by Lee Wardlaw
“Your pants!”
I took a gander—and groaned. Hiccup and I wear the same waist size. But where his pants barely brushed the top of his bony feet, mine dragged behind me like the train of wedding gown.
“Maybe if I do this”—I hiked the pants under my pits—
“and keep my arms pinned to my sides . . .”
“Not a good look for you.” He jerked my uniform waist-level again. “And without the use of your arms, you will be incapable of defending yourself properly. This will solve the problem”—he rolled each hem into a thick wad at my ankles—“until She can alter them.”
Ha. Dad did all the hemming, patching, and button sewing at our house. Mom proclaimed herself Non-Seamstress for Life the Halloween I turned seven. That’s when she stitched me a Frankenstein costume that featured two left legs.
Hic completed my ensemble with a stiff white cotton belt, tied in what I assumed was his own complicated version of Goldie’s knot.
“Make haste and follow me.” He padded briskly into the dojang, a gigantic workout area with glaring fluorescent lights and whirling ceiling fans. Spongy blue mats, edged in red, covered the wide expanse of floor. Mirrors lined one wall. Above it were the words:
Courtesy, Integrity, Perseverance, Self-control, Indomitable spirit.
“Those are the five tenets of hapkido,” Hiccup explained. “We recite them at the end of every lesson.”
He bowed before stepping onto the blue mat. I did the same, feeling dizzy.
We joined a cluster of about twenty uniformed girls and guys. They sat stretching their hamstrings and other assorted muscles I didn’t know the names of and had probably never used before.
A tall, taut man with a salt-and-cinnamon beard strode into the room. A black belt encircled the waist of his uniform. Joining him was a girl with almond-shaped eyes and shell-pink toenails. She was the size of a fourth grader, but she carried herself as someone older—despite the inky ponytail sprouting from her head like a sea anemone.
An older student in a red belt leaped to his feet and barked, “Attention!”
Everyone lined up, bowed, and chanted, “Good afternoon, Master Yates.”
I copied them, almost toppling as the blood rushed to my brain.
“Good afternoon, students,” Master Yates replied with a solemn bow. “I’d like to introduce Joonbi Park.”
An excited murmur rippled across the room. Students nudged each other. One whispered: the Bee!
“Since Ms. Park’s reputation precedes her,” Master Yates continued, “you know what an honor it is to have her with us.”
“Hic.”
My head snapped toward Hiccup.
Was that you? I mouthed.
Don’t be ridiculous!
“Ms. Park has just entered the eighth grade,” the master continued, “but, as you may know, she has already earned her black belt in taekwondo. She chooses now, however, to walk a new path. She will train at our studio for several months, learning the hapkido principles of Hwa, Won, and Yu.”
“Hic!”
Hector, It was you!
It wasn’t . . . was it? He peered inside the front of his shirt as if his navel held an explanation.
Master Yates said, “Ms. Park, will you give us a demonstration?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” she replied in a lyrical but firm voice. “May I have a volunteer to act as my sparring partner?”
“Hic-hic!”
Hic clamped his hands over his mouth.
“Excellent,” Joonbi said. She motioned for Hic to join her at the mirrors.
He twitched a no, staring at her with zombie eyes.
The student behind gave him a not-so-gentle push. Hiccup stumbled forward into an awkward bow.
“Fighting stance!” Master Yates said.
“Hic!”
Then—
“Ki-hap!”
It happened in half a blink.
One minute, Hiccup stood there.
The next minute, he didn’t.
Joonbi hid a smile. With a jaunty shake of her ponytail, she held out a petite hand and hoisted Hic to his feet.
He gave a grin of thanks, straightened his shirt, and—
“Fighting stance!”
“Hic!”
“Ki-hap!”
Now you see him . . .
. . . now you don’t.
Hiccup lay sprawled on his stomach, arm in an awkward twist, Joonbi’s knee wedged between his shoulder blades.
He was up. Down. Thrown all around. Three. More. Times.
The room exploded with applause.
Despite the lingering anger I felt toward Hic and his role in the Guys’ demise, I couldn’t bring myself to clap. Instead, I felt a flush of deep embarrassment for him.
Yet Hic didn’t seem ashamed at all. In fact, the more Joonbi jabbed, twisted, and threw him, the wider he grinned.
And hicked.
“Your turn,” Joonbi said, her ponytail a-swish. “Show me your stuff.”
“Thank you—hic! Perhaps another hic! time.” Hiccup bowed, faced Master Yates, and said, “Sir, I believe I am suffering an attack of hic! adhesive capsulitis. May I rest for a—hic!—moment?”
“Certainly, Mr. Denardo. Mr. Wyatt, please fetch your friend a cup of water.”
Your friend. Ha. If only he knew. But I said, “Sir, yes, sir!” and hurried after Hiccup, remembering at the last second to bow, as he did, before leaving the mat.
He plunked onto a bench near the emergency exit and fanned himself with someone’s discarded flip-flop.
“She is,” he breathed, “maghic!icent.”
I filled a paper cup at the drinking fountain and shoved it into his hands. “Are you hurt?”
He sip-hic-gulped. “No.”
“What’s with the capsulitis thingy? Have you had that condition before?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It only affects men between the ages of forty and sixty.”
“Then why—?”
“I did not wish to admit I am truly unwell.”
I snorted like Hayley. “Hic, you are always ‘unwell.’ It’s your state of wellness!”
“My stars, man! I just imbibed drinking fountain water! I must be feverish, delirious—a strong indication that I am suffering from malarhic!ia.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
He gazed toward Joonbi as she led the other students in sets of kicks, jabs, and punches. “I wish hic! I were. But I am ex hic! ibiting acute ague, the most common symptom of the disease.”
I plunked next to him. “In English, please.”
“Chills. Nausea. Sweating.”
“What else.”
“Hic!”
“Other than that.”
His eyes continued to gaze and glaze. “My hands and toes are numb. My heart is palphic!tating. I am experiencing vertigo . . .”
“Go on.”
“I cannot—inhale—or—exhale.”
“Hmmmmm,” I said.
“I see,” said me.
Then: “Ah-ha!”
He clenched my arm. “Malaria?”
“No, you idiot. You like her!”
“What?” He dropped his cup. “Who?”
“Joonbi Park!”
“Shhhhhhh! Not so—hic!—loud!” He hooked my elbow and dragged me back into the boys’ locker room.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” I asked.
“It cannot be!”
“It be. Joonbi.” I twirled him to face the mirror. “Check out your eyes. They get this same glazed look whenever you’re around Mom.”
“Mom who?”
Whoa. This is more serious than I thought!
“So when will you tell her?” I asked. “Joonbi, I mean.”
“Tell her what?”
“That you like her!”
Hiccup ogled me as if I’d morphed into a madman. “I am not telling her anything.”
“But you expected me to tell Hayley!”
“That is completely different.�
�
“How’s it different?”
“This is about me.”
Ha. He had a point—even if it was a double standard.
He slumped against the sink. “It’s useless anyway. How could I profess my admiration for her when my diaphragm is afflicted with these infernal spasms? She would only point and laugh at me.”
“She wouldn’t laugh.”
“She would point?”
“Yes. No! Neither.”
“She would!” He pounded an angry fist against his chest. “Stephen, I do not comprehend this predicament. I’ve experienced nary a half a hic these last four months. So why today?”
“You’re not hicking now,” I said. “That episode in the dojang, it must’ve been a fluke. An isolated incident.”
“Even if it was, I cannot risk telling Joonbi of my affections. What if she already”—he gulped—“likes someone else?”
My heart clenched. My stomach twisted. “It happens.”
“You told Hayley?” He searched my face. “You told her! And she said?”
“She—she likes Cullen Hanson.”
Hiccup’s voice scaled up an octave. “The golf goon?”
“Huh. He’s not as goonish as we thought. He’s in my CAD class. We talked. He’s actually”—I winced the word—“nice.”
“He could never be as nice as you.”
“Um, thanks,” I mumbled. Man, this guy made it hard to stay mad at him. Although with all the hicking and kiyupping, I’d sorta forgotten to be mad.
Hiccup cleared his throat.
I cleared mine too. “We should go back to the dojang.”
“You go.” Hiccup wrenched on the faucet, splashing water on his malarial-flushed face.
“You might feel better if you, you know, talk to her.”
He swooned. Dripped. Gripped the sink. “Talk? To? Her?”
“Not about your feelings, Hic. Just stuff.”
“Define stuff.”
“School. The weather. Childhood diseases. Or what you learned from sparring with her.”
“I don’t know . . .”
I yanked his belt. “Mr. Denardo, are you a man or a mouse? Where’s your perseverance? Your indomitable spirit? MM has them . . . do you?”
He raised his head. Threw back his shoulders. Puffed out his chest. “I shall agree to a casual discourse under one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You will accompany me.”
“Sure.”
He released a long breath. “Does this mean . . . we are friends again?”
I flashed on the Guys. I really missed them, but . . . I had to admit, I missed Hic even more.
“Friends can get mad at each other, sometimes bug each other, right?” I asked.
“Right.”
“Then I never wasn’t your friend, Hiccup.”
He blinked. Nodded. Grinned. “Man hug!” he cried, and pounced, crushing me, slapping my back so hard I almost coughed up a lung.
“Ow! Get off me!” I half laughed, half gasped.
He eyed himself in the mirror, adjusted his belt, combed a hand through his hair. “How do I look?”
“Courteous,” I said. “Self-controlled.”
“That will suffice.” With a slight swagger, he strode from the locker room.
Chapter Fourteen
“Students dismissed!” Master Yates announced.
I shuffled off the mat, muscles sore and squeaky. Hiccup’s bangs were plastered with sweat, his eyelids drooped with tiredness. But I could tell from the way his eyes glittered that it was a good kind of tired. The kind I often feel while wrestling with one of my inventions—meshing gears, adjusting torques, tightening screws—when SNAP! everything fits, clicks, runs Just Right.
A straggle of students followed us to the sidelines, heading for the locker rooms. Most, though, clustered around Joonbi Park like she was a movie star or something. Voices trampled voices to ask advice, offer compliments, beg for a handshake. A camera appeared. Joonbi’s polite smile seemed to levitate in flash after flash after flash.
“You’re not the only one who thinks she’s magnificent,” I said to Hic.
“Mm-hic!-hm,” he replied, mesmerized.
We hung back until the adult class started and Master Yates shooed Joonbi’s throng of fans off the mat. She made a beeline for a bulky equipment bag.
“Excuse us, Joonbi,” I said. “My friend and I, we—”
“No more pictures,” she said, dabbing her face with a towel. Her voice still had its firm lilt, but it flowed younger, softer than it had on the mat.
“We just wanted to introduce ourselves. I’m Steve, and this is—”
Where did he go?
I found Hic crouched behind me, attempting to take his pulse. I yanked him up. “This is Hector.”
“We’ve met,” she said, tossing the towel aside. “Thank you for sparring with me, Hector. You have excellent falling skills.”
My hackles stiffened. “That’s harsh!”
“That’s a compliment,” Joonbi said. “You probably didn’t know, being a white belt. When you take a fall, it’s crucial to avoid hesitating or tensing up. You need to relax, to flow through the fall. Otherwise, you can get hurt. Remember: Keep it smooth.”
Hic bobbed in agreement. “Smooth. Hic! Good.”
Joonbi hefted her bag over one petite shoulder and waited.
Hiccup and I exchanged looks.
“I expect you want something else?” she said.
Hiccup and I exchanged looks again. His mouth and eyes formed three panicked O’s.
“Like what?” I asked.
She released a light sigh. “The usual? My autograph, my father’s autograph? Then I suppose you want my sisters and me to perform at your next birthday party. Sorry, I’m temporarily retired.”
“We just wanted to say hello,” I said.
“Truth?” Joonbi released her ponytail. Black hair rippled to her shoulders in liquid waves. Her voice rippled with enthusiasm. “Hey, you guys really don’t know who I am!” She swung around, almost knocking Hic to the floor with her bag. “Will you join me for a snack? There’s a fast-food place on the next block. The chicken is greasy, so I’m forbidden to eat it, but they serve awesome smoothies!”
“Sure,” I said. “We’ll grab our gear from the locker room, then meet you outside. Okay with you, Hector?”
“Smoothies. Hic! Good.”
Joonbi winged out the door. Hiccup stood gaze-hicking after her, so rooted to the spot I’d either have to drag him—or spray weed killer on him. It seemed easier to fetch his gear myself.
“Why are you talking like a caveman?” I asked, thrusting his bag into his arms, urging him toward the exit.
“I don’t know!” he wailed. “Each glimpse of her transforms my brain into cerebellum slush. Perhaps I had best head home to feed D and D.”
“Oh, no you don’t. Dasher and Dancer can snack on a rug till you get there. For now, just focus on being less monosyllabic and you’ll be fine.”
We emerged from the studio. When she spotted us, Joonbi zipped away like a bumblebee, whiz-zigging and buzz-zagging pedestrians, hum-hovering at a stoplight, then darting across the street and to the entrance of Pierre’s dad’s fast-food joint, Lickety-Split Chick.
A cowbell clanged as Joonbi pushed open the door. The fowl odor of batter-fried drumsticks assaulted my nose and I sneezed. “Hector and I know the owner of this place, don’t we, Hector?”
“Hic!” he answered.
“That isn’t something to brag about,” Joonbi said with a twitchy smile.
“Their son feels exactly the same way,” I continued. “He’s a wannabe French chef. Puts béarnaise sauce on PB-and-Js. His mom is a total health freak. Serves tofu molded into the shape of turkey at Thanksgiving, with minced rice cakes as ‘stuffing.’ Hector can fill you in, right, Hector? You two grab an empty booth and I’ll get the smoothies.”
“HIC-HIC!”
I translated that to me
an Please don’t leave me alone with her! Or Please don’t order me a strawberry smoothie because I’m allergic to strawberries and my face will blotch like pepperoni pizza! Or both.
“I’ll. Be. Right. Back,” I promised his pleading expression.
“A fruit smoothie for me,” Joonbi said. “Milk products disagree with my stomach.”
I winked at Hiccup. He and Joonbi had something in common already!
I followed a trail of chicken footprints painted in mustard yellow on the floor leading to the front counter. A kid wearing an egg-yolk-colored uniform and a beak-red paper hat posed behind the cash register. A badge pinned over his heart read: Your order is free if it’s not ready lickety-split!
“Welcome to Lee-kee-tee-Spleet Cheek, sir,” he said. “May eye pleeze take zee order?”
“Pierre?” I couldn’t believe it. “I thought you despised your dad’s place! You once swore on a stack of quiches that you’d never work here!”
“Eye am afraid, sir,” he replied haughtily, “zat you ’ave mistooken me for anothzaire person. Eye am not zis Peeyaire of whom you speek. My name eez Monsewer Fee-leep de Bergerac, and you will not forget eet!”
“Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Fee-leep. But during your next break, you might want to wash your face. You’ve got chocolate syrup smeared under your nose and just below your ears. Or is that tar?”
He bristled. “Zat, sir, eez my moosetache and sideburnz!”
I choked on a laugh. “Did you draw them with Magic Marker?”
“Bah! For your eenformation, eet eez wis eyebrow penceel zat eye—” Realizing his mistake, Pierre clutched for his beret, which was not on his head, and instead crushed the red paper hat. “Sacré bleu, zat eez zee third ’at today! She will be fureeous wis me!”
“She who?” I asked.
“Never zee mind. Now pleeze—be gone!”
“I haven’t ordered yet. I’d like three smoothies, please. Nothing with strawberries or milk products. What flavor do you recommend?”
“Zey are all good,” Pierre insisted with an anxious glance over his shoulder.
Hiccup appeared at my elbow. “You have been gone an interminable interval! I cannot stop hicking when I’m around Her, yet here you stand, frivolously conversing with—Pierre!”
Pierre threw up his hands. “Oh, carotte!” he spat, using his favorite blasphemy, which, unbeknownst to him, is actually French for carrot.
“PIERRE!” Hiccup repeated, louder. “Is this where you’ve been all summer? You abhor this establishment! Whatever induced you to—”
