At the end of class, Master Kim had an announcement. “Ahnjoe. Sit down,” he told us.
I sat cross-legged and put my hands on my knees like everyone else. Well, everyone except Master Kim. He sat down like he was kneeling but with his behind resting on his lower legs and heels. His hands were laced together in an O in his lap. How could he sit like that? It didn’t look comfortable. Then again, I liked to hang my head off the end of the couch and let the blood rush to my head, which Mom said looked uncomfortable.
My stomach growled. I wondered what was for dinner and if Mom’s shift was going to be over early enough for her to eat with us. Maybe I’d get the cards out, and we could have a War rematch afterward. Or maybe I’d ask her to make popcorn and try to talk to her again about middle school.
“. . . belt test will be August fifteenth,” Master Kim was saying. “In the coming weeks, you’ll be learning all your requirements, including your poomsae, or form.”
Hold the phone. . . . Did he just say test?
I turned to my neighbor and whispered, “Did he just say—”
But my neighbor gave me look that said, “Be quiet.” So I looked at Master Kim and scrambled my brain to the right channel instead.
“If you are a new student,” Master Kim said, “please see me after class so I can give you a student handbook. Your handbook is your responsibility, not your parents’. Put it in a safe place and do not lose it. You will need it to study.”
I had to study? Over the summer?
I bet Cakes with Caroline didn’t have studying.
Master Kim called, “Yursit!”
The rest of the white belts kind of looked around, but the kids with colored belts got up. I figured yursit meant “stand up,” so I stood up, too.
The boy who bowed us into class was in charge again. “Class, charyut.” He stood straight with his fists at his side. Then he said, “Kyoonyae,” and bowed. Everyone followed his lead, and a few people said some word I didn’t understand.
Master Kim bowed. “Hae sahn! Class dismissed.”
Afterward the white belts lined up by Master Kim. Each time he handed someone a folder, he bowed. When it was my turn, I bowed, too. “Thank you.”
“Kamsahhamida,” he said. “That’s how you say thank you in Korean. And by the way, cheonman-eyo. You’re welcome.”
Sheesh.
IN CASE YOU’RE WONDERING
Mom didn’t make it home until after Dad put away the leftovers and started the dishwasher. There was no War or old-fashioned popcorn that night. Just Mom’s soft snoring coming from the couch.
STICKY NOTE TO SELF: WEAR WHITE UNDERWEAR ON WEDNESDAYS AND SATURDAYS
On Wednesday I had my second taekwondo class. For once I was ready to go someplace on time. And with the help of a few green lights, Dad and I even got to the community center ten minutes early. Master Kim was in the hallway.
“Eliza,” he called, motioning me and Dad over.
“Yes?”
“Yes sir,” Dad prompted, nodding at Master Kim.
“Yes sir,” I said.
Master Kim smiled and bowed. “Here is your dobok. You can change in the restroom. When you are ready, come find me, and I will put on your belt.”
I returned the bow and took the plastic bag with the uniform.
The bathroom stall was kind of small, and it took some Houdinilike twisting to get changed as quickly as I could. At the end of the first class, Mark had told me you do push-ups if you were late, and I did not want to find out if he was just trying to scare me.
The bathroom tile was cold from the air-conditioning. I put my shorts and flip-flops in the plastic bag. (I kept my T-shirt on since the dobok had a deep V collar. The last thing I wanted to do was flash my sports bra, thank you very much.) On the way out of the restroom, I pulled up the long top and checked out my backside in the mirror. I wanted to make sure you couldn’t see my pink underwear through the white pants. I found that when I was standing straight, I was okay. But if I leaned over, even just a little, the pink showed through. I groaned.
“Looks good,” Dad said when he saw me.
I glanced down. The sleeves and pant legs went way past my fingertips and toes. “It’s too big.”
“Not as big as Sam’s was,” Dad said.
Boy, that was the truth. Sam’s dobok top hung down to my knees. There was no way I could use it.
“Don’t worry,” Dad went on. “It’ll shrink in the wash. If not, Mom can hem it. Here. Let’s roll up it up in the meantime.” Dad knelt in front of me like I was a little kid and began rolling up the pant legs. I would have protested, but I didn’t feel like bending over and showing off my colorful underwear to the people behind me. In fact, I didn’t feel like moving at all. The dobok was so stiff. It was like wearing clothes made out of paper, and I hated anything that was even remotely uncomfortable. Even worse? It made a scritch-scritch noise when I walked.
“That’s the best we can do for now,” Dad said, straightening up. “Besides, it was lucky for us Master Kim had this extra one you could use.”
I almost asked why he and Mom were willing to buy Sam a dobok for his class but not decorator tips and a book for mine. And I really wanted to point out that Sam had ended up being the quitter, not me. But I figured it wasn’t the time or place. Mom is always reminding me about needing to find the right time and place to share what’s on my mind.
I held out my arms so Dad could roll the sleeves up, too.
“The pants hang too low,” I said.
“Well, just roll down the waistband a couple of times.” I could tell Dad was trying to sound all cheerful but getting irritated.
“You’ll see,” Dad said. “It’ll soften up in the wash, too.” He winked. “I’ll use extra fabric softener.”
I’d just finished rolling down the waistband when Master Kim walked over. He was carrying a folded white belt. “This is a dee,” he said. “Please raise your arms.”
Master Kim spread the belt across my stomach and wrapped the belt around my back and then back in front again. He was quick and precise. “It is tradition that a black belt ties on each new belt,” he explained. “White represents a new beginning.”
Before I knew it, Master Kim pulled in opposite directions, and my belt had a perfect knot. I don’t know how he did it, but the two ends hanging down were exactly even. I liked when things were even.
Sweet Caroline liked things even, too. Whenever she messed up a line of piping or cut a piece of fondant crooked, she’d do it over until it was perfect. I remember one show where she remade an entire wedding cake just because the color of the frosting was not exactly right. I would have been mad, but Caroline just looked at the camera, smiled, and said, “Creating something wonderful takes time.”
??? !!!
Master Kim started class with meditation. We were supposed to sit cross-legged and rest our hands on our knees, close our eyes, and think about breathing.
Church bells, it was boring! And every time I tried to concentrate on inhaling or exhaling, it was like I completely forgot how to breathe altogether. After about thirty seconds, I gave up and tried to remember how to spell breathe. Does it have an e on the end or not?
When Master Kim finally said, “Yursit! Stand up!” I jumped.
Thankfully we started moving after that. We did some stretching and then running. I had to keep my head down so I didn’t trip over my long pants, which had come unrolled.
“We’re going to work on escapes,” Master Kim said when we were done running. “Everyone find a partner.”
My chest still pounded from the running as I looked around. Most of the kids seemed to know each other. In an instant, the whole room had paired up! I was a lone sock. A single glove. I was trying to come up with a third thing when I heard my name.
“Eliza, please come here,” Master Kim said from the other end of the room. For one horrible, horrible second I thought I’d have to be his partner. But it turned out to be even worse.
That’s because standing next to Master Kim was none other than Madison Green.
With a big, fake smile on her face.
TIME OUT; REWIND
One day at lunch, I made the mistake of sitting too close to Madison and her friends.
One of the girls, Janet, walked by and squirted juice on the seat next to me. Then she started yelling at me to clean up my mess. That got the attention of the lunch monitor. I guess the girls didn’t want to get in trouble because Madison stood up and said, “I’ll get some napkins.” But Janet told her, “No. It’s Eliza’s mess,” and Madison sat back down.
When I was getting the napkins, the girls filled my lunch bag with trash.
But that wasn’t even the worst thing. Once we had a sub in social studies who let us spend the hour talking and playing Hangman. The girls were giggling over a note. I asked what was so funny, but they wouldn’t tell me. Tony swiped the note, which was written in this big, loopy handwriting. Madison had written that I should be called Every Day Eliza because I wore the same clothes to school every day. She swore she didn’t write it, but I knew it was her. And I’d never, ever forget the way she’d dotted her i’s with big swirls instead of dots. Most of her friends just put dumb hearts or stars. But I guess Madison just had to be different.
Even though Tony crumpled the note and threw it away, word got around. I tried to explain that I like to wear the same worn-in clothes because I want to be comfortable. I can’t stand tags or itchy material. But no one paid attention. And pretty soon everyone was calling me Every Day Eliza.
I tried to laugh.
I tried to pretend it didn’t bother me.
I begged and begged until I convinced Mom to take me shopping for a few new outfits. But the name still stuck like a rash.
People say you can’t judge a book by its cover, but I say when it’s shelved in the Mean Girl section you don’t have to check it out to know it’s gonna stink.
PARTNERS
I stared at Madison.
Where had she come from? I didn’t know how I could have missed her before.
“Eliza, you can partner with Madison,” Master Kim said, waving a hand her direction. “You two are similar size.”
“Yes sir,” Madison and I said at the same time.
Master Kim returned to the front of the room.
I looked at Madison’s waist. An orange belt. I quickly checked the belt poster hanging on the wall. Great. Orange was three whole ranks above white.
“Hi,” Madison said, still smiling.
“Um. Hey,” I replied.
“I’ve been on vacation,” she explained as if she’d read my mind. “We just got back yesterday.”
I was confused. She actually sounded kind of nice.
“Oh,” I said.
I looked down. Only one of Madison’s feet had painted toenails. I was going to ask why because I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Well, that’s not entirely true. But I didn’t think saying, “Great. I can’t believe I’m stuck with you,” out loud would be very polite. Plus I don’t actually say everything that pops into my head.
Fortunately Master Kim began giving instructions on how to escape from a wrist grab. Unfortunately, he didn’t talk for long.
When it came time to practice with our partners, Madison and I kind of stood there. I didn’t really talk to her at school much—even before the lunch-table thing or the note.
Madison glanced in Master Kim’s direction. “We should practice,” she said.
She thrust out her arm. “Here, you grab me, and I’ll show you what to do.”
I grabbed her right wrist with my right hand.
“First off, open your fist and spread your fingers as wide as you can,” she told me as she demonstrated. “That helps loosen the person’s grip. Figure out where their finger and thumb touch—that’s their weak point—and yank your hand through that spot quickly.”
Madison kihapped “High-shhh!”, pulled her arm from my grasp, and stepped back so she could be ready to run or fight me if I was really a kidnapper.
She made it look easy. Not that I was about to tell her that.
I grabbed Madison’s wrist a few more times. She escaped no problem. “Now you try,” she commanded.
I went over the steps in my head. Open fist and pull quickly. It took a little muscle, but my arm came free!
“Don’t forget to kihap,” Madison said.
“Oh yeah. Right. I keep forgetting that.”
It was a lie. I didn’t keep forgetting to yell each time I did something—I just didn’t want to. Master Kim said it was important because it helped focus our power and show confidence. But it made me feel like everyone was watching me. And no matter what some of my teachers or the kids at school thought, I didn’t like attention all the time.
My second attempt at a wrist escape was a little better. I gave a halfhearted kihap, too. Everyone’s yell was a little different; mine came out sounding like huuup.
I held out my arm a third time. Madison gripped it even tighter than before, but I still managed to get myself free.
I was about to try it again, when Master Kim walked over and stood behind Madison.
“Please demonstrate your technique,” he said.
I grabbed Madison’s wrist, and she escaped easily, just like before.
“Good,” he told her.
Madison beamed and then grabbed my wrist.
I planned what I was going to do: Open hand, pull, kihap, get ready to run. It all went smoothly in my head; but when I tried to pull my arm away, Madison’s fingers wrapped tighter around my wrist.
Hay bales! She wanted me to fail!
Now this was the Madison I knew.
No matter how hard I pulled or how loudly I kihapped, I couldn’t escape.
After five or six tries, Master Kim stopped me. I was hoping he’d scold Madison for holding on so tightly, but he didn’t.
“If you can’t escape right away, attack,” he said. “A good martial artist adapts.”
I’m guessing a good martial artist refrains from punching her partner in the nose, too, I thought.
After Master Kim left, I turned to Madison. “Why did you do that?”
“Do what?” she said, all innocentlike.
“Hold on so tight?”
Madison put a hand on one of her hips. “I wouldn’t be doing you any favors by making it easy,” she said.
Of course. Why would she suddenly do me any favors?
A LESSON IN FON-DON’T
The next morning was as gray and soggy as a soaked sock. I had to shove Bear’s butt to get her to go through the doggy door to do her business because the thunder made her nervous.
One of Dad’s Sticky Notes was on the cabinet: DON’T FORGET LUNCH. But I discovered his brown bag in the fridge when I went to get some juice. The kitchen lights were on, too. (Mom must have left before Dad did.) I turned the lights off. I love when the house feels all dark and cozy. Especially in summer.
I curled up on the couch and put in a DVD of the first season of Sweet Caroline Cakes. After finding out Madison was in my taekwondo class, I needed some cheering up.
After a few shows, I decided to dig out the cake-decorating book I got at the beginning of May, when Tony and I were doing our project. I was thinking about getting Tony a copy for his birthday in August. I figured the two of us would work things out before then. Not that we were going to hang out constantly or anything once we got to sixth grade. He was a guy after all, and I knew it didn’t work that way in middle school. But as long as we were friends, maybe things would be okay.
I stretched out on the living-room floor and flipped through the thick spiral book. There was a whole section on wedding cakes and another on birthday cakes, but my favorite section was the one on novelty cakes. I studied each page, trying to figure out how the bakers did it. One cake looked like a giant hamburger with a sesame bun and a side order of fries. Another one was shaped like a toilet! There was even one that looked like a news
paper sitting on grass. That one had a picture and writing you could really read. It said: BUSINESS NEWS OF THE WEEK: DAVE RETIRES.
The book said every great baker should know how to make fondant, so I decided to give it a shot. Fondant was the smooth doughlike frosting Sweet Caroline used all the time. She draped it on her cakes or cut all kinds of designs and ribbons out of it. When we were doing our project, Tony and I had helped one of the decorators at his parents’ shop make fondant. Big Frankie threw the ingredients into a mixer that was as tall as my waist. When I accidentally turned the machine on too high, Tony and I got covered in powdered sugar. It was hysterical.
There were two recipes in the frosting chapter. One was for marshmallow fondant (“a quick and easy version,” the book said) and the other one was for almond-flavored fondant (“for more experienced decorators”). After watching all those episodes of Sweet Caroline Cakes, I figured I fell into the experienced-decorator category.
We had almost all the ingredients: almond extract, light corn syrup, confectioners sugar, and shortening. We even had the unflavored gelatin because Dad made his own jellies and jams for Christmas presents. The only thing we didn’t have on the ingredients list was glycerin. I didn’t know what it was, but since the recipe called for only one tablespoon of it, I figured it couldn’t be that important.
Everything started out fine. I followed the recipe exactly and kneaded and kneaded until my fingers felt like they were about to fall off. But instead of getting a nice ball of soft dough, all I got was a sticky mess. I tried adding a little more confectioners sugar. And then I tried putting shortening on my hands so the fondant wouldn’t stick. These things didn’t help. Nothing did. It looked like someone melted taffy all over the kitchen counter.
I used my foot to open the cabinet under the sink where we kept the trash can and threw out the whole batch of fondant. Afterward I washed my hands and wiped down the counter.
Cake-decorating wasn’t much fun without Tony.
Eliza Bing Is (NOT) a Big, Fat Quitter Page 3
