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“What should we do to celebrate?” my dad says, changing the subject swiftly and tactfully.
“We should go for dinner!” Aunt Nessa says. “Someplace fancy, to celebrate you champions.”
Anna and I exchange a quick glance.
It’s not that we don’t want to go for dinner with our parents. But there’s gonna be ten different ragers to celebrate the championship and the end of the school year.
Catching the look, my mom says, “Why don’t we all get ice cream, and then you two can meet up with your friends?”
“That sounds great.” Anna smiles. “Thanks, Aunt Yelena.”
“Have you been to Pie Cone?” my mom says, linking arms with Aunt Nessa. “All the ice cream is pie-flavored. Key lime pie, pumpkin pie, blackberry crumble . . .”
“Oh my god.” Nessa laughs. “You already sold me at ‘ice cream.’ ”
2
DEAN
The underground fight club of Moscow is literally underground, in what was once an abandoned metro station. Now it functions as a spot for raves, drug deals, and bare-knuckle boxing tournaments run by the Bratva.
The shouts of the crowd echo down the tunnel where the train tracks are overgrown with weeds and clogged with discarded hypodermic needles. You can still see the remains of faded billboards plastered on the curved walls, advertising products that haven’t been sold since the fall of the Soviet Union. Over that, layer upon layer of graffiti in dripping spray paint.
It’s chilly down here, at least ten degrees colder than at street level. I keep my hoodie on until the last moment, so my muscles stay warm.
“Who are you fighting?” Armen asks me.
He’s smoking a cigarette, even though he’s supposed to fight in a minute himself.
“Chelovek,” I say.
“He’s pretty big,” Armen remarks.
“Pretty fuckin’ slow, too.”
Armen takes a long drag, exhaling the blue smoke up to the vaulted ceilings, then crushes the butt under his heel.
“I’ll bet on you,” he says, as if he’s doing me a favor.
“I’m not betting on you,” I tell him.
Armen laughs. “That’s why you’re rich and I’m broke.”
“Dmitry!” Boris shouts. “You’re up.”
I’m the first fight of the night. When I’m fighting, I use my Russian name. I use it for most everything when I’m in Moscow.
I strip off my hoodie, baring my body to the cold. The chill feels like an electric current against my skin. I can smell the scent of Armen’s cheap cigarette and the damp mold of the subway tunnel. Also the sweat of the fifty or so men crowded on the platform, and the tang of alcohol from the flasks in their jackets.
There’s no ring. We fight in a chalk circle. If we step outside the circle, the spectators will shove us back in again.
Boris is the event organizer. He’s not Bratva himself, though he works for them. He’s skinny with a shaved head and spacers in both ears, wearing a long coat with a fur collar. His best attribute is his loud, raspy voice that cuts over the noise of the crowd, no microphone required.
I step into the circle, bouncing lightly on my toes. I’m wearing only a pair of trunks now, and flat sneakers. My hands are taped.
Chelovek strolls into the other side of the circle. I haven’t fought him before, but I know who he is. He’s got a thatch of ginger hair shaved into a Mohawk, and a tattoo of a snake-ridden skull sprawled across his chest. He goes byRyzhiy Chelovek,which basically means Copper-Top.
We’re about the same height, a little over 6’2. While I’m lean and wiry, he’s beefy to the point of softness. In real boxing he’d be way outside my weight class. In the underground fights, they just call this a “Thick and Thin.”
