Writings

The coach has us kicking the bag — 5 times, then 10, then 15, then back down to 10, 5.

"Am I doing this right?"

"Rotate your hip forward too."

"Okay."

I can tell I'm not hitting it the way I should, but I keep going. I get to the set of 10 and something starts to click — the movement starts to feel natural.

I live in a town in Romania called Zalău. It has everything I could possibly want, and I think it’s enormous. I’ve only walked a few of its streets, but Dad says it has sixty thousand inhabitants. I can’t quite grasp what that means, though once I counted to 120 and I could have kept going if I hadn’t grown bored. I’m very good at counting.

La cocaïna, la cocaïna a pris ma famille
J'suis une clandestina, une clandestina à Miami

The track was blasting through the speakers, and it made me want to drive recklessly, weaving through cars, pushed by the bass. Back then, I didn’t know what cocaine felt like, but I didn’t need to. I had more energy than my car had horsepower, the bass was on my side, and Szofi was in the passenger seat…