood up for myself the way Red Gloves is now, and I was brave.

Moby falls to the mat, and for a brief moment, as the countdown begins, the room is completely silent. Then, all at once, the room explodes with noise. Red Gloves lifts his glove to the air and searches the crowd, looking for someone in particular. His eyes find mine, bright and severe and alive.