The Great Destroyers

by Caroline Tung Richmond

  Malcolm demonstrates what he wants me to do. Specifically, he shows me how to grip on to a mecha’s ankle and twist it to gain control of the whole leg. They aren’t complicated moves and I master them fast, but I get no praise out of him.

  “Put it into action, and we’ll see how you do. I’ll be Rushi.”

  We take our positions on opposite ends of the pit while one of the Jays starts counting us down to the start. As soon as we hit zero, Malcolm becomes a blur. He might be double my age, but he still has that trademark speed. I’ve barely caught up with him by the time he has scaled the cage. I reach for his ankle like we practiced, but he shakes me off. Lips pursed, I try again, but once more he dodges me. He’s getting away, so I scale the bars after him, but then he leaps all the way to the other side of the pit before landing cleanly. He motions at me to go back to the starting point.

  “Take it from the top,” he says, not even out of breath. Then he gives me a look that seems to say, I’m not going to make this easy for you, rookie.

  He sure keeps that promise too. We repeat the process more times than I can count. Malcolm might not be able to recreate Rushi’s spinning and tumbling, but he sure can mimic her speed. Every time I think I’ve got him, he somehow wriggles out of my grasp or shakes me off completely.

  “You’ve got to pick an ankle and aim for that one. Don’t waffle between the two,” he says between drills.

  And when I finally do manage to grab his foot, he has more advice to throw out. “Pull her down with your whole body, not only your arm because that won’t give you enough force. But as soon as you’ve yanked her down, you better get out of Dodge. Keep your chin down and spin away before her mecha crashes on top of you.”

  We go again. I take his advice and yank him down with my full weight, and sure enough his Goliath comes down fast. I’m about to scram like he told me to, but then my old training kicks in, and I decide to tweak Malcolm’s instructions.

  Instead of keeping my chin down, I tilt my face up to watch Malcolm’s trajectory. I watch his Goliath falling and adjust my own to stay out of its way, scurrying back one step at a time but never taking my eyes off it. I’m using a strategy I learned in my karate lessons. Tai sabaki. I shift my body to move in relation to my attacker, not only to avoid a hit, but to gain a better position.

  It’s a good thing I do this too because as soon as Malcolm lands, he leaps up again to attack me. If I’d had my back turned to him, then I wouldn’t have seen him coming, but since I’ve been watching him this whole time, I’m ready for it. I slam into his chest with my shoulder, knocking him back down, and he doesn’t spring up so quickly this time. Instead he signals that the drill is over.

  As I lean down to help him up, I can’t resist getting in a little dig. “Take it from the top, Coach?”

  He grunts in reply, but I can tell things have shifted. I’ve surprised him.

  “Smart evasive maneuver,” he says. It’s just about the nicest thing he has ever told me, but he brushes his hands off and that’s that. “Let’s move on.”

  We switch to a couple offensive moves to round out my arsenal, a combo throat punch and a sweeping kick, followed by a rear chokehold that maneuvers into a toss to stun the competition. We hit it hard for the next hour, stopping only for water breaks, and I realize that Malcolm is finally taking my training seriously. Because I’m the only fighter he has left.

  When we’ve finished yet another drill, I grab a drink and mop the sweat off my face, figuring I’ve got a couple minutes to catch my breath until we head back into the pit, but Malcolm juts his chin at me.

  “Hit the shower,” he says.

  “Why?” I glance at the clock. “I want to practice the chokehold again.”

  “We’ll finish up tomorrow. You’ve got a press conference to go to.”

  “What—now?”

  “Not now but soon. Look, answer a few of their questions, and we’ll call it a day. We don’t want the papers spinning up stories that you’re a no-show.”

  “I don’t care about the press.”

  “I think you’ve made that clear already, but don’t you care about the sponsors? They’ll be watching the conference too. I’m sure Goody will be one of them, and you can bet that there’ll be more of them showing interest now that Sam is gone.”

  I grumble a curse under my breath, hating how he dangles that in front of me, but I only have myself to blame because I told him I wanted sponsorships. This is good news, I tell myself. The more contracts thrown my way, the more stability I can give to Peter.

  With that thought in mind, I drag myself to the locker room. I give my hair a quick wash and scrub myself clean before I change into the outfit that has been left for me in my locker, a crisp white blouse paired with a navy skirt. I follow Malcolm to the dining hall, which houses the press conference again. All four fighters will get a turn with the reporters, and so far Rushi and Albie have already finished their interviews. I’m up next with Lidiya as the caboose.

  As I wait for the techs to adjust the microphone, I grab a water from a service bot and whisper to Malcolm, “I’ll answer three questions.”

  “You have to do a few more than that,” he says with a sigh. “It won’t kill you to smile, you know. Do you think Goody or Sears wants a spokesgirl who scowls at the cameras?”

  In response, I paste a ridiculously wide grin onto my mouth, and he digs an elbow into my side.

  “Jo,” he warns.

  Fine, fine. I dial back my smile, not to please Malcolm, but to butter up the bigwigs at Goody and Sears. And then it’s my turn to walk the plank.

  I squint at the bright overhead lights as I march to the podium. A camera bot rolls in a wide arc in front of me, clicking its shutter at predetermined intervals to catch my face at various angles. My mouth feels dry as I stare out at the sea of journalists, and I realize that I left my glass of water by Malcolm. It’s too late to grab it now though. The first reporter is already standing up to ask his question.

  “Miss Linden, this Round Four lineup is historic considering that three of the fighters are girls. How does that make you feel?”

  I smile genuinely at that because it’s both an easy question and one that I don’t mind answering. “It makes me feel honored, and it’s really nifty if you think about it. The chances are good that we’ll have a female winner this year.”

  “And what do you think your chances are at doing just that?” the reporter asks as a follow-up.

  I wonder what I should say to secure those sponsorships on the spot. Something patriotic. Something quotable.

  “I don’t like to get too ahead of myself, but I sure want to bring that title back to the US of A,” I end up telling them, which is rather catchy if I do say so myself.

  I know that I’ve totally dodged the question, but the journalists are scribbling away, and from the corner of my eye I notice Malcolm giving me a subtle thumbs-up, so I must’ve said something right.

  The press conference moves on. I answer a question about Sam’s elimination and then about my matchup against Rushi tomorrow. It’s nothing too hard-hitting until I get a reporter sniffing for a comment about Lukas and Zoya.

  “It has been reported that you were in close contact with both Lukas Sauer and Zoya Federova before they collapsed,” the journalist asks in a clipped accent. I squint at his press credentials and notice that he’s from a newspaper based in East Germany. Figures. “The IC has since cleared your name, but you have yet to make a public statement. Do you have plans to do so?”

  I wish I could say Next question very loudly, but since that’s kind of rude, I have to come up with something else. I notice Malcolm motioning at me from the sideline, reminding me to smile, which is his way of telling me to be nice because the sponsors are watching.

  “I’d say that the IC clearing my name is good enough for me, and I send my sympathies to Zoya’s and to Lukas’s family,” I say.

  There. The reporter and Malcolm can’t nitpick that too much.


  We’ve got time for one more question, and it just so happens to come from my hometown paper, the Chronicle.

  “Miss Linden, when you were tapped to Team USA, you were practically an unknown to most Americans, even to those in San Francisco,” he starts off.

  I stifle a snort because I’m sure the Chronicle had heard about me. They simply never found me worthy of a story before.

  “But as we’ve been interviewing San Franciscans about you and your historic role as the very first fighter from our city, we came across a family friend of yours. Lawrence Wen?”

  My fingers curl around the hard wood of the podium. What exactly did Old Wen say? He can’t be thick enough to have mentioned I fought in an illegal match that he took bets for.

  “Mr. Wen remarked on your achievement here, not only as the first American female to go the Games in thirty years, but also as the very first Oriental fighter from the States.” The reporter pauses to study my face. “Is it true that your mother was Chinese?”

  My whole body goes rigid. The rest of the reporters look confused, whispering to one another, but soon they’re all staring at me again, awaiting an answer. Meanwhile the camera bot is clicking away, and I can feel my cheeks heating up like little furnaces.

  It’ll be in all the papers tomorrow—photographs of me with my eyes wide and my cheeks flushed—and I can almost see the headlines in big fat letters.

  My secret is finally out.

  “Are you all right, Miss Linden?” the reporter asks.

  I’m still at the podium and still trying to come up with a response. All I can think about is Old Wen and how lucky he is that he’s three thousand miles away. Because if he were here, I’d have a few choice words for him, none of them ladylike. What was he playing at, revealing my mom’s race to the reporter? Maybe he got slipped some money to talk. Or maybe he was trying to redeem my mother somehow. Whatever his motives, he has gotten me into an absolute mess.

  The cameras keep flashing and desperation settles in. I scramble to say something, anything. Am I supposed to lie?

  Then Malcolm joins me and is leaning into the microphone to address the crowd. “The Association will put out a press release shortly. We won’t be taking any further questions at this time,” he says before he guides me toward the exit.

  But the reporters have smelled blood in the water, and a few of them swim after us like piranhas.

  “Will you make a personal statement, Jo?” one of them asks.

  I shake my head no.

  “Why have you hidden your heritage from the public?” another one says.

  Oh, maybe because I’d never get invited to the Games in the first place, I think. They must know that.

  “Do you refute Lawrence Wen’s accusation?”

  Accusation? Like being Chinese is some sort of crime?

  But I guess it is in a way. We couldn’t become citizens until ’52, and we were barred from entering the US for nearly a century before that.

  “What province in China did your mother come from?” asks yet another journalist.

  Something inside me snaps. Malcolm still has a hold of my elbow, but I whip around to face the small crowd trailing us.

  “She was born in California,” I say. She never stepped foot in China, and her family had been in this country for generations. They were as American as Sam and Malcolm.

  “But will you confirm that she was Chinese?” they press.

  “Chinese American,” I correct them. My face feels scalded at this point. Did they ever ask Sam what part of England or Ireland his ancestors came from?

  Malcolm leans into my ear. “Cool your chops and keep walking.”

  I have one more thing to say though. One more thing to get out. “Judge me by what you see in the pit. That’s all I ask.”

  Then I turn my back to the reporters and let Malcolm escort me into my dormitory. The lobby is fortunately empty, and I crumple onto one of the benches in the sitting area.

  “You should’ve let me handle that out there,” Malcolm says, vibrating with frustration. “I had it under control.”

  “Did you even hear what they were asking? Forget it. You wouldn’t understand.” I watch Malcolm’s face contort, and I think he’s really going to let me have it, but then he blows out a long sigh. I think he feels bad for me, which tells me that this situation must be really terrible.

  “Perhaps I don’t understand your exact situation, but I do understand the press. They’ll be taking your words and twisting them into something you won’t even recognize.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. “And now I have to play cleanup and deal with this press release.”

  I look up at him miserably. “The Association is going to cut me from the team.”

  “No, they won’t. You are the team at this point.”

  I let out a shaky breath, grasping onto this speck of hope.

  “They can’t replace you after Purgatory begins, remember?” he continues.

  They’re stuck with me then. They either have to deal with me or boot me out and forfeit Team USA’s place at the Games, which I severely doubt they would do. Meaning I’m still in game.

  Relief sweeps over me, but then I realize: “My sponsorship deals are going to dry up fast, aren’t they?”

  Without even pausing he says, “It’s likely, yes.”

  I wince. For once, I wish he could’ve sugarcoated his answer for my benefit. “Because my mother was Chinese,” I add. My voice hitches. “I was good enough for them an hour ago but not now?”

  “Is that what you really care about? Some endorsement deal with Sears?” His face is reddening, and I can tell he isn’t going to hold back his tongue lashing this time.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” I repeat before he can start flapping his lips. “My family—” I stop myself because I still can’t bring myself to reveal how much we need a sponsorship, any sponsorship. And now that the whole world will soon know about my mother’s “background,” there could be consequences. My dad might be white, but his kids aren’t. Our landlady could have us evicted. Our remaining customers could abandon us.

  I feel the tears come, and I really don’t want to cry in front of Malcolm, so I tell him that I’m going up to my room before I make a break for the stairs.

  As soon as I open my door, I let it all out. The tears. The hurt. The rage. I punch my pillows until some of the stuffing starts spilling out, but I keep hitting them hard. I could strangle Old Wen, I’m so mad. But my anger goes deeper than that. Much deeper.

  Of having to hide who I am.

  Of living in fear of being found out.

  Of never being judged for what I can do in the pit but by my gender.

  And now by my skin color.

  Finally I collapse into bed, the fury depleted and replaced by exhaustion. I’m not sure how long I lie on my mattress, but I cocoon myself in my blanket and watch the sun dip lower and lower into the horizon. I will myself to go to sleep, but my mind refuses to settle. It’s useless to keep trying, so I force my legs over the side of the mattress. I’ve got a phone call that I need to get over with.

  My father picks up on the second ring with the standard, “Linden’s Repair and Refurbishing.”

  “Dad, it’s me,” I say, already tearing up. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

  It all comes spilling out. The press conference. Old Wen. The inevitable headlines in the paper tomorrow morning—in the Chronicle that most of our customers will be reading.

  “We’ll probably lose business over this,” I say, keeping a fresh bout of tears at bay.

  A beat passes. “That might be so, but we don’t need those people anyway. You think I want their money?”

  “Cash is cash,” I reply weakly.

  “We don’t need that sort of money. Besides, traffic into the shop has doubled since you went to the Games.”

  “Really? That’s incredible—” I cut myself off. Will those new clients peel away after they read the papers? I press the heel of my h
and against my eye, fighting off the hopelessness. Dad and I rarely talk about how Peter and I are part Chinese. We’ve just ignored it, as if it might go away. As if keeping silent would keep us hidden. But I still find myself saying, “I’m sorry.”

  “Josephine, don’t you ever be sorry about this and don’t let anybody shame you for it. What do I always say? Don’t get delicate. I’ve told you that because you’re a Linden, and we grit our teeth and get things done.” He takes a long pause, and when he speaks again, his voice cracks. “You’re a Lee too, and you’ve got your mother’s stubborn streak. You don’t give up, you hear?”

  This is the most sentences that my dad has strung together in a long time. I’m a little shocked. Not to mention the fact that he actually talked about Mom.

  “I won’t give up,” I tell him.

  “That’s right. You hold that chin up, and you show everyone what you can do in the pit.”

  The tears threaten again, but I swallow hard. “Okay.” Then I ask, “Can you put Peter on?”

  “Hold on a sec. He’s out in the workshop.”

  Half a minute passes before my brother picks up the receiver. “Jo? Dad said you’ve got something to tell me. Everything all right?”

  I breathe deep and launch into what happened at the press conference all over again although I try to soften the landing this time.

  “We’ll be fine, I promise,” I say, even though I know it’s a promise impossible to keep. “And if anyone gives you guff about this at school, you tell Dad and me, all right? We’ll take care of them.” I’ll flatten them, in fact.

  Seconds pass and then a few more, and yet Peter says nothing.

  “You there?” I ask, anxious about what he’s thinking. Then I get worried. “Listen, don’t panic. This will all blow over soon enough.”

  “I’m not panicking,” Peter says at last, sounding a lot calmer than I’d anticipated.

  “You aren’t?”

  “I was only thinking. I guess I’m not shocked. I figured we couldn’t keep Mom a secret forever.”

  “But everyone will know that we’re not fully—you know—”