The Girl in the White Van Page 2

  That evening, a couple of other students at my dojo had also tested for orange. All of us were required to demonstrate our skills before three black belts. I only knew one of them, my teacher, Sifu Terry. But that night he was just as expressionless as the other two men closely watching us.

  Off the mats, the room was filled with friends, family, and higher-ranked students. Since my mom was at work, I was alone in the crowd. The room started to feel like it was too small, like all the oxygen was used up. Claustrophobia was kicking in. With every passing minute, I felt more and more anxious. It was all I could do not to run outside.

  By the time the test started, my mouth was dry, my hands damp. I vowed to be perfect but instead made mistakes. So many mistakes. In one of the forms, I punched with my left hand instead of my right. I lost my balance doing a roundhouse kick and had to set my foot down. When we were asked to demonstrate a low block, out of the corner of my eye I saw that the other students were holding their arms in a different position. Each mistake left me more flushed and faltering than the last. By the end of the test, I was blinking back tears.

  It had been a shock to still be awarded the rank, to go through the ceremony of kneeling between two rows of flickering tea lights in an otherwise darkened room, and then fumblingly tie the belt after Sifu handed it to me as everyone applauded.

  Now I zipped up my backpack. Class started in twenty minutes, and it took about twelve minutes to walk to the dojo. With luck, before class Daniel and I would talk some more about Bruce Lee.

  As I walked into the living room, Tim was slumped on the couch, watching football, still wearing his mechanic’s coveralls. At his feet were several empty beer bottles, his kicked-off work boots, an ashtray filled with butts, and a dirty bowl and plate.

  He looked very little like the pictures of the man my mom had showed me. The blue eyes she had exclaimed over all but disappeared when he narrowed them. In the pictures, his shaved head had made him look tough, but now I knew that if he skipped running a razor over it for a day or two, it was clear he was just going bald.

  Not sounding like he particularly cared, he mumbled, “Where’re you going?”

  Even if Tim couldn’t remember my schedule, my T-shirt emblazoned with the school’s logo was a pretty big clue. “The same place I go three nights a week.” I pulled on my coat, then leaned down to get my backpack and hat. When I straightened up, Tim was right in front of me. I hadn’t even heard him get up. I sucked in a breath and took a half step back.

  “Are you disrespecting me?” he said through gritted teeth.

  I lifted my empty hands in a placating gesture. “I’m just going to kung fu class.”

  “Class!” He made a raspberry sound. “That class is giving you unrealistic expectations. In the real world, you’re a little girl with a big mouth.” He grinned without humor. “And anyone could do anything they want to you. That class is just putting ideas in your head.”

  A pit opened in my stomach. Kung fu was the one good thing in my life right now.

  “But I’m paying for it with my babysitting money.” My inflection rose at the end like it was a question.

  His face changed, and I knew I’d made a mistake. “And now you’re definitely talking back. You’re grounded.”

  “Grounded?” My voice broke in disbelief. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so stupid. I didn’t do any of the bad things I heard other kids at my school talking about. I didn’t get drunk or use drugs or shoplift or sneak out at night.

  Tim snorted, and I had the image of a cartoon bull pawing the ground, ready to charge. “Yes. Grounded. You live under my roof.” He stabbed a finger at me. “You eat my food, you sleep on sheets that I paid for. But you act like you can do whatever you want. You’re nothing but a spoiled brat that doesn’t know how to be grateful for what she has. So I guess I’m going to have to teach you. Grounded means you go to school and you come straight home. And you don’t go anyplace else.”

  I locked my teeth around the words I wanted to spit at him. My mom would see how stupid this was. I pulled my phone from my pocket and started a text.

  Tim snatched my phone from my hand. “Grounded means you don’t have a phone.”

  Surprising even myself, I ran for the door.

  When you feel pain, you know that you are still alive.

  —BRUCE LEE

  SAVANNAH TAYLOR

  As Tim reached for me, I yanked open the front door and ran out. When his fingers grazed my shoulder, I twisted away in midair. Fear gave my feet wings.

  I pounded down the porch steps, with him only a few steps behind. He cursed when his bare feet met the sharp gravel of the driveway. I kept running even after I heard him limp to a stop. He was still yelling threats and swears.

  It was another block before I burst into tears. My pace finally slowed to a walk. What had I done? I should have just pretended to accept Tim’s stupid rule for one night and then gotten my mom to sweet-talk him out of it. But now that I had openly defied him, he would dig in his heels. Sure, I’d make it to kung fu tonight, but it could easily be my last class.

  And even if my mom managed to persuade Tim to let me go again, it wouldn’t fix things for long. Soon she would start looking again for the Prince Charming she was always sure was out there just waiting for her. And then we would move to some other town. When everything I cared about was here.

  My breath came in hitching gasps, hanging in a white cloud in front of my face. I had to compose myself before I got to class. The cold air scoured my lungs, but my face still felt red and hot. I dried my eyes on the puffy sleeve of my coat.

  With each block, the neighborhood had been changing. The houses were now interspersed with small businesses closed up for the night. I passed a day care, then a row of town houses. The warm yellow light streaming from their windows somehow made me feel even more alone.

  What would happen when I returned from class? If the front door was locked, I had no way to get in. And what about when my mom got home? Would she demand that I apologize? What would I do if that happened? Or would she take my side and then they’d get in a big fight? Would Tim kick her out, too? Sleeping in my mom’s car might actually be better than spending one more night in his house. It wasn’t home. It was just a place I kept my things.

  I could talk to a school guidance counselor. But what could they really do? Tim had never laid a hand on me. They would just say he was strict. It seemed unlikely that they would force him to give my phone back or to un-ground me.

  No, the best I could hope for was my mom deciding to move on. No more kung fu. No more Daniel. I sucked in another breath and ordered myself not to start crying again.

  Crossing the quiet street, I cut through a small strip mall’s empty parking lot, past a dentist, a nail salon, a tax preparer, and a shoe repairer. This neighborhood was so hilly that my kung fu school was tucked underneath these businesses, on the bottom half of the building, yet all of them, including my kung fu school, had outside entrances.

  As I went down the concrete steps that connected the two levels, I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I barely registered the old man walking up the other side of the street. Or the young man pulling his bike up at the bottom of the stairs. Or the middle-aged guy slowly driving a white van past us.

  “Savannah! Hey, Savannah.”

  My focus finally shifted to the outside world.

  Daniel. He was the guy on the bike. My face got warm again.

  “Oh, hey. Sorry!”

  “Didn’t you hear me calling you?” He threw one long leg over his bike seat.

  “I guess I was in my own world.”

  He looked at me more closely. “Are you okay?”

  Were my eyes still shiny with tears? “It’s just cold out, that’s all.” If I said anything about Tim, I would start crying again.

  He nodded, without looking completely convinced. After locking his bike, he held the door open for me. Inside it was warm and filled with the familiar smells of swe
at and disinfectant. There was the usual crowd of adults, some chatting, others stretching or practicing forms.

  Together, Daniel and I took off our coats, toed off our shoes, shoved our stuff in cubbies, and then tied on our belts.

  Sifu Terry called out, “Okay, let’s line up.” His long black hair was gathered back into a ponytail low on his head. The way he moved made me think of a jaguar.

  Before I stepped on the red mat, I made my right hand into a fist and then covered it with the palm of my left hand. The right hand symbolized a weapon, and the left showed that it was controlled, demonstrating respect for the dojo and my partners.

  I took my spot, second from the left. Around me, the other eight people lined up in order of rank. As the senior student, Daniel was on the far right. Until two weeks ago, I had been on the other end of the line. Now to my left was a guy with a shaved head who was always talking about how he had taken tae kwan do back when he was in high school, which had to be at least twenty years ago. It was clear he didn’t think he really belonged in last place.

  With a padded striker, Sifu rang the heavy metal bell. The deep soft clang hung in the air as he saluted us with the same hand-over-fist gesture, which we returned.

  Right after we moved to Portland, I’d been walking by the school and stopped to watch a class through the floor-to-ceiling window. The students had looked so fierce and strong, displaying coordination I couldn’t even imagine possessing. It was summer, and I was at loose ends, not knowing anyone. I started observing class on a regular basis, as if the window was really a giant TV. Then one day, when the students were practicing a new move, Sifu Terry came out. Before I could hurry away, embarrassed at being caught, he introduced himself and invited me to try class free for a week. That had been enough to hook me. I paid for it with weekend babysitting jobs.

  Now Sifu said, “Today we’re going to be working on grab counters.” The word counter always sounded weird, like kitchen counters or people who kept track of numbers, but it meant a countermove, a way to negate whatever your attacker was doing. “Daniel?” As the senior student, Daniel got the privilege—and sometimes the pain—of being the demonstration model.

  Sifu reviewed the basic counters for wrist grabs. “Rather than meeting force with force, find the weak spot or use his momentum to your advantage.” He showed us how to turn our wrist so that the narrowest point pushed against the attacker’s thumb, the weakest part of the grip.

  “The next counter is for when someone grabs your shoulder from the front.” He nodded at Daniel, who grabbed Sifu’s shoulder with his left hand and threateningly raised his right fist. “You swim your arm up and in, breaking his grip,” Sifu said as he demonstrated with a movement like a swimmer’s front crawl, “and step back to take yourself out of range.” He turned toward us. “Okay, everyone get a partner and practice those grabs with about three to five follow-up moves.”

  I looked to my left, to Mr. Tae Kwan Do, but suddenly Daniel was in front of me. Usually students at his level stuck together, at least for the first few rounds.

  “Talk to your partner about how real you want to make it,” Sifu said. “If you make any contact, especially to the face, it should be kiss-touch.”

  Kiss-touch meant contact as light as a feather. It both demonstrated control and that you were capable of delivering a much more powerful strike.

  The words kiss-touch applied to me and Daniel made me blush. It was all I’d been thinking about since we had talked at lunch. But that was stupid. Wanting to be kissed and touched was what had made my mom drag me over nine states in eight years.

  “You grab me first,” Daniel said. “And make it as real as you can.”

  “Same goes for me.” I clamped my fingers hard around his wrist. He twisted and eventually broke my grip. A flicker in his expression made me think that it was more difficult than he expected. I smiled to myself as he threw a few follow-up kicks and strikes that just brushed me.

  Then it was Daniel’s turn to grab me. I was hyperaware of his cool fingers circling my skin.

  Playing bad guy, he grunted, “You’re coming with me.” He yanked me forward.

  His words reminded me of Tim. I jerked my wrist away, not even minding how it hurt, then grazed his ribs with a roundhouse kick, followed by a backfist to the nose that I turned into a gentle tap.

  Class would be over in fifty minutes. And then what would happen?

  Daniel and I traded grabs back and forth, until Sifu told us to switch partners.

  My next few partners handled me much more gingerly. Their reluctance to hold on tightly made me angry. How was I ever supposed to learn what worked or what didn’t? At the same time, I had trouble focusing, sometimes forgetting that it was my turn, while my partner waited more or less patiently.

  As class went on, Sifu showed us street fighting techniques: how to twist an ear, shove a palm under the chin, dig two fingers into the notch of the collarbone. Even though Sifu demonstrated the moves lightly, it was clear from Daniel’s expression that they hurt.

  When we split into pairs to practice, Daniel chose me again. He did each move only until it started to cause pain and then rubbed his fingers over the spot he had just hurt, as if rubbing the pain away.

  At the end of class, Sifu said, “Because we don’t want to break our partners, we’re constrained in what we can practice at full force. But remember, if you’re fighting for your life, there aren’t any rules. When you’re attacked, ‘fighting dirty’”—he made air quotes—“is exactly what you should do. Bite, pull hair, knee their groin, scratch their eyes.” His usually playful black eyes were serious. “When your life is on the line, you have to do everything you can.”

  DANIEL DIAZ

  With the rest of the students, I returned Sifu’s bow at the end of class. But I didn’t really see him. Instead, the left-hand corner of my vision was focused on Savannah Taylor. Before today, when I’d seen her with the Bruce Lee book, I hadn’t paid a lot of attention to her.

  I mean, sure, I knew who Savannah was. But white belts tended to come and go, try class for a week or a month and then decide they were really cut out for Pilates or pickup basketball. Even people who made it to orange, as she had a month ago, sometimes dropped out right after the test, as if they had used up all their energy just climbing the first rung of the ladder. It wasn’t unusual for it to take a decade to get a black belt. If you ever did. Some people had tested numerous times for it and never been awarded the rank.

  Sifu dismissed class. At our dojo, the students were expected to clean up afterward. When I saw Savannah take one of the mops, I made sure to grab the other. Since mopping the floor was the last step, by the time we started, all the other students had left, calling goodbyes.

  Sifu picked up his backpack. “Hey, Daniel, do you mind locking up tonight for me?”

  “No, Sifu.”

  “Thanks. I promised my daughter I’d help with her homework.” He gave us a wave. “See you guys Saturday.”

  After the door closed behind him, I was hyperaware that we were now completely alone, with the darkness pressed up against the windows.

  “Tonight was fun,” I said, moving the mop in a series of tight S-curves down my half of the floor. Fun? Couldn’t I think of something better to say than that? Just the memory of Savannah’s skin under my fingertips left me tongue-tied. I had dated a few girls before, but nobody special. Nobody who had made me feel the way I was starting to think I might feel about Savannah.

  “Yeah.” Sniffing, she swiped at her nose with the back of her hand.

  Remembering how wet her eyes had looked when we met outside, I realized I’d been too focused on myself. “Are you really okay, Savannah?”

  After a long pause, she said, “Right before class, I was kind of arguing with my mom’s boyfriend.” As she spoke, she kept her gaze on the floor.

  “So he lives with you?”

  “We live with him. He’s the reason we moved here. But I don’t get what my mom sees in him. I�
��m not even sure she does anymore.” Savannah shook her head. “Anyway, we really weren’t seeing eye to eye.”

  My hands tightened on the mop handle. “What were you arguing about?”

  She sighed. “Tim says it’s dumb that I’m taking kung fu. He’s always talking about how it wouldn’t do me any good, because men are bigger and stronger.” After dipping her mop back into the water, she squeezed it dry. “But now I feel like I could do something if someone attacked me. Maybe I’d still end up hurt or killed, but I’d definitely make them sorry first.”

  “The struggle is real,” I said. “Size does make a difference. But most bad guys don’t have any training, and you’re starting to. And you’ve got good instincts, and you move well.” I didn’t add that this Tim dude seemed like a real jerk. The kind of guy who wouldn’t be happy until he brought everyone down to his level.

  “Thanks.” She lifted the mop head from the water and dropped it into the wringer. “I’ve never really done any kind of sports before.”

  Grabbing the handle, I squeezed it dry for her, standing close enough that my shoulder brushed hers. “And what he said about size is just wrong. Look at Bruce Lee. He wasn’t much bigger than you. He was, like, five foot eight and a hundred forty pounds, and he was the best martial artist in the world. Ever. I think he would have approved of what we were doing tonight. It was certainly practical. He wanted to be able to end fights while expending as little energy as possible. And he never telegraphed what he was doing.” I tilted my head. “Do you know what that means?”

  Savannah gave me a crooked smile, and my stomach did a complete 360. “It’s funny that we still use the word telegraph when none of us has actually seen one. But telegraphing”—she moved the mop handle to her left hand so she could demonstrate with her right—“that’s like when you pull your fist way back for a big roundhouse, right?”