by Beth Vrabel
“Um,” I said as he pulled into a parking spot, “do you want to come in?”
He shook his head. “Your mother will pick you up after class.”
“Oh, okay,” I said. “See you later.”
But he didn’t even say goodbye.
Chapter Eleven
Dad called while I was in the middle of practice warm up.
I heard the ringtone—a buffalo braying—and stopped mid-jumping jack to grab the phone. Finally, Dad within calling range!
“Where are you going?” my instructor, aka Jocelyn, barked at me. The dozen other kids froze with arms up and legs spread mid-stretch, mouths open, everyone facing me. Jocelyn crossed her arms. For a second, I thought I saw smoke billowing out of her flared nostrils.
“Um, it’s my dad.” I jerked my thumb toward my duffel bag where my phone was stashed.
“I don’t care if it’s Taylor Swift, you don’t leave the mat without permission.”
Now on its sixth ring, the phone brayed again. “Okay,” I said, and flashed her my sweetest smile. Dimple and everything. “May I have permission to answer the phone?”
Definite smoke from nostrils. “No.”
“Are you serious, doll?” Wrong move.
One hundred sit-ups, fifty push-ups, and a five-minute plank later, I began to thoroughly wish I had taken Alice’s advice not to call girls “doll” anymore.
The worst part? Everyone in the class had to do the extra work because of me. I swear, I felt the back of my head swelter under their glares. After the extra drills, Jocelyn ran us through forms—an orchestrated set of fight movements.
“You know we’re a sparring school,” she told the class after we went through the first five moves twenty times in a row. “But no one here gets to spar until you’re at least a yellow belt. To become a yellow belt, you need to know the basics.”
Let me tell you—I totally nailed the form. I picked it up way quicker than most of the people in the class, not that Jocelyn acknowledged it. Or that I pointed it out or anything. I was too busy trying not to make eye contact with anyone else. After class, an older man—maybe Dad’s age—slapped his hand down on my shoulder. This is it, I thought. They’re turning on me!
“Good job, son,” he said. “Being a newbie is tough. I actually tried to get a drink of water mid-class. Master Waters made us do drop-knees for fifteen minutes straight.”
“Dude, I know who’s going to keep the phone on silent mode from now on,” another guy in his twenties said.
“Gotta tell you,” a girl about my age confessed as she wiped sweat from the back of her neck, “I forgot to turn off my phone and I was sweating more at the idea it would ring than I was from the workout!”
I smiled at them, grateful they weren’t clobbering me. “Thanks, guys.”
“Can you believe Miss Andros’s face when new guy called her doll?” The girl laughed to the others. Took me a bit to realize that Miss Andros was Jocelyn. “OMG.”
They trickled out of the studio one by one. Soon it was just me waiting for Mom. I texted her and even broke down and actually called her, only to have no response. Too late. I remembered she had left her phone at home. I was stranded.
I considered calling Gramps, despite the evil eye he had given me earlier, but then Jocelyn came from the back of the studio wearing her sparring gloves. Again and again she punched a target.
“Miss Andros!” I called.
She paused and sighed. “No one else is here, Ryder. You can call me Jocelyn.”
I kicked off my sneakers. “Can I hold a target for you while I wait for my mom to pick me up?” I asked.
She shrugged. “All right.”
Fifteen minutes later, Mom still wasn’t there, and I was an expert-level handheld target holder. I held the target perpendicular to the ground to catch Jocelyn’s wicked fast ridge-hand hit (think: hand stretched out taut and whipped into the target). She hit the target so hard my hand went flying. The second I got it back in place, she whipped it again.
“Want to have your butt kicked?” she asked between huffs of air. But she didn’t say butt, if you know what I mean.
“Excuse me?” And here’s the thing: maybe my voice cracked there. A lot. Maybe I backed up in a hurry, too.
Jocelyn’s head jerked back and for a second she was statue still. Then she burst out laughing. Not a cutesy giggle, either. A bellowing, massive can’t-breathe guffaw. “Let me try that again,” she said. “I said, ‘Want to hold an axe kick?’ Axe kick.” She demonstrated, lifting her leg straight up to her shoulder and ramming it down in a straight line. “That’s an axe kick. I asked if you’d hold the target for one.”
Still softly laughing, she wrapped her fingers around my wrist and turned it so I was now holding the target parallel to the ground. In slow motion, she did the kick onto the target.
“Oh, right,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. I tried to play it cool but couldn’t. “You know I almost wet myself, right?”
Jocelyn snorted, then erupted into the bellowing again.
“And you sort of sound like a donkey when you laugh,” I added.
She held her stomach and bent at the waist. “If you could’ve seen your face!”
“You’re scary, okay? You’re really scary.” At that moment, though, she was just beautiful. Her shoulders rising and falling with laughter. Her face shining and red, hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. She looked so … happy.
Of course, I ruined it. “I heard about what happened to you. To you and your brother.”
Jocelyn again turned to a statue. Her face, so shining and happy just a second before, now looked distorted. Like her face didn’t know how to shift so quickly from joy to sorrow.
“I’m sorry,” I said lamely. “I wish I didn’t …” I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” I said again. “It really sucks …”
For the longest second ever, Jocelyn kept that statue pose. Then she nodded. “Yeah, it does.” Gently, not really into it, she lobbed another axe kick onto the target I held. Soon she was back to her usual pace of whamming the target. I stood there, my stupid tongue thick and useless, wishing I could think of something to say instead of just blurting the worst possible thing. It really sucks. Who freaking says that? Me. I wished Mom would show up.
Eventually Jocelyn stopped, out of breath again. I thought this would be it, where she told me she hated me and asked me not to come back to Waters Martial Arts.
Instead, she ran her hands through her hair, flicking the sweat off her fingers. She smiled softly and looked at me straight on. Not doing that odd flickering look most people do when they know about Artie. Just a straight-on look. “Most people,” she said, “when they find out, they say something like, ‘Everything happens for a reason,’ or something equally stupid. But they should say what you did, you know? That it sucks. Because it does. It sucks.”
She grabbed the target from my hand and held it outright. “All right, so you saw about a thousand ridge hand hits. Let me see one.”
I didn’t say anything back, just stared at her stupidly for a second or two. Then I slammed into the target. Next to the powerful thuds she had generated, my ridge hand was pathetic. Her arm didn’t even move. But she didn’t laugh at me or comment on how much redder I’m sure my face just got. Jocelyn talked me through pivoting my hips and shifting my weight into my shoulder instead of my hand. Neither of us stopped, even as the door to the studio opened and closed and the advanced class trickled in. Around us, they began their own warm-ups.
Speaking of warming up, my glasses got so foggy, I tossed them on top of my duffel bag.
“Can you see without them?” Jocelyn paused.
I nodded, feeling my hair damply flop on my forehead. “Yeah, they’re just plain lenses, no prescription or anything.”
Jocelyn’s forehead crinkled, so I explained. “Sort of a protect-the-spare idea. Since I only have one eye, I wear glasses all the time to give Artie a little boost in protection. If something happens
to my good eye, I’d really be screwed.”
Jocelyn’s mouth popped open for a second, then closed. “That stinks,” she said quietly.
This time I shrugged. “No biggie.” And it’s not. Wearing glasses I don’t need is the least of what sucks about my situation. I didn’t mention my left eye already has a lowered acuity thanks to the tumors docs zapped when I was kid, but glasses can’t fix that. Or that I get headaches when I have to read too much or stare too long at the computer. Or that I didn’t know if the headaches were visual fatigue or the end of my remission. Or that I deleted Dr. Carpenio’s message.
I hit the target a little harder after that.
“Can I ask you a question?” Jocelyn asked as I gulped down some water a few minutes later.
I braced myself for the do-you-have-superhuman-hearing question. Instead, her eyebrow popped up. “Why do you call it Artie?” She pointed to my fake eye.
Half my mouth pulled back in an involuntary smile. “Artie, like artificial eye.” I flicked water from my bottle toward her, making her laugh.
“Does it have to have a name?”
“Don’t listen to her, Artie,” I whispered, cupping my hand toward Artie. “Of course you deserve a name.” Dropping the whisper, I said, “I worked through a ton of names, but they just didn’t roll off the tongue the way Artie does.”
“Oh, really?” Jocelyn crossed her arms like she thought I was teasing her.
“No, I’m serious!”
“Like what?”
“Um, well, first it was sham sphere. Then synthetisphere. Concocted cornea.” I leaned against the benches and crossed my arms. “None of those are real names, you know? Too much of a mouthful.”
Jocelyn nodded. I saw her lips twitch like she wasn’t sure it’d be okay to laugh. “Did you consider Eye-rene? Or Eye-velyn?”
I tilted my head at her. “Are you implying that my eye is a girl?”
“If the shoe fits,” Jocelyn hiccupped. “Or socket, I guess.”
“You’re a terrible person, you know that?” I shook my head in mock judgment as Jocelyn cracked up.
Huh. Wouldn’t have pegged her as a snorter.
By the time Mom finally showed up, rushing through the door with hands fluttering—“I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry! Lost track of time!”—I had mastered the axe kick, too. Jocelyn had me doing drills of ridge hands into axe kicks. I felt, more than saw, Max watching us. Master Waters, however, was right next to us, arms crossed and obviously watching.
“Good job,” he said after I asked Jocelyn if it was okay to leave. I wasn’t sure who he was complimenting—me for working so hard or Jocelyn for the training.
“Wow,” said Mom, when I jogged off the mat, stopping just in time to turn and bow toward Master Waters like I had seen other kids do before leaving. Mom handed me my glasses, lenses wiped clean. Behind us, kids shouted and grunted as they fought.
“Some of those punches looked fierce. Remind me to order you some goggles,” she said.
Yeah, like that’s going to happen. No way would I be reminding her to buy something that would make me and Artie stand out even more than we already did.
Gramps was in his recliner, the General curled on his lap, when we got home.
A sinking feeling in my stomach churned away when I saw him. Yeah, the old man’s a pain in the axe kick, but he’s not all bad, right? I sat down on the couch closest to his chair.
“Hey!” I said, shimmying my butt a little. “I sank a little! We’re breaking in the couch!”
Gramps swiveled away from me.
Fine. I guess he still wasn’t talking to me.
I texted Dad.
Sorry I missed your call.
After about ten minutes, I tried again.
Dad, can u talk?
Nothing. I put my phone on the super lacquered coffee table and tried to tune into Gramps’s “program” (that’s old man speak for show). This one was a quiz show where families tried to be first to answer questions correctly. They all high-fived each other or hugged when they got one right. Whenever they got a question wrong, they banged on each other’s backs and said, “Next time, buddy!”
I shook my head. “You know in real life they’re thinking, ‘What an idiot!’”
Gramps didn’t say anything. The General lifted her leg and licked her butt, eyes steady on me.
I leaned forward and picked up my phone. Maybe I forgot to turn it off silent after karate and missed Dad’s text. Nothing.
Tossing it back on the coffee table, I stretched out on the couch. It was nearly comfortable, until the nubby fabric brushed under my T-shirt. “Hey, did you hear about those cool new corduroy hats?” I asked.
Gramps grunted.
“Yeah,” I said. “They’re really making headlines.”
Silence.
“Head … lines.”
Silence.
Even though I was expecting it, the ding of my phone made me nearly jump out of my skin. Quicker than I thought possible for a geezer, Gramps swiped the phone off the table. He glared at it. “Just a picture of your girlfriend.”
I yanked the phone out of his hand, half expecting a picture of Jocelyn. But it was Alice, making her dog Tooter wave a paw in my direction. I didn’t bother replying, just dropped the phone back on the table.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I muttered.
Gramps twisted away from me. “Who were you expecting?” he asked. On the television, a dad jumped up and down, wrapping his teenage son into a huge bear hug after correctly identifying the capital of Malta. (Valletta, for those of you playing along at home.)
I didn’t answer.
“Your dad?” Gramps supplied anyway. He puffed noisily out of his nose and flicked his hand like he was shooing a bug. “What? He hasn’t called you in a few days?” Still looking at the screen instead of me, he shook his head. “Been years, boy, since he called me. That is, ’til he needed something.”
“Is that why you strike up conversations with the yard horse?” I asked, my voice hard and mean. The old man’s hands fluttered up like I shocked him or something. I guess I had. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I just don’t like you talking about my dad that way.”
The old man nodded without looking at me and didn’t say another word that night.
Chapter Twelve
Three months into the school year, and Gramps’s ’70s bungalow started to feel like home. I even adjusted to the idea of being a Papuaville Fighting Guinea Pig. I’d mastered going down the down stairs and up the up stairs at school. I hadn’t caused bodily injury to Miss Singer in several weeks. And Jocelyn was still the rookie coach at Waters, which meant I never missed a practice. The only thing missing still: friends.
Now listen, I don’t mean to brag much, but at Addison, making friends was not a problem. Even before Addison—before Artie—friends were never a problem. I’m what you might call charming. Flash of the dimple here, quick joke there, and boom. Friends. Maybe not known-you-forever friends, but buddies all the same.
Until, of course, I moved here.
Apparently when there’s a hometown hero like Max and on your first day you manage to flirt with his girl and get him framed for bullying, as well as make a teacher pass out by popping out your own eyeball, then get all whacked-out excited to be in quilting club, you’re treated a bit like a freak.
I know, right? The injustice of it all is troubling.
Which makes moments like this one that I was in—gym class—oh so much fun.
Like I said before, I don’t need a whole lot of special treatment because of my vision. I just need a front-row seat in the classroom, one that’s to the right of the room so my left eye can take in the action. Papuaville Middle School does a lot of work on laptops and they had to special order one with a larger screen for me—fourteen inches instead of ten—but that’s really it. Except for gym class. I’m supposed to be exempt from most sports with flying balls, since they’re pretty much impossible for me to play. Only Mr. Chip
ps was one of those teachers who didn’t actually read his paperwork. He was one of those teachers who had been at the job long enough to be beyond proving himself but not so jaded that he was trying to show up the other teachers by doing things like reading the forms detailing the accommodations I needed to compensate for Artie and the low vision in my real eye. He was in that happy, lazy medium. And I was one of those kids who sort of clung to the notion that I might actually have gotten better at gym class since last year. That maybe I didn’t actually need those accommodations after all. That this year I could skip running laps during the tennis section and do push-ups during the dodgeball division.
So I never quite pointed out that I have a visual impairment.
Mr. Chipps’s last section was badminton. The first couple classes, I just sort of hung out in the back. “Come on, now,” Mr. Chipps had said. “Let’s show some Guinea Pig pride! Just keep your eye on the birdy, son.”
I thought at first he was joking. I almost congratulated him on the hilarious choice of phrasing.
“You just need some motivation,” Mr. Chipps had said. “I’ll put you with a stronger partner. Max Waters! You’re with Richie Ryder.”
Both of us groaned. “No way,” said Lash Boy, throwing up his hands. “I’m already partners.” He grabbed the kid closest to him, who turned out to be Marshall Lindstern. Let me just tell you, this was the first time Marshall Lindstern had been chosen as anyone’s partner in as long as I’ve been in class. He squeaked a little in surprise.
Everyone around us took a huge step back from where I was standing. I checked quickly to make sure I wasn’t showing signs of leprosy or foot-and-mouth disease. Nope, usual freckled skin and ginger hair. I sniffed casually at the pits. Still fresh. Yep. Dad could come home from Alaska any time and study middle school gym class for some insight into herd mentality: if Max didn’t want to be my partner, neither did anyone else.
“Oh,” Mr. Chipps said, as surprised as anyone—except maybe Marshall Lindstern—that the school’s biggest, most competitive guy chose the skinniest, smallest kid to be his partner. “All right.” He then jerked a thumb at Ryan Cashew.
