Grey Black-Mask knows, though, that he has to take me out first. Otherwise, I may thwart his evil scheme. Since I saved our school from those terrorists, my reputation has spread. He swings at me with his other hand—the one that is holding an iron bar, but I block it just as easily with my same hand, my block so precisely aimed at the nerve center in his wrist that it paralyzes his hand, and the iron bar falls clanking onto the floor of the bus. Then, with great precision, my hand a blur of movement too fast for the ordinary human eye to see, I strike him square in the center of his chest with an iron-palm technique. It hurls him backward through the front window of the bus, which explodes into a shower of glass.
I’m about to turn around, both to see if there are any other hijackers for me to dispose of and also to accept, modestly, of course, the accolades of the other kids on the bus for saving their lives, even though they didn’t deserve it.
However, I was interrupted by a weary voice.
“Come on, LeBeau, you’re not hurt. Stop rubbing your head and get off the bus. I’ve got to get back to the garage.”
It was Mike the bus driver. I opened my eyes and got up.
Mike stopped me with one hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry. I got my eyes on him. I won’t let him get at you on my bus again, okay?”
I nodded. It would have been better, though, if Mike hadn’t been kind. Better still if he hadn’t even seen me getting whacked.
“Want me to say something about it to the A.P.?” Mike asked.
I shook my head and turned away from him to wipe the moisture out of my eyes. It had to be allergies because here’s no way I’d have cried just because I got swatted like I was some insignificant little gnat. Then I slipped past Mike and down the stairs.
I wasn’t really rubbing the back of my head where Grey slapped me because it hurt. It had just surprised me and then started me thinking about what I might have done if things had been different. It didn’t hurt even one little . . . Okay, I’ll be honest. It did hurt, but only because it was embarrassing. Not physically. It’s hard to hurt me physically, even if the other kids don’t know that. I may be little, but all of my years of climbing trees—and sometimes falling out of them—have toughened me up physically. Even when I get bruises, they go away almost overnight.
Like this one time when I was trying to build a tree-house in an old apple tree in an abandoned orchard across from where Mom and I lived 3TPA (three trailer parks ago). I was in seventh grade then. There was also a broken-roofed shed buried in the weeds of that orchard, and I was going to use the rusty tools and old boards I’d found in it. But first I had to cut some branches out of the way.
The first big branch was hung up in the branches above it. When I cut through, the butt of that branch thudded back against me so hard that I went flying out of the tree and landed on my back twenty feet below. I lay there, still holding the saw in my right hand and staring up at the sky and not being able to breathe for what felt like forever. Or at least long enough to wonder if I was dead and about to go up into those white clouds floating above me. Then my breath finally came back into me, and I felt even worse. I’m an idiot, I thought. I can’t do anything right.
I put that saw and the other tools back into the shed and limped home. I was covered with bruises the next day, but two days later, I never would have known—aside from the addition of another embarrassing memory—I’d been beat up by a fruit tree.
Things went okay for a while after getting off the bus. I managed to get into class without talking to anyone, tucked my feet under me so they wouldn’t be noticed, and put my head down. I succeeded in keeping a super-low profile until Ms. Taker reached my name at roll call, which is always taken during first period, her English class.
“Mr. Leee-booo?” she said, drawing out my name, dramatically as usual.
Don’t ask me why she does that. Maybe she is trying to be funny. Ms. Taker is in her second year of teaching high school and doesn’t look much older than the kids in her classes. My guess is that she’s unsure of herself. I’ve noticed the way she constantly clasps and unclasps her hands when she talks to us. She makes some of the girls giggle when she says their names that way—like they are sharing some secret joke together. I hate it, though. But this time I didn’t try to correct her.
“Here.” That is all I said, not too loud, so it wouldn’t draw attention to me.
Unfortunately, I said it too softly.
“Cody,” Ms. Taker said, looking down at me over the roll sheet, “you have such a beautiful voice. Why don’t you use it and speak up so we can all hear you?”
A beautiful voice. I knew that everyone in the class heard her. Before she takes the roll, Ms. Taker always orders her students to unplug and close up their cell phones. That way she gets their undivided, though bored, attention. I groaned inside at her thoughtless remark, which I was now destined to hear thrown back at me in various forms for the rest of the day. I couldn’t even think of a single kung fu fantasy that would turn it around.
I knew what was going to happen. Teenagers are like most other pack animals when they sense weakness. Word would spread about my having a “beautiful voice,” and I’d be teased everywhere I went. When it comes to teasing, I’ve discovered from the various schools I have attended, Indian kids can be even worse than white kids. And not just to outsiders like me.
My mind flashed back to what had happened to Stump during my third day here. Stump is a kid in my class—his real name is Jackson Teeter. He’s Koacook and his father is the head of security at the casino. But Jackson is so grungy—it’s not just the acne, but that brown flak jacket and the black jeans and sneakers he always wears—that he doesn’t have any friends. He’s not small like me. He’s about six feet tall, but he’s no athlete. His arms are skinny, and the rest of his body is fat.
I may be little, but at least I’m not strange-looking. I’m just average. The features in my brown-skinned face aren’t anything special, nothing to make any girl take notice. My hair is jet black, like my eyes, but I keep my hair short and a little spiky. I don’t wear it shoulder-length to emphasize the fact that I’m a Skin like some of the Koacook guys. There’s nothing different or special about me at all.
Stump, though, stands out in any crowd. He gets picked on almost automatically, like he’s asking for it. Not that anyone deliberately makes an attempt to bully him. More like if he strays a little too close to anyone in the hall, they give him a shove and say something mean like, “Back off, loser!” Kind of like swatting at a fly.
On that third day in this school, I was in the library when I heard some really loud laughter from the hall just outside. Through the display window I could see a group of big guys—junior and senior football players. I didn’t go out there. Being a freshman, a low bird in the pecking order, I knew enough to keep out of the way of those upper-class boys.
Probably one of them’s making dumb jokes about sex. That’s what I thought at first. Then, as I stretched up on my toes to peer around Touching Spirit Bear, The Buffalo Tree, and the other books in display in the window, I saw what they were all howling like hyenas about. Somebody had pantsed Stump. He was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, his jeans down around his ankles, and his skinny knees showing. A broad-shouldered Koacook kid stood over Stump. It was Brett Sonaqua, the senior captain of the school’s undefeated football team, leader of that gang of guys who command the head table in the lunchroom and stick out their legs so little kids who try to get past them trip and spill their lunch trays all over themselves and then end up having to spend the whole day smelling like soured milk.
Brett was pointing something at Stump. It was one of those hyper-tech new phones that can record a short video.
“Stumpie-dumpie,” Brett said, laughing, “smile for the camera. You are going to be a star on YouTube.”
“Clear the hall!” a harsh voice rumbled.
The crowd evaporated as Mr. Mennis, the assistant principal, lumbered around the corner.
By the time the A.P. got to him, Stump had already picked himself up off the floor and pulled up his pants. His face was expressionless. He already had his notebook and his black pen in his hands.
That’s another strange thing about Stump. Whatever happens to him, he never complains or fights back. He just takes out that little brown notebook he keeps in an inside pocket and scribbles in it. Weird.
Thinking back on what happened to Stump, I knew I couldn’t just stand there and take it the way he did. I could only hold my tongue just so long before I’d crack and say something smartass with my big mouth. And then things would just get worse.
Maybe, I thought, maybe I was wrong. Maybe nobody really noticed what Ms. Taker said.
But I wasn’t wrong. Just as I’d feared, the teasing started right after the bell to change classes. As I walked down the hall trying to be invisible, the mocking voices started up from behind me.
“Hey, Lee-booo, why don’t you sing something with that beautiful voice of yours?”
“Hey, Pretty Voice!”
“Little Bitty Pretty Voice!”
“Why aren’t you singing?”
“Cuz he’s a baby. Babies don’t sing, they cry.”
“What’s wrong, baby? Did you wet your pants?”
And then I cracked.
So here I am, sitting in the nurse’s office holding a Kleenex up to my nose and pinching my nostrils together. There’s a wad of bloody tissues on the bench next to me. I’m pretty sure the bleeding has stopped now, but the nurse told me not to stop squeezing until she comes back.
I’m in no hurry for that. I know that the next stop after the nurse turns me loose will be the A.P.’s office.
“Mr. LeBeau,” Mr. Mennis rasps, steepling his fingers together and rocking back on his chair as he stares at me from behind his desk. “Why are you always fighting?”
I look down at the floor. It probably pleases him that I do that. My body language is telling him that I know he’s in control and that I’m feeling regretful. Just like his body language—holding his hands up with the fingertips touching, sitting back in his padded chair while I’m on this uncomfortable wooden stool—is a sure sign of his self-satisfied superiority. He probably doesn’t even know he’s doing that. And I am not about to tell him. I’m dumb, but not that stupid.
“I wasn’t fighting,” I say in a low voice.
The A.P. sits forward suddenly, letting the front legs of his chair hit the floor with a loud crack. “What?” he snaps, slapping his hands on the desk.
I jump, but only because I know I’m supposed to. I’ve been here before, and I have his entire act memorized, including the part I’m supposed to play. After eight different schools in six years, I have pretty much figured out what it takes to be an assistant principal. Intimidation is a major ingredient in the recipe.
I look up at him and then speak a little louder. “I wasn’t fighting, sir,” I say.
The “sir” pleases him, but he tries not to show that.
“Then how did you get that?” Mr. Mennis asks, pointing at my swollen nose. He sits back in his chair, certain that he has just shown the winning card. But he doesn’t know what I have in my hand. Nothing.
“Punching bags don’t get into fights,” I mumble.
“What?” he says. He’s not sure he’s heard me right.
“Getting hit by somebody’s backpack,” I reply. “Accidentally, I mean—that’s not getting into a fight.”
The A.P. narrows his eyes. “Are you saying that this was an accident, that you just happened to get hit in the face by someone’s backpack?”
Well, that isn’t exactly what I said. But I’m not lying to him when I answer, “The halls are really crowded. It’s easy for somebody to bump into another person without even knowing it, especially if he’s late for the next period.”
Mr. Mennis steeples his hands again. He’s thinking. I am pretty sure I can read his mind. There’s a no-tolerance policy at Long River High for fighting—an automatic suspension for all parties involved. Even the kid who gets his butt kicked is kicked out for two days. If Mr. Mennis takes this further and I get suspended along with whomever may have hit me—a party whose identity shall remain unknown to the A.P., for I may be a big mouth but I will never be a narc—it becomes an official “incident,” and he’ll have to write a detailed report.
However, if it was just a minor accident, no injury intended, then there’s no need for more paperwork on his part. And it does not become part of the record, a record that is scrutinized by the school board—a school board that praises the school administrators when the number of violent incidents stays low or goes down.
I see him reach his decision by the way he looks off to the side for a moment. I may not have lied, but he has decided to be satisfied with what he is certain has to be deception. He nods and then stands up to loom over me, which is not hard for him to do, since he was a college basketball player before becoming a P.E. instructor and then an A.P. He’s got at least a foot and a half on me!
“You can go, LeBeau. But remember,” Mr. Mennis thumps his huge hand against his chest and then raises his index finger ominously, “I’ve got my eyes on you.”
As I exit his office, I catch a glimpse of Jeff Chahna. He’s back in the hallway, out of sight of the A.P.’s door. He’s looking worried because a suspension will mean he won’t be able to play in the football game tomorrow. He’s one of Brett Sonaqua’s gang of jocks, the starting halfback on our team, which is eighty percent made up of Indian kids, and we’re playing our biggest rival this weekend. Jeff’s eyes meet mine. Koacook warrior sees an Abenaki stranger in the forest. Is he an enemy or a friend? Neither, I think.
I don’t say anything. I just lift my right hand and swing it off to the side, palm down as I shake my head. He gets it. I didn’t squeal that it was his fist that hit my face after I spun around and told him, “Your lack of intellect is a perfect match for your Neanderthal physiognomy.” I’d even lifted my chin and shoved my face at him.
Don’t ask me why I did that. I knew that even if he didn’t understand what I’d said, the tone of my voice and my stance made it clear that I was challenging him. I knew he’d probably throw a punch at me. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to duck it.
I was right on all three counts. Predicting future personal disasters is one of my specialties. But not squealing.
I see the relief in Jeff Chahna’s eyes. Then the bell rings. The hall fills with kids, and I lose sight of him.
I sigh. Time to head off to my next class. Earth science. Oh joy! But as I turn, I catch sight of someone else further down the hall—a big, sloppy shape in a flak jacket leaning back into his locker. As usual, he’s got that little brown notebook out, and he’s writing in it.
Just another day.
Chapter 4
A STRANGER
COMES TO TOWN
Eyes closed,
the real reading begins.
—Pendetta Satu
The one good thing about every day at school—aside from the end of every day at school—is that I can usually find time to get into the library. It’s the only place I feel at home, even if it is woefully lacking in books about the Asian fighting arts. For some reason, the school encourages football—where two-hundred-pound lunks hit each other with their whole bodies, routinely breaking limbs and giving each other concussions—but the administration has a positively paranoid fear of anything that has to do with punching and kicking. Thus, no books about kung fu, aikido, tae kwan do, karate, even boxing and judo! Or so they think.
But there is a selection of books about the Far East, including Japan, China and Korea, and in each of them I’ve found at least a few paragraphs about my favorite topics. Our librarian, Mrs. Masters, is well aware of my real interest and has a habit of searching out books she knows I’ll enjoy. I know she’s also hoping I’ll outgrow my fascination with martial mayhem. So she includes books of translated Chinese and Japanese poetry in the stuff she un
earths or gets through interlibrary loan that make mention of fighting techniques. She also uses her home computer to download and print out articles that are directly about you-know-what.
I don’t have a computer at home, which makes me the only kid in the universe without Internet access. The only computers I ever get to use are at school where they have plenty of blocking software to keep us from getting off-task and into anything really interesting during the few hours a day we get access. Mom keeps promising that as soon as she is able to set enough money aside, she’ll get us a computer and DSL. For now, just paying the electricity and water and phone bills every month is all she can afford in the way of luxuries. (Joke.) We don’t even have cable on our pathetic thirteen-inch television.
Anyhow, back to Mrs. Masters. She folds up the articles that she prints out and tucks them—a single page at a time—into such books as Arthur Waley’s The Poetry and Career of Li Po. She’d probably get into big trouble for doing it if the powers-that-be knew. Of course, I realize her strategy is meant to encourage me to turn page after page of those collections of haikus and tankas from ancient Japan, to search through the Tang Dynasty verses of Tu Fu and Li Po in search of the newest page on Shotokan karate that gives a bio of Master Gichin Funakoshi, the style’s great and honorable founder. She knows the kind of reader I am—if I see words on a page, they catch me the way a fly gets stuck in the web of a spider. Then I have to read them before I can get free.
As a result of Mrs. Masters, Li Po has become my favorite writer these days. He wasn’t just a poet, but also a famous swordsman. When he was a young man, he traveled around Szechuan Province as a hsieh, a kind of wandering knight who took it upon himself to avenge wrongs done against those who had no way to defend themselves, especially women and children. As Wei Hao, his best friend, put it, “Mr. Li ran his sword through quite a number of people.” Cool.
The Way Page 2