Knockout Girl Read online

  Knockout Girl

  Natasja Eby

  Copyright © 2018 Natasja Eby

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—except in the case of brief quotations for the purpose of critical articles and reviews—without written permission from the author.

  ISBN-13: 9781720105800

  First edition: October 2018

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. However, should you find yourself heavily relating to said characters and/or events, this is purely intentional.

  Cover and book design by Natasja Eby and Joel Wright

  Published by Natasja Eby

  https://natasjaeby.blogspot.com

  DEDICATION

  For Josh “dedicate-your-next-book-to-me” Terry.

  Thank you for being a friend.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to the following people:

  Adrienne, Beth, Dad, Eli, Gina, Joel, Josh, Lea, Matt, Mia, Michelle,

  Mom, Phila, Sarah, and all the nice staff at CPL.

  “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

  – Philippians 4:13

  CHAPTER one

  My life has always been absolutely beautiful. Amazing. Perfect. Floating in the salty ocean, lying on endless sandy beaches, school, surfing, boys, beach parties, night dips. Everything has always been exactly as it should be. Until one day it all came crashing down.

  Kinda like I wish this stupid plane would do.

  Don’t give me that look. You can’t just sit there and judge me when you don’t even know what I’m going through. Trust me, if you had lived 16 glorious years on the island paradise of everyone’s dreams only to be ripped away to the icy cold North, you’d be willing to go down on a plane too.

  What’s wrong with it? What’s wrong with it? What is wrong with it? Let me paint you a little picture.

  Picture yourself—not on a boat on the river—lying on a towel, stretched out on white sands, the sound of the ocean waves calming you as a breeze filters through your salt-tangled hair. The palm trees sway back and forth, offering you occasional shade from the hot rays of light.

  As you sunbathe, you become aware of a distinct presence. It’s your crush, Kaipo, his golden hair soaked, his bronzed skin practically glowing.

  You sit up, trying to look sexy, which is difficult when your breasts haven’t quite developed yet. You put on an air of bored interest in an effort to hide the fact that you’re re-adjusting the back of your bikini bottoms. Kaipo doesn’t seem to notice, but maybe he’s just being polite.

  He shakes the water out of his hair and finally looks down at you. “Hey,” he says coolly with a nod.

  You smile and open your mouth, but at first no sound comes out. Then finally:

  “Hey.”

  “Mind if I…?” he gestures to your towel.

  “Yeah, sure!” you exclaim a little too enthusiastically.

  Then you both sit together in silence, staring out at the waves.

  “So, I was thinking—”

  “Did you know—?”

  You both try to speak at the same time, and then laugh awkwardly as you look away from each other. A moment later, he touches your shoulder.

  “Ladies first.”

  “I was gonna say that—” You get interrupted by the sound of a cell phone ringing. It’s yours. Of course.

  “Are you gonna answer?” Kaipo asks.

  “Nah,” you say with a smile. “What were you saying?” you ask because you feel weird now.

  He chuckles at your change of topic, but answers anyway. “I was thinking about that new Italian restaurant. And I thought—”

  The cell phone rings again and you let out a little frustrated sigh. “Sorry, just go ahead,” you tell him.

  Kaipo glances down at the sound coming from your bag and raises an eyebrow. “Why don’t you just hit ignore so the sound stops?”

  You take out your phone and see that your mother is trying to get a hold of you. “Because if I do that, my parents will know I’m purposefully ignoring them. If I let it ring, then I can pretend I didn’t hear it.”

  When he starts to laugh, your face flushes hot. “Not that I’m trying to be dishonest. Usually I would answer, it’s just that I know my mom’s just calling to tell me dinner will be ready soon.”

  You stare at the waves again as you wait for the ringing to stop. There are some little kids splashing around in the water, giggling, jumping, and even diving in. It’s really cute—if you like children.

  When your mom finally gives up, Kaipo turns to you and says smoothly, “Speaking of dinner, I was wondering if…”

  “Yeah?” you coax with what you hope is a coy smile.

  “Well, I mean…if you’re free and all…if you want…” his voice gets all shy, which you find really cute.

  Just as you poise your lips to say yes, the phone starts ringing again. You sigh heavily. “I’m sorry, Kaipo,” you tell him as you take out your phone.

  “It’s okay, Elli,” he says with a gentle smile. “You should answer it. Tell her that…maybe you won’t be home for dinner?”

  You grin widely at him and then hit answer on your phone. It’s your father this time.

  “Elli?” he sounds concerned, but you can’t think of why he would be. “We’ve been trying to get a hold of you.”

  “Sorry, Dad,” you say. “I’m just at the beach with friends.” You add the “with friends” because your parents don’t like it when you go swimming in the ocean alone. It’s kind of true anyway. Kaipo is your friend.

  “Well, we need you to come home, honey,” Dad says. He sounds vaguely urgent, but you’re too preoccupied getting lost in Kaipo’s sweet blue eyes to care much.

  “Um, I kind of have dinner plans,” you say. Hastily, you add, “If that’s okay.”

  “It’s not,” Dad says. “Come home please.”

  “But Dad—”

  “Elikapeka,” he says, and you know it just got real serious because he almost never uses your full name. “Your mother and I need to talk with you. Come home.”

  You swallow back your disappointment, but you know you can’t argue. He’s serious. He’s not even doing it just to ruin the almost-date you had. He really needs you to come home.

  “Okay,” you say quietly. Casting the briefest of glances at Kaipo, you add, “See you soon.”

  You look up at Kaipo as you end your call. He says, “So…”

  “Hold that thought,” you say, trying to sound cool, even though you’re mad at your parents. “I have to go home. But just…ask me again soon, okay?”

  As you get up, he asks, “Is everything alright?”

  You shrug. “Apparently my parents want to talk to me.”

  “Sounds serious,” he teases.

  As you head toward your bicycle, you say dryly, “Yeah, maybe they’re finally getting a divorce.” You immediately regret your comment though, remembering how Kaipo’s parents got a divorce just two years ago.

  “Oh, Kai,” you say, feeling like an idiot. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  He shrugs but you know his nonchalance is forced. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll catch up with you later, Elli.”

  “Bye,” you say as he walks away.

  As you pedal home, you wonder if maybe your parents really are getting a divorce this time. It’s not like you haven’t noticed how much they dislike each other. Were they ever in love? Was the last time they felt love for each other sometime before you were born? Did they f
all out of love because of you?

  You shake it off before you go inside your house. You remind yourself that their problems are not your own. Or at least, that’s what you think for a few blissful minutes before you actually sit down with dear, sweet Mommy and Daddy.

  When you get inside, you expect there to be some special guest for dinner or something. But instead, it’s just Mom and Dad. They stay quiet as they pass you food to put on your plate. You sense something’s up, so for once you keep your mouth shut and don’t complain about not getting a date with Kaipo.

  Finally, as Mom serves up some bowls of ice cream, Dad looks right at you and says, “Elli, we have some big news for you.”

  You swallow hard as your heart starts hammering in your chest. This is it. You’re sure they’re breaking up.

  “We’re moving,” he says after what feels like an eternity.

  You exhale deeply with relief. You’re just moving. They’re not breaking up. Everything is still okay. “To where?” you ask, thinking maybe you’ll finally get a room with a walk-in closet.

  Dad exchanges a look with Mom. He nods his head in your direction like he wants her to do something. In response, she rolls her eyes and takes a big bite of ice cream. He pushes his plate away from himself in a clear display of rejection for her dessert choice, to which she shrugs like she doesn’t care even though she really does.

  When Dad stalls long enough, Mom says, “Oh, just tell her, Robert.”

  He gives you a sheepish look and says, “We’re moving to Toronto.”

  You can only think of one Toronto, but you’re fairly certain that they couldn’t possibly mean that one. So you ask hopefully, “That’s…near Honolulu, right?” because you can’t bear the thought of moving so far away.

  “No, Elli,” Mom says. “We’re going back to Canada.”

  You look back and forth between your mom and dad and they stare back at you. You start to laugh—out of nervousness and also because you’re hoping that they’re actually just joking. Finally you realize they’re serious.

  “We’re moving back to Canada?” you burst out. “We never lived in Canada.”

  Mom sighs, which is quite possibly the most annoying reaction to you. “Your father and I did. Now we’re going back.”

  “I got transferred,” Dad adds, as if this is an acceptable excuse for ruining your life.

  Your face heats up and your head spins as you stand suddenly, knocking over your chair. “This is so unfair!” you shout.

  Dad winces and Mom gets a steely look in her eyes. You know they’re about to reprimand you, so you run to your room and slam the door as hard as you can. The whole house reverberates, but no one calls after you.

  The rage calms after a couple of days. During that time, you barely leave your room, you only text your friends to tell them that your life is over, and you don’t even answer when Kaipo calls. Your parents give you two weeks to pack up your entire life.

  Your friends all come over to help you prepare, and it makes you wonder whether they’re being nice or they’re just anxious to get rid of you. You go for the former, because it hurts to think about how they’ll forget you two weeks after you’re gone.

  Kaipo comes to see you the day before you leave. You never actually told him you were leaving, but he caught wind of it through a friend of a friend. You sit with him out on the lanai because you don’t want your parents to eavesdrop.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” he asks, sadness in his eyes.

  “Because…” you falter. This is your last chance to say something meaningful before you go. So, you gather all your courage and say, “Because I really, really like you, and I just couldn’t face it. I don’t want to leave this place and I especially don’t want to leave you.”

  He frowns and you’re terrified that you’ve said the wrong thing. Then, in a surprise gesture of romantic-ness, he kisses you. Like a full-on, hands in your hair, tongue against tongue, don’t-care-who’s-looking kiss. Kai’s lips are warm and soft and taste vaguely like the ocean, which isn’t half as bad as it sounds.

  “I wish we’d had more time, Elli,” he says when he finally lets your lips go.

  “Me too, Kai,” you whisper back.

  Then he leaves forever, or rather you leave forever, because the next day you’re on a plane bound for Canada in the dead of winter. And you just keep wishing that you’d wake up back in the real world. You keep wishing that Kaipo’s kiss had stopped time so that you never had to leave. But it didn’t. The stupid plane keeps heading farther and farther north.

  Obviously this story is about me, and not you. But you get the idea.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I sigh for the fifteenth time in ten minutes. Mom’s asking me again if I’m settling in okay, if I like the bookshelf, if I want paint for my room, and if I’m ever going to get rid of the boxes. And again I reply that I never plan to settle in, the bookshelf looks like every other bookshelf, I want black paint to symbolize how my life is over, and I’ll get rid of the boxes when we move back to Hawaii. Mom scowls—again, I might add—and then leaves my brand-new, horribly cold bedroom.

  I look around. There are two things on the bookshelf: dust and a book that the previous owner left behind. The boxes that contain the entire contents of my life—minus the social part that I left in a coffin back in Hawaii—are all stacked up in neat rows along the wall underneath the two big windows. The windows that are extremely drafty, or so it feels. Everything in this freaking country is so freaking cold that I can’t understand how anyone could have colonized this place.

  I glance at the desk that Dad bought a few days ago. He put it together for me because I couldn’t be bothered. It has a lot of little drawers and spots for personal things like pictures and CDs, and would be quite attractive if I weren’t so dead inside. I only have my laptop on it and a couple of letters from friends back home. The letter from Kai is on top. Even though I got it yesterday, the envelope is still sealed. I want to read it, but I’m afraid of my heart breaking all over again.

  The only clothes I’ve bothered to unpack are the ones I’ve been wearing every day. And let me tell you, I learned pretty quickly that absolutely nothing I own is appropriate for the weather in the Arctic Tundra. Mom said we’d go shopping really soon, before the next school semester starts. We haven’t yet—partially because I can’t bring myself to go outside, and partially because Mom and I aren’t exactly on good enough terms right now to actually shop together. Still, I know it’s unavoidable, no matter how much I want to go home.

  Looking outside the window, I still see all that grotesque white stuff falling from huge, dark grey clouds. It reminds me of the ash from burnt sugar cane fields, except that I know it’s a lot colder. It has one thing going for it though: it doesn’t smell bad. But then, it doesn’t smell like anything.

  There’s nothing interesting in the view outside my window, unless you like snow, snow-covered chimneys, snow-covered roofs, snow-covered street lights…you get the picture. The houses—or what I can see of the houses—are actually kind of cute. They’re all red brick, with brown, grey, or black shingles. It’s like something out of a movie. I guess I don’t mind them, but it’s still not home.

  There is one thing I really do like, though (that I swear I’ll never admit to my parents). You know those street lamps I mentioned? Well, they’re just ordinary street lamps and there’s nothing special about them. But…a couple of nights ago when I couldn’t sleep because of the cold and loneliness, I got up and started pacing. When I passed the window, I caught sight of the light from the lamp glowing down on the snowy roof next to ours. My breath caught in my throat—an involuntary reaction that I despised—and I couldn’t tear my gaze away from it.

  I had never seen snow before, only in movies, and even then, a camera can’t quite do this particular vision justice. The way the smooth-looking snow takes on the colour of the light and then sparkles like a thousand little diamonds? It was…

  It was m
agical. There, I said it.

  Other than that small glimmer of light, things here are pretty miserable. Honestly, how can they stand it? It’s just so…ugh. Then I have to start school in a few days, and get this: I actually have to walk. Like, people actually walk in the cold. And from what I can tell, they look about as normal as if they were walking barefoot along a beach. Can you imagine? How am I ever going to accomplish walking in this weather while a) not dying and b) looking normal?

  ***

  So now I’m out at some mall with Mom, feeling absolutely ridiculous because I’m sure I look like a fool. I mean…I’m wearing about five shirts underneath an old winter coat Mom dredged up from who knows where, and a pair of pyjama bottoms underneath my jeans with running shoes that are soaked through because I don’t own any waterproof boots. I feel like everyone in the mall is staring at me, but that’s probably because I’m staring at all of them, wondering how anyone could possibly look comfortable in their winter attire.

  It’s hot in the mall, but it’s a fake hot. It makes me sweat under my layers and fools me into believing that it’s not really as cold outside as I originally thought. But then I see people bust in through the outer doors, bringing in cold gusts of wind and snow, and I know I’m not imagining this awful winter bitterness.

  I hear some giggling to my left, and I turn, expecting to have to give some girls a dirty look for laughing at me. But when I look over, I see they’re not actually paying attention to me at all. They’re checking out a group of guys who just walked in from outside. I can’t see what’s so special about them—they’re all wearing similar coats and knit hats that cover both sides of their faces, and they all have dorky grins as they nod their heads at the girls.

  I sigh at them. Everything is so blah here that I just can’t see how they could get enthusiastic about anything, much less the totally unsexy clothing they’re hiding under. I’m not saying they should go around in underwear or something—they would surely die if they did. I’m just saying that it must be hard to feel flirty in…in that!