When Cupid lifts his stupid bow
’Cause if you were to ask me out
The answer would be No.
On January 4, I get an e-mail from Shelly.
Subject: postcards
Imo,
Thanks for the note. I don’t understand why you haven’t gotten my postcards? I’ve sent AT LEAST five to you, and five to my mom! That is so weird. I’m late for class but I’ll write more later and try to re-create all the things I said in my postcards.
Love, Shelly
P.S. Hannah e-mailed me out of nowhere and asked permission to take Hunter to the V-day dance. I told her to go for it, and I meant it, but what the fuh? I thought she hated him more than you do.
I call Mrs. Eppes and she’s like embarrassingly thrilled to hear from me, so I feel bad for cutting to the chase, but I need to figure out what’s going on. She hasn’t gotten postcards, either, which is even stranger than me not getting any; it’s unlikely Shelly wrote her own address wrong. Maybe the ink was smeared on all of them, making them impossible to decipher.
I re-read Shelly’s e-mail and the thing that bothers me most is the P.S., the words “hated” and “Hunter” in the same paragraph.
The rest of January flies by. Grandmaster Huan calls a few times, but I’m still not ready to go back.
Instead, I focus on Children’s Home Rule number nine: Children must study their schoolwork at school and at home.
In February, the Monday before the Valentine’s Day dance, when all the girls deliver their poems to the guys they like, I linger in the hallway after Ricky’s counseling session so I can talk to him. Something’s clicked into place for me, about what my dad said in December. You don’t have to try to save me anymore.
I think I know why Ricky’s been going to separate sessions with Mrs. Hamilton. The diner didn’t affect him the same way it affected me, because we were part of two different stories. In his, he saw a girl under a table who was about to do something dangerous.
When Ricky steps into the hall after counseling, I tell him he was right that day we first stood outside Mrs. Hamilton’s office and he said I got the worst of it. What I need to know is how he got any blood on him at all.
“Why’d your shoes have blood on them? You were too far away,” I say. “You shouldn’t have gotten any blood on you.”
“I was right behind you. I could see what you were gonna do, and I tried to stop you.”
We stare at each other and I know that he loves me.
He’s been trying to stop me ever since.
“You don’t have to worry about me anymore,” I tell him. I lightly touch his hand. “I mean it. I’m going to be okay.”
He closes his other hand around mine, protecting it between both of his, the way he’s been protecting my heart.
Was he dating me as a way to control the situation? Was he hanging out after school and doing fight club so he could know what I was up to at all times and make sure I was okay?
Even if he was, I don’t care. I just want him back.
After we separate, I slip my folded poem into his locker.
I don’t have a heart that’s red
I have a heart that’s black and blue
And if you land a single punch
That heart belongs to you.
At dinner we beg Hunter to read his valentines aloud. He’s shattered his record from last year, which isn’t a huge surprise. Seniors get the most valentines because they have all four grades gunning for them, whereas nobody sends cards to the grades below them; it’s tacky to pan for gold in towns nobody’s vouched for.
Of his twenty-one cards, two are X-rated drawings instead of poems, ten are fairly normal variations on “Won’t you be mine?,” one is a threat (“You will be mine”), one is totally desperate, four are from previous dance dates (unacceptable), one is shockingly eloquent—constructed in true iambic something or other (A TEACHER?), one is from Hannah, and one is creepy and illegible.
He plucks Hannah’s poem from the stack and slides it over to me. “Recognize that handwriting?”
I pretend to scrutinize it. “Maybe.”
“Tell Hannah to put her hair up the same way she did at New Year’s,” he adds.
I grin. “Tell her yourself.”
“So it is her!” He grins back, triumphant as a lion that’s brought down its first gazelle.
That night I dream I’m in the dressing room at Glenview Martial Arts getting ready for class. Everyone’s lined up and they’re all waiting for me, but I’ve forgotten how to tie my belt.
ON SATURDAY, THE DAY OF THE DANCE, I HELP HUNTER pick which tie to wear, and then I go outside for a walk. The sun’s out for the first time in a while, so I head to the park. I’ve just stepped onto the melting grass when I’m shoved from behind.
“Ooof.” I roll to the ground, tucking my head and using the momentum of the fall to rise to my feet and spin toward my attacker.
And that’s when Ricky Alvarez punches me in the face.
My cheekbone blows up to the size of a fist, but I block his second punch and duck his third, getting in a jab of my own that connects to his shoulder.
He circles me, both his hands up, exactly the way I taught him, so they’re protecting his face but not obscuring his view. I block his roundhouse kick, but he nails me with a sidekick that knocks the wind out of me. Once again I land on the grass, slowly aware that I can’t breathe, that there’s no breath left in the entire universe for me to access.
“Nice. Kick.” I cough out, gasping to replace all the air I’ve lost. I stand on jittery legs, and my own hands come up. We’re circling each other now, mutual prey.
I duck and weave, slide and counterattack.
My body hums with pleasure.
I kick.
I punch.
I swing.
I block.
I give as good as I get.
In our Valentine’s Day dance photos, we look like kids from insanely abusive homes, except for the fact that we’re smiling so wide, with aching teeth, matching black eyes, and puffy faces. I also have a bruise on my stomach the color of jaundice and the shape of Ricky’s sneaker.
The important thing is that my hand, the one I broke punching the garage gym mirror, is completely unscathed, because when Ricky slammed me from behind, I reacted the way Grandmaster Huan taught me: tucking my head in and protecting my hands by making sure I didn’t use them to break my fall. I absorbed the impact by rolling along my forearm and shooting to my feet.
When it counted, when I wasn’t expecting any kind of fight and there was no gun involved, my training kicked in. My training worked.
Ricky gave me that.
He also proved I’m a good teacher. That’s why his sidekick was so powerful; he twisted one hundred and eighty degrees when he executed it, exactly the way I taught him, so the full force of his body powered everything right through his leg and foot.
I didn’t take the easy way out and kick him in the nuts or anything. I blocked his punch, pulled him in, and delivered a knife-hand strike to his throat that made his eyes roll back. When he came at me like a bull, trying to lift me over his shoulder, I darted out of his way and nailed the back of his knee.
He begged me to teach it to him next week.
Now our bodies feel pulverized and tender, but we hold each other up and sway on the dance floor. It even hurts to make out, our swollen, double-size faces rubbing together like jagged rocks as we kiss.
“Ow,” we groan, going back in for more.
People give us a wide berth; no one wants anything to do with us because we look like total freaks. DJ and Philip gape at us, so I take a page out of Hunter and Mom’s book and wink back.
It was too late to join Hunter’s limo group, but we’re heading to Dairy Delight with everyone after.
The funny thing is, Hunter and Hannah have absolutely nothing to say to each other now that she’s not making fun of him, so they spent the evening with other people. Hunter danced th
ree songs with Gretchen, and I’m pretty sure I saw her pinch his butt. Ewww.
“Can you keep a secret?” says Hunter the next morning when we’re alone. Mom’s off running errands and Dad’s working out in the garage. I’ve got a smoothie ready for him in the fridge when he’s done. We don’t keep junk food in the pantry anymore.
“What’s up?” I ask, limping over, still way sore from the fight.
“I’ve decided not to go away for college next fall. I’m still going to college, but probably part-time, and probably at Glenview Community.”
I’m stunned. “I can’t believe you don’t want to leave.”
“I love it here. I love the lake in winter. I love going to football games in the fall. I love working at Dairy Delight. I love helping coach Little League in the summer … I love the park, the fountain, the—”
“Okay, I get it. You heart Glenview.”
“I’ve been working at Dairy Delight for a year and a half now, but instead of having them pay me with checks, I had the Petersons hold on to my money for me. I’ve got enough to buy stock in the store and rent an apartment next year if I want.”
Huh. So he wasn’t lying about never having any cash. “Have you told Mom and Dad?”
“I’m waiting till after graduation. But here’s my plan. Remember that night we surprised you after the movies and had that party for you to cheer you up, with the music from the concert in the park, and everyone was dancing?”
“You say party; I say disaster. Whichever.”
“Oh. Really? You thought it was a disaster?”
I fight the urge to laugh, because he looks so shocked. I can tell this is important to him, so I quickly add, “It was a nice party. I just wasn’t ready to be around people who’d been at the diner. But no, it was good, the dancing and music. So I get what you mean.”
“Well, that’s where I got the idea. I want to be a co-owner of the store someday and organize bands to play gigs. I think we could update the artwork, too, showcase students and local painters once a month. I’m gonna ask Mom to curate for me. Think she’ll go for it?”
“I bet she’d be psyched,” I say, thinking of her trip to the Art Institute. “I mean, after she gets over the disappointment that you’re not going to her alma mater.”
We hear the front door open so we shut our traps.
“Surprise,” says Mom, coming in and plopping a bunch of mail onto the table. “The post office called. They were holding six postcards from Shelly, all marked insufficient postage. They couldn’t send them back to her because there was no return address. So I paid the missing amount and here you go.”
“Hunter!” I yell. I dive into the cards, frantically organizing them by date so I can read them in proper order. “How old were the postcard stamps you gave me?” I demand.
He’s annoyed. “I dunno. Stop shouting.”
“Wild guess,” says Mom, her amusement betrayed by the sparkle in her eyes. “Might they be ten years old? Might they be the ones Grandma gave you so you’d write her from camp when you were eight?”
“Maybe, I don’t know,” Hunter says. “Aren’t they still good?”
“You dumbass.” I laugh, turning away so he won’t see me smile, so he won’t see how happy I am that he’s going to be around next year. Besides, I get the feeling he already knows.
With Grandmaster Huan’s permission, I bring Ricky to observe a class at the end of March, so he can see if he wants to take lessons. He plans to join the Marines next fall, but he wants an official color ranking before then.
When we walk up the steps and enter the hallway, I feel a familiar stirring in my chest, almost like my heart’s returned. Almost like I’m home.
I thought the dojang would feel different, but everything looks the same as it did before. The bright, spongy red carpet; the smooth, solid wooden bar along the wall. The motivational phrases and the corkboard with the school calendar and the belt test requirements seem frozen in time. The shoe bench in the hallway is tidy and organized, all the shoes facing the same way. The air conditioner’s blasting even though it’s cold outside.
Chief Master Paulson is teaching, and Taylor’s wearing a yellow belt. I wait for her to finish saying good-bye to her friends before walking over. “Good job today. You were awesome.”
She looks guarded. “Does this mean you’re coming back?”
I shake my head. “No. But Ricky wants to start lessons. Can you look out for him? Give him some pointers?”
She smiles shyly, shades of the Taylor I first met. “Sure.”
I hand her my teddy bear, the one with the black belt, and I leave Ricky to chat with Chief Master before the next class starts. I walk down the hall to Grandmaster Huan’s office. His face lights up when he sees me.
“Imogen, how are you?”
“Good, sir, how are you?”
We bow, and then he pulls open his desk drawer, takes out my black belt certificate and photo ID, and lays them on the desk.
“I been expecting you sooner,” he says, eyebrows raised. “Why you not come in January?”
He motions for me to sit, and I do. He pushes my black belt materials toward me, but I don’t take them.
“I’m still failing English Lit,” I say. The only thing Santa’s twisted and evil Bleak House stocking stuffers did was make me resist the book further. Mrs. Hamilton thinks I’m deliberately sabotaging my grades so I won’t be allowed back to Tae Kwon Do.
“What about other classes?” says Grandmaster Huan.
“Mostly Cs.”
He nods. “And no bad behavior? No suspensions?”
“No bad behavior. No suspensions.”
“Good. You can come back. Start today?”
I hesitate. “The thing is … I think I might have gotten my black belt too early.”
He sits now, too, looking confused. “You are my top student.”
I try to choose my words very carefully. “I’m not sure that’s enough for me.”
He cocks his head, curious. “What are you saying?”
“Do I still have six months free, because of the demo? Because of getting all those new students?”
“Yes, six months free.”
“Can I transfer them to someone else?”
“Transfer?”
“Give them to someone else to use.”
“You don’t want them?” he asks.
“I’d like to give them to someone else.”
I think about giving them to Ricky or to Taylor. But they’re already committed; they’ll find a way to be here, so I write down a different name for him. The name of someone who may have given up. Grant Binetti.
“I’ll send you his phone number, and you or Chief Master can call him,” I say. Maybe Grant won’t take the call, or maybe he’ll say no. But if he’s seeing Mrs. Hamilton, he deserves that chance.
Grandmaster Huan picks up the paper and studies it and studies me.
“I hold on to these for you,” he says at last, placing the evidence of my black belt back inside the drawer. “Maybe you change your mind.”
“Thank you, sir. For everything.”
I bow to Grandmaster Huan and shake his hand, and then I walk back into the hallway to stand next to Ricky.
We watch the start of the next class, the call-and-response drill.
“What is the Tae Kwon Do Student Creed?”
“I will improve myself mentally and physically, sir!
“I will respect my elders and teachers, sir!
“I will always defend the weak, sir!
“I will prevent unnecessary fights, sir!
“I will be a champion of freedom and justice, sir!”
Those words are tattooed on my brain; I’ll never forget them. But I know now they’re something to aspire to, not something you can always expect.
Before bowing, sitting for meditation, and starting warm-ups, classes begin with leg stretches. The low belts sigh and grumble to themselves, making Vs with their legs and grimacing as they try t
o reach their toes.
The high belts are completely silent, killing themselves for full splits, for that perfect line, because the heart is a muscle like any other.
Tearing it down is the only way to make it stronger.
I MADE IT TO ANOTHER SUMMER.
I even got my driver’s license, which I needed because my new martial arts school is fifteen miles away.
I wanted to go someplace nobody knew me.
Dad helped me research all the local schools and all the different styles of self-defense.
Today is my first lesson.
I still want to teach someday. I want to teach girls to spar without gear. I want to teach them how to react quickly, think on their feet, and take a punch, so if someone ever hits them or gets in their face, they won’t go into shock.
But all that is a long way away.
There are times I still go over it in my head. The diner. I picture different scenarios, imagine things I could’ve done, things the cops could’ve done; but most of the time I don’t really see how it could’ve gone differently. Not anymore. It was up to Daryl.
I wish he had opened his hand—just opened his hand and let go of the gun.
I park the minivan, walk into the school, and take off my shoes. I bow to my new instructor, and she introduces me to the other students.
There are no colors on the wall.
I open my hands to receive my white belt.
I open my hands and let go.
Thank you to my agent, Sara Megibow, for her optimism, encouragement, perseverance, and general wonderfulness. Thank you for celebrating all the small moments (and the big ones, too).
Thank you to my editor, Maggie Lehrman, who made this novel infinitely better with her fantastic insight. I think you knew the characters better than I did, and your edits allowed them to become their fully realized selves.
Special thanks to Dr. Caitlin Thompson, a clinical psychologist who does vital work counseling veterans. Your time and expertise in authenticating the PTSD elements of the book were invaluable.
Thank you to everyone at the Nelson Lit Agency for making my dreams come true: Kristin Nelson, Anita Mumm, and Angie Hodapp.
Bruised Page 18