Fighting Chance

by B K Stevens

  Berk nodded sharply. He remembered, too.

  “Glad to hear you make a constructive suggestion, Matt,” Mr. Quinn said. “It means you’re moving toward acceptance.”

  At last, the bell rang. “That’s it for today,” Mr. Quinn said. “Remember, if you ever want to talk, I’m always there for you. Matt, could I talk to you?”

  He waited until the others had gone, then gave me his official I’m-concerned-about-you look—head lowered, eyes scrunched, mouth edging toward a frown. “I checked with Mr. Pavlakis. He said your last chemistry quiz didn’t go well.”

  Damn. I’d been afraid Quinn would find out about that. “Yeah, it was a tough one. But I passed, and it was only a weekly quiz. I should still have a solid B in the class.”

  He shook his head. “You said you’d work at getting that up to an A-minus. Science and math are your strengths, Matt. Those are the grades that’ll get you a scholarship.”

  My grades won’t ever get me a scholarship, I thought, and basketball won’t do it, either. Mr. Quinn pushes athletes hard on getting scholarships, and he’s had some big success stories. Sooner or later, he’d have to get used to the idea that I’m simply not scholarship material. “I’ll study harder for the next quiz. Promise.”

  His mouth moved closer to a full-scale frown. “Mr. Pavlakis says you never come to his Wednesday after-school review sessions. This week, you’re going. I’ll check with him Thursday morning to make sure you showed up.”

  Damn. That meant I’d actually have to go. I nodded and headed out.

  In the hall, Graciana was waiting for me. “Aaron Roth—is that the judge you told us about? The one who told the truth?”

  “I think so. He might be worth talking to, whether we take classes or not. I’ll check his school’s website. If there’s a class tonight, you want to go?”

  “Absolutely. And I called Mr. Bixby. He thinks a memorial issue’s fine but wants us to get Dr. Lombardo’s approval. Should I make an appointment for us to see her after school?”

  I nodded, and she rushed off. She was wearing a long denim skirt. I liked watching the way it swished as she walked.

  Then Mr. Bixby stepped out of his classroom, and Graciana paused. He handed her some papers, and she looked at them and laughed.

  I remembered what Suzette had said and thought about Mr. Bixby’s family, about the baby who wasn’t even a year old. I looked at Graciana again, then turned away and headed for my next class.

  Seven

  Dr. Lombardo loved the bake sale idea—no big surprise. She wasn’t sure about the memorial issue. No big surprise there, either.

  Graciana and I sat in her big, sunny office, its walls crowded with diplomas and awards, with laminated copies of newspaper articles about Dr. Lombardo’s accomplishments. Within five minutes, she’d set a date for the bake sale and decided Ms. Quinn should be our advisor. She also decided we should have a meeting after school tomorrow for anyone who wanted to help and that the money should be used to start an award for an outstanding history student, not a scholarship. Kids would feel good about an award even if it wasn’t much money, she said, but a fifty-dollar college scholarship would seem lame. True enough.

  When we shifted to talking about the memorial issue, things slowed down. “I understand your eagerness to honor Mr. Colson,” she said. “But the issue has to be limited to articles about his contributions to the school. I need your guarantee about that, Graciana. No attempts at investigative journalism. None.”

  I don’t know if it’s actually possible to see a person’s jaw stiffen, but I’m positive Graciana’s did. “I don’t foresee the need for investigative journalism,” she said, meeting Dr. Lombardo’s eyes evenly.

  “That’s not a guarantee.” Dr. Lombardo sat forward. “I’ll speak frankly. I haven’t been pleased with some pieces in the newspaper this year—the piece about the alleged prevalence of plagiarism, for example, or the one about perceived inconsistencies in disciplinary policies. They upset some hard-working people, and they didn’t do the school’s reputation any good.”

  Graciana didn’t flinch. “Those pieces were balanced and responsible. They drew attention to important issues, and we were careful not to overstate our conclusions.”

  “That’s debatable. In any case, we don’t need more negative publicity. It’s been a difficult spring—first that poor girl’s suicide, then this tragic accident. And this is an important time for Ridgecrest High—the twenty-fifth anniversary, the announcement of the new principal’s name at graduation. We’ll attract widespread media attention, and we have to make sure it’s positive. It can’t focus on the sorts of random misfortunes that can strike any school. So I’ll need to approve this memorial issue before it goes to press.”

  Graciana’s eyes blazed. “The First Amendment—”

  “—does not give students the right to print whatever they feel like printing,” Dr. Lombardo cut in. “In several cases, the courts have ruled that a public school newspaper is part of the educational program, funded by taxpayers and under the authority of the administration. Furthermore, I’ve heard some students are spreading rumors about Mr. Colson’s death, saying it wasn’t an accident—even though the police determined it was, even though the martial arts experts at the tournament confirmed their opinion. I don’t want that sort of unfounded sensationalism in the newspaper, and I don’t want you stirring up negative feelings by inviting people to speculate about it. Understood?”

  “Yes,” Graciana said, “but I don’t agree. My sister’s in law school. I’ll ask her what she thinks.”

  “Fine. I can also give you the name of a lawyer who’s advised us on several occasions. He’s a Ridgecrest High graduate, and he’s taught Constitutional Law as an adjunct at the University of Virginia. Your sister might find his opinions illuminating.”

  They sat glaring at each other. In the last five minutes, I hadn’t said one word. Now, I felt like I had to break the silence.

  “Thanks, Dr. Lombardo,” I said, feeling like an idiot. “We’ll work hard and try to make this issue really good. Graciana? I guess we should go?”

  She looked at Dr. Lombardo, looked at me. “I guess.” She stood up.

  Dr. Lombardo shook our hands. “We’ve had some disagreements, Graciana, but I appreciate your hard work on the newspaper. I might as well tell you that you’re a top contender for Outstanding Senior. When the committee meets to make its final decision, I’d like to be one of your advocates.”

  “Wow,” I said when we got out into the hall. “Outstanding Senior. Mr. Quinn won that, the first year Ridgecrest High opened. If you win it on the twenty-fifth anniversary, that’d be something. You could put it on every job application for the rest of your life.”

  Graciana was walking fast. She gave her head one quick shake. “Paul Ericson has that award sewn up. Captain of the basketball team, homecoming king, full athletic scholarship to a Big Ten school. He’s a good student, too, and he’s Mr. Quinn’s favorite protégé, living proof Quinn’s the world’s greatest guidance counselor. Quinn worked night and day to get him that scholarship, and you can bet he won’t let anybody else win Outstanding Senior. Dr. Lombardo said that to try to bribe me. She’s such a hypocrite.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. She stays late every day, comes to every event. She really cares about the school.”

  “She’s ambitious,” Graciana said. “All she cares about is her own career. Ridgecrest’s a stepping stone to her—I bet she’s frustrated as hell she got stuck here so long. Now she’s got her chance to move ahead, and she doesn’t want anything to mess it up. She wants everybody to think she made Ridgecrest High into a perfect paradise where nothing could go wrong, except ‘random misfortunes.’ That’s how she wants everyone to see Coach Colson’s death. You think she cares about finding the truth? She wants to cover it up, so her big moment won’t be clouded by controversy.”

&nbs
p; I tried to take all that in. I’d always liked Dr. Lombardo. Then again, Graciana knew her better than I did. “Maybe,” I said.

  Graciana stopped walking and turned around to smile at me. “Sorry. Did I sound bitter? I am, but not about the stupid award. Lombardo’s given us a hard time all year. At least she said we can do the special issue. Want to get a Coke and make plans?”

  I pictured Graciana laughing with Mr. Bixby in the hall, thought of the things Suzette had said. Suzette didn’t know for sure, but it looked like Graciana was having sex with a teacher, a man with a family.

  “No,” I said. “I’m picking my sister up.”

  Did my voice sound too sharp? Graciana gave me a strange look. “Okay. I’ll see you tonight, at Eye of the Tiger School.”

  I could’ve offered to pick her up. I’d already offered rides to Berk and Joseph. But I didn’t feel like it. I drove off to get Cassie.

  ***

  At dinner, when I told my parents about the bake sale, Mom said she’d make truffles. I didn’t know what those were, but they didn’t sound promising. When I said I’d be working on a special issue of the school paper, Mom and Dad got excited. They always do, whenever I seem interested in anything that sounds academic. They couldn’t have cared less when I won the game ball twice this year—I think it half embarrasses them that I’m good at sports—but they bubbled over for ten minutes about how working on the newspaper would broaden my horizons. They almost made me feel like not doing it.

  “There’s something else,” I said. “We’re going to this martial arts school tonight. If we decide to take classes there, it’ll cost something. I don’t know how much. Okay?”

  I expected them to say “fine” right away. They always do. This time, Mom raised her eyebrows and glanced at Dad. He paused, helped himself to more bok choy, and smiled.

  “Fine,” he said. “Just make sure the school doesn’t let things get too rough. I wouldn’t want you to stay away from something you enjoy because of what happened Saturday, but safety’s important.”

  “Maybe,” Mom said, “we shouldn’t decide till you find out what it costs.”

  “It can’t be enough to make a difference, Rose,” Dad said. “So, how’s the new cashier doing?”

  Mom’s a manager at Wendy’s World, this store that sells books and educational toys. She plays organ at our church, too, and gives piano lessons at night. Dad’s a general contractor at Edson Construction, the biggest company in town. He takes charge of projects, everything from figuring out how much things cost to making sure people do what they’re supposed to. It’s an important job. Last month, he finished overseeing renovations at a building that used to be a shoe factory, turning it into an extra-classy pizza place. It looks good, and lots of my friends have said they like it.

  “You know, Matt,” Mom was saying, “you’re welcome to invite your friends over after the class. I made a big batch of hummus today.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But I’ve got a math quiz tomorrow. I’d better study.”

  It’s not like I’m embarrassed about having people over. Not exactly. But my parents are different from other people’s parents. For one thing, they’re older. Sometimes, people think they’re my grandparents—Mom with her frizzy white hair clear down to her shoulders, Dad with his big glasses and bushy gray beard. When my friends come here, Mom keeps pushing them to try food nobody else’s moms make, and Dad gets all jolly and asks them about their interests, places they’ve traveled, like it’s a job interview. I know they’re trying to be friendly, but it makes people uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable, too.

  It felt good to get away. I picked up Berk and Joseph, and we arrived at the school right when Suzette was getting out of her father’s car. She puffed out a sigh.

  “You wouldn’t believe what I had to go through to get here,” she said. “My mom was totally weeping, going on and on about Coach Colson, saying I’d get killed if I came. I said, ‘Mom, calm down. Take a pill.’ Finally, she zoned out, and Dad drove me. But he’s got a meeting, so he can’t pick me up. Give me a ride home, Matt?”

  “No problem,” I said, and we went inside, where Graciana and Derrick stood waiting.

  The place is bigger than it looks from outside. First comes an office, with a display of tee-shirts and water bottles, followed by locker rooms that are really just big bathrooms, with hooks for jackets and shelves for shoes. Next comes an exercise area, where people were warming up on treadmills and stationary bikes. In the gym itself, dark blue mats cover most of the floor, and big red-and-white signs hang on the walls—RESPECT, EFFORT, COURAGE, HUMILITY, INTEGRITY. At least they weren’t stages of grief.

  We spotted Aaron Roth and walked over to introduce ourselves. “I’m sorry about your coach,” he said, shaking hands. “I met him at planning sessions for the tournament and liked him very much. What can I do for you?”

  “We wanna keep learning tae kwon do,” Derrick said. “So we’re looking for a school. How much does yours cost?”

  It sounded rude to ask about cost first, but Aaron Roth didn’t seem to mind. “That’s right. You don’t have a teacher now. The other judges and I should’ve thought about that. Well, if you decide to take classes here, you can come free until the school year ends. Your club meetings would’ve ended then anyway, right? After that, if you want to keep coming, we’ll work something out. If you want to stick with tae kwon do, though, come back tomorrow. Tae kwon do classes are Tuesdays and Thursdays. Mondays and Wednesdays are krav maga.”

  “I’ve read about that,” Graciana said. “It’s Israeli, right?”

  “Right,” he said. “You could use skills you’ve learned in tae kwon do, but there’s a fundamental difference. Tae kwon do is essentially a sport. At least, that’s how it’s usually taught in the United States. Krav maga is a survival system. We emphasize countering attacks—avoiding them if possible, repelling them if necessary. It’s all about learning how to protect yourself against people who don’t play by the rules.”

  The image came back—Bobby Davis looking at Coach cold and steady, lifting his leg, slamming his foot against Coach’s throat. Learning how to protect myself against someone who doesn’t play by the rules didn’t sound like a bad idea. “Could we keep the belts we earned in tae kwon do?”

  “No belts in krav,” he said. “Some schools have them, but we keep things simple. And no uniforms, no tournaments. Krav isn’t about earning belts or winning trophies. It’s about surviving attacks, even if the attacker is bigger and stronger and better armed.”

  Derrick was having a hard time taking everything in. “I never heard of ‘krav mag-na.’ How did some Israeli martial art end up in Ridgecrest?”

  “No big mystery,” Aaron Roth said. “My wife got offered a job at the veterinary clinic, this space was available, and we liked the town. Krav’s spreading—it’s getting more popular all over the country. There are classes in Lynchburg and Richmond, too. You could try a class tonight and then decide which art you’d rather study. Are you all sixteen or older?”

  We nodded. “So you admit no children?” Joseph asked.

  “Not in krav. We have kids’ classes in tae kwon do, judo, karate. Those teach kids enough to protect themselves from schoolyard bullies. Adults need to learn how to protect themselves from knife attacks, gun attacks, people who want to kill them.”

  Again, that sounded right—at least, these days it did. I didn’t feel great about putting aside the green belt, but I’d get back to it someday. “I’d like to try krav maga,” I said.

  “So would I,” Graciana said, and the others nodded.

  “Fine.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll have Linda start class while I give you a quick orientation. Let’s head to the exercise area.”

  “What should we call you?” Berk asked. “Coach, Sensei, Mr. Roth?”

  He grinned and peeled off his jacket. “Call me Aaron
. First names only in krav. Now, let’s get started.”

  Eight

  Someone turned on a CD player, and “We’re Not Gonna Take It” blared out. We all jumped.

  Aaron grinned again. “We play loud music during class, except when we’re giving instruction. It’s partly to get our energy up, mostly because life’s full of distractions. Focusing is easy when everything’s calm and quiet. When things aren’t so quiet, it’s not so easy. Does anybody know what ‘krav maga’ means?”

  “Is it ‘close combat,’” Graciana asked, frowning, “or ‘contact combat,’ something like that?”

  “Good,” Aaron said. “It was developed by the Israeli army during and after the Second World War. It’s a simple, practical system anyone can use—man or woman, young or old, fit or unfit. Obviously, the more fit you are, the better. Skill matters most, but endurance matters, too. If you can outlast a more skilled opponent, you improve your chances of surviving. So we begin class with twenty minutes of physical conditioning.”

  That sounded like the workouts the head basketball coach puts us through. He’s a real gym rat—if there’s anything he loves more than parading his biceps, it’s making people run laps. With Coach Colson, we just limbered up for two minutes before getting started. That’s one reason we all liked him.

  “You can spend a lifetime improving your krav skills,” Aaron said, “but you can learn the basics quickly. The system’s designed to help civilians who aren’t martial artists defend themselves. The goal is survival. If you go up against someone stronger, you’ll probably get hurt. If you go up against someone with a knife, you’ll probably get cut. That’s okay. You can get a Band-Aid later. But if you keep your head and use the techniques, you might survive. I think the best way to show you is by demonstrating a weapon defense.” He tossed Derrick a rubber gun. “You’re Derrick, right?”

  “Right.” Derrick smirked, probably thinking this middle-aged guy wouldn’t be a challenge.