For me, I knew that time had come.
I took a breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth, relaxing my body. I figured I had one chance, one shot. I had to make it good.
Rat Face was finished. The syringe was full. He laid the vial down on the bureau. He was holding the syringe with the needle in the air. There was a droplet of clear liquid on the tip of the needle. He was watching it closely, warily. He didn’t want it to fall on him.
Chunky’s eyes were moving back and forth between the needle and me. He had a look of gleeful anticipation on his stupid face.
“Oh, boy,” he said. “This is gonna be so good.”
Rat Face grinned and came forward, holding the syringe, watching the syringe, walking slowly and carefully as if he were balancing on a rope. “Get ready, punk,” he said in his breathy voice. “You’re gonna be screaming like an opera singer in a minute.”
He came forward another step. I watched him, waited. I kept my body relaxed, breathing in, breathing out. Believe me, it wasn’t easy. I was so scared, I felt as if my throat was closing shut.
Rat Face carried the needle another step toward me and another. He was close enough now so that I could’ve lifted my free foot and kicked him—but he wasn’t where I wanted him to be. It had to be just right. I only had that one chance.
Rat Face came closer, holding the syringe up. He was just off to my right side. He was reaching for my right wrist with his left hand, ready to take hold of me, ready to inject the poison into me.
“All right, my friend,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “This’ll only hurt for about an hour. Then you’ll be dead.”
Chunky laughed stupidly at that. He was watching the whole thing like a kid watching fireworks.
Rat Face took another step. Perfect. He was right where I wanted him.
I snapped my leg up fast and hard, a lightning snap kick that flew up smack between Rat Face’s legs. I threw that kick with enough force so that it would’ve hit him in the chin if nothing had stopped it. But his groin stopped it. The kick landed with full force right where it hurts the most.
It happened so fast—it took them so completely by surprise—that Chunky was still smiling as Rat Face’s eyes went wide in agony, as his mouth went open to form an enormous O. Then Rat Face dropped the syringe. It shattered on the floor, the clear liquid spilling out of it with a heart-stopping sizzle.
The smile started to fade from Chunky’s face. His stupid eyes looked even stupider. He still hadn’t processed what had just happened.
Meanwhile, Rat Face grabbed his middle and doubled over. He bent so low, his head moved right past my hand. That’s what I was waiting for.
Straining against the strap that held my wrist, I reached out and grabbed Rat Face by the throat. It was a perfect catch. I got him in a pincerlike grip called the dragon’s claw. It held the front of his throat tight, right under his chin. His wide eyes went wider still. His tongue appeared in the open O of his mouth. He made a noise. “Ack,” it sounded like. A sickly flush began to rise into his brown cheeks.
About one second had passed since I’d thrown my kick. Finally, Chunky was beginning to realize that things were going wrong.
“Hey . . . ” he started.
“Shut up,” I said. “Shut up and listen. I can kill him now. You hear me? All I have to do is close my hand, and I’ll rip his throat out and he’s dead.”
“Ack! Ack!” said Rat Face, struggling weakly in my grip.
“What are you doing?” Chunky yelled. “Let go of him! What do you think you’re doing?”
Scared now, he started backing away from me, toward the door.
“Take another step and I’ll do it!” I said.
“Ack!” said Rat Face, reaching a hand out toward Chunky, trying to tell him not to move.
I looked at Rat Face. He was bent over, clutched in my closed fist, turning darker and darker. His hands flailed in the air as he fought for breath.
“I’m going to count to two and kill you,” I told him. “Look in my eyes if you think I’m kidding.”
He looked in my eyes. I could see the terror flood his features.
“Undo the strap on my wrist,” I told him.
Chunky took another half step backward toward the door.
“Don’t even think about it!” I said—and he stopped. I turned back to Rat Face. “One . . . ” I said.
Rat Face’s frantic hands fumbled their way to the strap on my right wrist. It took him a second to steady his fingers enough to do the job. A second later, the strap came loose.
Heaving the right side of my body up off the chair, I hurled Rat Face across the room. He smashed hard into the chest of drawers and collapsed to the floor. He lay there, panting, clutching his throat with one hand and his midsection with the other.
I started to undo the strap on my left wrist.
Chunky saw his moment. He was stupid—but nobody’s that stupid. He turned and ran for the door.
There was nothing I could do to stop him. I just kept working as fast as I could. I got the strap off my left wrist.
Chunky threw open the door and ran out of the room.
I got the strap off my left ankle.
I heard Chunky screaming, “Help! West is getting away! Help!”
I leapt out of the chair. A fierce energy punched through the core of me.
I was free.
I ran to the open door. In another second, I was out of the room. There was Chunky, turning this way and that, shouting and shouting, “Help! West is escaping! Help!”
He turned and we were face-to-face. There was one second in which his mean, stupid features went blank with fear.
Then I hit him. I balled my hand into a tight fist and brought it down on him from the side—a hammer-strike, we call it. It thudded against his temple. His eyes flew up, went white. His legs turned to spaghetti. He dropped to the floor like a marionette with cut strings. He lay there still, unconscious.
But it was too late. His call for help was already being answered. I heard what must’ve been half a dozen people running toward me—thunderous footsteps getting louder and louder.
I looked around. I was in an empty hallway with solid walls of cinder block. But there, at the end of the hall, was a black square—a window with the panes painted over. That’s what I thought it was, at least.
The footsteps got louder and louder. I could hear someone shouting, “Stop him! Don’t let him get away!”
I started running for the black square.
CHAPTER SEVEN
My Karate Demonstration
Another flash. Another chunk of the past, of that last day, went bolting through my terrified brain.
It was funny. Now, here, with my life in danger, with guards pounding down the hall to catch me, with terror coursing through me like the blood in my veins—now, the last day I could remember seemed to me a day of peace and calm. Everything blessedly ordinary. Everything blessedly serene.
At the time it happened, though, it was different. At the time it happened, I was scared out of my wits.
It was first period at school, the morning assembly. I was standing backstage in the school auditorium. I was waiting for my karate demonstration to begin. Principal Woodman was onstage at the podium, making the day’s announcements before introducing me. I had already changed into my gi. It felt kind of strange to be wearing the loose-fitting fighting uniform here in school. It felt as if I’d forgotten to change out of my pajamas. I kept checking and rechecking the knot in my belt to make sure it wouldn’t fall off. It was a black belt—the highest rank I was allowed to reach at my age. There was a red stripe in the center of it to show I was still a junior, under eighteen. I found the sight of the belt—the reminder of my high rank—reassuring. I kept telling myself: I know what I’m doing. There’s no reason to be so nervous.
But I was nervous. I was as nervous as I’d ever been in my life. I was using every breathing and focus technique Sensei Mike had ever taught me, trying to keep m
yself relaxed and calm and ready—and it still wasn’t enough. “It’s all right to have butterflies in your stomach,” Sensei Mike told me once, “but you’ve got to make them fly in formation.” In other words, marshal your nervous energy to give your techniques extra force. That was easy enough to say, but just then it felt as if my butterflies were crazy out of control, rollicking around in any looney-tune way that happened to strike their butterfly fancy. I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to perform my kata. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to walk out onstage.
The trouble was this: I could see her. Beth Summers, I mean. I could look out through a gap in the curtains and see her sitting there in the front row. The other two class officers were sitting to the left of her: class president Jim Sizemore—hyper-smart but way too full of himself—just beside her, and the ever-nerdy-but-occasionally-hilarious Zach Miliken, the treasurer, in the next seat over.
Beth was turned away from them. She was turned to her right. That’s where her friends were sitting. Marissa Meyer and Tracy Wynne. Marissa had long straight dark hair and a perfect oval of a face, like a girl in a portrait. Tracy’s hair was also long and straight but golden blonde, and her face was shaped like a valentine. They were both beautiful, two of the prettiest girls in school. Pretty, smart, mega-popular. Heads of about a hundred school organizations and charity projects, not to mention captain of the volleyball team (Marissa) and chief cheerleader (Tracy).
They were nothing compared to Beth, though. Not to me anyway. There was something special about Beth, about the way she looked, about the way she talked, about the way she just was. Whenever she was around, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I couldn’t say why, exactly. She wasn’t glamorous or anything, not like her two friends. Her hair was a sort of ordinary honey brown. It was curly and fell to about her shoulders, framing her face in waves and ringlets. Her eyes were blue. Her features were smooth and straight. Her figure, in a knee-length skirt and a pink sweater, was graceful. But there was something else, something more, that made me stand backstage and peer out at her, getting more and more nervous as the moment for me to do my karate in front of her got closer and closer.
It was just how nice she was, I guess. You could see it whenever she smiled, hear it whenever she talked. Marissa and Tracy—they weren’t mean or anything. But they weren’t like Beth. Beth was always warm and interested in what you were saying. She made you feel like you were the only person in the world she cared about. And I’d never known her to say a cruel thing either—not once, not to anyone, not even to her little brother, Arthur, who was a complete pain and totally deserved it.
Anyway, I’m going on and on about her, I know. But she really was nice, and it made her beautiful, more beautiful even than the others. So I stood backstage, peeking out through the gap in the curtains and just kind of gazing at her like I was some kind of big stupid dog, or some big stupid something, anyway. And the more I gazed at her, the more nervous I felt. Because I had this sneaking suspicion that I was about to walk out on that stage and make a total idiot of myself right there in front of her. I could just feel it: I hadn’t had time to practice, and I was going to make some stupid mistake or split my pants or fall smack on my pratt or something. And I could already picture the way she’d look at me—nicely, you know, but with pity in her eyes. She would pity me while all her friends and all the other kids around her laughed and laughed.
All at once, I came out of my trance and realized that Principal Woodman had begun to introduce me. Of course, that didn’t mean I would have to go on right away or anything. Mr. Woodman never said something with a single word if he could say it with ten. Plus he stammered, making every word seem like ten anyway. And he never said anything right the first time and always had to go back over it a second time and correct it. So I figured I still had a few seconds at least—a few seconds left before I went out there and made a fool of myself in front of Beth and everyone else.
“We have a spectral tree for you today,” said Principal Woodman. “A special, I mean, a special tree—a treat—a special treat for you. A special treat.” He was a tall, thin, pale guy with thin reddish hair and a kind of dopey smile stuck permanently on his face. Whenever he spoke, his body waved back and forth behind the podium like a sapling in a breeze. “Our own Harley—Charlie—what am I talking about?—why did I say Harley?—Charlie— Charlie West is here today—as always—I mean, he’s always here, of course, he goes to school here—but today he has a spectral treat in store for us. He’s going to—not spectral—special—why do I keep saying spectral?—a special treat—and he’s here and he’s going to perform some judo.” He glanced over his shoulder, through the gap in the curtains, to where I stood backstage. “Or is it karate, Charlie? Karate. Not judo. He’s going to perform some karate in a spectral . . .”
Well, I won’t tell you the whole thing. It went on like that for another few minutes. And with every word, I felt my butterflies going crazier and crazier and my muscles getting tighter and tighter until I thought I was just going to go out onstage and stand there shivering like a plucked string. I tried to distract myself with getting ready. I pulled my three heavy cinder blocks closer to my feet. I pushed my elbows back, stretching out my shoulders. I forced myself to take deep breaths, in and out, in and out.
Finally, Woodman said, “So here he is—Harley— Charlie West.”
There was loud applause, even some cheering. I picked up two of the cinder blocks, one in each hand, and carried them out onstage.
It took me a few seconds to position the blocks on the stage floor. I set them up to the far right, directly in front of where Beth was sitting. The cinder blocks were part of my grand finale, and I wanted her to have a good view of it.
While I was setting the blocks up, the applause died down. Now there was just a nerve-racking silence in the auditorium and the sound of me adjusting the blocks on the floor. When I was done, I had to go backstage again to get the third block. By the time I came out, I could hear the audience fidgeting in their seats and murmuring to one another. They were already bored.
I felt a line of sweat run down my back—and I hadn’t even started my kata yet.
Then someone—Josh Lerner, probably—shouted out, “Go get ’em, Harley-Charlie!” and everyone laughed and I laughed with them, but I felt my cheeks get hot.
I forced myself not to look at Beth to see if she was laughing too. As coolly as I could, I laid the third cinder block across the top of the other two. Then I walked to the podium where Mr. Woodman had been. I had to clear my throat before I spoke, and the sound went into the microphone and came out sounding like a roll of thunder. There was more laughter and more heat in my cheeks and another line of sweat rolling down my back.
When I finally got some words out, I could hear the quaver of nervousness in my voice. I could only hope no one else could hear it.
“I’m gonna do a kata,” I said. “It’s kind of like a make-believe fight where you imagine different people attacking you and you do defense techniques on them. That way you get to practice your techniques in motion so your muscles will learn how to do them. Then, if you ever have to use the technique in real life, your body will just know how to do it. You won’t have to think about it or anything. Anyway, I’m gonna do one now called the Tiger Kata because it uses really powerful striking techniques, which, in my karate school, we call tiger techniques.”
Then, for good measure, I cleared my throat into the microphone again, making another thundery noise and getting a few more giggles.
I forced myself to move away from the protection of the podium and walked to the center of the stage. About a thousand cringe-making scenarios were flashing through my mind, a thousand different and excruciating ways in which I might embarrass myself forever. Maybe I would fall off the stage. Maybe I would sprain my ankle and have to hop around like a cartoon rabbit. Maybe my pants would just fall down. Maybe they’d fall down while I was hopping around . . .
I forced the
thoughts away. I arranged myself into what’s called the front position: feet together, arms lifted in front of me, hands together just in front of my chin. My right hand was in a fist to represent the power of the yang, or masculine principle; the left hand was open and covered the fist to represent the restraint of the yin, or feminine principle. Power through self-discipline: that’s what karate is all about.
I stood like that for a long second. The auditorium had grown really quiet. There was no more shifting around, no more murmuring, no more cracks from Josh Lerner. They were interested, I could tell.
I took one more long breath, and then I went into my salutation.
Right away, a wonderful thing happened, an amazing thing. A salutation begins every kata. It starts with a bow and then a series of motions performed with the muscles very tense and the breath coming through the open mouth with a long, loud hiss. The breath is called Dragon-Breathes-Fire. It’s meant to focus your attention and push all your unnecessary thoughts out of you and bring all your energy to bear on the form. And the wonderful, amazing thing that happened is: it did exactly what it was supposed to do. The minute I tensed my abdominal muscles and pushed the dragon breath out of me, all the nervousness flowed out of me too. Suddenly, I had no extra thoughts to spare on anything at all—not even on Beth Summers. Suddenly, there was only the kata—the form—which I knew so well I could do it without thinking— without thinking but not without concentration. And that’s the way it was: suddenly, every thought was gone and all my mind was concentrated on performing the kata’s movements exactly right.
Which I did. I practically flew across the stage in long animal leaps, ending with mighty strikes in the air where my imaginary opponents were supposed to be.