“You boys are certainly a rambunctious lot. Couldn’t you break each other during normal business hours?” Irene said, kneeling next to Turk. She smiled at me over his prone form. The combination of drunk and chair had kept him down for the half hour.
Nurse Irene checked Turk out. She flashed a light in his eyes and asked him some questions he groggily answered.
She shook her head. “Probable concussion. I’ll take him to the ER just to be safe. Head injuries can be tricky.”
Irene moved briskly over to me, poked around for a minute, and decided my collarbone was indeed broken but nothing needing to be set, only immobilized. I ended up with my left arm in a sling and a little depressed thinking about how I would be on the sidelines for any more training. At least it wasn’t my right arm—that would have really sucked. I wondered if I would be able to beat Marcel at video games one-handed. I should be healed in time for me to go back to school. She gave me some ibuprofen for the pain and told me to go to bed.
I thought I was done training for the summer, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. After three days, Blaze decided if I could work, I could train. No throws or sparring, but hours of balance and working on the wooden dummy. Blaze explained you had to train as if your life hung in the balance because when you needed it the most, it would be. Sometimes a fight went to hell, you’d get injured and one good arm is all you had.
After a week, Turk returned to the dojo. No sparring for him until he had a doctor’s clearance. I ignored him, but I could feel his glare from across the room.
As I watched Blaze teach the class, I noticed something. He became a completely different person when he taught. During working hours, he strolled around total California hippie. The hippie vanished when Blaze walked into the “dojo.” He still looked relaxed, but aware. Nothing escaped his sight: he picked out minor imperfections in a student’s stance, the fact a hip twisted too far, or a minor misstep. He spoke in a warm, but stern voice. The most shocking was absence, no “dude” in his vocabulary. It made me wonder which version of Blaze I would want around more. Blaze reminded me of a puzzle, no doubt about it.
Class ended. Turk and I moved to leave as everyone turned the dojo back into the game room, but we weren’t fast enough.
“Gentlemen, please join me.”
Turk groaned. I knew how he felt. I doubted we’d be getting a “dude” type talk. And it would happen in front of the other students.
“Turk, tell me what happened.”
Turk tried to look anywhere but at Blaze. It didn’t work. Blaze held him in the vice grip of his gaze. “I was drunk,” he muttered under his breath.
“Hmmm. And this gives you the right to strike another student?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why did you do it?”
Turk tensed up, his face flushed. “It’s personal, Shīfu.”
Blaze considered him for a long time. “Personal is it? I would say it became public when you attacked Mr. Ward. Out with it.” His voice cracked sharper than a whip.
Turk spoke through his clenched teeth. “He killed my uncle Jack.”
“And why would you think that?” Blaze spoke to Turk like you would talk down a roof jumper, calm and reassuring.
Turk wiped a tear from his face. “Somebody called my house the day before the funeral. They instructed me to look on the porch.” He paused for a moment as he tried to pull himself together. “An envelope lay on the steps. I opened it and there…there were pictures of Uncle Jack…” Sobs wracked his body as he let go.
Blaze guided him over and sat him in the café. I went over, grabbed a pitcher of ice water, and made a huge mess pouring as the glass slid on the counter since I couldn’t hold it still with my left hand. Marcel ran over and cleaned up the spilled water. I mouthed “thank you” to him as I turned to bring the glass to Turk. I knew those photos were horrible, having seen the event in person. I had been devastated, and he wasn’t my uncle.
I held out the glass of water to Turk. He slapped my hand away. The glass flipped over, smashing on the floor, glass and water flying in every direction.
Turk leapt to his feet, but Blaze restrained him. I still moved away from him.
“The note said Uncle Jack was killed because of you, Ward. It’s all your fault he’s dead.”
Blaze nodded toward the door. I took the hint and fled. I rushed up the stairs with the words “You killed him, Ward,” echoing up behind me.
I sulked in the living room, bouncing the unusable game controller in my hand. Blaze came in. He dropped down next to me on the beat-up brown and orange couch. I wanted to go home.
“You okay?” he asked after a minute of silence.
“Fine.”
“Tommy, I know it is hard. Turk is blaming you, but it’s not your fault.”
“Wasn’t it?” I said with a bit more heat than I meant, but it was my fault. “If I could have taken down Brunner, none of this would have happened. Mr. Taylor would still be alive if I had.”
Blaze slowly shook his head. “You remind me of your dad.” He laughed a small laugh. “He had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Always about what he could have done, should have done. In the end, it cost him.”
“Cost him?” I knew better than to ask questions about my dad. Blaze had been sworn to secrecy, and his vow stood ironclad.
“His freedom, his family, everything.” He shrugged. “When the Reclaimers attacked him, he wouldn’t fight back. He said they didn’t have Gifts, so he wouldn’t fight back.”
I sighed. “Great, being a coward must run in the family.” All this hiding who my dad is for my “protection” and he’s a chicken.
“Were you a coward last week?” I could feel his eyes on me, like he searched my soul. “You didn’t attack Turk. You blocked everything he threw at you. Well, until you missed the last one.”
“He was drunk. What kind of person beats up a drunk guy?”
“Exactly.” A smug grin on his face. “While unable to defend himself, you didn’t attack him. The same argument I had with your dad. Sometimes it is braver to not fight, Tommy.”
Damn, I fell right into his trap. I hate it when people do that to me.
“Fine, he wasn’t a coward, but he could have gotten away.”
“The Reclaimers set a trap for him, and he ended up killing a lot of men. He knew they would never stop hunting him. He gave himself up so you and your mom could be safe. He was a hero.”
“Thanks.” I felt better. Not physically, my shoulder still hurt, and I had a lump on the back of my head, but I felt better.
“I’ll handle Turk. He needs time to get his perspective back. Hate does bad things to some people, but underneath it, he’s pretty tubular. Let’s get the store open.”
For the rest of the summer, I trained at becoming the best one-handed cook and busboy Great Falls had ever seen. My training moved from balance drills, to blocking, to one-handed weapons. Once my collarbone had healed enough, I started back punching and using the Bo sticks and other weapons. I could hold my own against most of the students, and I got a touch on Blaze once. He could teach a greased pig a thing or two.
Before we knew it, we had packed and cleaned up our apartment. Mom and Abby would be here in an hour, and while school sucked, I missed seeing Mom every day.
We headed downstairs, throwing our luggage in the store room behind the front desk. We kept the video games and lounge supplies in there. I went back to the kitchen to help Mimi out while I waited for Mom to arrive.
I thought I heard someone yell my name from the front of the store. I walked out into the café as Blaze hollered for me. Mom must be here. They’re early! I turned the corner and stopped. Mandy patiently stood by the front desk.
“Hello, Tommy.” The last time I saw her, she was surrounded by her friends, setting me up so her boyfriend could pulverize me. Now she had her arms around herself, small and alone, as if she had retreated into herself.
I did what any self-respecting sixteen-
year-old boy would do in this situation: I turned and left. I made it all the way to the kitchen before Blaze caught up to me.
“What the hell is she doing here?” I grabbed the salt container and returned to filling the shakers for Mimi. Unfortunately, I was filling pepper shakers when I left, but I wasn’t paying much attention.
“Blaze, I’ll handle this, if you don’t mind?” Mimi shooed Blaze out the kitchen door. Blaze nodded to her and left. Nobody crossed Mimi, especially in the kitchen.
“Salt goes in the salt shakers, Sport.” She took the salt out of my hand.
“Sorry.”
“Tommy, have you ever made a mistake?” She jumped up, sitting on the stainless steel island dividing the kitchen. She swung her legs, striped knee socks covering most of the tattoos she had up and down her legs.
I didn’t need to think about it very hard. They were too numerous to count. I looked down, embarrassed I had come in the kitchen screaming.
“Me too.” Mimi had a devilish grin on her face. Unlike most people, she liked making mistakes. “What if you made a terrible mistake that really hurt Marcel? Would you want him to forgive you?”
“Of course, I would.”
“What would you do first?”
“Apologize.” Damn, not again. I need to think before I talk.
“My guess is that is what Mandy is doing. Don’t you think you can let her apologize?”
“Maybe. Okay.”
Mimi jumped down and hugged me. She smelled of lilacs and motor oil, probably from her biker boyfriend. “Get out there, Tiger.”
Mandy stood where I left her. Mom and Abby talked to Blaze at the front desk. Marcel stood, slack-jawed; beautiful didn’t begin to describe Mandy. Today she wore faded jeans and a plaid button-down shirt, instead of the tight-fitting sweater she had worn to lure me out. I thought it made her all the more beautiful.
She walked over, glancing back at the front desk. Blaze nodded once. She got closer so we could talk. “Tommy, I want to apologize. I know nothing I could ever say will make up for what I did.”
I didn’t say anything. I had nothing to say to her.
“I can’t blame you for hating me, but I wanted you to understand how sorry I am. Chaz is an idiot, and I’ve dumped him. How stupid…”
I heard a voice say, “I don’t hate you.” I surprised myself realizing those words had come out of my mouth.
“Really?” she asked.
She looked me in the eye for the first time. Mimi was right. If I had hurt Marcel, I would want him to forgive me.
“Yeah, had I been smarter, I would have stayed inside.”
“Thanks, Tommy. You don’t know how much it means to me that you don’t hate me.”
I tried to say something that would make me sound smart or cool or something. Mandy leaned in and kissed me on the lips. You could have knocked me over with a feather.
She smiled at me. “I promised you a kiss, and I always keep my promises.” She turned and left.
When I started breathing again, I noticed the audience I had forgotten about. Mom had one eyebrow arched, Abby and Blaze laughed, and Marcel looked like he would pass out in shock, his afro bobbing.
A loud whistle erupted from behind me. “Way to go, Tiger,” Mimi shouted.
You see, I knew she really wanted a kiss.
11
The drive back to Redemption went by in a flash. The four of us laughed and joked as the miles sped by. Mom had her Rush CD in, and Abby joined in singing. It shocked me at how well she sang. Before we knew it, Mom signed Marcel and Abby back into the Institute and we headed home.
“Wow,” she said with calculated deliberateness. “What a kiss.”
I swear we didn’t need headlights to light our way I blushed so bad. It’s one thing to get your first kiss, but it is completely different to have your mom watching it.
“Can we talk about something else, please?”
“Sure.” The mischievous tone in her voice had me on edge. I knew she was up to something. The left turn signal clacked in the background. “I saw you hug Mimi in the kitchen. You guys dating?”
“What!” It came out a bit shriller than I’d have liked.
Mom laughed. “Seriously, honey, the way you treated Mandy speaks highly of you.”
“The same way Dad would have done it?”
“Blaze has a big mouth, but yes, that is exactly the way he would have done it.” The laughter was gone, replaced by an icy silence. I shouldn’t have brought it up, but it hurt. I promised myself in December when I turned seventeen, I’d demand to know everything.
“I thought Marcel might have a heart attack,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
“She’s a very pretty girl.” She laughed. “Marcel needs to get out more.”
The uncomfortable silence fled, but I could still feel the underlying, unspoken pain we both felt.
Sunday flew by in a parade of new clothes, shoes, and school gear. I’d put on muscle and stood just shy of six feet, so we dropped off old clothes at Goodwill and spent the evening doing laundry and talking about everything and nothing.
Monday we returned to the school routine. We had chemistry instead of earth science and trig instead of geometry, but Powell’s world history class was mandatory for all students. On a good note, being the last week of August, no Block trip for a week.
Marcel, Abby, and I were in all the same classes. I saw Wendi and Jon at lunch and last period study hall/detention in the Air-Lock. Wendi started sitting with me. Something had changed about her. The bubbly girl I had admired from afar had fled, replaced by quiet and moody. Jon hovered around her, a safety net should she fall.
In addition to math, Waxenby took over English class, but there I could sense the void left behind by Mr. Taylor’s death. Brunner was worse than ever. None of the Gifted teachers would get involved. They turned the other way or hurried back into their classrooms. Who could blame them? No one wanted to die because they broke up a fight.
We sat in English in late September when the alert sirens wailed across the school. Another preparedness drill, which meant the Gifted kids should be prepared to be bored. Teachers moved the regular kids into the gym, the Gifted into the Air-Lock. The school guards, rifles in hand, stood outside the door.
The claxon ceased its blaring. All the teachers, except Waxenby, left to go to the lock-down review. The day was effectively over for us, stuck in the Air-Lock. The regular kids had a pep rally; we ate stale bag lunches and did busy work.
Marcel finished his worksheet in about ten minutes. He pulled his newest tablet out, tapped a few times, and jumped online. Waxenby peered over his shoulder laughing at whatever vid they watched.
Abby set her work aside. Her eyes flickered around the room like a caged animal set on escaping a trap. I could tell she had been pushed to the edge and worried what would happen next.
“Ms. Thompson, please resume your assignment.” He barely glanced up from the vid.
“Why?”
With anyone but Waxenby, there would be trouble. To give him credit, he smiled his sad little smile. “Ms. Thompson, please do it.”
She sneered. “I tell you what. I’ll do my work when you tell us why you sold out.”
The group collectively inhaled, and silence filled the room. Waxenby was a marshmallow; however, even he had limits. I put my hand on her arm, but she pulled away from my grip.
He stood up, pushed his sleeves up, and walked to the front of the room. “Well, Ms. Thompson, what would do you want to know?”
“Why you sold out. Why did you stop fighting and give up?” I think Waxenby caught her off guard by the change in her tone of voice.
He thought about it for a moment. “Hmm, sold out is it?” He pointed at Marcel, who frowned for a moment, rapidly tapping on the screen. He gave the thumbs up.
“Okay, while Wilson is busy with the pep rally, they won’t notice the audio is out. Let’s explain a few things about selling out to you, Ms. Thompson.” He paced a
bit, leaning heavily on his good leg, collecting his thoughts. “The war raged, and, frankly, the Gifted had lost. It was like the ants taking down a water buffalo.”
“How could we lose?” I said. The idea baffled me. How could people with Gifts lose to the type of people who lived in Redemption?
“First of all, about selling out, by the time the Reclaimers had launched their holy war against the Dissidents,” the word “Dissidents” was heavily laden with scorn, “I had retired.” His pacing returned him to behind the teacher’s desk.
“Retired?” Abby asked. “How do you retired from being Gifted?”
Waxenby gave a sad smile. “You never retire from being Gifted, but what you do with that Gift is up to you.”
He walked from behind the desk, leveraging himself up to sit on the wooden behemoth. “I moved to DC when I turned eighteen with my Gift and a burning desire to fight on the side of good. I thought I would be able to join a team and fight against the criminals.”
Abby cracked her knuckles. “Did you fight?”
Waxenby shook his head. “I did, but not in the way I had envisioned.” He paused as if he were headed back in time. “In Alabama, people considered me strong, but in the big leagues, I barely rated.”
Marcel raised his hand. “What can you do with your Gift?” he blurted out. His face got red enough to show through his dark skin, and he stuttered as he tried to cover his social gaffe. “If you don’t mind telling us.”
Waxenby laughed. “I have never understood the social niceties over asking about a person’s Gift, other than embarrassing people whose Gifts did weird things like turning their pee neon green.”
Everyone laughed, except Abby. Thoughts of Firework Farley on Saturday Night Showdown flashed before my eyes. Some of the Gifted on the show had abilities that could hardly be classified as Gifts. Mannequin Mark’s ability of being able to turn his skin to plastic might be useful, if he could do anything while he was transformed. Songbird’s high-pitched squeals could mess up people, but only if they didn’t have earplugs. And yet they were still in The Block as hardened criminals.
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