The Knockout Read online

  The Knockout © 2021 by Sajni Patel. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Flux, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Edition

  First Printing, 2021

  Book design by Jake Slavik

  Cover and jacket design by Jake Slavik

  Cover, jacket, and interior images by photolinc/Shutterstock

  Flux, an imprint of North Star Editions, Inc.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover models used for illustrative purposes only and may not endorse or represent the book’s subject.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Patel, Sajni, 1981- author.

  Title: The knockout / Sajni Patel.

  Description: First edition. | Mendota Heights, Minnesota : Flux, 2021. |

  Audience: Grades 10-12. | Summary: When seventeen-year-old Kareena

  Thakkar finally admits she is a top-level Muay Thai fighter, knowing

  that might further alienate her from her Indian community, her

  classmates, especially handsome Amit, enthusiastically support her.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020008206 (print) | LCCN 2020008207 (ebook) | ISBN 9781635830590 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781635830606 (ebook)

  Subjects: CYAC: Muay Thai—Fiction. | Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. |

  High schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | East Indian

  Americans—Fiction. | Family life—Texas—Fiction. | Texas—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.P37698 Kno 2021 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.P37698

  (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020008206

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020008207

  Flux North Star Editions, Inc.2297 Waters Drive Mendota Heights, MN 55120 www.fluxnow.com

  Printed in Canada

  To my husband, who has patiently been at my side through the roller-coaster journey that is known as publishing. To my brother and parents, who’ve helped me through all the good and bad times.

  Dear Reader,

  You. Yes, you. The very special person holding this book. First off—THANK YOU! Books are a reality because of readers, because of wanting to get lost in a story, because it creates a bond that allows us to share this experience together over a bridge of time.

  I want to remind you that The Knockout is a work of fiction. Most of the characters are based on real people (yay for my high school peeps!), and many of the situations and emotions are rooted from personal experiences. This story most certainly stems from my perspective growing up disconnected from my Indian heritage, on the outskirts of an Indian community, raised in the South and as a mixed martial artist in high school exposed to female Muay Thai fighters in college. However, this book does not represent the entire Indian culture/community/diaspora and in no way attempts to. Also, please note that fictional liberties were taken with some aspects of USMTO and IFMA. I hope to have portrayed the Art of Eight Limbs to the best of my ability and with respect. Any errors were unintentional.

  Would you like to know the story behind the story? Aside from The Knockout being based on real events and people, it’s the book that saved me. Several years ago, something seemingly minor and accidental happened (just like the situation with Saanvi and Rayna). It shouldn’t have mattered much, but it did. I’d stopped writing then. I went into a depression for ten months and no matter how much I tried to write I couldn’t string one sentence. I’d given up on many things and battled some very dark thoughts. It just happened that my brother was getting married and I went along on a family trip to Dubai and India to shop for the wedding events. I spent three weeks with my family, and it was the best medicine. I returned renewed and determined to write this tiny nugget of a story that had tried so hard to come out over the past year.

  I wrote furiously. My creativity returned in full force. My depression eased away. The Knockout was born! It was the end of 2017. 2018 began with a new literary agent, my brother’s amazing big, fat, Indian wedding (move over Priyanka Chopra and Nick Jonas), and ended with a publishing offer. Through everything The Knockout had gone through, no one called it a niche book, or too brown, or too Indian, or too different. It was just a story about a girl. Her name is Kareena Thakkar. She’s imperfect and has self-esteem and body issues, feels disconnected from her culture, suffers from the mental blows that gossip brings, and swims through teenage drama. But she’s also an amazing Muay Thai fighter, has the best friends and family one could ask for, and is ready to take you along on an adventure through all the ups and downs of her last semester of high school.

  I sincerely hope you enjoy!

  Many thanks and so much love,

  Sajni Patel

  One

  Pink was reserved for the most badass in the sport of Muay Thai. It was an unspoken rule. You had to earn it. I, Kareena Thakkar, was at the top of my game . . . at least when it came to my division and weight class in Texas, anyway. But that didn’t give me the right to wear pink. Nuh-uh, not yet. I knew deep in my bones that one day I would rock the most coveted color in all the land, but for now, pink gloves sufficed.

  Sweat poured in rivulets down my body like this was the fight of my life, and the aforementioned pink gloves got their licks in. My fists were up to protect my face and every muscle and nerve were lit. I ducked and dodged and hit and punched. My lungs pounded out breaths in controlled grunts. Adrenaline surged through my veins. My teammates called me “the girl on fire.” I scorched the ring and this blonde chick had nothing on me.

  At least, that was what I told myself during every fight. They were good, but I was better. They were tough, but I was fierce. They hit and punched hard, but I was stone. And what did stones do when they careened toward someone? Why, they knocked them out. And Mama said knock. You. Out.

  In this very moment, the cheering crowd muffled into bleak silence, sending a ringing through my ears. Every face blurred into one long, ambiguous slate of heaving bodies.

  I counted the milliseconds as everything went into slow-mo. My breaths escaped hard, roaring in my chest. My skin tingled with excitement and anticipation. I bounced on the balls of my feet. My nails dug deep into the leather of my gloves.

  I was fit from years of training, but parts of me would always be skinny. Peers ridiculed my tiny wrists with sharp, jutting bones. I had chicken calves and bony ankles. But the good thing about possessing all of that? I also had sharp, strong-as-hell elbows and those were fan-freaking-tastic for Sok Ngad. The Uppercut Elbow. In I went. Striking my opponent and bringing her to her knees.

  Most people didn’t get this, this whole Muay Thai business. Too much violence. Too much hatred. It was the sort of stuff left for boys. Cuz what? Boys would be boys? Boys could act rough and girls had to sit with ankles crossed in pristine dresses and keep their opinions to themselves?

  Society said girls shouldn’t be fighting. Indian girls especially shouldn’t do these things, yaar! But right now? Whatever anyone else said or thought didn’t matter. This was a sport of passion, of skill, of years and tears in the making.

  I had a way of wiggling into my opponents’ heads, knowing their fighting patterns and logic. The equally strong blonde had managed to kick me in the ribs in the first round and stepped in to go after my injured side.
With moves faster than anyone in my local weight/age range, I shifted toward Jenny and went uppercut, slicing through the marginal space between her gloves and knocking her back. But ah nah, I wasn’t done with her, following with a quick rear cut and taking. Her. Out.

  Jenny hadn’t even hit the floor when the crowd exploded, screaming, applauding, and chanting, “K.O.-K.O.! K.O.-K.O.!” Lyrical music to my pounding ears.

  Yeah, she wasn’t going to last an entire three rounds with me. I stepped back into my corner, bouncing and shaking off the adrenaline, and ignored the searing pain racing down my forearms while watching the girl on the floor. It took three tries for her to sit up and cup her bleeding face. Where did all that blood come from anyway? Her nose? Lips? Teeth?

  Suck it up, Buttercup. This was Muay Thai.

  The referee sliced down through the air with his hand, to make sure everyone was clear on the count, as he yelled, “. . . Eight! Nine! Ten! Fight over! Kareena Thakkar for the win!”

  Everything else was nonconsequential. I extended my hand to Jenny. She glared up at me, holding her bleeding face in one hand as her instructor entered the ring to help her. She got up on her own, a bit woozy, and we made a short bow toward one another in respect.

  During the fight, she was just the “other girl.” One of the coolest things about the sport was how we could be competitors in the ring and friends (or friendly, in the case of Jenny) outside.

  “I whipped your butt.” I stuck out my tongue when my coach had turned away.

  Jenny rolled her eyes and nursed her sprains and pains and let her instructor dab her bleeding face before she stained the entire mat. If she was anything like me, and I knew she was, she’d replay the match over and over in her head, wondering where she could’ve done better. And then actually do better next time.

  “Good fight,” she said, her voice nasally as she held her nose upward. “I won’t be the one bleeding next time, though.”

  “Can’t wait.” I grinned.

  Time to shower off the sweat and grime, slather on Icy Hot like a med addict, slip into baggy sweats, and call it a night. Coach and all of my teammates wanted to grab dinner, as was the custom after winning a big fight, but I didn’t have it in me.

  “Sorry!” I called back, slinging my old, trusty duffel bag over a sore shoulder and brushing off the wave of light-hearted teasing.

  The sky was already dark without a cloud in sight. Silver dusted stars and a waning moon shone bright. The Texas air had chilled considerably since afternoon and sent goosebumps up my still sweaty arms. I slipped into my beat-up, four-door sedan that only had three working doors, onto the towel that Mama insisted I sit on if I forewent showering before driving, and turned up the heat before leaving the now half-empty parking lot.

  It was a quick drive home and I couldn’t get out of the car fast enough. One would think there were puppies or imported chocolates waiting for me in my room, but there was something far more important.

  I lugged the duffel bag past the foyer and through the long corridor, depositing it outside my bedroom, and continued down the hall to Mama’s room.

  The door was wide open, but I knocked anyway.

  “Come in! How was the fight?” my mom asked, a smile on her face because she somehow always knew when I had won or lost without having seen the fight.

  “I won. Knockout in round two!” I climbed into bed beside my father and hugged him. “Hi, Papa. Welcome home!”

  He hugged me tight, wrapping me in an unforgettable smell of dad shampoo and soap. From the sight of his damp hair and barely wrinkled pajamas, it was safe to assume that he’d just showered, which meant he must’ve been home for less than an hour.

  While Mama folded clothes at the foot of the bed, Papa kept an arm around my shoulder and I nestled into his side, careful to not aggravate my pains and bruises.

  “Tell me all about the fight. She didn’t hurt you, did she?”

  “Naw. Can’t punch stone that hard.”

  He chuckled and I smiled at Mama. Her smile slowly faded when Papa coughed and reached over me for a tissue. I sat up to give him room.

  “Give us a few minutes, beta,” Mama said with that sad but hopeful smile she’d perfected over the years. Seven years to be exact. Seven years since Papa first went to the doctor with stomach issues, dizzy spells, migraines, anxiety, inflammation, abnormal blood tests, and half a dozen other things that apparently didn’t add up to a real diagnosis. Not until he kept getting hospitalized for high fevers and passing out.

  Papa had diabetes. Then he got renal disease. It advanced. This time, he’d gone septic, which was scary as crap (imagine someone telling you that you had an actual blood infection that could lead to system failure and possible death), but the doctor had caught it in time.

  I nodded and slipped from his arms, trying not to imagine how it would be to slip out of his hold for the last time. Renal disease didn’t just go away, not at this stage.

  They refused to say it, but Papa was basically inching toward multisystemic failure. Mama never told me as much. Just like our bank account, she offered partial disclosure according to what she felt I needed to know or could handle. But I was nosy, or as I called it—concerned. Enough to snoop through Papa’s records and lab test results and bills. I had to know how to take care of him and what to look out for in case he relapsed.

  Mama gave me a brief rub on the shoulder in passing and I hurried with a quick step to my room, dragging the duffel bag inside and then hopping into the shower.

  A few minutes ended up being an hour and a half, in which time I’d showered in lava-hot water, washed my hair, shaved, hopped out, dressed, wrapped a towel around my damp head, and dutifully took my mind off Papa by diving neck deep into homework at my small corner desk.

  Math. Ugh. The bane of my mortal existence. Contrary to the stereotype that Indians excelled in math, calculus jumbled into meaningless gibberish right before my very eyes. This unintelligible nonsense worked when Mr. Strothers explained it on the white board, but leave me to my own devices and I was ready to burn all the math books within five minutes of trying equations on my own.

  I flipped through the pages, back and forth, and noticed scribblings in the first chapter. They were from Rayna, who had calligraphy-type handwriting compared to my chicken scratch. Last fall, when she used to help me study Calculus I, she’d drawn doodles to help me get math.

  I traced my finger over them. Chapter one was a long time ago. Her sitting beside me, giggling at me falling asleep and Saanvi throwing tiny paper balls into my hair was eons ago. So much had happened since then.

  Despite my gnawing emotions, I looked through more of her drawings. Some silly faces, some serious equations, but my fingers stopped at the hearts. Hearts that represented us in a sea of paisleys and coffee cups.

  Friends forever, some said. The short dark hearts represented Saanvi, the taller ones Rayna, and the pink ones with boxing gloves were me.

  Then there were some that read R + D = Life.

  I groaned and erased them all. But no matter how hard I rubbed, faint outlines of those dumb hearts remained. Against better judgment, I roamed through my phone and stopped on the last group chat I had with Rayna and Saanvi. I didn’t know why I’d kept the text chain. Maybe as evidence?

  Slow scrolling and random words revealed the evolution of that once innocent conversation gone horribly wrong. Rayna talking about how she was over Saanvi’s brother, Dev. Saanvi being sad but okay with it. Me asking if I could talk with him. Rayna and Saanvi being okay with it.

  And then suddenly they weren’t. They’d thrown in exclamation marks and angry emojis. And you knew when someone was ready to go savage when the all-caps came on.

  I closed out the text message.

  Ugh. There was no better way to break a teenage heart than to relive the death of a friendship.

  I went back to equa
tions and eventually switched to comp-sci after a torturous—I glanced at the digital clock on the wall—after a torturous twenty-eight minutes. Well, I lasted as long as I could, didn’t I?

  True, computer science had its fair share of numbers and equations and symbols, but they were an entirely different language than calculus. Literally. And I could rattle off programs in four comp languages easily. I’d just finished the last chapter and the assigned study questions when Papa knocked a single rap on the door, walked in, and sat on the edge of my bed.

  His once vibrant dark brown skin was pallid; his features sallow and hollow, but he always managed a genuine smile—one that made my heart forever melt.

  “Are you okay, Papa?”

  “Hah, beta. A little dizzy, but that’s okay. Now, tell me all about your fight.”

  I beamed and went into detail, full of gestures met with excited high fives and air fists from Papa. There was absolutely nothing better than having him home again, seeing him up and walking and exuberant. On my insistence, he stayed up with me until one in the morning, until both of our eyelids fluttered heavy with sleep.

  Two

  I slid into a chair in the back of AP Comp-Sci II class and blinked a good fifty times to ward off sleepiness. That didn’t really help. Slowly, the weight of my body pulled me down and forward until I slumped in an oh-so unladylike way, although that alleviated the pain in my side. My left elbow, the non-bruised one, was propped on the desk, chin in hand.

  Computer science was a good class, it really was, just not when I was the walking dead struggling to keep my eyes open. At my section of one of four long tables, the screen blinked at me mockingly, but I was too exhausted to fight with it.

  “You win,” I muttered. Knockout, round one. I sucked.

  Lily, my best friend since freshman year, sat beside me and unloaded her books in the small space between our keyboards. We exchanged grins as she flipped her ponytail over her shoulder. Her hair was harder to control than mine, but she actually made an effort, so her ponytail was totally rocking. Lily was Filipina but her hair was thick, coarse, and dry, and no one knew where she’d inherited such tresses. Her parents had sleek, smooth hair, and her older brother used to joke that she was adopted. She once divulged that she spent an hour every other morning with conditioners, creams, hair straighteners, and blow-drying techniques that would probably break my wrists.