Crazy House (Crazy House 1)

Then my armor was on, the crowd filed in, and I slowly climbed the steps to the outside ropes.

If my opponent was Tim again, I was gonna lose another tooth, or have bones broken. But all I had to do was get through this. An hour from now this would just be a sucky memory.

When I saw my opponent, my heart sank. Oh, no.

It was Little Bit, one of the smallest, youngest kids here. I didn’t know her real name—maybe no one did. I had a good eight inches on her, and maybe thirty pounds. She was wearing her jumpsuit under her armor.

This was going to be a bloodbath.

The hateful Strepp climbed through the ropes and motioned us to meet in the center of the ring.

“You know what you have to do,” she said.

Little Bit nodded, fear in her dark eyes.

Strepp’s eyes lingered on me. “Do not disappoint me, Becca.” Her tone was soft, but her meaning was icy. I gave a brief nod. If I didn’t make this good, my time was up.

Then she left the ring, and Little Bit and I went to our corners.

Ding!

Little Bit didn’t have a chance. She was brand-new and her inner rage had not yet ignited. She was well behind me in the roiling, seething resentment department. My very first punch clocked her, but she got up after the six-count. Ten seconds later she almost managed to hit my side, but I snapped my foot out and cracked her knee, making it buckle. She was down again.

This time when she got up, there was fire in her eyes. She came at me like a tumbleweed, bouncing and spinning across the canvas. She got in a not-shabby jab to my kidney, but I whirled and slammed my glove against her head. Her eyebrow split open, and within moments blood streamed down her face.

I circled and grabbed her jumpsuit, yanking on it the way Tim had done to me. Little Bit let out a whimper as the seams dug into her skin beneath her armor.

Between the blood and the pain, Little Bit’s swings became wilder, made contact less. It was easy to skip away from her poorly aimed kicks.

Leaping in back of her, I smashed the same knee. It buckled again, she went down again. This time my fist followed her down, the blow landing solidly on her shoulder. She cried out in pain.

All of my pain was gone. My insides didn’t hurt, my empty tooth socket didn’t ache. All I felt was victory, reaching out to fold me into its embrace.

Little Bit staggered to her feet.

“I’m really sorry about this,” I murmured, and put everything I had into my uppercut. It slammed her head back, her eyes fluttered, and then she dropped like a sack of wheat.

The crowd didn’t clap. I would have been pissed if they had. Instead I stood panting as Strepp climbed through the ropes again. I started to think about being in the pen with Little Bit, how I would apologize.

Ms. Strepp picked up one of Little Bit’s limp hands. “I declare this girl the winner!” she said.

For a moment I was stunned, speechless. But just for a moment. “Are you nuts?” I screamed. “Did you not see that fight? Are you a complete idiot?”

An awed silence swept the stadium, but I was too far gone to recognize it as a warning. Instead I hauled back my bloodied glove and aimed a powerhouse punch right at the woman I hated more than anyone.

Strepp was quicker than she looked, and she bobbed to the side. I missed, my glove whistling past her ear. The crowd gasped.

Two high spots of color appeared on Strepp’s cheeks. Looking at her, I saw the knowledge in her eyes. I had just signed my death warrant.

End of game.

End of Becca.

49

CASSIE

THE NIGHT AIR WAS STILL and chilly. My moped was almost silent as I took the route out to the ring road. From here, the boundary road was six miles away. It would have been faster to cut across the cell, but there were fewer people on the ring road, and it was darker.