Shadowboxer by Tricia Sullivan

be the right place. Who builds a boxing gym in the most polluted area of the city, in open air under the arches of a superhighway? The air reeked of exhaust. Rain was pouring down in sheets from the roadway that passed overhead. Instead of houses there were makeshift shacks, and outside one of them two men squatted on the ground passing a bottle back and forth.
    I’d stood there in the warm dawn listening to the roar of traffic and shifting the weight of my bags on my shoulders. I could see the boxing ring and the bag alley, right out in the open by a railway siding. This couldn’t be it. A gym like this couldn’t have any association with Mr. B and his Humvee and his gold chains. No way.
    A tired-looking woman in flip-flops and a skirt had opened the doors of what looked like a shed and started sweeping the concrete. I remembered to make a wai, a polite little bow, before I showed her the address.
    She examined the paper. She didn’t smile, but her voice was soft.
    ‘Jade Barrera. I’ll get Coat.’ She turned and walked away.
    When I heard Coat my stomach had taken a dive, and my guts started to boil. This was the gym where I was going to spend my summer vacation?
    I’d waited on the wet pavement trying not to choke on the diesel fumes. I hadn’t expected Fairtex with clean mats and air conditioning and famous boxers, but I had expected to be able to breathe. Then I heard voices.
    Kids started pouring out of the dorm. They were all boys, from teenagers on down to eight and nine year olds, more than a dozen of them. They were wearing shorts and filthy sneakers, no shirts, and they were all laughing like everything was one gigantic joke.
    ‘What is this, day care?’ I said. ‘Where are the adults?’
    A tall, stocky man showed up wearing a Fila t-shirt and shiny basketball shorts. He looked me up and down and sniffed, then gestured for me to join in the run. The woman took my bags and I was off, running along the railway siding through clouds of bluish exhaust in a neighborhood that made the Port Authority bus terminal look like the Ritz. I hadn’t slept longer than 20 minutes in the last two days, and I’d only eaten snacks from food carts off the street—and that fruit juice cocktail that had tasted gorgeous at the time.
    I knew a 10k run was a standard part of the day in many camps, but I didn’t expect it to kick in on the first morning. Maybe it was a test. Well, guess what? I failed. Because after only a couple miles I’d fallen behind the rest—even the eight-year-olds. The air was like hot sludge, and I was regretting drinking that juice. All the way back to camp, I was wishing I’d taken that Imodium before I started running. The only thing that kept me going was fear of messing myself in public.
    Finally it was over. We turned down an alley and returned to the highway, passing beneath its shelter and back to the open-air gym.
    ‘Please!’ I panted in my pathetic Thai, staggering after the others. ‘Where’s the toilet?’
    The boys all started giggling. Like they were embarrassed. I was the one about to mess myself—did I not have the right word for toilet? What was so embarrassing?
    ‘You want the day care toilet?’ A kid was speaking English with a huge smile. ‘Sure, no problem. I am Pepsi. I will be your guide. Come this way!’
    Great, I thought. I was rude, so now they’re going to take advantage of my delicate stomach and play games on me. I couldn’t blame them—I’d have done the same. But no way was I following him.
    Luckily I spotted a PortaPotty, which they obviously didn’t want me to see. It stood crookedly among tall weeds in what looked like a building site next to the gym. The bottom of the door had been kicked in. Snarling at the boys, I went in and held what was left of the door shut.
    ‘No!’ the English-speaking boy was shouting at me. ‘Not there!’ He grabbed at the door but I closed it and held it shut.
    Just in time.
    It smelled like something died. And