The Awakened

by Sara Elizabeth Santana

  It was Thursday and as soon as I was done with cheer practice and homework, I packed up my bag, and hopped on the subway to that day’s class: mixed martial arts. MMA was just the newest of my dad’s obsessions. I had been taking it for a couple months now and was getting fairly good at it.

  I spent most of my time there with the punching bag, practicing my kicks, punches and blocks. I had slipped on my ear buds, turning up the volume of my iPod so that the music was the only thing that I heard. Even though I constantly gave my dad a hard time for making me take these lessons, I kind of liked it. I had muscles in places I didn’t know could become muscle and I knew that I could take care of myself, if anyone came my way. Sure I had absolutely no social life outside of these various martial arts studios but who needed a social life?

  Lost in my music and the satisfying smack of my skin against the rough fabric of the punching bag, I didn’t notice when the room had gone silent and the practice fights had begun. Someone went careening into me, causing me to wrap my arms tightly around the bag to keep from falling over. I turned around and noticed the fight. I smiled sheepishly and took a seat on the floor by the mirrors, using a towel to wipe the sweat from my brow.

  Two girls were already in a practice fight, and I watched them carefully, mentally correcting a step or a punch when it went the wrong way. It had always come as a surprise to me that despite never having the desire to learn to be a fighter, I was kind of a natural. I wasn’t really good at anything. I liked to read, but past second grade, they didn’t exactly hand out awards for being able to read. I wasn’t social and intelligent like Madison, and I definitely wasn’t able to try out for basketball or swimming or anything. I reluctantly cheered for the football and basketball teams because Madison was head cheer captain, and she always managed to convince me, year after year, that it was a good way for us to spend time together.

  And to find cute boys to date. That part was true at least.

  I wasn’t musical, and I couldn’t sing. I could recite entire scenes from The Lord of the Rings series from memory, and I knew the current batting average for every player on the Mets. I was fashionable enough to know how to dress myself well, with the odd shape that I was. But I wasn’t talented, not until I started taking defense lessons.

  So, yeah, I wasn’t always fond of the next form of fighting my dad had found for me, but secretly, I was a little excited every time. It was a challenge. I liked challenges, and each form of fighting was met as a challenge I wanted to defeat.

  I had spaced out a bit, my eyes glazing over as I watched the fight in front of me, which meant I had missed seeing my dad enter the studio. The room erupted into fierce whispers, and I felt my face flush.

  Dad was something of a celebrity, in the only way that a police chief could actually be a celebrity. He had worked his way up the ranks fairly quickly and was a really young police chief. New York City was an impossible place sometimes as a cop: people died every day, there was crime everywhere, and you couldn’t solve every crime. But that didn’t stop my dad from trying, and it didn’t stop him from making a small dent in that crime rate. He was also known for not always following the rules, which got him into trouble but the city saw him as a hero. They loved hearing that he had beaten a serial rapist in the face until he bled.

  “Valentine, you’re up,” my instructor shouted at me and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I didn’t fight most classes because I usually ended up winning, and the other girls didn’t learn anything from receiving a beating. I was only being thrown into a fight because my dad was here to watch.

  He stood against the wall, his arms folded tight across his chest. He was in civilian clothes, but he was never truly a civilian, and you could see the outlines of his guns beneath the fabric of his jeans. Dad was in his late thirties, young to have an eighteen-year-old daughter. He and my mom had married young, after finding out they were expecting me. A lot of girls at school were always finding ways to come to my house and I suppose it was because he was good looking or something. He was my dad, though, and that was something I avoided thinking about it.

  Right now, for instance, I could see more than a few of the girls stealing glances his way. He had his “serious cop” face on that made him look intimidating and a bit mysterious as well, as if there was a wall that couldn’t be broken down, a wall that any woman would just be dying to break down.

  To me, he was just my dad. He was the guy who helped me pick out my prom dress, took me to baseball games, and challenged me to eat an entire medium size Hawaiian pie all by myself, which I accomplished thank you very much. He was the guy who sat on the couch drinking a beer, watched crappy action movies and had a weird addiction to professional wrestling.

  I pushed myself off the ground, making sure the tape around my hands was still tight and ready. I jumped around loosening myself up a bit. My opponent was a girl named Stacy, who was good but doubted her own abilities. She could pack a punch, no problem, but she didn’t want to and that was her weakness. I felt bad every time I stepped up to fight her.

  Her arms were up in a block, and I paced in a circle, my arms up and ready. I threw a punch, and she dodged it. Her leg came up in a kick, and I grabbed it, twisting it so she fell to the ground. She scrambled backward, trying to gain the momentum to stand back up, but I was quick, and I had her pinned down to the ground.

  “Good work, Zoey,” my instructor said, sounding anxious, tossing a glance at my father.

  “Thanks,” I said, standing up and offering a hand and an apologetic smile to Stacy. She smiled back, taking my hand, and I hoisted her up.

  “You weren’t evenly matched,” Dad said, his deep voice carrying across the room. Everyone turned to look at him, and then back at me. “You win because you’re fighting those who aren’t matched to you or, frankly, just don’t want to fight.” He offered Stacy a smile and she smiled shyly in return. “You should be in a boy’s class. They would at least offer you a challenge.”

  I felt a wave of irritation roll through me. He was the reason I was even in these classes and when I was good, I still wasn’t good enough. “Well,” I said, sarcasm seeping into my voice, “you could always arrange that, couldn’t you? I think my Wednesdays might be free.”

  I was being sassy and pushing buttons, and I knew it. My dad had a small smirk at the corner of his mouth. I heard a girl sigh behind me, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

  “Well, I don’t know that I have to go that far,” he said, uncrossing his arms, and coming toward the mats. He rolled up his sleeves, and I heard a few laughs behind me. I was totally in trouble now. “Why not try fighting someone who is a challenge?”

  I felt a wave of doubt wash through me. The last person that I wanted to fight was my dad, a guy who took down drug dealers on a daily basis. I sighed like I was bored. “I don’t want to hurt you, old man.”

  His smirk grew a bit more, and I nearly stopped. I nearly backed down and admitted that there was no way I could actually try and take down my dad. My pride always got the better of me though. I was the star of this class, and there was no way I was admitting defeat. “Defense position,” he ordered, nodding at me.

  I rolled my eyes, but raised my arms, fists clenched. He was standing there, not even in position. I knew I had to act quickly, catch him off guard before he could take me down in one swipe. I stepped closer. He studied me, his eyes intent on mine. I threw a left punch, and he dodged it effortlessly. My right hook was coming up not even a split second later, aimed for his throat. He reached almost lazily for my fist and twisted my arm around. His hand grabbed my leg, and I flipped, landing with a hard “oomph” on my back, seeing stars.

  “YOU KNOW, YOU DIDN’T HAVE to flip me,” I said.

  Dad laughed, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He stopped in front of a street vendor, handing over a wrinkly five-dollar bill. “Want one?” he said, pointing to the admittedly tempting hot dogs spinning in the case. I shook my head. “Someone had to teach you a lesson i
n humility.”

  “I have plenty of humility,” I grumbled, shifting the strap of my bag so it fit more comfortably on my shoulder.

  “No, you really don’t,” he said, taking an enthusiastic bite out of the hot dog that was just handed to him. “Your real weakness is your pride. You’re good, so you think nobody can beat you.”

  “Well, I’m obviously wrong about that,” I said, wincing at my sore back.

  He laughed again. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I would put you in a men’s class. Maybe going up against those who are much stronger than you would make you better and less cocky and flashy.”

  I scowled. He was mostly right about that. “I am good.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, you are,” he said, looking down at me appraisingly. He wrapped his arm tightly around my neck. “Come on, let’s go get pizza.” He finished the last couple bites of his hot dog. “I’m starving.”

  “IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE DRAPING! How do you even consider that draping? They’re vines. It’s supposed to look effortless!” Madison stomped her foot down, her small face red with exhaustion and frustration. I knew a meltdown was probably coming soon.

  Brody, high atop a ladder, paused for a moment in the middle of his work and looked at Madison. “Babe, this is not effortless.”

  “Well, it should be,” she said, not meeting his eyes but consulting her clipboard instead. “Zoey, have we heard from the DJ?”

  “Hmm?” I said, vaguely. I was sitting on one of the black iron benches that lined the open courtyard in the middle of the square buildings that were St. Joseph’s Prep. A book was open in my lap, American Gods by Neil Gaiman, one of my absolute favorites.

  “Get your head out of the book for like an hour, can you, please?” Madison begged. She had pulled her slick black hair in a perfect bun, and had no less than three or four pens stuck in the bun. She was still wearing her workout clothes from cheer practice. “The DJ, Zoey, the DJ?”

  “Last I heard, he’d be here at 6 p.m., to be ready in time for doors opening at 7 p.m.,” I said. “Everything is going to be fine.”

  “Yeah, right,” she said. “Does anyone have a pen?” My eyebrow rose in response, and she immediately reached for her bun. She smiled sheepishly, and then her eyes went wide. “Ash, no, seriously? What are you doing?”

  I turned and glanced over my shoulder. Ash had been put in charge of draping the Christmas lights that Madison had purchased, a task that I had thought was way too optimistic for him. True to form, none of the lights were put up, and instead were wrapped around his body, lighting him up like a Christmas tree. I rolled my eyes and turned back to my book.

  “Please, will you go help him?” Madison said, her hands over her eyes. “I can’t handle this. I’m a wreck.”

  “Maddie, it’s going to be great, just like every single dance turns out great,” I said, irritated at being interrupted again. I was only present at the setup for the dance under duress. Madison had signed me up herself, of course. She did that for most of her committees.

  She turned her evil eye on me for a moment. “This is a pivotal dance, Zoey. The fall dance sets the tone for the entire school year. It shows everyone here at school whether I am capable of planning Homecoming or Winter Formal or prom. This is the beginning and end of our entire year as seniors.”

  I held my hands up in surrender, biting back the laugh that was threatening to burst out. “All right, all right,” I said, looking at all the action around us. Brody was on the ladder, draping the vines, and it looked just fine to me. Everything else was coming together very nicely. “I’ll go help Ash.”

  I placed a bobby pin on the page I was reading and set the book aside. I hopped up off the bench and walked over to Ash, who was laughing at his own obviously hilarious situation. Not saying a word, I just started unwrapping the lights from his body.

  “What are you doing?” Ash said, watching as I moved around him, removing the lights as best I could without getting them tangled up. If they got tangled, it would be a disaster almost instantly, and I’d be stuck on the bench untangling the stupid mess until the doors opened in a few hours.

  “We have to decorate the courtyard, Ash, not ourselves,” I said, as my hands brushed along his hipbones. I blushed and avoided eye contact.

  “Nah, you just wanted an excuse to touch me,” he laughed. “That’s exactly why I did it, you know. I knew Madison would send you over here to untangle me, and I couldn’t get past that thought.”

  “You’re revolting,” I answered indifferently. I didn’t have a lot of effort to spare on Ash today, not when a classic Madison Wu breakdown was imminent. “Just help me with these, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure, Z, whatever you say,” he said, stepping out of the last bits of lights that were wrapped around his legs. How did he even manage to do this to himself?

  “Zoey?”

  I turned around and saw my ex-boyfriend, Joel, standing behind me, a stack of tablecloths in his arms. “Oh, hey, what’s up?”

  “When you get a chance, can you help me with this?” he asked, motioning over where the food and beverage tables were set up under a breezeway.

  “Yeah, definitely. Just let me help Ash finish these lights first, okay?” He nodded, smiling, and walked away.

  “So what’s up with you and Joel over there?” Ash asked, helping me to set up a ladder. As I climbed up, I felt a blush cross my cheeks. I was wearing the clothes I wore to cheer practice and the shorts left very little to the imagination. Ash would be one to take advantage of this situation.

  I glanced at Joel, talking casually with Jaida, the junior dance committee rep. We had dated for a little over a year and had parted without any drama, the easiest breakup in the history of all breakups. We’d had a few hot and heavy months, but our friendship was stronger than our chemistry, and we decided to remain friends. “We’re friends,” I said, reaching for the lights and the staple gun.

  “That’s not the way I see it, Zo-Zo,” Ash said, grinning at me, his arms gripping the ladder tightly. “The way I see, Joelskies over there is still pining for you.”

  I stapled a section of lights to the breezeway and glanced back over at Joel, who was laughing at something Jaida said. Ash and I were not even a blip on their radar. “If you say so.” I felt myself slip a little on the ladder as it shook slightly, and Ash’s hand came up to steady me, just under the hem of my shorts. A tingle spread through my legs down to my toes, and I glared down at him. He smiled lazily back up at me.

  “I know jealousy when I see it,” Ash assured me. “He’s heartbroken that you’ve left him in the dust, leaving him to run to underclassmen like Jaida.”

  “Last I had heard,” I said, putting my body weight forward and stapling another section, “Joel was dating Kat Mitchell.” Ash’s hand was still on my leg, and it was incredibly distracting.

  “Kat,” he scoffed. “She’s missing something. Or maybe has an extra couple somethings. She’s not quite as good as my girl Z.”

  “Zoey,” I said, automatically, as the ladder shook again. I descended quickly and shoved the staple gun back into his hands. “And I think you’re perfectly capable of finishing this.”

  He took the staple gun, surprised, watching as I walked away, the slick bottoms of my beat up converses slipping on the smooth cement of the courtyard. “I hope you save me a dance tonight, Z!”

  “DO YOU THINK EVERYTHING LOOKS okay?” Madison asked me, wringing her hands together and glancing around the room.

  “It looks beautiful,” I assured her. “So do you by the way.” After we had spent a good couple of hours setting up for the dance, we’d finally descended upon the girls’ locker room. Using it as a makeshift beauty room, we changed from our practice clothes to the dresses we’d bought a couple weeks ago.

  She beamed, but I could still see the anxiety building in her eyes. Her hair was still pulled back in a bun, but she’d added glitter to her sleek black strands, and it caught in the twinkling lights stretched across the courtyard. Her
pink flowing dress hit right above her knee and made her look like a tiny ballerina. “Thanks. You do too. Scandalous. I hope Headmistress Dweller doesn’t see you.”

  I rolled my eyes and looked down at my dress. It was red, which was already an alarming thing that might cause our old fashioned and conservative headmistress to lose her cool. It was a halter and accentuated the fact that I had large boobs, but in a good way, of course. I had started getting boobs when I was nine years old and had taken to wearing baggy shirts and jackets to cover them up. Now that I was older and enjoyed dressing up, especially when Madison and I went dancing, I dressed for my body type. No use in letting them hide when they were so nearly impossible to do so anyway. The dress hit at least a hands width above my knee but it wasn’t that short.

  Plus, I had left my long hair down for once, in messy waves so my shoulders were even covered. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s like a shirt, Zoey,” Madison said, smirking a little.

  “It’s a dress,” I protested. “But I will take your compliment and forget your doubt in my dress. This cost a good chunk of my monthly allowance.”

  “Also known as the mom guilt money,” Madison finished. “You think it looks good, really? The dance, I mean.”

  “It does,” I said, firmly. “You worked really hard on it. I still don’t really get the apples hanging from vines when apples grow on trees but it looks good.”

  She threw me a glare. “It’s fall. The apples add a fall ambience.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. “Fall ambience, sure.”

  Madison looked like she wanted to say more but was momentarily distracted as her boyfriend Brody approached us. She lit up, and I shook my head again at the endearing yet vomit-inducing love they shared.

  Sometimes, Madison treated dating like another thing to tackle on her never-ending to-do list. I remember the first day of freshman year, sitting on the steps that led up to St. Joseph’s and planning which boys would be the best to date—and would help her lift her social strata. This was basically part of her plan for world domination. She had the grades, the fashion sense, the family pedigree, and the determination and ambition. She needed a boy to fit into that.