my hair blond, and that would just fry the ends.”
I didn’t know if she was serious or joking, but I couldn’t stay. “Look, I have to be somewhere soon,” I told her, which wasn’t a lie; I had class tonight with my kali instructor, Guro Javier, and if I was late I’d have to do fifty pushups and a hundred suicide dashes—if he was feeling generous. Guro was serious about punctuality. “Can we talk later?”
“Will you give me that interview?”
“Okay, yes, fine!” I raised a hand in frustration. “If it will get you off my back, fine.”
She beamed. “When?”
“I don’t care.”
That didn’t faze her. Nothing did, it seemed. I’d never met someone who could be so relentlessly cheerful in the face of such blatant jack-assery. “Well, do you have a phone number?” she continued, sounding suspiciously amused. “Or, I could give you mine, if you want. Of course, that means you’d actually have to call me….” She gave me a dubious look, then shook her head. “Hmm, never mind, just give me yours. Something tells me I could tattoo my number on your forehead and you wouldn’t remember to call.”
“Whatever.”
As I scribbled the digits on a scrap of paper, I couldn’t help but think how weird it was, giving my phone number to a cute girl. I’d never done this before and likely never would again. If Kingston knew, if he even saw me talking to her, girlfriend or not, he’d probably try to give me a concussion.
Kenzie stepped beside me and stood on tiptoe to peer over my shoulder. Soft, feathery strands of her hair brushed my arm, making my skin prickle and my heart pound. I caught a hint of apple or mint or some kind of sweet fragrance, and for a second forgot what I was writing.
“Um.” She leaned even closer, one slender finger pointing to the messy black scrawl on the paper. “Is this a six or a zero?”
“It’s a six,” I rasped, and stepped away, putting some distance between us. Damn, my heart was still pounding. What the hell was that about?
I handed over the paper. “Can I go now?”
She tucked it into the pocket of her jeans with another grin, though for just a moment she looked disappointed. “Don’t let me stop you, tough guy. I’ll call you later tonight, okay?”
Without answering, I stepped around her, and this time, she let me.
Kali was brutal. With the tournament less than a week off, Guro Javier was fanatical about making sure we would give nothing less than our best.
“Keep those sticks moving, Ethan,” Guro called, watching me and my sparring partner circle each other, a rattan in each hand. I nodded and twirled my sticks, keeping the pattern going while looking for holes in my opponent’s guard. We wore light padded armor and a helmet so that the sticks wouldn’t leave ugly, throbbing welts over bare skin and we could really smack our opponent without seriously injuring him. That’s not to say I didn’t come home with nice purple bruises every so often—”badges of courage,” as Guro called them.
My sparring partner lunged. I angled to the side, blocking his strike with one stick while landing three quick blows on his helmet with the other.
“Good!” Guro called, bringing the round to a close. “Ethan, watch your sticks. Don’t let them just sit there, keep them moving, keep them flowing, always. Chris, angle out next time—don’t just back up and let him hit you.”
“Yes, Guro,” we both said, and bowed to each other, ending the match. Backing to the corner, I wrenched off my helmet and let the cool air hit my face. Call me violent and aggressive, but I loved this. The flashing sticks, the racing adrenaline, the solid crack of your weapon hitting a vital spot on someone’s armor … there was no bigger rush in the world. While I was here, I was just another student, learning under Guro Javier. Kali was the only place where I could forget my life and school and the constant, judging stares, and just be myself.
Not to mention, beating on someone with sticks was an awesome way to relieve pent-up aggression.
“Good class, everyone,” Guro called, motioning us to the front of the room. We bowed to our instructor, touching one stick to our heart and the other to our forehead, as he continued. “Remember, the tournament is this Saturday. Those of you participating in the demonstrations, I would like you there early so you can practice and go over the forms and patterns. Also, Ethan—” he looked at me “—I need to talk to you before you leave. Class dismissed, everyone.” He clapped his hands, and the rest of the group began to disperse, talking excitedly about the tournament and other kali-related things. I stripped off my armor, set it carefully on the mats and waited.
Guro gestured, and I followed him to the corner, gathering up punch mitts and the extra rattan sticks scattered near the wall. After stacking them neatly on the corner shelves, I turned to find Guro watching me with a solemn expression.
Guro Javier wasn’t a big guy; in fact, I had an inch or two on him in my bare feet, and I wasn’t very tall. I was pretty fit, not huge like a linebacker, but I did work out; Guro was all sinew and lean muscle, and the most graceful person I’d ever seen in my life. Even practicing or warming up, he looked like a dancer, twirling his weapons with a speed I had yet to master and feared I never would. And he could strike like a cobra; one minute he’d be standing in front of you demonstrating a technique, the next, you’d be on the ground, blinking and wondering how you got there. Guro’s age was hard to tell; he had strands of silver through his short black hair, and laugh lines around his eyes and mouth. He pushed me hard, harder than the others, drilling me with patterns, insisting I get a technique close to perfect before I moved on. It wasn’t that he played favorites, but I think he realized that I wanted this more, needed this more, than the other students. This wasn’t just a hobby for me. These were skills that might someday save my life.
“How is your new school?” Guro asked in a matter-of-fact way. I started to shrug but caught myself. I tried very hard not to fall back into old, sullen habits with my instructor. I owed him more than a shrug and a one-syllable answer.
“It’s fine, Guro.”
“Getting along with your teachers?”
“Trying to.”
“Hmm.” Guro idly picked up a rattan and spun it through the air, though his eyes remained distant. He often did that stick twirling when thinking, demonstrating a technique, or even talking to us. It was habit, I guessed; I didn’t think he even realized he was doing it.
“I’ve spoken to your mother,” Guro continued calmly, and my stomach twisted. “I’ve asked her to keep me updated on your progress at school. She’s worried about you, and I can’t say I like what I’ve heard.” The whirling stick paused for a moment, and he looked directly at me. “I do not teach kali for violence, Ethan. If I hear you’ve been in any more fights, or that your grades are slipping, I’ll know you need to concentrate more on school than kali practice. You’ll be out of the demonstration, is that clear?”
I sucked in a breath. Great. Thanks a lot, Mom. “Yes, Guro.”
He nodded. “You’re a good student, Ethan. I want you to succeed in other places, too, yes? Kali isn’t everything.”
“I know, Guro.”
The stick
