Kung Fu High School

by Ryan Gattis

  If it was your first week at KFHS, I pitied you. On my first Friday, my brother pulled me aside before the Welcome Assembly and we watched from the brick pillars in front of the gym as all the freshmen got surrounded. Didn't matter if you were a guy or a girl. You got kicked in. You learned the hard way who ruled the school. By the time your next year rolled around, you couldn't wait for some ignorant freshmen to walk through the courtyard with color-coded binders clutched to their chests and fear in their eyes.

  And you kicked them in the chin too. When they were prone on the ground, you lifted their arms up out of that crybaby fetal position and unloaded on the armpit lymph node because you weren't really kicking them so much as the kids that kicked you the year before. You broke bones, aimed for joints. You spat on split faces. You took tufts of hair as partial scalps and pressed them in the clear plastic folders meant for science reports and then hung them up inside your locker so no one would fuck with you. It was the only way not to be next.

  Violence wasn't just for us though. It was for everyone who ever came near. Other high schools would send their sports teams but no fans when it came time to play us on the athletic schedule. North High School had a hired security team on hand the day they beat us by twelve points on our court but it didn't matter. In a rare showing of school spirit, every player on their basketball team, the security guys with their sheathed clubs, and the coaches with their clipboards, all got various vertebrae kicked in by our "fans," who were really just there to roll and not for any other reason. We were suspended from all athletic competitions for a year after that and were only let back in after Principal Dermoody agreed to hold games without any fans at all, just to keep up pretenses. Then floodlight-equipped helicopters had the habit of flying overhead on game days, lighting up the quad, and the kids that sat in ambush and hid in the trees with their belts wrapped around their knuckles had to duck low into the branches and make like bird nests to avoid getting spotted.

  So why didn't anything get solved by the powers that be? Why weren't the bad guys caught, tried, and sent to jail? Truth, justice, and more of that awesome American Way, where was all that shit? Situated squarely behind greed, I guess. Let's start with the food chain:

  algae/students → protists/teachers → squid/administration → seals/cops → walruses/lawyers & judges & media → killer whale/Ridley

  Students didn't matter, next to worthless. You were in or you were out. If you were in, expect some early morning dope runs before hockey practice. If you were out, you were fair game at all times. If you didn't know how to defend yourself, either leave or find someone who could watch your back 24-7. Impossible, right? Those were just a few unwritten regulations.

  Teachers there to protect you? Yeah, right. Nobody cared about the teachers. Either they were passionate believers in the power of teaching to change the disenchanted youth, who got in nice cars at the end of the day and went back to cookie-cutter houses in the suburbs, or they were deadbeats, ex-cons who slipped through the cracks without a background check. And all of 'em were on Ridley's payroll. Except for Mr. Wilkes, the chemistry teacher. He'd been there longer than anyone's oldest brothers and sisters can even remember.

  The Administration? That's a joke too. From what I hear, Principal Dermoody was the one who masterminded the restructured school lunch program so that Ridley could run his drugs out of the shipping trucks. In: frozen pizza, freeze-dried potatoes, and horseburger. Out: Champa, Spillback, Razorhead, Warped, Mixit, Agrenophene, Smoke, EX-O, Tapwap, and Giggledust.

  The cops didn't count either. Well, they counted, but different than you think. They caught a thick kickback on every shipment that went by the precincts. I'm talking percentages here. Probably in the realm of 12% and trust me when I say that they knew about every single shipment and how much it carried; they made sure to get their 12% on every ounce.

  Lawyers, judges, media? You aren't getting it yet, are you? Everyone was in on it. Everyone. It's no coincidence that old white dudes that used to be driving Cadillacs and Mercurys started driving Benzes and Beemers, and the rich fools that were driving Benzes and Beemers upgraded to Porsches and whatever else the next level was. If none of that connects the dots for you, believe this: Ridley even had regular dinners at the mayor's house as a welcome and invited guest. The poached salmon with garlic and herb sauce, that was his most favorite meal there.

  So, how could something so rock solid, so positively fuckin' entrenched go wrong? A complex, well-supported system like that couldn't possibly be wiped out in one day, could it? In a word, yes. But really, I can sum it up in two: Jimmy Chang. He was the rebel (if refusing to fight in a cauldron of fighters can be called that) when he came to Kung Fu HS halfway through my sophomore year and he wasn't any hero then. He was just my cousin.

  UNINVITED GUEST

  The day Jimmy came, me and Dad were in the kitchen. He didn't knock. He just walked right in through the front door. It really was our fault that it wasn't locked. Didn't matter though. Jimmy didn't have time to say hello because Kyuzo caught him by the throat and slammed him against the near wall in the entryway, putting an imprint into the dirty old deco wallpaper. Dad and I didn't see it, but we heard it. More like we heard the breaking of the wooden wall-hanging my parents got in Germany all those years ago when they lived there. It was a carved likeness of some tiny city with a river through it, can't remember which, but in two pieces it was just a city on one side and a bridge and river on the other.

  Dad used to be in the Air Force and they were stationed there in Deutschland. Believe it or not, Kyuzo was born at Spangdahlem Air Base. I still call him a fuckin' nazi if I get mad enough, just to get under his skin. He's named after the swordsman character in The Seven Samurai because Dad loved that movie so much, but I just call him by his nickname, Cue. Because Kyu = Cue, or Cue Ball, on account of his shiny bald head. Dad loved Japan always. He used to be stationed there too, once.

  It's generally rare for any business to follow us home from Kung Fu, but it's happened before. I got up slow and brought two knives with me into the hallway but they were unnecessary because Cue and Jimmy were already laughing super loud and it echoed into the kitchen. I couldn't put them back though. Habit.

  "Jen, Dad, Jimmy's here!" Cue yelled too loudly. "Oh, man, what the hell are you doing here? Can't you at least ring the bell?"

  Just hearing his name, I felt my mother's disavowing ice pick of a look all over again. I felt the hidden part of me that still was that defiant, cold girl returning her gaze and making ice cubes in between. Like I'd grown up completely encircling that hidden, staring me—left her intact like a nested Russian doll down deep. As untouched as the pencil mark on the kitchen entryway to measure my height at twelve. I fought that emotional old shit though. Pushed it down, all five feet and eight straggling inches of me. Below that.

  I took the corner and just held the knives out naively, like a cheerleader offering up her pompoms for the home team. The city part of the wall-hanging was on the floor and the bridge half hung crookedly above it, still on the wall. Funny how the exterior was a dark brown but the inside was just normal, aged-looking wood. Untouched by the stain, it looked like yellowy bone, marrow even. Percussive though. It had sounded like claves when it hit the tile. Just once, like TAC.

  "Are those knives for me?" Jimmy had his arm around Cue and with his other hand, he rubbed at the growing red spot at the base of his neck.

  "Dinner, crazy boy. Hope Cue taught you good not to walk right into people's houses without ringing the doorbell."

  That's all that came out of my mouth and I'm lucky it did. I mean, at least it wasn't garbled or anything. And at least I didn't stammer or just stop talking altogether. Because I hadn't seen Jimmy in years and he was gorgeous. Even with the farmer-boy mop on his head, the thick black strands couldn't hide his light brown eyes. I felt a twinge in my stomach when he pushed his hair off his forehead and leaned his head back into the weak hall light.

  Yup, his brown eyes were just as
light as they'd ever been. Like bright sunlight passing through label-less brown beer bottles, they shined at me. Mental note: NOT allowed to feel sexual attraction to cousin. The best part was, non-embarrassment-wise, I didn't drop the knives when I led the boys into the kitchen. They just pushed past me into the dining room anyway. A waist-high, partition-type wall separated the two rooms.

  "Uncle B.—what happened?" Jimmy asked as Dad, tired as he was, tried to push himself up on his walker.

  "Shit, your mom didn't tell you? Modern construction. Can you believe it? Always wear your helmet, son."

  Dad shook Jimmy's hand and smiled his halfway smile that had sat on his face ever since the accident. I could tell he was smiling for real though because the vein in his neck twinged and that only happened when he meant it to.

  "Foreman Dad took his helmet off for a water break and a brick fell on him."

  I said it as I took the pasta noodles off the boil. They were a little soft because I'd left the pot on the burner. If they complained, I'd blame it on Jimmy.

  "It was damn hot that day. What do you want from me, mi angelita?"

  Dad put his hands in the air. Insert canned laugh track. I didn't turn around, didn't react to his little drama, just told the draining noodles my answer all low: nada. Nada, I said, to that full sieve. The literal translation in the dictionaries is always one word: nothing. But to me, when I breathed the accented syllables into the steam, pushing a coat of fog onto the window, it meant less/more than nothing at the same time. A push/pull kind of nothing. A go-away-but-don't-go-away kind of nothing. A please die/don't die kind of nothing. It always canceled itself out.

  "What the heck is you doing here, stealthy? Why the big bag?" Cue's voice broke my thoughts like he knew them, then made sure to change gears. "You know, I heard you when you passed the mailbox. If you want to sneak up on me again, don't wear cowboy boots."

  The hick. The big shitkicker. Jimmy didn't have an answer. He just looked at me like he was a lost puppy while I shredded the cheese into the smallest bowl we had. Thank god for self-control. I almost told them both that he could sleep in my bed right then.

  "So, what? You're living here?"

  I could see Cue putting two and two together from all the way across the kitchen, over the partition, and inside the dining room beside the packed bookcase. He sat down at the table and motioned for Jimmy to do the same.

  "No. I mean, yeah, if I can and that's cool with you guys and Uncle B.," Jimmy said, adding, "You didn't get the letter?"

  He had to push a stack of old newspapers out of the way before he could pull a chair out and sit down between Dad and Cue.

  "Sure we did. Blue envelope. Marin still has great handwriting, like your mamá's used to be." Dad said it like me and Cue had forgotten. Jimmy kind of nodded. I didn't say shit, only tore the last of the lettuce harder.

  "Oh yeah, we heard you got in trouble but we figured it was no big deal. I mean, not compared to what we go through, Farm Boy. Besides, you probably just slapped somebody." With that said, Cue smacked Jimmy lightly across the cheek, rolled his eyes, and made a little girly scream to accompany it, "Ay!"

  "I got in a fight." Jimmy actually lowered his head when he said it.

  Cue and I just laughed at that, at the words, at his shame, at everything. I was setting the salad and cheese bowls on the table and Cue looked me up and down with his wide silly smile before poking me right in my splenectomy scar. I squirmed but spilled nothing. Only he knew where it was. Got that ruptured from a body blow. Good thing it's out now. Only way to make sure it'll never happen again. Surgery sure sucked though. I mean, everything in my torso was tender for weeks and weeks. Everything. I could barely eat. Lost thirteen pounds and I even got a cold when I was recovering too. Coughing was like getting beaten up all over again. Total nightmare.

  "Yeah, well, it was completely Mom's idea, which was why she wrote the letter. I had to promise her I'd never fight again though."

  Probably for the first time since Jimmy had walked in, the house was completely quiet. Even though the big pot was off the boil and empty of noodles, a few bubbles rolled to the surface of the splash of water left in it and popped. I just watched them, scooping pasta onto the plates without looking down. The letter hadn't said anything about that.

  Cue laughed the silence right out the door.

  "What, like The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air meets Fists of Fury? You be a cross between Will Smith and Bruce Lee? You're fuckin' lying to me! Hey, Jen, you finally got something to write about!"

  Cue had the biggest smile on his face I'd seen in a long time. He always did when he was teasing me about my notebooks. Genuinely though, he was excited. He was convinced it was a joke, and a good one too. Because he knew. I knew. Hell, even Dad knew that Jimmy was the best fighter in the whole family. Always had been. With him fighting too, the Waves would win the Grand Championships again. No doubt.

  "Dead serious, man. I promised my mom. No more fighting. None."

  Maybe it's because I've been hit so many times that it makes you harebrained but I'm more sensitive to things like changes in temperature ever since I made a habit of acquiring broken bones and, honestly, the temperature in the room lowered when Jimmy said those words. Fahrenheit five degrees easily, and I was standing in front of the stove.

  "Well, you in trouble then, primo, cuz if you expect to come to the Fu, you gotta roll."

  Cue flexed and his black wife-beater shuddered. Trap muscles grew up next to his neck like pyramid ramps to his head made out of that dinosaur capsule stuff that expands when you put it in water. His biceps rolled over onto themselves like snowballs becoming snowboulders rolling too fast down a powdery hill and the scar on his left pectoral muscle made a sidewinding motion like the desert snake. That was Cue's move too. The Sidewinder.

  "The Fu?" Just after he said it, Jimmy patted his stomach and gave me a look that said he approved of my cooking, or the smell of it at least. Bless him.

  "Kung Fu High School, kid," I said.

  Cue just made a face at me. And that was okay. We'd take it outside later.

  "Now that's a joke, right?"

  "Maybe it used to be but it ain't anymore," I said as I put two plates down, one in front of Jimmy and one in front of Dad.

  "Thank you." Dad said it soft.

  "Yeah, thanks," Jimmy said, clapping his hands once.

  "Ah, you'll be alright though. You're legacy. You're a Wave, baby, just like me and Jen."

  Cue spun me around and pulled my loose T-shirt up to show Jimmy the Yakuza-style tattoo that covered my entire back. I fidgeted a little as he pulled down my bra strap to show Jimmy the tan fishing boat between my shoulder blades. The whole thing had taken four visits to complete. We'd got some old Japanese guy in Little Ginza to do it for a hundred bucks and it looks real good too with its waves that look like rounded fish scales crashing into the center meridian of my back. Big puffy-faced clouds blow looping visible wind from my shoulder blades onto the surface of the water from both sides, so that it traps the fisherman in his boat.

  "It's the storm of all storms," Cue said before tapping the outline of the fisherman on my spine, "and it only comes for one at a time."

  He was almost as proud of it as I was. Jesus, did it take a long time to heal though. The guy said one month but it was more like two because I kept rolling over on my back at night when I was asleep and rubbing the lotion off with the sheet. I didn't mean to, just happened. It was a damn good thing I got the work done in the summer and not during the school year. That would've been trouble.

  "Just what're you guys into?"

  Quiet as he always was during such conversations, Dad even laughed when Jimmy said that. There were a few things he needed to be told.

  THE SURVIVAL LIST

  There are a number of things all kids should know before they attend Kung Fu High School. Unfortunately, they don't always get it. It comes too slowly or it comes the hard way, too fast to duck. But here they are, the seven rules
to go along to get along:

  1. Get Kicked In

  This is unavoidable. Try to look at it as a necessary evil for continued existence. It happens at one point or another to everyone at Kung Fu. My brother couldn't protect me forever. The day after the cops picked him up for menacing, I got circled. But it wasn't a one on one. Everyone knew I hadn't caught it during the freshman warm-up so I got it double. They knew I was right-handed so they snapped my right wrist and broke three fingers including my pinkie. I had to learn to write left-handed after that. They wrecked six of my ribs and my right eyelid was sliced almost in half after someone decked me with thick class rings on their fingers. That one took forever to heal. It still droops a little. I got a hairline clavicle fracture to match my dislocated shoulder. I had internal bleeding. I was bedridden for two weeks. My chin got split open and you could see my lower gums through the hole that needed six stitches to close. Now I got this habit of rubbing the flat semicircular scar underneath my lip every time I'm thinking. I can only feel it when I press kind of hard because the nerves never grew back or reconnected.

  2. Don't Complain a.k.a. Shut Up, Part 1

  It helped that I couldn't open my mouth for two weeks after that. This is real important. Whatever you do, do not open your big fat mouth and tell everyone how unfair it is that you got kicked because it doesn't work that way. You're new? You lose. It's that simple. Don't get too heartbroken. You're guaranteed not to be the only one. Everybody loses.

  3. Join a Family, Stay Loyal to Your Family,

  NO MATTER WHAT