~Earlier~

Spring is heading into summer, and humidity is setting in, turning the air sticky and heavy in Talia’s lungs. Her clothing clings to her with sweat no matter how many fans she sits in front of. The city bakes slowly around midday—the heat rippling off the glass and steel of the skyscrapers, sinking into the asphalt of the streets. Even the fruit flies buzzing around the market stalls are sluggish from it.

Polo doesn’t seem affected, but Talia thinks she could walk through a hurricane and come out the other side with not a hair out of place. Her street is always bustling, full of people rushing to somewhere. Office workers in suits rushing to the train stop, children in school uniforms rushing to catch the city bus, store owners rushing to open and get customers through their doors.

But during golden hour, right before twilight, everything slows down, even the traffic. It’s Talia’s favorite time to visit Polo, sitting on the stoop of her little apartment building and watching everyone heading home for the evening.

Today, Polo has fruit she bought from the vendor on the corner, and she passes a tangerine to Talia. The juice coats her fingers and breaks sharp and perfect on her tongue.

“What are you going to do after you graduate?” Polo asks, like she often does these days, now that Talia is reaching the end of her final year.

Talia doesn’t know what kind of answer Polo wants her to give—college, trade school, employment of some kind—but she only ever has one.

“I want to keep learning from you.”

Polo smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. A ruckus on the street interrupts the quiet moment: a group of boys from a different school passing by, on their way home from the bus stop. Their uniforms sit haphazard on them, missing ties and loose a few buttons to combat the fading heat. They glance over at Polo’s house and Talia can’t help sticking her tongue out before taking a big, deliberate bite of the tangerine.

The boys run—a scurrying, pathetic dash around the corner—and Polo laughs. “Weren’t those the boys that challenged you to a fight last month?”

“Mhhmm,” Talia manages, scarfing down the fruit.

Some of them practice at a local dojo and they’d heard rumors that Talia could fight so they wanted to “test their skills” on what they thought was a weak girl they could easily beat.

“It didn’t end well for them.”

It ended in humiliation and a few tears, to be exact, and the whole posse has avoided Talia ever since, like mice tiptoeing around a cat.

“You shouldn’t pick fights so much,” Polo says like she always does, but she never tries to actually put a stop to it.

Maybe because she thinks the kids Talia beats up deserve it. Maybe because she understands why Talia fights. She’s never actually had the courage to ask.

“They’re the ones that start the fights,” She insists now, pausing to lick tangerine juice off her fingers. “I just finish them.”

“And you leave a lasting impression,” Polo says with an arched eyebrow.

“Exactly.”

It’s about survival. If the prey can make itself the predator, then it won’t be hunted.

Polo picks up an apple from the bowl resting between us, rolling it in her slender, slightly weathered fingers. “I didn’t just teach you to fight so you can trash all the neighborhood bullies, you know.”

“Then why did you teach me?”

It’s something she’s never given Talia a real answer to. It’s always “I guess I just took pity on you” or “better than seeing you beat up every day” but Talia knows her well enough now to tell when she’s lying. In some ways, Polo is the most straight-forward person Talia’s ever met, never known to mince words, and in other ways she’s smoke and mirrors, a constant sleight of hand. It’s impossible to keep track of what cards she’s holding.

She sighs now, staring out at the gold-drenched city. The setting sun bathes the broad planes of her face and the ridge of her shoulders in light and shadow. Suddenly, even though Talia can feel the press of her body, she feels very far away.

“I’ll tell you someday,” she says and Talia fights the exasperated noise that crawls up her throat. “When the time is right.”

“And when will that be?”

“Soon,” Polo promises and passes Talia another tangerine. “Maybe after you graduate.”

“That’s a month from now.”

“Patience is a virtue.” The corner of her mouth lifts in a teasing smirk.

Talia huffs and works her fingers into the seams of the tangerine skin, peeling it back. “You get mad if the bus is more than a minute late.”

“I never said it was a virtue I had.”

That draws a laugh out of Talia and they drop the subject like they always do, letting comfortable silence fill the spaces around them.

But maybe, come to think of it, we shouldn’t start this story here.