by April Henry
“Yup. Your standard bar fight punch. Bruce Lee’s kicks and punches were more like they exploded from his body, with no windup. He was famous for his one-inch punch. People literally didn’t know what hit them.”
“At least you and I understand where that phrase came from.” Savannah’s blue eyes flashed up to mine and then back to the floor.
“And he was more than just a martial artist. He did fencing and running and weight lifting and boxing. Anything he thought would make him better at kung fu.” I might have been a little obsessed with Bruce Lee, but Savannah honestly seemed interested. “He was even the Hong Kong Cha-Cha Champion.”
She brushed back her dark curtain of hair. “Cha-Cha? Like the dance?”
Bruce Lee had supposedly only learned to dance as a way to impress girls who didn’t appreciate the fact that he could do two-fingered push-ups and jump eight feet into the air. I decided not to share this with her. “I read that he realized a lot of what he learned dancing could also be useful for kicking ass.”
“Well, dancing’s supposed to make you light on your feet.” She wasn’t looking at me, but at the dirty mop water.
I clenched the mop handle so hard it hurt my fingers. Before I could think better of it, I said, “Winter formal’s next month. Wanna see if it would work the other way around? If kung fu could make us good dancers?”
She opened her mouth, but no words came out. With every second, I died a little.
Finally she sighed. “Sorry. I don’t think it would be a good idea.” She didn’t elaborate, but I filled in the blanks. She didn’t like me. She only liked me because I could throw a spinning hook kick. She had a boyfriend. She thought my obsession with Bruce Lee was weird.
Whatever it was, she clearly wasn’t interested in me.
“Okay,” I said, then added, “Sorry.”
“No, I’m the one who should be sorry.” Her mouth turned down at the corners. “I mean, I like you, Daniel, but—”
I held my hand up to interrupt her. “That’s okay. You don’t have to explain anything.” I just wanted this moment to be over. I didn’t need to hear the details. Or worse yet, a lie.
We finished the mopping in awkward silence, while I mentally kicked myself for ruining what might have been the beginnings of a friendship. For making what had clearly been a bad day for Savannah even worse. After putting the bucket and mops away, we grabbed our stuff. I set the door so that it would lock behind us, and then we walked outside. After the warmth of the dojo, the chilly air was a shock.
It was also dark, the area around our school deserted. “This part of town is so empty at night,” I said. “I could walk you home if you wanted.”
Her lips twisted. “Oh no, I’m okay. My mom’s waiting in the upper lot for me.” She pulled on her hat, then offered me a sad smile as I started to unlock my bike. “But I’ll see you in class.”
If you want to learn to swim, you have to throw yourself in the water.
—BRUCE LEE
SAVANNAH TAYLOR
My feet trudged up the concrete stairs I’d come down ninety minutes earlier. They were the same stairs, it was the same cold night, but I actually felt worse than I had before.
I felt even more alone. It was clear that Daniel liked me. And I liked him. I really did. His warm brown eyes made my knees go weak, as did the way his black hair fell over his eyes and the way his long fingers pushed it back.
I hadn’t said no because I was grounded. I figured that would be long over by the time of the dance. But if I had said yes to going with Daniel, I knew where it would lead. To me having my heart ripped out when we left Portland, as we inevitably would. To me becoming like my mom. Always desperate to fill the missing piece.
I reminded myself that I didn’t need a guy. I didn’t need friends. I didn’t need anyone. As soon as I was old enough, I was going to live on my own. I was going to be completely independent. Make my own money, my own choices, my own life.
And no matter where I was, that life would include kung fu. As soon as I walked into Tim’s house, I would apologize to him. If I had to, I would grovel. I wouldn’t even ask for my phone back. I’d promise to cook him steaks every night. Maybe offer to polish every inch of his stupid Camaro by hand after it was fixed. Whatever it took to keep coming back to class.
At the top of the steps, I rounded the corner of the building. I was so lost in thought that I only knew something was wrong when a rough hand grabbed my wrist from behind.
My first confused thought was that it was Daniel, seeing how well I remembered tonight’s lessons. Playing a joke on me.
But as I was jerked backward, I smelled cigarettes and motor oil. And I saw what I hadn’t registered at first: an old white van parked in the darkest corner of the lot. The lot that earlier had been empty.
I froze, all of tonight’s lessons fleeing from my head. What would Sifu do? Or Bruce Lee?
And then I remembered that rather than trying to pull away from my attacker, I should instead accelerate his motion by pushing toward him. Toward the thumb that was the weakest part of his grip. I let him spin me around and yank me back as I stepped closer. I felt my hat go sliding off as I circled my right arm up and back, breaking his grip. With a muffled grunt, he let go. My momentum carried me closer to him. I was already striking out with the heel of my left hand. His teeth clacked as I made contact with his jaw.
I turned and ran. As I did, I sucked in my breath to let out a scream. I was in a dark, deserted parking lot outside a dark, deserted building. The nearest people were at least a block away. Tucked inside their houses, warm and safe, the windows shut, the curtains closed. Still, I had to try.
But what came out of my mouth was a screech. Not a scream, not a piercing cry, not an alarm that split the night. It was both soft and high-pitched. It didn’t seem to go anyplace except maybe right above our heads, hanging with the fog of our breath.
A second later, I felt two tiny stings, one in my butt and one on my right thigh. My body went rigid as every muscle clenched. My head jerked up and back of its own volition. As I toppled over, my vision filled with white light. I felt the pain in my teeth, my eyeballs, my fingertips.
And then my head hit the ground, and I didn’t feel anything at all.
To understand your fear is the beginning of really seeing.
—BRUCE LEE
SAVANNAH TAYLOR
With a groan, I tried to open my eyes. I felt my eyebrows rise and my lids faintly flutter, but they were so heavy it was all I could do to finally crack them open. It didn’t make much difference. Wherever I was, it was nearly as dark as it was behind my eyelids.
I also had the worst headache of my life. Each heartbeat made the pain expand and contract.
What was happening?
When I tried to raise my head, it felt as heavy as a bowling ball. And just as empty. I let it fall back.
Time passed. All I was capable of was existing. But slowly my consciousness began to reassert itself.
Where was I? I took inventory. I was sprawled in an awkward twist, not quite facedown. Whatever I was on was cold and unyielding, vibrating faintly. My breathing seemed too shallow, fast and panting.
Something was clearly wrong. But I couldn’t fill in the blank of what it was.
I started to push myself up. But my wrists were bound together. I slumped back down. Slowly, I considered the possibilities. Not handcuffs. Not rope. Something wide that pulled at the hairs on my wrists.
Duct tape.
Memories slowly came back. Going up the stairs, my thoughts preoccupied with Daniel. The old white van squatting in the corner of the parking lot. The rough hand grabbing me from behind.
And I had done nothing to stop it, except for my pathetic attempt to scream. I had kept on second-guessing myself right up to the point where I had stiffened and fallen. Had he injected me with drugs? I remembered feeling stings.
Now here I was. In the back of that white van. Underneath me the metal floor was vibrating from th
e hum of the motor. The man who had hit me had to be driving it.
He must have gathered me up and then dropped me inside his van. I tried to remember his voice. Had I heard it before? Had it belonged to someone I knew? He had smelled like motor oil and cigarettes.
He had smelled like Tim.
But Tim didn’t currently have a car, let alone a van. So the man must be a stranger.
That seemed even more frightening. If he was anonymous to me, that meant I was to him as well. Anonymous meant disposable.
But the familiar way he smelled. Could Tim have borrowed one of the dozen or so cars that were always at the shop, waiting for repair?
And whether it was Tim or a stranger, what should I do now?
Don’t move, a voice whispered inside me. Make yourself still and small. Maybe that way you won’t get hurt any worse. The longer he doesn’t notice you’re awake, the longer he doesn’t think about you, the better.
But that was a lie my fear was telling me.
The only reason this man was taking me someplace was that the new location would be better for him.
Better for him, but not for me. And with every passing second, we were rushing farther away from where anyone would think to look for me.
So I had to cut this trip short before the van stopped and whatever he had planned for me started.
The van wasn’t varying in speed, wasn’t stopping and accelerating, like it would for lights and stop signs on city streets. Were we on the freeway? It didn’t feel like we were going that fast, but I couldn’t be sure. How long had I been unconscious? How far away were we from the dojo? Did anyone even know I was missing?
I could not keep lying here on the way to my doom.
My body felt disconnected from my brain. It was like my thoughts were taking place in a different world than the one in which I lay.
I scanned the space through the crack between my upper and lower lids, looking for anything that might help me. Slowly, I figured out that I was facing the back door of the windowless van. When I realized my attacker couldn’t see my eyes, I opened them wider. My feet were closest to the back of the van, my head farthest away.
And in the middle of the rear of the van, a line of silver about six inches long.
A handle!
If I could get to it and open it, then I could escape. We were on a road. A road meant other people. People driving on the road. People living in houses next to it.
People who could save me. Even if they didn’t want to get involved, they would probably still call 9-1-1 if they saw a duct-taped girl escaping from a white van.
But I hadn’t heard any other cars pass. Maybe the rumble of the van’s engine masked them. Or maybe by now we were way out in the country.
Even if there was no one around to help me, I could still run away. I could hide. All I had to do was get out.
But how? If I got to my knees, once I opened the door, I would just fall out face-first. I needed to keep my legs in front of me. Maybe I could even manage to land on my feet. I imagined the shock of landing, how I would take giant, staggering steps, somehow staying balanced. How I would run away in the dark before my attacker even knew I was gone.
Daniel and some of the other high-ranking belts could do standing rolls. They tucked their heads and somersaulted in midair, and when they landed on the mat, they rolled diagonally from one shoulder across the back to the opposite hip. Their heads never even touched the ground. I had always been too scared to try it from standing, but had done a modified version from my knees.
Whatever move I tried, I needed to be as close to the door as possible. Even if my captor was watching in the rearview mirror, he couldn’t keep his eyes on me all the time. Plus the back of the van was nearly pitch-black. The only reason I could see was that my eyes had adjusted. He was watching a road lit by his headlights.
Holding my breath, I moved my feet a few inches closer to the door. Nothing happened. He didn’t shout or step on the brakes. I scooted my butt closer to my heels. I counted to sixty and then repeated the process, worming myself a few inches closer to the handle. But I couldn’t afford to be too slow. What if he was almost where he was going?
I sucked in a deep breath. Here I went. I pulled my arm under my side. I got up on my elbow and then pushed myself off the edges of my bound hands. I reached for the handle.
And missed. I fell back onto my shoulder, biting my lip to keep from screaming in pain and frustration.
Again. I had to be quick. Arm, elbow, hands, reach.
A shout behind me spurred me on. The fingers of my right hand curled around the handle.
It refused to move.
Despair flooded me even as I tried the other direction.
Suddenly the handle twisted and the door flew open into empty space. The cold night rushed in. Now I could smell how close the air was in the van, how it stank of fear. Maybe even of death. That thought spurred me on.
I leapt into the dark.
A fight is not won by one punch or kick. Either learn to endure or hire a bodyguard.
—BRUCE LEE
SAVANNAH TAYLOR
Time slowed down. It seemed as if I hung suspended in midair for long seconds. There was plenty of time to think about how I might be able to land on my feet. Or launch myself into a forward roll.
Plenty of time to observe that I was actually not doing anything.
And finally I came down to earth.
My bound left wrist hit the ground first, taking most of the impact. It became a pivot point around which the rest of my body rotated. The pressure on my left forearm increased and increased, until finally I felt something in it snap, just above my wrist.
Momentum wasn’t done with me yet. My arms might have come to a stop when they met the road, but the rest of me was still moving. My feet flew over my head. Somehow I managed to keep my head from hitting the pavement. It was nothing like the forward roll I had imagined pulling off. Instead, I was slammed flat onto my back, driving all the air from my lungs.
Lying on the roadway, I looked up at the distant stars. It felt like the universe had hit the pause button. It felt like I might never breathe again. I was pretty sure I was badly damaged, maybe beyond repair. But I didn’t care. I felt curiously detached.
And then my lungs spasmed. I took a jagged, involuntary gasp, and the air rushed back in.
With it came the pain. It started at my broken wrist, spread to my ribs and head, and then suddenly it was everywhere. The pain was as big as the sun, and it swallowed me.
I was broken. I couldn’t fly, I couldn’t roll, I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t even imagine moving.
I heard the van screech to a stop, and the engine shut off, followed by footsteps.
Standing over me, the man blocked out the nearly full moon. He swore. When he bent down to gather me up, I passed out.
JENNY DOWD
Rex’s barking woke me. It wasn’t just a few woofs, but a ferocious volley.
At the sound, my stomach crammed into the back of my throat. I remembered what had happened the last time Rex sounded like that. In the dark, I scrambled backward on the bed until my back was against the wall. My hands flew up to cover my face. Under my palms I could feel the tender ridges and seams that now crisscrossed my cheeks, nose, and lips. My heart was beating so hard it felt like it might come out of my chest.
Outside, Sir was yelling, “Sitz! Bleib!” Finally, Rex switched to frustrated whines.
Trying to calm my racing heart, I sucked in a breath. Rex was outside. Out there, he couldn’t hurt me again.
Outside there was a rattle as Sir undid the padlock. A short length of chain had been bolted on either side of the door, and when he padlocked the ends together, they stopped the door from opening more than a couple of inches. I waited for his footsteps to shake the trailer as he made his way down the hall. Instead, he called for me.
“Jenny, get out here. I need your help.”
I scurried out. In the living area, he was standing
half in and half out of the door. I stopped in my tracks. Cradled in his arms was a girl. I hadn’t seen another human being besides Sir for months.
Her dark brown hair hung down over his arm. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth was slack. Ripped duct tape dangled from her right wrist. There was a scrape on the left side of her face, a raw red patch beaded with blood.
“What happened? Did Rex bite her? Is she dead?” I was too shaken to think about avoiding words with Bs. He hated how they sounded when they came out of my mouth. I kept my right hand over my face, hiding the worst of my scars. Sir had made it clear that he did not want to look at them. At me. And he had taught me to never look him in the eye. Collecting myself, I added, “Sir.”
“Stupid thing jumped out of the van while it was moving. Now she’s hurt. I need you to help me splint her wrist.” He took a step inside the trailer. A pack was looped over one shoulder. “Close the door behind me.”
I didn’t move.
Sir swore. “Rex won’t bite you when I’m here. Now close the door before I get really angry.”
I forced myself to move, keeping both my arms up in front of me, ready to protect my throat, my face, my belly. Rex’s front paws were on the bottom step, and his ears were back. His wet white teeth gleamed as he gargled a growl. My heart leaping in my chest, I yanked the door closed with a shaking hand. When I turned around, Sir had disappeared with the girl into my room. I followed. He had turned on the light. He laid her on her back across the end of my bed. The girl didn’t move. He was taking off her torn teal blue puffer coat. Underneath, she was wearing black exercise pants and a short-sleeved green T-shirt with some kind of design on it.
The left sleeve of her coat was shredded, revealing puffs of white polyester filling. Gingerly, Sir pulled down the sleeve, turning it inside out in the process. As he eased her left arm free, the girl’s upper lip drew up and her eyebrows pulled together. But she still didn’t wake up.