Tyed
By
L.J Shen
Published by Self-Publish
Tyed is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents and places are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to real people, events or locale is coincidental.
Tyed Copyright © 2015 by L.J Shen
ISBN 978-0-9961356-0-3
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means.
Editing by Karen Dale Harris
For those who told me I could
And for those who told me I couldn't
Here's to chasing my dream, one word at a time.
Chapter One
I hate going to college.
Not that my parents give a damn what courses I take. They only care that I get my communications degree.
Especially after I failed at my first year of college,
So they are paying fuck-knows how much money (they could tell me the exact tuition amount, I’m sure) for me to sleep through Journalistic Reporting class, studying a profession I never. Want. To. Work. In.
Fuck my life, right?
I make the commute from my Walnut Creek apartment to Diablo Hill School of Art almost everyday. The university is located between San Francisco, Oakland and my internal wish to kill myself. I’m putting in my time and counting the weeks, days, hours and nanoseconds until graduation.
I have two months and twelve days left until I’m free. Two months and twelve days until I have to face the harsh, unforgiving reality: I have no idea what I want to do with my life. At the moment, my biggest plan for the future consists of a take-out pizza and re-watching the first six seasons of Sons of Anarchy. I’m nurturing a monogamous, not-at-all disturbing relationship with Charlie Hunnam's work right now.
(Don’t judge.)
Today is a Tuesday, so I’m taking a hard-earned nap after Creative Writing and Ethics classes. I always dose off in Journalistic Reporting. This shit would make a hyperactive kid snore his way through Halloween. Charlie and I are just about to re-create the part where he impregnates Tara Knowles (though I should note our on-screen chemistry is much steamier) when I feel a sharp elbow jabbing into my ribs.
Okay, this nudge is definitely not Charlie's. Ouch.
“Wake up, dopey.”
I raise my head slowly, wiping the drool off my chin as I struggle to unglue my eyelids. “What’s up?” I ask the owner of the elbow
“Final assignment.” My best friend, Shane Kinney, jerks his chin toward the whiteboard at the front of the room. His messy blond hair swishes like he’s in a goddamned Head and Shoulders commercial.
I blink at the board. “I’m too sleepy to decipher all the letters and words.”
“It’s called a sentence. Jesus, Blaire. You have to start taking fewer night shifts at Ned’s. ”
“I need the money. Groceries are expensive.” I pull my hoodie down to cover my face. Thankfully, class is over and everyone is stuffing laptops into their backpacks. Shane stretches, curling his fists as he yawns. Hypocrite. He’s bored too. His bellybutton makes a cheeky appearance from underneath his shirt, and I poke my pointer finger into it, making a funny sound.
“You could move back in with your parents,” he suggests when I shove to my feet. “It would save you some money.”
“Dumpster diving will save me money too, but I’m not desperate enough to do that either.”
“Are you saying you’d rather be homeless than live with your folks?”
“I am saying we could be having this conversation while drinking a double shot of espresso outside.”
“I don’t know, B. You look like you need more than coffee to pull through the day.” He winks at me and grins, picking up both of our bags.
I smack his shoulder with the back of my hand. “Seriously, pot at school?”
“Beam me up, Scotty!” His smile widens as we pour into the flood of students streaming down the hallway.
Once we grab our coffees and take a seat on our usual, secluded red bench in a corner of the main quad, Shane produces a cigarette pack he keeps especially for his rolled ones. He lights up and passes a blunt to me. I take a long drag, closing my eyes and savoring the sunshine.
“So what’s our assignment?” I finally ask.
Shane gives me the brief. Apparently, while I was busy reliving steamy scenes with CH, Professor Penniman, who is crazy anal about her reporting assignments, gave us our biggest challenge yet: a two thousand word, in-depth piece on a topic that is totally foreign to us.
Shane explains, “She’s randomly assigning each of us a subject, but she wants to switch up gender roles. She basically said that the guys could expect to write about crap like romance novels and postpartum depression and the girls are going to dig deep into stuff like muscle cars and first-person shooter games. We’ll get our individual topics via e-mail tonight by 10 p.m. And, oh yeah, switching isn’t allowed.”
“Great. I already hate journalism, and now I have to write about a subject I most likely want nothing to do with.”
“Yeah, but you hate everything. Maybe it's time to branch out a little.” Shane knocks his Levi-clad thigh against mine. Shane's a journalism major. He's been smooth-sailing the whole university experience. In fact, he was the one who suggested I take this class so he could help me out with this course.
He’s wearing his usual uniform of jeans, Timberland boots and a tee shirt with something funny written on it. Today, his shirt says “Step Away, Coffee. This Is A Job For Alcohol.” He always smells of cinnamon, Abercrombie cologne and opportunity. Always.
Shane is crazy cute, but he’s just not for me. He’s like the brother I never had, and I’d like to keep things that way.
“What are you up to this weekend?” He glances sideways at me with his teal eyes.
I shrug. “I’m working Friday night. I’ll probably sleep all day Saturday, then roll up a blunt and catch up on The Walking Dead or something. ”
“Care for some company?”
“Can the company bring avocado egg salad sandwiches and sweet potato chips from Pinder’s?”
“Can Floyd Mayweather dodge a punch?” Shane opens his arms wide with a grin.
“I have no freaking clue who that is, but I’m taking a wild chance here and guessing the answer is yes.”
“You’re killing me, B.” He laughs, hooking his arm around my shoulder and pulling me into a friendly hug, messing my hair with his free hand. “Now what am I going to do with you?”
“Dirty, naughty things that will make my twin sister blush?” I arch an eyebrow and feign a devilish laugh.
Shane jumps off the red bench like he’s been slapped. Jaw clenched, he strides to a concrete trash can, discarding the evidence of our blunt. “I’ve got to go,” he tells me.
I cough, wondering why my little banter pissed him off. It’s like I pushed the very-wrong button.
***
It isn’t until almost midnight that I remember about our Journalistic Reporting assignment. Between shopping at Target, visiting my parents and an early shift at Ned’s, I managed to forget all about the promised e-mail.
I fire up my five-year-old Dell, and it occurs to me that I’m probably the only person under thirty in the Bay Area who doesn’t have a MacBook. Izzy, my twin, says that a twenty-three-year-old working on anything else is the uncoolest thing she’s ever seen. But I secretly believe I’m way cooler than everybody else for giving zero fucks about what anyone else thinks.
My e-mail screen finally graces me with its presence and notifies me of two unread messages. One from Professor Penniman and the other from Shane. Apparently he’s over whatever upset him earlier today.
I open Professor Penniman’s e-mail first:
Ms. Stern:
As
per my instructions in class, I would like a 2000-word article, no less, excluding the headline, on the subject below. Your whole grade depends on this assignment, so please take it as seriously as I do. I want you to interview people who work in the industry. Follow them around to understand the ins and outs of their line of work. Your article is due the first day of exam week, June 1. This should give you plenty of time to complete the assignment.
Please DO NOT e-mail me back, call or otherwise approach me about changing your subject. You may ask for further guidelines or clarification about the assignment itself, but the subject is mandatory.
Subject: MMA
I wrinkle my nose. And just what exactly is MMA? The initials sound vaguely familiar. A government agency maybe?
I jot down the three letters so I won’t forget to Google them, and then I double- click on Shane’s e-mail. He wants to know what subject I got and why I’m not answering my texts. Oops, I put my cell phone on silent when I was having dinner with my parents. House rules.
I turn on my phone now and see a text from Shane asking the same question.
I type: MMA. Wtf?
Shane replies almost immediately: Mixed Martial Arts. Lucky you. My roommate Josh works out in an XWL gym in Concord.
I text back: XWL? More initials?
Shane translates: Xtreme Warrior League. Josh says you're better off trying to find another gym because this one is full of jerks. Anyway, I logged into their website. Talk to the general manager/coach, Dawson.
He includes a phone number for the gym.
Then he texts: Don’t forget our TWD binge Saturday night. TTYL.
I realize he’s signed off before he even told me his topic. Maybe he was so busy helping me he forgot. The thought makes me smile. Where would I be without Shane?
We’ve been friends forever. He grew up down the street and has been my closest friend for as long as I can remember. When Shane traveled the world for a while after high school, I felt like I was missing a limb. I'm not exactly a social butterfly and Shane has always stuck by me. Even when we were kids and Aiden, the lazy-eyed kid down our road built a tree fort and invited everyone (Shane and Izzy included) except me to come and play, Shane preferred to stick around with Boring Blaire. We caught fireflies with jars and, because my mother was concerned and guilty about my lack of social life, she pretty much let us raid the kitchen and gorge on sweets.
I know Shane dates a lot of girls. Sometimes he has less time to hang out, or he receives a sassy text or steamy call when I’m around, but he’s a great friend.
Me? I’m saving myself for a fair-haired Englishman who is oblivious to my existence.
I enter Dawson’s number into my phone, walk to my bathroom and start filling up a bath. I dust the coffee table while the water's running. My twin Izzy's the one footing the bill for the rent and pretty much everything else. I'm the one who does all the cleaning. It sucks, but so does everything else about being Boring Blaire in comparison to Sizzling Izzy.
I run the magic swipe along a picture of my sister and me. I’m petite, slim with curvy hips. Lily-white skin, full lips and dark, wavy hair with blue tips. I have freckles sprinkled on my nose and high on my cheeks. I guess I’m like, air-hostess hot. Meaning I look better than the average girl but nowhere near as perfect as those girls in the magazines.
But Isabelle? Pffft. She is that girl from the magazine cover. Taller, slimmer and prettier by a mile. Higher cheekbones, deeper shade of blue eyes and the aura of a goddess. Izzy basically makes me look like a beta version of her. So at eighteen, instead of debating what to do with her life (like me), she decided to become a model and make tons of money off her beauty.
Currently, Isabelle Stern is traveling the world as a lingerie-wearing Elizabeth’s Passion Fairy, visiting everywhere and living the life, while I’m attending a shitty university and serving lukewarm beer in a neighborhood bar to make ends meet.
Even so, when I’m not working night shifts at Ned’s and she’s not rolling around on an exotic beach in her underwear, Izzy and I have a routine.
I hear my phone ringing, walk back to the bathroom, turn off the faucet and slide a finger into the water to check the temperature.
"Izzy," I answer and instinctively distance the phone from my ear.
“Sissy!” my sister squeals back. She may be gorgeous, but her high-pitched voice could crack double-glazed windows.
“Where’s your skinny ass today?” I sit on the edge of the bathtub, circling my finger in the water.
“I’m in Singapore. You’d love it! It is so different and awesome and full of skyscrapers. Had an awkward incident when I landed here, though. Apparently it's illegal to chew gum here, especially in botanic gardens. I almost got arrested!"
We laugh as I slide my body into the water, letting out a sigh.
“You in the bath now?” she asks.
“Yeah. You?”
“Yup. It’s giant, twice as big as the one in the apartment, and it has jets. Hey, you think we’re freaks for liking to do this every day? Like it’s a kinky twin-womb thing?”
“What, have baths while on the phone?” I chew my lower lip. “It’s not exactly Dr. Phil material. I’d ask my therapist if I could afford one.”
“You need money? You know I can always help you out.”
“No.” I clear my throat and quickly change the subject. "Anyway, what time is it there? I'm just about to head to bed."
“Like, 1 p.m.”
“Taking a bath at lunchtime? You are a bit of a freak.”
“Mmm, okay, Blaire. At least I'm not boring.”
Izzy does have a point.
I chatter about my MMA assignment and about Shane acting weird. Izzy didn’t even realize we were taking a class together. I must have forgotten to mention it. She doesn’t seem very interested though and cuts our usual thirty-minute phone call short.
After she hangs up, I flop onto my bed with my laptop and decide to type MMA into YouTube. Might as well see what I’m dealing with here. The first video that pops up has a guy being knocked out so brutally the referee has to jump between him and the other fighter to stop the match. One fighter is unconscious, the mat beneath him as bloody as a CSI crime scene, while the fighter on top is still trying to pummel his opponent into submission. The crowd is eating this up, encouraging more with claps and excited screams of “Choke him out!” and “Arm bar! Arm bar!”
I'm not into being mainstream or judgmental—some will even consider my profanity, ripped jeans and nose piercing uncivilized (join the petition led by my folks)—but even I recognize how sick this is. I'm not sure where the Arts part fits in Mixed Martial Arts. It's definitely not in the ring, where I just witnessed a guy being choked until he turned blue.
Further research into the subject reveals that there's a heated debate about whether or not MMA should even be legal. The defenders of the sport say it's consensual. But hey, crime can be consensual too.
This is pretty vile, I think as I slap the laptop shut and squeeze my thumbs into my eyelids.
I'm so going to fail this course. Again.
Chapter Two
The good thing about getting MMA as my assignment topic is that the sport seems eager for any kind of attention it can get. I don’t have to go through any snotty secretaries, PR agents or legal obstacles to score an interview at The Grind, a gym in Concord. All I have to do is ask. In fact, the only problem with Mixed Martial Arts is that it’s Mixed Martial Arts.
I figured the violence in the first video I watched was a fluke. I thought that MMA must be like WWF wrestling, with a lot of flamboyant role-playing cowboys and heavy-metal knights. You know, when men in customs jump on each other after a theatrical twenty-minute speech.
But I was wrong. During my in-depth research (yeah, fine, I googled it), I discovered the men of MMA literally beat each other up to oblivion. There is blood. Everywhere. There are black eyes, torn ligaments, broken bones and enough medical staff to open up a field hospital at every matc
h. It is all real and painfully brutal.
My initial conclusion is that any guy who would want to be an MMA fighter must be brain damaged. When I hit Dawson Alba with this psychological assessment this morning on the phone, the trainer serenely confirmed, “Yeah, the guys all get hit pretty seriously in the head.”
Fun times ahead, right?
As I pull into the parking lot of The Grind on Saturday, I’m shivering not because it’s a chilly afternoon, but because the thought of researching this bloody sport is grossing me out to the max. I stare at the huge, two-story hangar on the outskirts of town. The XWL logo is proudly painted in red, white and black on the front and sides, the stylized symbol seemingly visible from every freeway in the Bay Area.
I park my pink Mini Cooper among the black Ram trucks and Jeeps. I inherited the Mini from Izzy for free so I shouldn’t complain, but it’s so devastatingly pink, it stands out among the other testosterone-fueled vehicles like a juicy pimple on a prom queen. A half-dozen guys stroll by and peer through the window, staring at me like I got lost on my way to the nearest mall.
A tall guy shakes his head in amusement as I release the custom-installed, pink-patterned Hello Kitty seat belt. Damn you, Izzy. I want to yell that a supermodel chose the car, not me, but keeping a low profile seems to be a higher priority right now.
I stumble my way out and light up a blunt, frowning at the guy through my Wayfarer sunglasses (another discard from Izzy) as I attempt to calm my nerves. I'm not going to smoke the whole thing. Just a few drags to take the edge off won't do any harm, right?
Say what you will about my pink car, there's no mistaking me for Izzy and her designer clothes once I step out in my Subhumans black tee and Boyfriend ripped jeans, my messy bun tied carelessly at the nape of my neck. We're a different species, she and I. I take another deep drag, frowning.