“What happened?”
“They took my daughter hostage. And they said that if I didn’t do like they told me, they’d kill her.”
The waitress returned with the coffee. Mr. Freedman slowly stirred in some milk.
“So, like, what’d you do?” I asked.
“I was a graduate chemistry student. I didn’t know how to invent narcotics, and they had my daughter. I did what any normal citizen would do. I called the FBI.”
“They find her?” I asked.
“They did,” Mr. Freedman answered. “Not alive, though.”
His reply was so even, so entirely without emotion that immediately my heart sank, because I could tell the coolness of his reply was just a bullshit mask for the greatest hurt he’d ever suffered. Instinctively, I turned to check on Gem. She was still locked in on the arcade game, tongue wagging, standing on her tippy-toes, determined to conquer her longtime nemesis.
Though the milk had long since been mixed into his coffee, Mr. Freedman continued to stir his spoon in the hot drink. Of course I had questions, like a thousand of them, but I didn’t press him for answers. Instead, I figured I’d let him continue when he was ready. He deserved at least that much, and if he decided that he didn’t want to tell me any more, I’d accept it. Every last kid who goes to a school like Fenkell has a story about some fucked-up shit. Some you hear, most you don’t. All of them have one thing in common though.
A hell of a lot of pain.
After a sip of his coffee, he went on.
“Believing in the power of the law, I told them I’d testify. The FBI was going to use me as a star witness to take down the Priests.”
The Priests?
“They have deep roots here, son. Their power goes back, oh, a few decades.”
Question after question started bubbling up, but I still didn’t know if it was appropriate for me to ask anything. It just didn’t feel right to pry even though I wanted to. Mr. Freedman, however, seemed to want to make a point about something, so he kept on talking.
“My wife, ya know, she left me. Blamed our daughter’s death on me, thought I was an idiot for bringing in the FBI and she didn’t want to go into Wit Sec. That’s the Witness Protection Program where they change your name, identity, everything. But I did go into Wit Sec, and in a strange twist, I ended up joining the FBI in the Missing Persons department. I just never wanted another family to go through what I’d gone through. As a trained scientist, my skills transferred over pretty easily.”
“So how’d you become a teacher?” I asked.
“Bureaucracy. Seventeen years of it. I’m a specialist in finding people who weren’t meant to be found, yet I spent more time pushing paper than I did helping real citizens. Finally, I had enough and quit to do something meaningful.”
“So you got a job at Fenkell?”
“My old high school. Name’s not really Freedman, of course, but what happened was so many years ago that all those cats are either dead or in jail now anyway. The Priesthood goes on but individual Priests don’t last all that long.”
I turned again to double-check on Gemma. Everything was fine.
“Can I ask you a question?” I said.
“Sure.”
“Are you happy being a teacher?”
“Naw,” he said. “I’m disillusioned. Reaching kids who don’t want to be reached—well…it’s almost impossible.” Mr. Freedman leaned forward. “But you, son. McCutcheon, you want to be reached.”
He looked me deep in the eyes and for a moment, I felt as if he understood me. Better even than I understood myself. Of course I wanted to be reached. Who didn’t? Who doesn’t want someone to care for them, to think about them, to protect them from harm and to help them out when times get tough? My whole life was a brutal me-against-the-world battle, with the world having a lot more weapons in its arsenal than I had to fight back.
But those were the cards I was dealt, so instead of complaining, I just played them. Played ’em as best I could. Yet to think that suddenly some miracle was gonna occur where the Tooth Fairy magically popped out and put a life of ease and normalcy under my pillow, well…I was too old to believe in crap like that. Any break I’d get in this lifetime would be a break I’d have to make for myself. Miracles made for nice bedtime stories, but I lived on Planet Reality where the people were vicious—and they were cheaters and they were liars and they were thieves and they were thugs and the system everywhere was stacked entirely against fools who didn’t keep their guard up at all times.
Basically, the world is hard. And to survive, you just gotta be harder.
Suddenly, Gemma screamed at the top of her lungs. I spun around, muscles clenched, ready to pounce.
“I DID IT!” she yelled.
She ran over to the booth. In her arms, a brand-new pink teddy bear. It was the biggest prize in the machine a player could win, and Gemma’s smile beamed ear-to-ear.
“You see?” Mr. Freedman said to me as he nodded his head up and down in a knowing sort of way. “Sometimes, son, you just gotta believe.”
By the time Mr. Freedman had pulled up in front of our building to drop us off at home, the storm had let up, and the sky, clear and crisp, shone with stars.
“Thank you,” I said as I helped Gem climb out of the car. She clutched her pink teddy tight as if she’d never again let it go.
“Yeah, thank you very much,” Gemma said. “Thank you for the meatballs and thank you for the root beer and thank you for the car ride when it was storming really bad and my eyeballs were freezing and thank you for the money and thank you for letting me play the game where I won Cuddles.”
“Cuddles? Is that what you named your bear?” Mr. Freedman asked.
“Uh-huh. ’Cause he’s the cuddliest and everyone needs a cuddle.”
“Well, thank you for being such a delightful dinner guest,” Mr. Freedman replied. “You were right. Those meatballs. The best ever.”
“I also know where they make the best pancakes, too,” Gemma added. “And waffles and bacon and buttered toast. Just in case you’re ever hungry again for breakfast, that is.”
“Okay, that’s enough, Gem,” I said.
“I was only offerin’ in case he’s ever hungry,” she said to me. “’Cause he’s a teacher and he goes to school every day and when you go to school without eating breakfast it makes your head fuzzy and it’s hard to concentrate.”
“Wait here a sec,” I said to Gem as I put her on the curb and got ready to close the car door. But before I shut it and let Mr. Freedman drive away, I mentioned something to him that had kinda been on my mind.
“You know, if Mrs. Notley shows up again this week,” I said, “perhaps, well…maybe I might be more findable.”
Mr. Freedman smiled. “Have a nice evening, son.”
I closed the door, and with a belly full of meatballs, he drove off.
FOURTEEN
At Loco’z I approached my training like a scientist. Efficient. Precise. A clear plan in hand that I’d always craft on the Sunday night before the beginning of each new week. Either I’d target certain muscle groups, focus on exact specific submission holds, or concentrate on improving my tactical defensive positions from a variety of angles. Making it up as I went was the enemy. Haphazard “just pull some random exercises out of my ass” gym days could lead to injuries or underdeveloped skill sets. Each activity built on every other activity, just like each brick built on every other brick when someone constructed a fortress. To achieve peak performance I had to avoid whim and make sure strategy ruled.
Always, this was my approach.
Except when my manager showed up.
On the afternoons when my dad popped in to train me—sometimes it would be three times in one week and sometimes it would be one time in three weeks—plans went out the window and he made me work on, well…whatever sort of jump
ed into his head.
“Let’s go, combinations.”
“Dad, I did stand-up striking yesterday.”
“I know what I’m doing.” He put on the focus mitts. “Now, burn those arms.”
Nate-Neck and Klowner glanced over, lowered their gaze and then went back to work on their own regimens, minding their own business. Doing as I was told, I began throwing left-right-left punching combos.
“Got big stuff planned, M.D.” My father always liked stepping onto the mat and guiding me through my workout. Reminded him of his old glory days. “Remember, rotate that shoulder and punch through the target.”
My sweat broke into a lather, and after three minutes of right-left-rights, we mixed in ducking and counter hooks.
“Priests are settin’ up a big payday. Gonna be a two-step process. Switch.” I did as he ordered and flipped to a southpaw stance going through the routine from the top, starting with a right lead instead of a left. Being ambidextrous provided me more options for attack. I’d spent years teaching myself to strike from either side, left or right, with power, balance, and, most importantly, bad intentions from all angles.
“Next fight’s against a bitch named Razor. They’re flying him in from Oakland,” my dad said. “California’s got some monsters out there, and this guy’s got a rep for being too, too nasty—but once you take him out, the Priests’ll set up a huge dance against an undefeated fighter from New York named The Brooklyn Beast. Ever heard of him?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“Switch again.”
I jumped back into a traditional stance and struck the focus mitts with crisp, clear, lightning-fast shots.
“They say this Beast fight’ll be a war for the ages, so big they’re thinking about doing some kinda renegade live-stream, pay-per-view over the Internet, with a gambling book and all in order to let peeps coast-to-coast watch it.”
“Dad, I wanna talk about...”
“The cheese’ll be sweet for us,” he continued. “Biggest we done ever made. Gotta say, I like the way these men be conceptualizing the future.”
“You know, I was thinkin’….”
“And ain’t no doubt, it’s got me contemplating a new arrangement for us, too. Like me joining their organization, maybe becomin’ a lieutenant or something with them. That shit would be a major step up.”
“Dad, I wanna talk about school for a minute.”
“Fuck school. You’re a cage fighter.”
I smashed the mitt.
“I CAN BE MORE THAN AN ANIMAL!”
The whole gym stopped, frozen by my outburst.
Every other fighter in Loco’z showed up to train by choice. They’d chosen this path for themselves. But me, I’d been forced into it before I even learned how to write my name in cursive, never thinking any other options might exist. Well, maybe I might want something else? Something different? Something that would spare me from ice bags and bruises and migraine headaches and constant bleeding, aches and pains. Anyone ever ask me that? Anyone?
No.
And who would dare deny me?
My own father, that’s who. Thinks I’m his fucking slave.
“Education’s for suckers,” my dad said. “And rich kids. Naw. Ain’t gonna be no school next year. You’ll be droppin’ out to train full-time just like we done planned, and once you’re eighteen, boom! You’re turnin’ pro. Two years after that, maybe less, we’ll be making that big-time endorsement cheese, ’cause you’ll own the belt.”
“Not my fuckin’ belt! Little bitch jumps into the cage with me, it’s gonna be night-night time.” Seizure, hollering from across the gym, crossed his arms into his signature rear naked choke hold and began to shake, pretending to have an epileptic fit.
I ignored his trash talk and turned back to my dad.
“But I have an opportunity to...”
“That’s right, you got an opportunity. An opportunity that very few people ever get in this lifetime, so quit being so goddamn selfish. You know how many friggin’ sacrifices I’ve had to done make just for you to get to this point?”
I rolled my eyes. “Psshh,” I muttered under my breath.
Not liking that one bit, my dad grabbed me by the jaw and cranked my head, forcing me to look straight ahead and face him.
“You can’t change who you are, son. And that’s my mothafucking blood running through your veins.” He jammed his finger in my face. “That means you a fighter, got me?”
I didn’t answer. SMASH! He slapped me across the face. Physically it hurt, but worse was the embarrassment. Every person in the gym, Klowner, Nate-Neck, even Loco saw him do it.
“I said, you got me?” he barked again.
“Yes, sir,” I said meekly.
“Good, then let’s get back to work.” He raised the focus mitts and steadied his feet.
“Ha-ha, little boy got slapped by his daddy,” Seizure clowned as he began to jump rope, a giant smile plastered across his face. “Boo-hoo, Boo-hoo!”
“You’z should talk a little less and focus on your own’z self a little more,” Loco told him. “Like you’z is way behind on your dues.”
“I’m good for it,” Seizure answered.
“No money, I’ll bounce ya,” Loco warned. “This ain’t a fookin’ charity I am runnin’ here. Scrape up some cash, Seizure, or you’z gone.”
My dad clapped the mitts and showed me a target. “Let’s go, combinations. One-two, one-two.”
I went back to work on my right-left-rights with only one question remaining in my head.
I wonder what part of campus I’ll be seeing tomorrow?
FIFTEEN
“Let me show you the PE facilities.”
“Not the gym,” I said with a grin as we entered through a set of double doors. “Around here it’s called ‘the facilities.’”
“We do offer a lot,” Kaitlyn admitted. The hostility was gone from her voice, and though I doubt she would’ve said so, I sensed she was glad I was back.
I know I was.
“How many parts to this tour are there?” I asked.
“I guess as many as it takes to get you to say yes to coming here,” Kaitlyn told me. “Mrs. Notley can be persnickety.”
“I’ve heard that,” I said.
“Inside this building, we’ve got a rock climbing wall, an indoor pool, racquetball courts...”
“Racquetball? Too bad. I prefer squash.”
“What’s the difference?” she asked.
“Tell you the truth, I have no idea.”
We shared a laugh.
“And down there is the boys’ locker room. I’ve never been in it, but if it’s anything like the girls’, there’s individual shower stalls and a...”
“Hey, Kay,” a voice cried out. “How’d you like to wash my butt?”
Kaitlyn and I spun around. Three big, athletic-looking guys, wearing nothing but towels as if they’d just gotten out of the shower, hollered at us from across the hall.
“Yeah, like apply a little lotion right here?”
One of the guys turned, raised his towel, and flashed the white of his rear end. The three of them laughed.
Kaitlyn didn’t.
“What, is li’l Kay-Kay a prude? It’s just my tush.” A second guy raised his towel entirely, so that Kaitlyn got a full butt shot.
“Hey, guys, come on,” I said. “Enough.”
They hooted. “Enough? You mean enough of this?”
One of the guys nudged the other two, and a moment later we were looking at three bare-naked asses.
“I guess that’s what they call a triple full moon,” one of them yelled, and they chuckled and high-fived.
I glanced over at Kaitlyn. Her eyes were low and I could sense her shame. She was one of those rah-rah, school-loving kids who adored her campus, and the d
isrespect from these three dudes bothered her deeply.
I started walking toward them.
“I think you fellas oughta reconsider your behavior.”
“Reconsider our behavior?” The three of them laughed like they’d just been told the funniest joke they’d heard in a month. Suddenly, the tallest one’s smile turned to a glare. “And who’s gonna make us?”
“Yeah,” said one of the other two as the three of them started walking toward me.
We met at the halfway point. I took a calm, even breath and stepped nose-to-nose with the leader of their pack. Surrounded by his friends on both my right and left, I issued a warning.
“I will give you once chance to reevaluate. My advice: take it.”
I raised my eyes, daggers filled with threat and danger. Go to war long enough and you develop an air, an almost supernatural vibe that rises off of you like invisible steam just before combat. Other warriors understand it, they own the vibe too, but civilians, all they do is sense it.
And fear it tremendously.
To tell the truth, my guess was that I wouldn’t even need to fight. I could tell I’d already climbed so deep inside their heads that it probably wouldn’t be but moments before they backed down, their instincts for self-preservation taking over. Yes, it would be three on one; but no, the odds were not in their favor. Hell, these were suburban boys. With a simple glance I could see that each one had grown up with mommy wiping the cereal milk off their chin. True warriors learn to observe an instant truth when we look into an opponent’s eyes, a truth about whether or not they have the heart for battle. None of these three had the balls to watch me turn one of their friends into a bleeding chunk of meat.
And most definitely, none of them had the skills to stop me from doing it, either. The only thing worse for any of them than witnessing me tear apart one of their buddies would to be on the receiving end themselves of my hurricanelike destruction should I decide to unleash a pain-filled, bloody, bone-snapping explosion.
For a moment it was silent, but the silence didn’t last long.
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