Fighting Chance

by B K Stevens

  “Point the gun at me,” Aaron said, “but don’t put your finger on the trigger—you might get hurt. Now, shout something scary.”

  “Something scary?”

  “Yeah. ‘Give me your wallet,’ ‘I’m gonna kill you,’ something like that.”

  Derrick did a deep, bored sigh. “Give me your wallet,” he said, flatly.

  “Not much of a shout,” Aaron said, “but okay.”

  He lifted his hands in the air and stepped closer, as if getting ready to hand over his wallet. Then, in about three seconds, he grabbed the gun, shouted, faked punches to Derrick’s face, twisted around, wrenched the gun from his hand, and stood pointing it at him, face hard with warning. “Down on the ground!” he shouted, backing away. “Now, or I’ll shoot!”

  Derrick looked ready to do it. Then he caught himself. “Wow,” he said.

  The rest of us laughed nervously. This was more reality than we’d expected.

  “Let’s do that again,” Aaron said, “and I’ll explain what happened. If someone points a gun at you, you’ll be tempted to back away. That’s a natural reaction, but it’s wrong. You can’t back away so far a bullet won’t hit you, and you can’t take control unless you’re close enough to grab the gun. So move in on the attacker. Since you’ve studied tae kwon do, you might be tempted to go into a fighting stance. That’s wrong, too.”

  “So you stick your hands up?” Berk said. “That looks like you’ve given up.”

  “That’s the point. If you take a fighting stance, you put your attacker on warning. In krav, putting your hands up is the ready position. It makes your attacker relax too much. Plus you can move more quickly. Now, the basic strategy for weapons defense is to deflect and take away. Derrick, point the gun at me and shout—really shout this time. We shout at each other a lot in krav, because most of us are usually around nice people who speak to us politely. When someone shouts, it can intimidate us. We’ve got to get used to not being scared when somebody shouts. Go ahead, Derrick.”

  Derrick looked nervous, but he did it. “Give me your wallet!” he yelled.

  “Great.” Aaron put his hands up. “Watch. I move toward him, grab the gun with my left hand, twist my body, and knock the gun to the side. Now it’s deflected. Even if it goes off, the bullet won’t hit me—it’ll go into the ground.” He did things in slow motion as he described them. “Now Derrick’s off guard, and he’s focused on the gun. It’s time for me to get aggressive and keep him from being able to maneuver. So I’ll shout to intimidate him and punch him in the face.” He shouted and faked punches again, and Derrick flinched again.

  “Next I reach down with my right hand,” Aaron said, doing it, “and grab the gun, jerk my body to the left, and wrench the gun from him. That’s the takeaway part of weapons defense.” He went through the moves, and Derrick couldn’t stop him. Aaron grabbed the gun and jumped back. “On the ground, or I’ll shoot!”

  Derrick lifted his hands and laughed. “You win.”

  Aaron shook his hand. “You can all learn to do that, and it won’t take long. You just have to know what to do, and you have to practice until it becomes second nature and comes back to you in a crisis. Any questions? Okay. During conditioning, push hard, but don’t hurt yourself. If you’re reaching your limit, sit down and rejoin the class when you’re rested. Don’t be embarrassed—people do it all the time. If you’re ready, shout ‘yes, sir’ and get out there.”

  “Yes, sir!” we shouted, and ran to the center of the gym.

  Students were doing sit-ups. Some had paired off and sat facing each other, ankles hooked together. When they sat up, they slapped their hands against each other and shouted. I looked at Berk, and he nodded. It works. You can’t fake it by not sitting up all the way, shouting gets your energy going, and you motivate each other. No way would I stop doing sit-ups before Berk did.

  Next came jumping jacks, then laps. When conditioning ended, I felt exhausted. I’ve got to get back in shape, I thought. I’ve been too easy on myself since basketball ended.

  “Form two circles,” Aaron called, walking around with a big cardboard box. “Everyone take a gun or knife. One person stands in the center with no weapon, and the others attack that person one at a time. Don’t go around the circle in order. Take the person by surprise. And the person in the center shouldn’t use the same disarming technique every time. Mix it up. When I yell ‘change,’ someone else takes a turn in the center. New students, you’re not ready to stand in the center, but attack all you like. Everybody ready? Go!”

  A short, slender woman who looked about fifty stood in the center of our circle. People started rushing her one at a time, aiming their weapons, shouting, “Give me your money!” or “I’m gonna kill you!” She shouted back, disarming every one of them, always countering—throwing some people to the floor, forcing others to their knees, stopping others by faking punches, kicks, or elbow strikes. At first, I held back, feeling silly about charging a middle-aged woman. But what the hell.

  I lifted my rubber knife. “Give me your money!” I shouted, and ran at her. Then I was on the floor, and she was holding the knife on me, yelling at me to stay down.

  That’s when I got into it. I charged to the center again and again, getting flipped over and forced to my knees and not-quite-hit. Nothing hurt, I liked seeing the different techniques people in the center used, and shouting felt good, like I was getting rid of feelings I’d held back since the tournament, almost like I was fighting back. It didn’t matter that I always lost. Before long, if Aaron was right, I’d be ready to take a turn in the center. I was willing to bet that’d feel really good.

  Joseph and Suzette were in my circle. Joseph took plenty of turns, breaking people up when he shouted, “I will now please have your wallet!” Suzette only watched. Maybe she felt scared. I could understand—the shouting, people rushing forward from all directions and getting thrown around, everything happening fast. She’ll get used to it, I thought, and smiled, picturing dainty little Suzette charging someone with a rubber gun.

  Aaron turned the music off and called us to the center. We dumped our weapons in the box and sat on the mats.

  “I’ll need someone to help me,” Aaron said. “Maybe a new student?”

  Might as well, I thought, and raised my hand.

  “Matt, right?” Aaron said. “For this demonstration, to be extra safe, we’ll use gloves.”

  He tossed me a pair. They were the same kind we’d used Saturday—smaller than regular boxing gloves, with fingers left uncovered for flexibility. Images from the tournament started coming back, but I shut them out. I wanted to focus on now.

  “Let’s talk about blocking punches,” Aaron said. “If an attacker’s a foot or more away, and you’re expecting the punch, you’ve got plenty of options. Matt, show us something from tae kwon do.”

  I took a fighting stance, he threw a punch at my face, and I knocked it aside with my left arm.

  “Good,” he said. “But what if the attacker’s very close, and the punch comes out of nowhere?”

  With one quick movement, he stepped right up to me and threw another punch at my face. Even though he’d described what he was going to do, it caught me off guard. I jerked my head back and lifted an arm to protect my face.

  “That won’t work,” he said. “I can knock your arm aside and punch you with my left hand. When you don’t have enough time for a conventional block, use something else. Matt, this time you throw the punch.”

  I’m going to end up on the floor again, I thought. I stepped in close and threw the punch, and he brought both fists up in front of his face, keeping his elbows in. “This is like a boxing block,” he said. “Don’t close your eyes or turn your face away. Those are natural reactions, but if you flinch, you make yourself a victim. Keep your eyes on your attacker. Keep punching, Matt.”

  I punched his arms a few times. “I’m taking
some hits to my arms,” Aaron said. “If I get some bruises, who cares? The crucial thing is I’m watching him, waiting until he pulls his arm back slightly as he gets ready to punch again.”

  Right then, as I pulled my arm back, he reached underneath to trap it, so I couldn’t punch anymore. Moving forward, he shouted “kadima!” again and again, faking strikes to my face with his right elbow, grabbing the back of my neck and pulling my head down. Then two fake knee strikes to my stomach, and he spun around and flipped me onto the mat.

  “If those knee strikes had been full force,” Aaron said, helping me up, “I would’ve knocked the air out of him. You okay, Matt?”

  “Fine.” I caught my breath. “Even without full force, you knocked out plenty of air.”

  People applauded, I sat down, and Aaron called two experienced students up, showing them how to use the block on each other. Then we paired up. My partner was a man in his thirties, almost as big as Derrick. He’d been taking krav for three years, but I could still block his punches and throw him when it was his turn to attack. That felt good.

  Fifteen minutes later, class ended. No bowing-out ritual—instead, Aaron said, “Great job, everyone,” and started applauding. We all joined in. Afterward, he stood by the door, saying goodnight as people headed out. “So,” he said to us, “have you decided? Tae kwon do or krav?”

  “I’d like to take krav maga,” Graciana said. “I like tae kwon do, too, and I’m sure I’ll study it again some day. Right now, krav seems more—practical.”

  The rest of us nodded, Suzette reluctantly. “It’s nice of you to let us come for free until school ends,” I said. “You’re sure that’s okay?”

  Aaron shrugged. “Doesn’t cost me anything to have you here. And you guys were left in a rough situation. I’m glad I can help.”

  “One question,” Joseph said. “Many times, people shouted ‘kadima.’ What does this mean?”

  “It’s Hebrew,” Aaron said. “It means ‘forward.’ We shout that to remind ourselves to keep moving in on our attacker. Good question, Joseph. I’ll see you guys Wednesday.”

  When we got to the car, Suzette cried “shotgun,” so Berk and Joseph got in back. The other guys and I talked maybe two hundred words a minute, reliving class. Suzette didn’t say much, just agreeing with something now and then, laughing and slapping my shoulder when I made a joke.

  “It was fun,” she said eventually. “But I like tae kwon do better. And you’ve got a green belt, Matt. Isn’t it hard to stop when you’ve made it so far? Don’t you want to go for a black belt?”

  “Someday,” I said. “There are tae kwon do classes everywhere.”

  “I guess.” She settled back, looking grumpy. When we dropped Joseph off, she perked up. “So we’ll take Berk home next?”

  “No, he lives on my street. We’ll go to your house first. How do I find it?”

  After she left, Berk moved to the front seat. “She likes you,” he said.

  “Who, Suzette?” I looked at him in surprise. “No. Of course not.”

  “Sure she does. Remember Saturday night, when she gushed about how brave you were for following Davis into the locker room? Tonight, she tried to talk you into sticking to tae kwon do, so you two could go to classes together while the rest of us take krav. And she wanted you to drop me off first, so she’d be alone in the car with you.”

  “No way,” I said, but thought it over. Suzette Link. She’s really pretty, really popular. I’d always figured she was out of my league. “You think so?”

  “Yeah.” He stared moodily into the darkness. “And it’s okay with me. If you want to date her, go ahead.”

  It took a minute for that to sink in. “Damn. You mean you like Suzette?”

  He sighed. “I thought it was obvious. I’ve been trying to catch her attention for months. But she barely looks me. I’ve given up. So it’s fine for you to ask her out.”

  The idea of dating Suzette hadn’t occurred to me until one minute ago. It hadn’t seemed possible. Now, it definitely wasn’t possible. “I’d never ask out a girl you like. Not in a million years.”

  “I told you, it’s fine.” I’d pulled into his driveway, and he opened his door right away, not looking at me. “She’ll never notice me anyway. You should ask her out. I want you to.”

  He slammed the car door and practically ran to his porch. Not in a million years, I thought again. No matter what Berk said, he wouldn’t like it. And I’d never risk our friendship for some girl.

  But if Suzette actually liked me—damn.

  I put it out of my head. When I got home, I gave my parents a two-sentence description of class, ate hummus to make Mom happy, and told Cassie sorry, I couldn’t watch the cat video she’d found on YouTube—I had to study. In my room, I stared at one page for ten minutes before slapping my trig book shut. Basically, I knew this stuff, and Ms. Powell’s quizzes are super easy.

  Thoughts about Suzette crept back, and I shook my head to keep them out. Too much possibility for disaster. Besides, I had more important things to think about—the special issue of the newspaper, the burglary at Coach’s apartment. And Bobby Davis.

  I stood up. A quick, unexpected punch at close range, I thought. I put both fists up in front of my face. Don’t close your eyes, I told myself. Don’t flinch. I watched and waited. When the imaginary attacker pulled his arm back for another punch, I reached underneath, trapped his arm, moved forward, grabbed his neck, forced his head down, kneed him in the stomach, spun around, and threw him down.

  I went through the moves twenty times, maybe more. Every time, the imaginary attacker had Bobby Davis’ face.

  Nine

  On Tuesday, I got up early. Jumping jacks, sit-ups, push-ups, and a quick run—four blocks to the Methodist church, two laps around the parking lot, home again to shower and dress. When I came to the kitchen, Mom stood at the stove.

  “Cassie’s not going to school,” she said. “She has a terrible headache. At least she’s got an appetite. She asked for pain perdu, so I’m fixing you some, too.”

  Great, I thought. More weird food. But it’s basically French toast, only lemony, with powdered sugar instead of syrup. “That was good, Mom,” I said. “Tell Cassie I hope she feels better.” I grabbed my books and headed out.

  During homeroom, Dr. Lombardo made a public address announcement about the bake sale meeting. So after school, about forty people squeezed into Ms. Quinn’s classroom—mostly girls, but a few guys from the basketball team. Not Paul Ericson, though. Too bad. Several teachers came, too, including Ms. Nguyen.

  The person I was most surprised to see was Marie Ramsey, the goth-type girl who’d cried at the tournament. Naturally, she sat in the back row, hunched over her sketch book and drawing like crazy, her long black hair almost hiding her face. She didn’t speak to anyone; the few times she glanced up, she looked almost scared. She hates being here, I thought. She isn’t comfortable around this many people. She must’ve really liked Coach, or she wouldn’t have come. That must be why she’d come to the tournament, too, and why she’d cried so hard.

  Ms. Quinn asked Graciana and me to lead the meeting. I talked for maybe a minute about why we were doing the bake sale. Then Graciana took over. She’d typed up sign-up sheets for committees, she’d made copies of a timeline about what we needed to accomplish by certain dates, and she led the discussion and answered questions. In half an hour, everything was settled.

  While most people filed out, the martial arts club members moved up to the front row. Ms. Quinn sat down with us. She’s relaxed-looking, not fat but definitely not thin, and she has short, curly hair, dark brown with lots of gray mixed in. As usual, her clothes looked rumpled and beige and loose, as if she doesn’t feel like bothering to get the size exactly right and only cares about being comfortable. She congratulated us on a well-organized meeting, we settled some final details, and then Graciana said sh
e, Berk, and I were planning a memorial issue. Joseph immediately offered to help; Derrick begged off, probably figuring he’d have to write something eventually.

  Suzette sat turning a bright pink pen over and over in her hands, pursing her lips. “Would Graciana be in charge of the special issue?”

  Graciana shrugged. “I’m the editor. But if you have suggestions, I—”

  “Then I’ll stick to helping with the bake sale,” Suzette cut in.

  Not subtle. Ms. Quinn cleared her throat. “Maybe Derrick and Suzette should be co-chairs for the bake sale, so the rest of you can concentrate on the special issue. My husband mentioned it last night, and I think it’s a fine idea. When you interview people, be sure to include me.”

  “Thanks,” Graciana said. “The four of us could meet tomorrow to make other plans. In the library, after school?”

  “I’ll probably be a little late,” I said, “but I’ll be there.” If I didn’t show my face at the chemistry review session, Mr. Quinn would give me a hard time. But I wanted to help tell Joseph about our real reasons for doing the memorial issue.

  The meeting broke up. When I walked out to the parking lot with Graciana and Berk, there was Marie Ramsey standing right outside the door, pressing her back against the wall like she was trying to blend into it. She spotted us and walked over to Graciana.

  “Here.” She thrust out her hand, showing us a rumpled ten-dollar bill. “For the bake sale.”

  “We haven’t talked about taking cash donations,” Graciana said. “Maybe you could use the money to buy baking supplies. Did you sign up for a committee?”

  Marie shook her head. “I can’t be on a committee. And I don’t know how to bake.”

  “You could ask your mom to bake something,” Berk said. “My mom’s going to.”

  “My mom doesn’t bake. Nina did. Every year, she baked a cake for my birthday.” Marie looked at Graciana. “It was nice of you to come to the funeral. Not many people from school did.”

  “I wanted to be there,” Graciana said. “I didn’t know your sister well, but we were in the same German class last year. I liked her sense of humor.”