Currently, Isabelle Stern is traveling the world as a lingerie-wearing Elizabeth’s Passion Fairy, visiting everywhere and living the life, while I’m attending a shitty university and serving lukewarm beer in a neighborhood bar to make ends meet.
Even so, when I’m not working night shifts at Ned’s and she’s not rolling around on an exotic beach in her underwear, Izzy and I have a routine.
I hear my phone ringing, walk back to the bathroom, turn off the faucet and slide a finger into the water to check the temperature.
"Izzy," I answer and instinctively distance the phone from my ear.
“Sissy!” my sister squeals back. She may be gorgeous, but her high-pitched voice could crack double-glazed windows.
“Where’s your skinny ass today?” I sit on the edge of the bathtub, circling my finger in the water.
“I’m in Singapore. You’d love it! It is so different and awesome and full of skyscrapers. Had an awkward incident when I landed here, though. Apparently it's illegal to chew gum here, especially in botanic gardens. I almost got arrested!"
We laugh as I slide my body into the water, letting out a sigh.
“You in the bath now?” she asks.
“Yeah. You?”
“Yup. It’s giant, twice as big as the one in the apartment, and it has jets. Hey, you think we’re freaks for liking to do this every day? Like it’s a kinky twin-womb thing?”
“What, have baths while on the phone?” I chew my lower lip. “It’s not exactly Dr. Phil material. I’d ask my therapist if I could afford one.”
“You need money? You know I can always help you out.”
“No.” I clear my throat and quickly change the subject. "Anyway, what time is it there? I'm just about to head to bed."
“Like, 1 p.m.”
“Taking a bath at lunchtime? You are a bit of a freak.”
“Mmm, okay, Blaire. At least I'm not boring.”
Izzy does have a point.
I chatter about my MMA assignment and about Shane acting weird. Izzy didn’t even realize we were taking a class together. I must have forgotten to mention it. She doesn’t seem very interested though and cuts our usual thirty-minute phone call short.
After she hangs up, I flop onto my bed with my laptop and decide to type MMA into YouTube. Might as well see what I’m dealing with here. The first video that pops up has a guy being knocked out so brutally the referee has to jump between him and the other fighter to stop the match. One fighter is unconscious, the mat beneath him as bloody as a CSI crime scene, while the fighter on top is still trying to pummel his opponent into submission. The crowd is eating this up, encouraging more with claps and excited screams of “Choke him out!” and “Arm bar! Arm bar!”
I'm not into being mainstream or judgmental—some will even consider my profanity, ripped jeans and nose piercing uncivilized (join the petition led by my folks)—but even I recognize how sick this is. I'm not sure where the Arts part fits in Mixed Martial Arts. It's definitely not in the ring, where I just witnessed a guy being choked until he turned blue.
Further research into the subject reveals that there's a heated debate about whether or not MMA should even be legal. The defenders of the sport say it's consensual. But hey, crime can be consensual too.
This is pretty vile, I think as I slap the laptop shut and squeeze my thumbs into my eyelids.
I'm so going to fail this course. Again.
Chapter Two
The good thing about getting MMA as my assignment topic is that the sport seems eager for any kind of attention it can get. I don’t have to go through any snotty secretaries, PR agents or legal obstacles to score an interview at The Grind, a gym in Concord. All I have to do is ask. In fact, the only problem with Mixed Martial Arts is that it’s Mixed Martial Arts.
I figured the violence in the first video I watched was a fluke. I thought that MMA must be like WWF wrestling, with a lot of flamboyant role-playing cowboys and heavy-metal knights. You know, when men in customs jump on each other after a theatrical twenty-minute speech.
But I was wrong. During my in-depth research (yeah, fine, I googled it), I discovered the men of MMA literally beat each other up to oblivion. There is blood. Everywhere. There are black eyes, torn ligaments, broken bones and enough medical staff to open up a field hospital at every match. It is all real and painfully brutal.
My initial conclusion is that any guy who would want to be an MMA fighter must be brain damaged. When I hit Dawson Alba with this psychological assessment this morning on the phone, the trainer serenely confirmed, “Yeah, the guys all get hit pretty seriously in the head.”
Fun times ahead, right?
As I pull into the parking lot of The Grind the on Saturday, I’m shivering not because it’s a chilly afternoon, but because the thought of researching this bloody sport is grossing me out to the max. I stare at the huge, two-story hangar on the outskirts of town. The XWL logo is proudly painted in red, white and black on the front and sides, the stylized symbol seemingly visible from every freeway in the Bay Area.
I park my pink Mini Cooper among the black Ram trucks and Jeeps. I inherited the Mini from Izzy for free so I shouldn’t complain, but it’s so devastatingly pink, it stands out among the other testosterone-fueled vehicles like a juicy pimple on a prom queen. A half-dozen guys stroll by and peer through the window, staring at me like I got lost on my way to the nearest mall.