Kirsten's Fiction Notebook

Epic Wrestling of Chicago hired me, and they paired me with a short, thick-chested Romanian guy named Darius, who was impressively agile. We did one move where he would kick at my stomach, I would grab his foot, and from that he’d somehow spring into a backflip. When I pointed out how impressive that was, he made a farting sound with his lips and said, “Please. In Romania, is gymnastics for little gurl. Everyone can do backflip.” Which seemed improbable to me, but who knew—maybe Romania was that kind of place We were rehearsing in the performance venue, an old ballroom with chandeliers and pink walls and white plaster scrollwork, chipping in places. The wrestling stage rose out of the middle, and it was surrounded by rows of padded chairs. The whole place looked like a fire trap, with the wood floors and rickety lighting display hanging over the stage.  I still hadn’t figured out an arrangement for Pill. I had tried taking her to an elementary school in our neighborhood, but she fr...

  13 Vern wanted to start training me right away, but I needed to find a place to live first. He offered up an apartment on the top floor of his house, one he reserved for wrestlers, he said, so we went that same day to look at it. His dog Cookie Dough led the way, walking up the stairs in front of us, moving slowly. When we entered the living room she wagged and smiled at us expectantly, like she was saying, ‘Well, what do you think?’ I liked it immediately. I liked the huge windows looking out into the trees and the wood floors. It felt like a nest, but one that was open and airy, not cramped. “Who lives here?” Pill asked.  “No one, now,” Vern said. “I was renting it to one of my wrestlers but he moved back to New Mexico.”  Pill flopped onto the bed in the first room. She folded her hands on her stomach and looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. Cookie Dough jumped up and lay down beside her, and she curled herself around her and rubbed her fat belly.  “Thi...

11 My AP Calc teacher—The Stash, we called him—once talked me into joining the Powerlifting Club for a single practice. After it was over he insisted we all go to Happy Joe’s for bonding, though I had no desire to bond with the guys in that club. They were jocks without personality, guys who worked hard, but they weren’t seeking anything for themselves. They were just doing whatever their parents and teachers told them to. They were mute, voiceless, especially on that night, when we were all sitting at the long sticky table at Happy Joe’s. They sat there with their hands in their laps, all of them with the same haircut—long on top and shaved above the ears—and they wore the same outfit, clean athletic t-shirts and baggy athletic shorts, even though it was January and snowing out.The Stash leaned into the table, staring at each of us in turn.  “What’s it all for?” he said. “Bulking up, getting strong? Why do it?” The guys looked at each other, dumbstruck.  “To be powerful,” I s...