by Rena Rocford
I dug into that cold place of pure power and shut down my feelings. I’d been there before, first for dealing with everything when I lost my hand, then later for competition. Wrapped in ice, your opponent’s rage became a weapon easily used against them. I pulled on my frost and regarded Christine again. “You were saying?”
The gathered ballet bots recognized the shift and took a step away, leaving Christine alone to face me. She drew herself up, as though she’d come down from wanting to crush me and now she needed to gear up for the effort again. “I was saying that it’s no wonder you fence. You’re such a, such a one-handed hobby horse. Lopsided like that, it’s not like you could be on the rowing team.”
The ballet minions gasped. No one talked about my stump like that. They always made it a sideways jab, never head on. My fist ached with the need to pound her, but I pulled myself back.
I needed her.
Locking down my reaction, I reminded myself what was at stake. She could give me my dreams, and she didn’t know it.
“Honestly, it’s ‘left-handed hobby horse.’ If you’re going to insult me, at least get your idioms correct. And for the record, rowing just needs a special attachment when you still have an elbow.” I waved my stump at her. Most people found it unsettling, so I made sure she got a good look at it.
Christine leaned away, expecting something, but clearly not my head-on treatment of her words. People thought the lack of a hand was the deepest wound I’d ever received.
I took in each of the minions in turn, favoring them all with my ice-colored eyes one at a time. “Could you ladies give us a moment of privacy? I want to say something to Miss Neuve.”
The minions didn’t need to be asked twice. They were dying to be released from the failed battlefield. Christine actually grabbed for one, but they were lithe as cats and slipped out of reach. She turned to me, eyes like headlights through the soft lighting of the exhibit. I didn’t take my eyes off her, knowing that the direct approach unnerved people.
When the minions were safely out of earshot, I pursed my lips and broke eye contact. “My mom tells me you need a tutor.”
She deflated on the spot. “Sweet baby kittens! I thought you were going to eat me.”
“No junk food, I’m training.”
A scowl etched wrinkles into her face. “So, this is about my English class? My father hired you? Well, forget it. I’m not interested. I need to focus on dance. It’s what’s important. I can catch up on my school work after I’ve landed a spot in a real company.”
My teeth ground together. “It’s not that hard to do better. It just takes a little organization.”
“And he wants you as my tutor? What’s he paying you?”
I stared at the ceiling. “An opportunity. Look, I’m trying to get somewhere with my fencing. Surely you can understand what that’s like. So you just show up for some tutoring sessions, and I’ll help you pass a class. No big deal.”
She scowled at me like a dog who had been kicked too many times to trust the hand that fed it. “That’s it?”
“If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to pass a class I took last year. American Lit for juniors, am I correct?”
“Well yes, but—”
“The Scarlet Letter made a bit of an impression on me. With some time, I’m sure it will make an impression on you, too.” I twirled the pen through my fingers, demoting it from sword to pen. “Besides, I like poetry, and you need some composition to get through Brit Lit so you can pass two classes in one shot.”
“Why would I need poetry to pass English class? Poems don’t even need to be sentences.”
I stabbed the air with the pen. “‘Tis true, but to understand the English, you must first learn the Bard. ‘For never was a story of more woe, than this of Juliet and her Romeo.’”
Rochan turned the corner at just that moment, his eyes dancing. “Are you trying out for the play?”
A half smile caught my lips. “I’m afraid not. I have to start taking lessons in The City, and I don’t think they’ll cast me as Juliet. Though, I’d make a smashing Mercutio.”
Rochan winked. “How’d you know he’s my favorite?”
“Lucky guess. Though in all honesty, maybe I could try out for Tybalt.” I thrust my pen at him, and Rochan pretended to parry the “blade” away. Then he dramatically clutched at his heart and fell to the ground like a puppet on cut strings.
“Till next we meet.” I swooped my hand and tucked my arm into my belly as I bowed myself out.
“But you just got here,” Rochan said, picking himself up off the floor.
I nodded. “My mom just called.”
“Oh, sorry to hear.”
Sara tugged on his arm. “Maybe you could show me the back room.” She batted her eyes, and behind Rochan’s back, I made giant fake goo-goo eyes at Christine. The scowl that crossed her face scorched skin.
hursdays were the devil. Mondays were nasty because we already knew what was going to happen: Mondays were the “go wrong” day. Tuesdays were a sort of recovery from Monday. Wednesdays marked the middle of the week, all downhill, and Friday was The Day. But Thursdays were the day for endurance.
I took the next lunge under Maestro Ferrero’s steely gaze. She stared me down like I was an ant trying to climb up her sandwich.
“Again!”
I leapt forward careful to move from the tip of my weapon first. In foil, the tip of the weapon determined the ever powerful Right of Way. The idea behind foil was a duel to the death. Right of Way imitated the understanding that only idiots would thrust out recklessly against an opponent who had already claimed a killing blow. Said defender would first parry the blade before commencing with an attack of his or her own.
The rules were convoluted in the modern era where swords were blunted and the whole process was called by a judge with more power than the actual fencers. Still, it was the rule of fencing foil. Lead with the point.
She shook her head. “Faster. Again.”
I leapt at her command, probably the thirtieth such call to action in the past five minutes.
“Again!”
As commanded, I obeyed, thrusting my arm out for all I was worth. I wanted to impress her. After all, she could be the boost I needed to make a real impression, a win at divisionals and a shot at nationals. I held my form, glad for all the extra work I’d done on Tuesday.
“Fleche!”
Without a second thought, I dove forward, jumping off my forward leg into a falling run. The move was dangerous in some respects, but powerful. An unsuspecting foe caught off guard was a sitting duck with nowhere to retreat and not enough time to parry.
I followed it out for three extra steps, taking them easy and letting my thighs relax a bit. Endless lunges tended to make the quads cranky. I took long calculated strides back to the starting line. Finally, Maestro Ferrero nodded, pushing out her lips like a duck bill.
“As I feared.”
“What? What’s wrong?” I asked, my heart plunging to the floor.
She evaluated me and pushed her lips all the way up to one side of her mouth. “You’ve been fencing with the wrong weapon all this time.” She shook her head. “Your lunges are more like counter attacks, and your fleche is quite well developed for your age.”
“Wait, what?”
She nodded at me, taking in my feet, then up to my head. “You will fence epee. It has a slightly smaller field, but don’t let that fool you, that won’t mean it’ll be easy. You have the build for it—tall, long arms—and your fleche is already in good shape. We’ll still have much work to do, but I don’t think you should practice with a foil anymore.”
“Wait, just like that?”
“Listen, Cyra, Higgs sent you to me for a reason, and it wasn’t your exquisite Right of Way.”
I flushed. I did tend to counter attack, but thus far, it had paid off. A stray elbow, or a wide on guard, would throw off any attacker, and that could put their point out of position. In foil, Right of Way matter
ed, but it only mattered if you hit something. I fenced left-handed, and most people couldn’t adapt to fencing someone in their off hand. Because of that, I often counter attacked, relying on their inability to actually hit the target to keep me safe.
It worked some of the time, but not all the time.
It was also a huge concern of Higgs’ when I told him about my plans for college fencing.
Epee had no such constraint. Epee represented a duel to first blood. Only the fool who showed his hand and got pricked first would be called out. Death was not entirely on the table, so more risky behavior was common in epee. Everything was a target, even the toes, though only the brash, foolish, and bold ever managed it.
It was also the weapon I had likened to linebackers attempting to do ballet. Sure it may have helped their balance, but they just didn’t look right when they did it. In epee, the only thing that mattered was who hit whom first. They just didn’t care about Right of Way.
“But I’ve already put seven years into learning foil.”
She cocked her head at me. “It’s not like those years are wasted. Everyone starts with foil. And to be fair you don’t strike me as the saber type.” She gave me the assessing eye of someone sizing up livestock. “Epee is perfect for you, and you’ll be able to go further with it than with foil.”
“But it’s my senior year. You want me to pick up a whole new weapon and master it by the end of the year?”
She rolled her eyes at me. “Oh come now, Cyra, you quibble over mastering a new weapon? All you need to do is change your target. Go for the hands, the inner elbow—a head when it’s out of place—and you’ll be well on your way to mastering your new weapon.” She widened her eyes for emphasis. “In the mean time, I want you take home two practice weapons. Bring them back if they break, and have your mother buy you a competition weapon. I expect you to have a wired weapon when you come next week. There’s no point practicing unless you can practice how you’ll do it in competition, so get your gear in order.” She waited for a minute. “If you can, get two weapons. Your opponents would call you out for only having one, so you might as well get used to having two functioning weapons in your bag.”
Epees weighed more than foils, so she was tacitly reminding me that I’d need to get used to schlepping the equipment around. The difference was not minor, and I hesitated for just a moment before deciding that she’d warn any disciple of foil to start carrying two epees rather than just warning the gimp. After all, the weight of the bag didn’t make a difference. Either I could pick it up or I couldn’t. And if I couldn’t, I probably shouldn’t be fencing anyway.
But it was heavier. Roughly twice as heavy. I’d need to hit the weights as soon as I had an opportunity. Holding that weapon at arm’s length while fully extended in a lunge would be killer. Worse than that, though, would be next week, when she’d expect me to be mildly unprepared for the possibility. Next week’s lesson would be brutal.
I made a mental note to train like mad over the weekend.
And when would I fit in the tutoring?
Problem for another day. And I would see Christine tomorrow.
“Any questions?” she asked, almost challenging me.
I wondered if she’d run into people who were too stubborn. All I wanted was to be treated like a regular person. It was a missing hand, not a death sentence to be pitied over. As far as I could tell, she’d done just that, no going easy on me.
As such, I shook my head to indicate that I didn’t have any questions. I didn’t need any special treatment. I was just another fencer.
“Good, then you can borrow an epee for tonight. I want you going at the wood dummy in the corner. From now until October, Woody is your new best friend. Abuse him for his misjudgment.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
But even as I tormented the wooden mock up, focusing on the inner elbow and the wrist, I wasn’t sure if I was selling my dream short. At least fencing epee didn’t require a lamé. Those were expensive.
hird period English had all the flavor of Spam in a truffle sauce: high school students reading Shakespeare aloud. Honestly, Hamlet lost a lot when people stumbled through it. It wasn’t my favorite Shakespeare, but there was something visceral about the king who marries his brother’s wife to get the throne.
Sara stumbled through the part of Ophelia, and Rochan read Hamlet.
“I shall obey, my lord,” she said with batted eyes, giving the line a sinister and kinky twist, considering it was delivered to her father.
Mr. Bartlionus scowled down at Sara. “This is a racy play, Sara, but not that racy. The end of this scene is an indication of how Ophelia will be toppled by the struggles of her position. It also hints at a deeper madness. Is she crazy because she sees ghosts? Or is she torn because of the pressures society has piled on her without thought for the mortal bones that carry those weights?”
He waited for some miracle to indicate that someone really cared to debate his points. I took notes to look it up later when I went back through and read the play at home. I didn’t start debates with English teachers since Mrs. Sesquahanah decided she didn’t like me in sophomore year. Hint number one: do not profane the teacher’s beloved Silas Marner if one wishes a good grade in the class.
“None of the above, Mr. Bartlionus. Ophelia wants to give her virginity to Hamlet, and her father is warning her that while Hamlet may dabble in sex, the price for her to follow suit is steep. It’s an argument of sexism. Men want to marry virgins, but women rarely get the same courtesy.” I twirled the index finger in a vaguely suggestive way, and half the class laughed.
“Ah, so you think this is about sexism?”
“Her father says her leash isn’t as long as Hamlet’s. What else is that supposed to refer to?” I asked. Sara scowled at me. The next scene featured Rochan, and if we talked too long, she’d miss an opportunity to watch his pouty lips reading the words. He’d played Rosencrantz in the Little Theater’s production, but Mr. Bartlionus didn’t know he’d understudied for Hamlet. Sadly, they went the whole run without needing to call in the understudies. Rochan was using his flare today, but everyone around him stumbled.
“Of course, it’s sexism. When isn’t it about the difference between men and women? The Taming of the Shrew? Only Juliet is equal to her Romeo, and truly only because they made Romeo pathetic and not Juliet awesome. Women are treated differently.”
Christine kicked my chair. We could blow a whole class period talking about the sexist parallels between Shakespearean times and now.
Sara hung on Rochan’s arm every spare second, and my heart twisted when Rochan—my Rochan, brilliant, deep, and absolutely thoughtful—smiled back at her. How could he fall for a girl like Sara. And as for Christine? There was simply no hope. She was going to fail both English classes. Her father must have made a ridiculous contribution to the school to let them consider putting her in Senior English without first passing Junior English.
And that love sick puppy couldn’t manage to concentrate on anything. A full week, and she hadn’t managed to read even a few chapters of the Scarlet Letter.
“But what about the actual differences between men and women? Don’t you think it’s important to address them?” Mr. Bartlionus asked. I sat back in my chair. I’d thought he was on the side of the scholar, but now I knew. He was a member of the dead white male fan club for a reason.
“Which difference? The one where we can handle more pain, or the one where we have to bear the scars of lies told by men?” I mimed a pregnant belly with my hook. People always followed the hook, so if I gestured with it, people always noticed.
I really needed a prosthetic that could flip people off.
Maybe a glorious middle finger covered in rhinestones.
“Are you suggesting that the burden of parenthood falls more strongly to women than men? I thought we were equal and all that bra-burning stuff.” He waved his hands and rolled his eyes.
“It’s not like guys can give birth.”
“And that’s what Ophelia’s dad is saying.” He pointed triumphantly, grinning like a fool. “Women are different. They have been treated differently for reasons—not necessarily good reasons.”
Rochan spoke up first. “But isn’t that unfair? Why should women be treated differently because their anatomy is different?”
“It’s not a matter of should, but a matter of difference.” Mr. Bartlionus took a sad breath. “In truth, when a man has sex and gets a girl pregnant, there is little consequence, but the girl is entirely left with the burden. And worse, if the man should deny, or turn on her, the consequences of the time were enormous. If Hamlet said he didn’t do it, everyone would believe him—he’s the prince! If Ophelia tries to deny she’s pregnant, it’s a lie everyone will know soon enough. And worse for her, she will be considered tainted, dirty even. In their transgression, all the blame will be laid at her feet. That’s why her father is warning her.” He gestured around the class. “It’s also why I warn all of you.”
“But now we have paternity tests and condoms.”
He nodded sagely. “They fail, and we are talking about Hamlet. Rochan, if you will,” he said, pointing to Rochan.
Dark curls spilled into his face as he found his place on the page again. As his words poured through the room, Christine kicked my chair again and passed me a note.
He wouldn’t have stopped class if Sara hadn’t been such a love sick cow.
How sad is it when even the English teacher has to warn her?
I tried not to smirk, but there was a definite feeling like there was something that I could work with if she knew words like prophylactic. I scribbled back: Almost as sad as him needing to point out the difference between men and women as if we didn’t see Lord Polonius’s warning.
I slipped the note back. And as an added bonus, I knew what was going to be on the exam. Mr. Bartlionus wouldn’t tread so closely to a letter home to the parents without it being a really important topic in his heart. He cared about sexism. I’d have to tell him about fencing. I fenced mostly guys all the time. I was the highest rated woman at my salle, but there were other women with high ratings, and they’d won them against men.
