by Laney Monday
“Oh. Uh … ” I said, “the truth is, they’re not here, Miss Ruth.”
“That is, they haven’t come in to sign up yet,” Blythe said.
“What! Well, they can’t just sit around on their duffs, crying into their tutus! Enough of this. They need to discover new things, just like I am. Don’t you worry, girls, I’m sending out an e-mail and a group text right now. I see you’re having a free trial night on Thursday, but classes start today, don’t they?”
“Yes,” I said, “we thought we needed some time to advertise the free night, but we might as well get started with a regular class schedule as best we could. We thought if we had a few students who learned a thing or two, they could even show it off as part of the free trial class and demo. That would be the best advertisement. Brand new students already making progress. Local kids they know, doing judo. But so far that plan hasn’t panned out.”
Blythe said, “We might have to plan-B it. Just try to get them in for the demo night.”
“No, no. Plan A! It’s a great idea, and my dancers are just the kids to get started with.”
“Ruth,” I said tentatively, “don’t blame them if they don’t come. I think maybe that whole murder business put a damper on things. It’s understandable.”
“I’m sure no one blames us anymore,” Blythe put in, “but it’s only natural not to want to think about something so unpleasant.”
I said, “I guess we remind the whole town of a lot of unpleasant things.” Like the murder of their homegrown reporter, the corruption of some of the most trusted figures in Bonney Bay. And now, Derek’s death. It was only a matter of time before it got out that I was there. And if it turned out to be another murder …
“But, you’re heroes!” Ruth protested.
Oh, Ruth. If only I could hug her right now. Miss Ruth was their hero; we were just interlopers. Sad, but true.
“You just wait and see,” Ruth said. “My ballerinas will come through. We’re a tougher bunch than people think.”
7
I settled in behind my desk, feeling much calmer now. I opened my laptop and stared at it, racking my brain, trying to guess what might have caused Derek’s death. Suffocation was a completely bloodless way to kill some one. So was poisoning. I searched signs of poisoning. Hmm. Seizures were a sign, and Derek, who had no known medical condition, had convulsed before he died. I looked over the top of my laptop at Blythe, who’d returned to her desk. Should I mention the possibility to her?
“Maybe Miss Ruth can pull this off,” Blythe said, her mind clearly going in a completely different direction. “It’s still early. We might even have someone sign up in time to start with Sammi tonight.”
Someone to mitigate the daggers Sammi would likely shoot me all practice long. As far as she was concerned, I’d ruined her life. Like, forever. She’d told me as much when she came in with a check and completed paperwork to start judo. Her mom had printed it out from our website and forced her to come in and join. She’d called later to confirm that Sammi had done as she was told, and to give me an earful about how she hoped we would be a better influence on her daughter than the now-jailed Stacey Goode had been. I guess if you want to blame a violent criminal for how your kid’s turning out, it makes perfect sense to send her off to the people who’d busted that criminal, and exposed your kid’s involvement.
You know, rather than spending some actual time with the kid yourself. Sammi’s mom was “a very busy top real estate agent.” She was very important. Whatever. I’d spent the last eight years-plus meeting up with people on the mat who thought they were very important, and fighting tooth and nail to prove otherwise—mostly to other people who had just as over-inflated a sense of importance as the athletes—the referees.
“I can try making the rounds again tomorrow,” I told Blythe. “I might even manage to avoid disaster and actually talk to some parents this time.”
“Speaking of that, I called the school while you were gone—”
“You called the school?” I was back on my feet again, stalking over to her desk. “We had a deal! This is speaking of disaster!”
“I meant speaking of recruiting. And I was just feeling them out, seeing if we could include flyers in the kids’ take-home information … ”
“Oh.”
I relaxed a little. I really needed to stop over-reacting and assuming the worst. Especially of Blythe.
Then my wonderful sister smiled at me and said, “The principal and I got to chatting, and I have great news. They’d love to have you come in and talk to a couple of PE classes, but what they’d really like is for you to speak at their all-school assembly for Fitness Day.”
“What! What happened to ‘just feeling them out’?”
“She brought it up! And I didn’t commit. I told her I’d check with you on your availability, but … Brenna, you can’t turn this down. Hundreds of kids. It’s the perfect way to kickstart this place.”
My mind was reeling. A merry-go-round of laughing kids’ faces whirred through my imagination, pointing, mocking. Did I ever mention I didn’t have a very good school experience?
“Fitness Day? They’re going to expect me to tell them to eat broccoli and drink milk—without cookies.”
“You don’t have to talk about diet. Talk about exercise.”
Right. No matter what the subject, I was going to be up on a stage with hundreds of kids listening to my every fumbled-over word. What a nightmare! “I can’t do it. Not an auditorium. Tell her no.”
“Okay, how about this—you talk to each PE class during Fitness Day. Still lots of kids, but one class at a time.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and massaged my temples with my fingers. That was one thing I definitely missed about being an elite athlete, ranked high enough to get funding and other perks from Judo US. The massages. The ice baths, not so much.
“I don’t know, Blythe. I’ll think about it.”
“You’re a great speaker, Brenna. Whenever you do a judo seminar, you hold all the kids’ attention. They love you.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“First, they’re judo kids.”
She knew exactly what I meant by that. They were there because they already loved judo, and they were eager to learn from an Olympian. They knew how hard it was to make the team; they understood Americans rarely medalled and that we were up against nations who were judo powerhouses, parts of the world where the very best athletes were funneled into judo instead of basketball or football. Where they had exponentially greater opportunities for different practice partners, training camps, and competitions, right in their own backyards. Most judo kids had also learned to behave and be respectful by the time their coaches deemed them ready to participate in one of my clinics.
“And their senseis are always there to help make sure they pay attention. Second—” I held up two fingers. This was the most important point—“We are doing judo. I’m not just standing there pontificating about fitness or even about judo!” And thirdly, though I couldn’t bring myself to say it aloud, I hadn’t done a seminar since I stopped competing. I’d done all those seminars before I quit pursuing an Olympic or World Championship medal. I didn’t have to answer all the inevitable “quitter” questions.
Blythe drummed her fingers lightly on her desk, a sure sign that she was deep in thought. Trying to think of how to psych me into going along with her diabolical plan, no doubt. I sat on the corner of her desk in order to give her my glare from a better angle.
I pushed a stack of papers aside so I wouldn’t squash them. They were judo flyers—but not the same ones we’d made up for the dojo, that I’d taken with me to hand out. It looked like the free demo and trial night flyer we’d been working on, only something was very, very different.
The heading now read, Catapult the Cop!
“What! Is! This?”
Blythe blinked at me innocently. I hadn’t fallen for that look since she was two and she painted pink nail
polish onto all my stuffed animals’ “toes.”
“Throw the cop? What cop, Blythe?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. It was spelled out right there, in black and white:
He’s no dummy, but our very own Officer Will Riggins is ready to take the fall for you. Come one, come all, and see who can put him through the floor! Olympian Brenna Battle is here to teach all the brave kids of Bonney Bay how. Officer Riggins promises no arrests will be made. Children twelve and under only.
Blythe’s smile was timid, her voice small. “He said he’d be happy to help. That it sounded like a lot of fun.”
How could I explain to Blythe how bad this was? I was trying to put a little distance between me and Officer Dimples, for crying out loud. I’d just acted like a jerk toward him, too. After he’d offered to do me a favor. A favor I didn’t ask for, and didn’t even know about. But I’ll bet he didn’t know that.
“No,” I groaned. “No, we can’t do this.”
“Is it really such a terrible thing to ask for help, Brenna? I didn’t make us sound desperate or anything. I know you have your pride. I just told him I had this really off-the-wall idea to add some fun to our free trial night.”
Great. He probably thought it was my idea, but I’d been too shy to ask. Now he’d think I was clingy and obsessed, but too much of a wimp to act on my own.
I thunked the stack of flyers back down on the desk. “Well, you’re just going to have to call him back and cancel.”
Blythe crossed her arms. “I already posted about it online. And I e-mailed the flyer to the school and to Miss Ruth.” She looked down and inspected her nails, dropping her voice. “That’s probably why she called.”
“What!”
“It’s a challenge, Brenna. You love a challenge.”
“I love to win.”
“But you can’t resist a challenge.” Was that a smirk on my sweet sister’s face? The brat! She knew exactly what she was doing. Who needs a therapist when you have a pushy little sister? Maybe I should say who doesn’t need a therapist when you have a pushy little sister.
Where was my little purple-clad fairy god-mother? I didn’t even need Prince Charming or the dress or the carriage. I’d be perfectly thrilled to be turned into a pumpkin right now.
8
At seven-thirty-five, a slim little figure trudged up to the dojo doors, arms crossed, scowling. She uncrossed her arms only long enough to yank the door open. A white judo gi was scrunched into a messy ball and tucked under her arms. Her white belt fell to the floor. She bent to pick it up, and the pants fell out of the bundle.
I really didn’t want to start my career as a judo coach this way. I made an attempt to act casual, let bygones be bygones, and try to get off on the right foot.
“Hey, Sammi.” I picked the pants up and tossed them at her.
Unfortunately, in her obstinate attempt to refuse my offer and, in fact, pretend I didn’t exist, Sammi stood there stock-still. Instead of catching the pants and saying, “Hey Brenna,” as I’d hoped, or at least grumbling a thank you, Sammi ended up shrieking in outrage as the pants hit her right in the face and hung there like a thick cotton veil.
There was an explosion of flying judo gi parts.
“Sorry!” I said.
She gave me a look that could kill.
“Why don’t you go in the bathroom and change,” Blythe said, “and we can get started.”
A lo-o-ong time later, Sammi emerged from the bathroom, with her top on inside out, her pants on backwards, and her belt tied wrong. Sammi wasn’t an idiot. Judo gis can be kind of counter-intuitive. They usually have a tag on the outside, front of each piece instead of on the inside, in the back like most clothes. And everyone ties the belt wrong. Blythe and I exchanged looks. I didn’t say a word.
Blythe said, “Great. Come over here and I’ll show you how to tie your belt.”
We could deal with the backwards and inside-out-ness later. No need to work Sammi up into even more of a frenzy.
Blythe showed Sammi how to bow at the edge of the mat, then step on, leaving her shoes by the matside.
Sammi stood on the mat and looked around, as though she expected something new to materialize any moment. “This is so lame. I’m the only one here?”
Blythe plunged into a valiant effort to make Sammi feel honored. “You’re the first one. The very first student at our dojo.”
Too bad Sammi was nearly twelve, and so over adults trying to spin unhappy situations into “special” ones. And also on a mission to find anything and everything she could to hate about us, and about being here.
“Ooh. Wow,” Sammi oozed with sarcasm.
I opted for the no biggie approach and shrugged. “Well, we’re working on building things up. It would be great if you could invite a friend to come and practice with you.”
“Leo was my friend. Stacey was my friend. Now they’re both gone, thanks to you.” She flipped back her green-streaked hair. “Now I don’t have any friends.”
I wondered if that was really true. If so, did Sammi push other kids away, or had she been unfairly singled out for exclusion?
I let Blythe take the lead with teaching Sammi how to fall. For some reason, she blamed her less than me. I don’t know, maybe because I was the one her “friend” had actually assaulted and left for dead?
I stayed on the mat, but busied myself doing uchikomi—repetitions of entering for throws—on the wall. I’d had Miss Ruth leave the barre on that wall, and it made a decent anchor that I could drape a piece of inner-tubing around, kind of like an exercise band. I held one end of the rubbery strip in each hand as I practiced my footwork and pulled. It wasn’t as good as uchikomi with a live partner, but the inner-tube provided good pulling practice and strength training. I planned to visit a local bike repair shop soon and ask for their old inner tubes so I could have one for each student.
I threw out a compliment to Sammi now and then as Blythe had her do a somersault, roll backward, do a cartwheel. Each compliment was greeted with a sour, skeptical look.
Blythe taught Sammi to do a front fall and a back fall, and then she moved on to the forward rolling fall. It’s a lot harder than it looks, and it’s usually taught in stages. Most kids take weeks or months of practice to get it right.
Blythe had Sammi watch her do a forward rolling breakfall. It’s helpful to show a beginner the end result we’re looking for, then teach them the technique in more manageable steps. If we don’t show them why they’re doing those steps, the whole process makes no sense. I knew Blythe expected Sammi to just watch, and then she’d teach her to roll from a kneeling or crouching position. But Sammi immediately copied Blythe’s standing fall—perfectly.
Blythe had her back turned and was getting up from her fall. “Wait, Sammi,” she said. “I’ll show you how I want you to start.”
I stopped her. “Bly, just a minute. Watch this. Sammi, do that again.”
She did it again, perfectly.
“I’ve never seen anyone get it right on the first try,” Blythe whispered to me.
We had Sammi doing all her falls beautifully—left side and right—by the end of class. I couldn’t believe it. Skinny, surly Sammi appeared to be quite a gifted athlete. How had no one discovered that before? And then I remembered the tall ballerina who’d stood out at the going-away recital. She looked so different in a tutu—not short and fluffy like those the little girls wore, but longer, more elegant, ladylike. She was poised, head held high.
“Sammi?” I said, “did you do ballet with Miss Ruth?” I squinted, picturing her onstage, as that ballerina. For some reason, it wasn’t difficult to picture at all.
She scowled at me. “Of course I did. I was her best ballerina.”
“Were you in the recital?” Blythe asked.
“Yeah. That was before I dyed my hair.”
Blythe’s face lit up like a lightbulb. “Your hair was a really light brown! You were wearing silver.”
Sammi shrugg
ed, pretending she didn’t care. But I could tell she was suppressing a smile. If I could get Sammi to carry herself with that kind of poise on the mat, to command a match the way she’d commanded the stage—this could be a beautiful, beautiful thing. Now, I just had to get her to stop hating me. Why did a girl who danced with such confidence and passion walk around slouched and uncertain? Looking, frankly, like she didn’t like herself very much and didn’t expect anyone else to, either? I wanted to know the answers. More than that, I wanted to get to know Sammi.
9
I blinked in the bright, morning light. After a little over two weeks in Bonney Bay, Blythe and I still didn’t have beds. We’d both had queen-sized back in Arizona, and weren’t sure they’d fit—or be worth hauling—out here. My sleeping bag was in a messy tangle around my legs. I found the zipper, but either it was stuck or my fingers were still half asleep. Probably both. I inch-wormed a couple feet over, to where my phone rested on the floor, where my sleeping bag had been before I’d thrashed my way through lovely dreams of failure and humiliation.
I picked up my phone and discovered it was dead. I popped in the charger cord, which was lying uselessly right beside it. Either I’d completely forgotten to plug the stupid thing in, or I’d knocked it loose in my sleep. Blythe’s sleeping bag was empty, and of course nice and neat, straightened out and smoothed over. I had it out with the sleeping bag zipper, and finally freed myself and stumbled to the kitchen. The microwave clock said ten AM. Wow, I’d really slept in.
I wandered around the apartment, calling Blythe’s name. She must be downstairs. Working, or maybe having a nice, private bawl about our financial woes. If she had any sense, she’d be making a call to her old boss in Arizona, asking if she could have her cubicle back. But Blythe had always had more faith in me than I even had in myself.
After I showered and dressed, I wrapped a towel around my hair and headed downstairs, to the studio, trying to come up with a good pep talk for my little sister. And wondering if the right thing to do would be to just let her go and bow out of this match before anyone got seriously hurt.
