by Beth Vrabel
Master Waters turned to the class. “As you know, Mr. Raymond joined us only a few weeks ago. But, under Ms. Andros’s tutelage, he advanced quickly. Before class today, I asked Mr. Raymond to go through several of his beginner forms, some one-step fighting moves, and to show me some of the kicks and punches he has learned. He executed them well.”
The other fighters clapped, the foam gloves softening the applause. “Because of that, I’m pleased to give him the rank of yellow belt. Congratulations, Mr. Raymond.” Another round of applause.
I couldn’t help but glance at Jocelyn, who bounced on the balls of her feet and grinned. Max put his gloved hand on her shoulder. Still applauding, Jocelyn moved forward a half-step, making Max’s hand drop.
Slipping out my mouth guard, I said, “I owe it all to Jocelyn. Thanks for the extra attention.”
“You deserved it!” she shouted back. “I’m so proud of you!”
Lash Boy fumed.
Marshmallow persona aside, I was feeling pretty good going into my first official sparring lesson.
Jocelyn gave me the lowdown on how the class would go. Master Waters would pair fighters, who would have three-minute rounds on large red squares set in the middle of the blue mats that covered the gym’s floor. Two fights went on simultaneously, while the rest of the fighters sat on the side, watching and cheering. “Keep an eye on how the other fighters move. Once you know their style, you can use that to your advantage,” Jocelyn said.
I let the “keep an eye” comment slide, thanks to the quilt club’s insistence that puns are overrated. But I did allow myself a moment to picture truly keeping an eye on other fighters. I was sure I’d have an immediate advantage in the ensuing freak out.
“Why are you laughing?” Jocelyn asked.
“No reason.” Snort.
“Awfully cocky for your first time on the mat,” said Lash Boy as he sat just to my right.
“Don’t try to intimidate him,” Jocelyn snapped as she sat down on my left.
“I’m not.” Max pulled off his helmet and tucked it under his arm, making his bicep bulge.
“Whatever,” Jocelyn and I said at the same time.
All grumbling stopped as Master Waters whistled for attention in the middle of the mat. “All right, fighters. Ready for another Fight Night?”
Around me, kids sitting on the sides of the mat roared. I began to wonder just how much the helmet and gloves actually buffered direct punches and kicks. Like she could read my mind, Jocelyn leaned in and whispered, “The point is to fight with control. Make contact, but don’t use full force. You’re not going to get knocked out or anything.”
“Right,” I said. “No worries. Besides, I can take a hit.”
This time Max was the one who snorted.
First, Master Waters called on Jocelyn and a black belt named Henry. On the other mat, he called two orange belt kids (one level up from me now). I zeroed in on Henry and Jocelyn’s match even though it was much more likely I’d be fighting the other two. Jocelyn was like a blur, kicking and punching, twisting and dodging.
“She’s amazing,” I said under my breath.
Max pushed air out of his nose in a huff. “She needs to dodge.”
I crinkled my eyebrows. “Critical much? She’s incredible. She must’ve kicked him at least five times already.”
“Yeah,” Max said, “but she got kicked at least twice that many. She doesn’t duck or block.”
I turned back to the fight. As much as I hated to admit this, Max was right. Henry knocked Jocelyn again and again, but it was easy to miss because she didn’t even flinch. Just kept flying at him.
“I guess it’s because Henry isn’t using full force,” I said, thinking about what Jocelyn had said to me earlier. “You know, fighting with control.”
Max rolled his eyes. “Maybe they started out fighting with control, but they’re not anymore.”
Sure enough, Henry grunted as his side kick slammed into Jocelyn’s waist. Or rather, as Jocelyn slammed into Henry’s side kick. She twisted and landed a roundhouse kick, the top of her foot whapping him in the side of the helmet enough to make his head whip to the side. “Use control!” Master Waters barked.
The giant timer on the mat blared at that moment and the three minutes were up. Jocelyn took off her helmet, her face shining with sweat, and her smile glorious. She shook hands with Henry, who took giant gulps of air and rubbed at a spot on his ribs. He didn’t smile back, just muttered, “Good fight.”
Jocelyn, still grinning, sat cross-legged between me and Max on the side of the mat. “Geez, that felt good,” she said.
“What? Getting your butt kicked?” Max grumbled.
“Are you serious? Did you miss the way Henry was limping off the mat?” Jocelyn wiped her forehead with her arm.
“No,” Max said. “I also didn’t miss the way he landed obvious hits. You would’ve been out in thirty seconds if that were a tournament.”
Jocelyn had explained to me that at tournaments, the objective wasn’t to fight for three minutes like here during Fight Night; it was to be the first to land three hits or kicks (five if you were a black belt).
Jocelyn’s wide smile wobbled and began to crumble.
“Good thing it’s not a tournament,” I blurted. “I thought you were incredible.”
She bumped against me, her damp hair swinging and knocking me in the neck. “Thanks,” she said, then a little louder she added, “I appreciate the support.”
Max groaned.
“What?” she snapped.
“You’re supposed to be teaching the kid and you can’t even acknowledge that defense is just as important as offense. You can’t just stand there and be your opponent’s punching bag because you can take it standing up. You can’t just fight. You’ve got to protect yourself, too!” Max leaned into Jocelyn and hissed all of this, but every kid around could clearly hear him.
Two splotches of red flared on Jocelyn’s cheeks. She turned toward Max and hissed right back into his face, “You are not the coach. Do you understand that? You’re supposed to be my friend, but you are not my coach.”
Max swallowed, the bulge in his throat bopping up and down. Much more quietly, he said, “I thought I was more than just your friend.”
Jocelyn squeezed her eyes shut and turned toward the mats again. When she opened her eyes, she looked at the next fight already underway, not at Max. “I thought you were my friend, too.”
Max ground his teeth, his jaw clenching with the effort of swallowing down whatever he wanted to say next. What should I have done? Part of me wanted to reach out and grab Jocelyn’s trembling hand—whether it was shaking from the adrenaline rush of the fight or this whisper fight I was eavesdropping on, I wasn’t sure. Another part wanted to inch away from them both, knowing this wasn’t a fight about her taking too many hits on the mat anymore.
I started to slip off my marshmallow glove, the new Velcro screeching louder the slower I moved. “What are you doing?” Master Waters yelled, just as I slipped it off my hand. “You’re up, Mr. Raymond.”
“Good luck,” Jocelyn said as she turned to me. “Remember, be first if you can.”
“And dodge,” Max snapped.
I sucked in a mouthful of air before slipping in my mouth guard. I pushed the helmet onto my head, ignoring the way it made my headache pound even harder, and lowered the plastic shield over my face. I strapped on the glove again as I trotted out to the mat where the beginners were fighting. “All right, fighters,” Master Waters said. “As you know, this is Mr. Raymond’s first Fight Night.” Another round of roars from the group. “Good luck, Mr. Raymond. We don’t take it easy on newbies here at Waters Martial Arts. We’re kicking off your fighting career by going toe-to-toe with our very own pint-sized killer.”
Up popped Peggy. (Remember her? The pigtailed kid barking at me to “Dig! Dig! Dig!” on my very first practice?) She ripped out the pigtail elastics and slammed a bubblegum-pink helmet on. When she stepped onto the m
at—and I’m not making this up—she growled. A deep, guttural, I’m-about-to-kick-butt-and-take-names growl. I stepped backward. Master Waters pushed me forward. I’m pretty sure he laughed while doing so.
“Haha,” I said. “Very funny. Who am I really going to fight?” Peggy stood across from me, her head barely reaching my armpits. Upper belt or not, the kid would fly across the mat the first time I kicked her.
This time I knew Master Waters laughed. In fact, everyone did. Everyone but Jocelyn, who shouted out, “Use your legs! Don’t let her get past your kick or you’re in trouble!”
Seriously? I was going to fight a ten-year-old little girl? Peggy growled again as the timer dinged. She stormed toward me, a blur of side kicks. Kick, kick, kick, kick, kick! I backed away from her. Picture the whirl of a hummingbird’s wings, so fast you can barely register the movement. That was Peggy. Kickkickkickkickkick!
I panicked, back-stepping on the red square of the mat with Peggy in hot pursuit like a demonic doll. Bam, bam, bam! She nailed me in the ribs. I noticed her toenails were painted and sparkly for just a second before freaking out because she was totally after me again! I stepped onto the blue and Master Waters pushed me back in. “Fight, kid,” he ordered. “Fight!”
I twisted so my good eye faced Peggy’s whirling kicks of death. The shield steamed up from my panic sweats. Waiting until she was just about to slam me with her teeny tiny sparkly foot, I sidestepped, remembering Jocelyn’s endless drills with the handheld target—where she’d whip the target toward me in different directions and I’d sidestep and hit. Sidestep and hit. Sidestep-and-hit.
So I did. At the last second I sidestepped and made contact with my fist to the side of Peggy’s helmet. It knocked her helmet sideways a little. For the first time since the fight began, she lowered her foot. She readjusted her helmet. Her brown eyes narrowed, and she growled again.
And then I got my butt kicked by a ten-year-old in front of my dream girl and her boyfriend.
“Cah, cah, cah!”
Oh, joy. Gramps had showed up in time for the fight, too.
Master Waters pulled me aside after class. “You did well today, Mr. Raymond.”
I almost shoved off the hand he slapped down on my shoulder and said, “Yeah, right.” But then I remembered I was talking with Master Waters. “It didn’t feel like I did a good job, sir.”
Master Waters grinned. “Peggy’s been training since she was three. She’s a machine. Her biggest weapon is cuteness. No one expects her to be as fierce as she is.”
I nodded.
“There’s a lesson there, son,” Master Waters went on.
“Grow some pigtails?”
He looked remarkably like Max when he was annoyed. Teeth clenching and everything. “No,” Master Waters said. “What I mean is, Peggy knows she’s adorable. Instead of fighting it, she uses it. Take what could be a disadvantage and turn it on people you’re up against.”
“So you’re telling me to eyeball what sets me apart and exploit the heck out of it.”
“Exactly,” Master Waters said, not even blinking at the eyeball comment. Like I said, the worst thing in the world is having to explain a joke, so I just let it go.
Funny thing, after sparring, I noticed that my headache was completely gone.
Chapter Sixteen
Over the next few classes, Master Waters pulled me from going over forms and punches with the rest of the beginners to spar with different students.
“You pick up the forms much faster than the others,” he said by way of explanation. I didn’t mention that it’s because I have zero social life, so I pretty much go over my forms all night. But sparring is something you actually have to practice with another person.
The extra attention helped a lot. By our next Fight Night, I held my own against Peggy the Pigtailed Bringer of Pain. A month of intense classes later, I was sparring new opponents, even a few green belts.
I thought about what Master Waters said. Soon I saw my advantage (saw—haha! I just can’t help myself.). No one I fought wanted to make—or keep—eye contact. Therefore, I stared them down. And since we were so close while fighting, I could see where their eyes moved. Every single one of them let their eyes dart to wherever they were about to attack. Sometimes their eyes flicked to my head, cluing me in to block there. Other times their gaze was at my ribs, shoulder, or stomach. I became an absolute master of blocking. Sidestep-and-hit.
“That was awesome!” Jocelyn cheered for me a few months later when I fought Henry and didn’t die. The guy’s a black belt. Just landing a few hits here and there was amazing. Every punch Henry landed was on my right side and happened when I was on the offensive. Not bad, you know?
“Well, I had a pretty incredible coach,” I said. Okay, picture me here. Yeah, fights are only three minutes, but you’re talking about nonstop dodging, punching, kicking, whirling, ducking, and jumping for all one hundred and eighty seconds. Coming off the mat felt a lot like stepping out of a swimming pool. I was drenched, my legs and arms felt weighed down. I yanked off the helmet and face shield and fist bumped Jocelyn. (Honesty alert: part of me thought I probably looked pretty amazing—my bright red hair darkened with sweat, muscles tense and outlined on my arms, chiseled features shining. All these workouts were giving me actual muscles, broadening my shoulders, and making me look pretty tough, I thought. The gym was lined with mirrors that I was careful not to look at so as not to shatter the illusion and find out I looked more like when the General gets stuck in the rain.) I gave Jocelyn a rakish smile.
“It’s the blocking that sets you apart,” Max cut in.
Jocelyn’s face set and I knew she was about to go off on Lash Boy. It’s strange: at school, they were always perfectly in sync. Always together. Always smiling. Always choking-on-cotton-candy sickly sweet. But on Fight Night—or at least the Fight Nights I’d been to—they were ready to rip each other apart like a pair of lions.
Even weirder: Max and I were sort of becoming friends. I mean, it’s a tough thing to hate the person who went out of his way to make sure you got to the right class on time, thanks to that bright green electric tape. Then there were the Wednesday night classes, when Jocelyn taught the beginners and Max worked through sparring with me on another mat, under Master Waters’s orders. At first, he just went through the motions. But here’s the thing: Max Waters is such an incredibly, annoyingly good guy, he couldn’t help but high-five me when I landed my first tornado kick (yes, it’s as killer as it sounds). When we sparred each other, at first he just grunted out commands (“My ribs are open! Where’s your punch?”) and basically let me land punches and kicks on him. Soon, I was getting better, and he was actually huffing and puffing, dodging and ducking, as we fought. I saw we were pretty alike, both of us focusing entirely on the fight. Both of us full in.
One Wednesday as we waited for class to start at the gym, I saw him make a mistake on his math homework. We were sitting on the plastic chairs by the entrance, killing time. Max basically lived at the gym, so it wasn’t unusual for him to be doing his homework in between taking and teaching classes. I almost ignored the mistake he made, my gaze shifting to where Jocelyn was warming up on the mat. But then I remembered that electric green tape. I took a deep breath inside. “Take another look at number six. Remember, you’re solving for the slope of the line caused by the equation. Not for x or y.”
“What does that even mean?” Max rubbed at his eyes. “If I fail another quiz, Dad’s head will explode. Does your dad freak out over grades?”
I swallowed. “My dad’s not around,” I said.
“Oh. Sorry.” Max’s face flushed.
“I talked to him about a week and a half ago, but he never asks about grades or anything. I don’t think he even knows what I’m studying.”
“Sorry, man,” Max said. “I didn’t realize your folks aren’t together.”
“No, I mean he and Mom aren’t divorced or anything. They’re, like, sickeningly in love. He’s just doing an ass
ignment in Alaska.” For a second, I thought about the club’s quiltervention and almost spilled about Dad’s work, about going on assignment with him in the past, about missing him. “Never mind, it’s complicated.”
Max’s mouth popped open, but before he could ask a question or, worse, give another apology, I pointed to the problem. Maybe it’s the scientists-for-parents genes, but my math skills are tight. “Try getting just x and y on one side.” And that’s how I started sort of tutoring Max in math before karate classes.
Soon, he and I were fist bumping when we passed each other in the hall. Soon, I had a seat kicked out for me at his table in the cafeteria (never beside Jocelyn, of course). Soon, we were sort of friends, which made the whole nonstop crushing on his girlfriend extra awkward.
Before I knew it, Christmas was over (picture a Rudolphesque yard horse). Then Easter (Yep. Bunny-eared yard horse). Suddenly it was April (yard horse with flowery umbrella), and I wore a green belt, having passed my orange belt test, too.
Pushing aside all these errant thoughts and partly to distract Jocelyn from launching into a fight with my sort-of-friend Max (you didn’t forget where I was, did you? I just got off the mat after fighting Henry, the black belt), I said, “I wish I could lose the face shield.” I wiped at the steamed-up plastic with my uniform T-shirt. About a minute and a half in, it really fogged up, making it tough to keep eye contact.
“Yeah, well, you’re going to have to deal with it, right?” Jocelyn said.
“Looking good out there, Richie Ryder!” Gramps called from the back of the room. He made it a point to be there for every Fight Night—ever since the first time I got my butt kicked. I thought at first it was just because he loved seeing Peggy beat the stuffing out of me, but now he actually cheered for me—something that drove Master Waters nuts.
Master Waters glared at Gramps for calling out during class but without as much heat as usual. “Very nice, son,” Master Waters said to me. “Has Jocelyn or Max told you about the upcoming tournament?”
